Part IX: The Coming of the King
Chapter 6: The First Victory?
Timeline AO 299
My pawn Hacktor was about to engage in his first conflict and although I’d witness countless battles in the eons of my existence (including the great war in Heaven) I found myself giddy with excitement as I stared at the fates within The Eye. Lounging in bed I was munching on a snack one of my Vizigob chefs has sent up to my chambers – an addictive little treat that was made from the kernals of a vegetable that was a staple among the goblins – something they called ‘corn’ which the chef then heated over flames until the kernels popped open into little puffs. I had a big bowl of this ‘popped’ corn in bed with me and a full pitcher of blood-wine on the table beside. And with these little treats I was ready for a good show.
Unfortunately neither Hacktor nor I got the ‘great battles’ we’d both been hoping for. It happened like this…
The sun had just begun to claw its way over the jagged horizon when Hacktor’s forces approached the small, desolate village of Lubbuk. A thin veil of mist clung to the earth, the air heavy with the scent of damp soil and the distant murmur of a forest yet untouched by the day’s light. The path from the mountains had been arduous, the rugged terrain a silent witness to the march of Hacktor’s army, and now, standing at the edge of this forsaken hamlet, the anticipation was palpable.
Lubbuk was a pitiful sight, a cluster of mud huts huddled together as if for warmth against the cold indifference of the world. The village seemed to cower before the imposing presence of the Drokka forces, their armor glinting dully in the early light. Hacktor surveyed the scene with a mixture of disdain and expectation. This was to be the first test of his campaign, the first step toward the glory that awaited him. But the village lay silent, no sound save the distant rustle of leaves in the wind.
With a nod, Hacktor signaled his standard-bearers, and the horns of the Drokka blared out, their mournful notes echoing across the empty fields. The sound was a challenge, a demand for the goblin villagers to face their fate. Hacktor’s forces arranged themselves into battle formations, a wall of steel and flesh ready to unleash devastation upon the Derkka. Yet, as the final echoes of the horns faded into the morning air, the village remained eerily quiet, its inhabitants unseen, its defenses untested.
Hacktor turned to the figure beside him – his envoy Hadrik Klyntz. The man had been suggested to Hacktor by Monty for Hadrik was known for his diplomatic prowess. Under Baldur, Hadrik had served as a diplomat who’d traveled to other kingdoms to negotiate on behalf of the crown – as such he also had experience in the world above. It was also claimed that Hadrik had a booming voice when the situation called for it. Those traits were enough to convince Hacktor to take Hadrik on as his envoy and now he aimed to put the man to the test.
Clad in dark, flowing robes that marked him apart from the soldiers, Hadrik’s face was obscured by a hood. Among the ranks, he’d proven to be a man of few words, but it was clear he took his role seriously – for Hadrik was to be a harbinger of doom – a persona whose mere presence was designed to sow fear among the enemy. At Hacktor’s signal, the envoy stepped forward toward the village. In a voice that carried the weight of inevitability, he called out to the Derkka, his tone both commanding and mocking.
“Come forth, you who dwell in the shadows of Lubbuk! Face your end with what little honor you possess, if you dare! The Kon-Herr Hacktor Derkillez demands it!”
The Envoy’s powerful voice cut through the silence, it’s impact felt even by the Drokka soldiers who stood at attention. Yet the village remained mute, its doors and windows like empty eyes staring back at the invading army. Hadrik lowered his hand, his expression unreadable beneath the hood. Turning he the Kon-Herr, he lowered his voice to a whisper and said, “It seems the Derkka have abandoned the village – leaving only ghosts behind.”
“Do they not have the courage to face us?” Hacktor muttered, his patience wearing thin.
As the envoy withdrew into the ranks, Hacktor called for his scouts – they quickly moved out to assess the situation, approaching the village cautiously, their weapons drawn. Yet as they moved among the huts, it became clear that Lubbuk was indeed deserted. The scouts returned to Hacktor, their faces grim.
“The village is empty, my lord,” one of them reported. “The Derkka have fled.”
Hacktor’s expression darkened. This was not the battle he had anticipated. The goblins had robbed him of his first victory, fleeing like cowards before his forces could even draw blood. Frustration gnawed at him, and he turned his gaze back to the village, his mind racing.
As Hacktor, Fredrik Vendal, and the other generals gathered in the fields to discuss their next move, a sudden cry of pain shattered the stillness. One of the Drokka soldiers fell to the ground, clutching his chest, an arrow embedded deep within his armor. Before the others could react, more arrows whistled through the air, striking down two more men. The black-fletched shafts were unmistakable—Derkkas had launched a surprise attack from the cover of the trees.
“Ware—it’s black arrow!” an infantryman shouted, but the warning came too late. Chaos erupted as the Drokka soldiers scrambled to defend themselves, their formation disrupted by the sudden assault.
Hacktor’s fury ignited. He had been outmaneuvered, ambushed by the very enemy he had sought to crush! He pulled The Ghast from its sheath, the blade humming with a thirst for blood, and called out to his men. “To me! Follow me! Form a line and penetrate the trees!”
Hacktor charged toward the source of the arrows, his helmet gleaming as he led the counterattack. An arrow glanced off his shoulder, another struck the facemask of his helmet, but the magic of the armor protected the Drokka king and he pressed ahead undeterred – inspiring his men to do the same. Hacktor soon spied the goblin archer responsible for the assault, a pathetic creature cowering behind a tree, and in a swift, brutal motion, Hacktor severed the goblin’s head from its body with The Ghast. The sight of their leader’s prowess emboldened the Drokka soldiers, who let out a triumphant cheer and surged forward into the trees.
Among those who raced ahead was Gromm Stonefist, a stout Drokka with no formal training in combat, but with a heart as fierce as any warrior. He carried a crude replica of The Ghast, a blade that bore no magical properties, yet Gromm believed it to be enchanted and that belief gave him a courage that defied reason. As he plunged into the fray, Gromm’s eyes burned with a zeal that inspired those around him.
To the amazement of the commanders, the peasant merchant Gromm fought with a wild abandon, his lack of skill compensated by sheer determination. He swung his axe with all his might, felling a goblin who had tried to flee deeper into the forest. Though clumsy in his movements, Gromm’s passion was undeniable, and his fellow soldiers began to rally around him. They followed his lead, cutting down the scattered remnants of the goblin force, and before long, the forest echoed with the cries of the defeated.
The battle, if it could be called that, was short-lived. The Derkka had only a handful of men to defend their village, and despite their knowledge of the forest, they were no match for Hacktor’s more well-armed troops. By day’s end, the goblins of Lubbuk were no more, their bodies littering the forest floor, their blood soaking into the earth. The only survivors were a group of goblin women and children, huddled together in terror, watched over by the Drokka guards.
As dusk fell, the captured village chief was dragged before Hacktor, who stood by the fire pit outside his tent. The chief, a pitiful figure, was thrown to the ground, his body battered and broken from the day’s skirmish. His right arm hung limply at his side, his face swollen and bloodied. Despite his injuries, the goblin’s eyes flickered with defiance, though fear still gripped him.
“This one was captured by Gromm Stonefist,” a guard announced, pushing the chief forward.
Hacktor glanced at Gromm who stood nearby, a glimmer of approval in the king’s eyes. The peasant had proven himself worthy of the blade Hacktor had gifted him, even if it was merely a crude imitation of The Ghast. The Kon-Herr then turned his attention to the goblin chief, who quivered under his gaze.
“I’m going to kill you like all your friends. The only question is how painful it will be,” Hacktor said coldly.
“Pl-please, l-lord,” the Derkka stammered, his voice trembling.
“Why did you fight from the trees? Where is your honor?” Hacktor demanded, his patience wearing thin.
The chief looked up, confusion and despair etched into his battered face.
“How we fight w-without w-warriors? We farmers, not f-fighters,” the goblin replied, his words slurred by pain.
“No, you are not fighters. But you did take down a few of my men and you took a long time to root out from the forest. You’re a nuisance, like the rest of your kind,” Hacktor retorted.
“We are slaves to Babel. They call us trouble too,” the chief muttered, his voice barely audible.
“Who lives in the forest? Others like you?” Hacktor pressed, his frustration growing.
“Pitch pitters, l-loggers, choppers, growers. What matter to you?” the goblin answered, his tone resigned.
“I ask the questions, fool!” Hacktor snarled, delivering a backhanded slap that sent the chief sprawling to the ground. “Aren’t there any guards for the Blackwood?”
“Don’t know,” the chief mumbled from the dirt, too weak to rise. “Not mine. You destroy all I care for.”
Hacktor sneered, his disdain for the goblin palpable. This was not the glory he sought, not the noble battle he had envisioned. The Derkka were mere peasants, not worthy adversaries. But still, Hacktor pressed on, seeking any information that might lead him to a more satisfying confrontation.
“What you want, k-king?” the goblin asked, his voice a mixture of pain and fatigue.
“I want glory!” Hacktor declared, standing tall. “I can’t get that if you people don’t fight! Where can I find Derkka who will fight me like the books say?”
“They all like us in these parts. No glory for you here.”
“We’ll see about that.”
After a few more questions with the same result, Hacktor realized he was wasting his time. He instructed his men to hang the chief from a tree that sat near the center of Lubbuk’s hovels. His men had free rein to take what they desired from the town, any useful livestock went to the cooks in the wagon train for slaughter, and Hacktor turned a blind eye to the plight of the captive women – caring little what his men might do to them. Instead the disgruntled Kon-Herr went to sleep that night with frustration in his heart – his first battle was nothing like he expected – and strange dreams that night about facing off against never-before-seen giant knights only added to his struggles.
There is another story that must be told – an amusing one. Earlier, prior to the attack of the Drokka, whilst the Derkka were still hiding in the nearby trees, among them was my little pawn of fate Rorik Mudfoot. Crouched in the underbrush, heart pounding in his chest he’d been the first to draw his bow and draw blood. Later he’d fought briefly in the struggle that followed and amid the chaos of that battle I arranged matters such that Rorik Mudfoot and Gromm Stonefist crossed paths – their swords clashing with a fierce, metallic ring. For a heartbeat, they locked eyes—hatred blazing in each other’s gaze. Yet, in that fleeting moment, there was something more, a flicker of recognition I allowed them to glimpse, as if each saw a reflection of himself in the other. It was a fleeting shadow of their shared plight, the same fire of pride and the scars of loss.
But just as quickly, the vision was snuffed out, buried beneath the weight of their respective rage. Determined to kill the other, they lunged, but the tide of battle swept them apart before either could strike a mortal blow. As they were dragged back into the maelstrom of war, both swore silently that they would never forget the face of the enemy who, for a brief moment, had seemed almost familiar.
As the Drokka slaughtered his people in the woods, Rorik was smart enough to realize he was overmatched. He’d surely have died with most of the other villagers if I hadn’t use The Eye to weave his fate to survive.
Although he’d somehow managed to escape death, Rorik couldn’t bring himself to run away – for his family was still in Lubbok hiding. Forced to watch from afar, Rorik could only focus on the nightmare that unfolded before his eyes as Hacktor’s men rampaged the hovel. Lubbok, his home, was in flames. The screams of his people filled the air as the ruthless Drokka warriors destroyed everything, slaughtering the men and children and dragging the women away.
Although he hadn’t seen their deaths, Rorik could only assume his wife and kids had been murdered, but then suddenly hi eyes fixed on one the captives—a goblin woman, her dark hair matted with blood, her eyes hollow with terror – his wife Grinna! He wanted to immediately run to her, but I wove the fates to hold him in place – forcing Rorik to watch her beaten and bound, before being thrown into one of the tents of a Drokka officer. Desperation and rage churned within him, but I wouldn’t let him take action just yet.
Contrary to your opinion of me, I am not a maliscious god – I gave Rorik some solace – crafting his fate such that he got some measure of revenge. That night, under the cover of darkness, Rorik crept into the camp and made his way all the way to the tent where Brinna was. The goblin farmer’s heart shattered as he saw the state of his beloved, her body broken, her spirit nearly extinguished. With tears streaming down his face, Rorik did the unthinkable—he ended her suffering with a swift, merciful stroke of his dagger.
But Rorik was not finished. He waited, crouched in the shadows until the cursed Drokka officer returned later that night. The dwarf was drunk and oblivious to the horror within the tent as he stumbled to his bed, too intoxicated to notice his lifeless captive or the vengeful goblin lurking in the dark. Then it was that Rorik struck with the ferocity of a cornered beast, driving his blade deep into the soldier’s heart. The dwarf let out a gurgling gasp before falling silent, his blood staining the earth beneath him. Rorik didn’t wait to admire his work; he fled into the depths of Blackwood Forest, leaving behind the village that had once been his home, now nothing more than a smoldering ruin.
The next morning, when Hacktor’s men broke camp, they discovered their dead comrade and the lifeless body of the goblin woman. The soldiers laughed, joking that the fierce goblin woman had somehow overpowered their comrade. Fredrik Vendal, however, frowned, unable to shake the unsettling question: how could a woman bound in ropes commit such a deed? It was a mystery that would remain unsolved, lost to the mists of war and the haunted depths of Blackwood.
Yet nobody had time to wonder about it further for the Kon-Herr was ready to move out. He instructed his troops to leave behind the dozen or so captives since they held no value to Hacktor and would only serve to be useless eaters that caused distraction.
“You’d be better off killing them.” Fredrick Vendal said as he watched the traumatized Derkka women mindlessly make their way back towards the remains of their village.
“Perhaps.” Hacktor chewed on a chicory root. “They have a place to stay. That’s more than their people gave us once upon a time. Let the men do with them what they will.”
“Happily, my Lord.” Said General Heraclez, who was eager to satisfy his own gruesome desires.
The remainder of that spring and the entirety of the summer was much the same – the Drokka scouts located numerous Derkka settlements, but the goblins always seemed to have advance warning of Hacktor’s army’s approach and never were they willing to face the Kon-Herr in a pitched battle. Sometimes the Derkka fought guerilla style from the forests – but after Lubbuk Hacktor’s men were ready for ambush and rarely fell victim to this tactic. Instead, once the goblins revealed themselves, the Drokka mercilessly slaughtered their enemies, stole their goods, and left only wailing women and children behind (if they left them at all). And all the while Gromm Stonefist continued to prove himself.
Although somewhat adjusted to life in the open world after months away from the mountains, most of the men still longed for home. Hacktor had given in to Heraclez continued suggestions to allow the men some freedoms by giving access to the gozalka barrels after each victory. As a result, camp life was festive for the men after each ‘victory’ – especially since less than two handfuls of men had fallen from the army after Lubbuk despite the many villages they’d razed.
For his part Hacktor wielded his Ghast without mercy whenever any Derkka dared oppose him and in this way, the king’s bloodlust was somewhat satisfied. Yet his spirit continued to rage. Even the broad swath of land his army captured in eastern Gor did little to appease the Kon-Herr – for his mind could only ponder one thing – the military glory that he was being robbed of without a proper battle.
This war is nothing like I pictured it would be, Hacktor often muttered to himself that summer. I’ll never find fame fighting battles like this.
Little did Hacktor know that fame – or rather ‘infamy’ – was searching just as hard for him as he was for it…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 