Part IX: The Coming of the King
Chapter 8: The Deepening Dread
Timeline AO299
I’ll admit, I was getting a bit lazy – laying for weeks on end in my bedroom, I allowed the slaves of The Cauldron a respite from my horrors. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat on my throne in The Gallery of Unholy Death, or when I’d harvested a new soul that didn’t just come from the ‘candy’ jar on my bedside table. I hadn’t been to the Necrononicon in who knows how long and I’d even lost track of where Gwar and Inanna were. I just couldn’t seem to break my addiction to whiling away the hours in bed watching the fates of my pawns in The Eye of Seraphiel.
“Perhaps I should throw The Eye into the volcano and be done with it?” I glibly mused as my fingers continued to fateweave – knowing I wasn’t serious. “Ah, but it’s just so easy and fun to play with. Well, maybe just for a few more hours.” And I promised myself I’d then get some work done.
It didn’t happen.
Instead I found myself watching the ‘bad movie’ that was Hacktor Derkillez first attempt at war…
As the chill of autumn deepened into the biting cold of early winter in AO299, Hacktor Derkillez found himself faced with a decision that gnawed at his pride. The plains of Gor, vast and unyielding, stretched endlessly before him, a conquest that beckoned him to push further, to press his advantage. Yet the reality of the situation could not be ignored. The Drokka, a race forged in the belly of the mountains, were not made for the harsh openness of the world above. As the past months of fighting had worn on, Hacktor had noticed a growing unease among his men—a malaise that sapped their strength and dulled their fighting edge. It was as if the very air of the Overworld was poison to their souls.
They called it the Deepening Dread, a creeping sickness that afflicted those Drokka who spent too long away from the safety of the mountains. The longer they stayed in the open air, beneath the vast, unyielding sky, the worse it became. What had begun as a mere discomfort had evolved into a crippling condition that left even the bravest warriors weakened. Their once-unbreakable spirits were eroded by an unseen force, a gnawing anxiety that they could not name but felt deeply in their bones. Hacktor had tried to ignore it, to push his men beyond their limits, but he could not deny the truth—his army was faltering.
Although his friend General Vendal recommended the move, the decision to retreat for the winter, to abandon the war effort and return to the Rhokki Pass, was not one Hacktor made lightly. In his mind, he replayed the scenes of battle, the ease with which the Ghast had granted him victory, the vast expanses of Gor that now lay within his grasp. It galled him to think of pulling back, of leaving what he had won undefended. But Fredrik was correct – the logistical reality was undeniable. The Drokka were not suited to surviving a winter in the Overworld, not without proper shelters, not without the warmth of the mountains, and certainly not with the Deepening Dread taking hold of his forces.
And so, with a heavy heart, Hacktor made his decision. As Fredrik Vendal advised, Hacktro and he would lead the bulk of his army back to the Rhokki Pass, back to the warmth and safety of the caves, where they could regroup and prepare for the next year’s campaign – hopefully with a lot more troops to command. But he would not leave Gor undefended. To ensure that the land he had conquered remained in Drokka hands, he entrusted the command of a small force to General Heraclez.
Heraclez, a seasoned warrior and a pseudo ghastwielder, was one of the few men Hacktor trusted to hold the line in his absence. He handpicked a hundred of his best soldiers, those who had shown the most resilience in the face of the Deepening Dread. These men, though weakened, were still among the fiercest of his warriors, and he tasked them with holding the Blackwood. They were stationed near the charred remains of Lubbuk, where new shelters were hastily erected, and supplies were stashed in preparation for the long winter ahead. Promises of rewards and glory were made to them, though Hacktor could see in their eyes the fear they tried to hide—the fear of spending a winter in the Overworld, away from the mountains that had always protected them.
Hacktor’s own fears were more subtle, more insidious. As he gave Heraclez his final orders, he couldn’t shake the unease that gnawed at him. The men he was leaving behind were loyal, but they were also scared. He could see it in the way their hands trembled, in the way they avoided his gaze, in the way they clung to the hope that the Ghast’s power would protect them. Hacktor tried to dismiss these thoughts, to convince himself that the fear he saw was nothing more than the natural caution of seasoned warriors. But deep down, he knew the truth—the Deepening Dread was taking its toll, and it was only a matter of time before it claimed more of his men.
The march back to the Rhokki Pass began with a somber tone. Despite the victory they had achieved, the mood among Hacktor’s forces was not entirely celebratory. Yes, they were returning home with plunder, and yes, they had lost few men to the enemy and the toll of the campaign weighed heavily on them. Even Hacktor was grim.
On one of the days, prior to the army reaching home, the early winter wind cut through their cloaks as Hacktor and Fredrik walked side by side along the narrow, muddy path that wound back towards the mountains. They’d stripped off their armor and packed it away for the journey, though Hacktor’s Ghast still hung at his hip, his hand resting possessively on its hilt. Snowflakes fell in sparse, lazy flurries, dusting the frozen ground and casting a white shimmer over the trees lining the path.
Hacktor scowled, squinting against the wind. “Feels like retreat, riding home like this. If we had just a few more weeks, Fred, we could’ve driven them back beyond the hinterlands.”
Fredrik tried to lighten the mood. “I have a feeling we’ll have the chance again soon, Hack. And more battles – give it time. We’ve only just begun, right?”
Hacktor snorted, fixing his older cousin with a challenging look. “Easy for you to say. I dare say you may have taken more goblin heads than me!”
Fredrik shook his head, laughing softly. “You think fighting is all there is, don’t you? You’ve barely seen your twenty-second winter, Hackor, and you act as if the world’s running out of time.”
Hacktor’s expression softened, though he rolled his eyes. “I’m not old like you, if that’s what you mean.”
“Old?” Fredrik raised a brow. “You may be young, but you’re a damn sight harder to cheer up than I ever was. I remember when just the promise of adventure was enough to keep you grinning at court.”
“Adventure’s well and good,” Hacktor grumbled, watching his breath cloud the air. “But the Derkka still out there. And here we are, running home like sheep. Next year, they’ll be stronger, and we’ll be starting over.”
Fredrik’s tone shifted, his voice a low murmur almost drowned by the wind. “That’s the game of war, Hack. Seasons change, soldiers leave, and then come back. But there’s nothing soft about turning home to rest and prepare. Think of it as sharpening the sword, not sheathing it.”
Hacktor’s gaze lingered on the horizon, where dark clouds gathered like an unspoken promise. “You’re right. Next year, when we come back, I’ll be sharper than ever. Stronger. They won’t stand a chance.”
Fredrik clapped him on the shoulder, a reassuring weight. “That’s the spirit. And besides, we’ve got a lot more to teach Rodrik and my other sons about war, right? We need to show this next generation we still know a thing or two.”
Hacktor cracked a reluctant grin, eyes brightening as he glanced at his cousin. “They’re smart boys. Might just grow up right if I’m around to show them a thing or two.”
Fredrik smirked. “Then come spring, we’ll be back at the front – making your legend grow!”
Hacktor’s smile lingered, the sharp edge of his frustration dulled by the thought of what lay ahead. For now, they would return, but spring would come soon enough. And with it, a season of glory.
As the procession wound its way through the plains and into the foothills of the mountains, the men’s spirits began to lift. The closer they came to the Rhokki Pass, the more they could feel the pull of their homeland, the promise of the warmth and safety that awaited them. The stories of victory and plunder began to flow more freely, and by the time they reached the entrance to the pass, the mood had shifted to one of triumph.
Gromm Stonefist, now a sergeant, walked at Hacktor’s side, his chest puffed out with pride. He had fought bravely, and the men under his command had done well. He was eager to return home, to share his tales of battle with his loved ones, to bask in the glory of their hard-won victories.
Hacktor, too, finally felt a surge of pride as they approached the gates of the Rhokki Pass. Though he knew the war was far from over, though he knew that the real battles lay ahead, he allowed himself to savor this moment. He imagined the look on Hecla’s face when he told her of their success, the cheers of the people of Rhokki Pass as they welcomed their victorious warriors home.
But even as he basked in the anticipation of his homecoming, the nagging doubts remained. He had seen the fear in his men’s eyes, had felt the weight of the Deepening Dread pressing down on them all. And though he tried to push those thoughts aside, to focus on the victory they had won, he could not entirely silence the voice in the back of his mind that whispered of the challenges yet to come.
The journey home was not just a return to safety; it was a retreat from a battlefield that had tested them in ways they had not anticipated. And as the gates of the Rhokki Pass loomed before him, Hacktor knew that the hardest part of his campaign was still to come.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 