Part XI: The Heart of Darkness
Chapter 1: The Fear Caster
Timeline: AO 300
I had returned from my vacation in Ramos, the memories of the moonlit jungle and my skirmish with Gwar still fresh in my mind. My brief retreat had been ruined by that oaf’s antics, but it had also rekindled my desire for war. I needed to remind myself why I had invested so much time and energy into this game, so I took out The Eye of Seraphiel and settled into my favorite chair, a bowl of popped corn in one hand and a goblet of blood-wine in the other. With a wave of my skeletal hand, the scrying orb flickered to life, revealing the unfolding chaos below.
Winter had closed the year AO 299 and brought in AO 300 with a cold that gripped the halls of the Rhokki’s, but that didn’t stop Hacktor’s war machine. The lesser Kon-Herrs, eager to see their names immortalized alongside Hacktor’s in the Kroniklz, answered the call to Mirkir’s holy war. Petty rulers from the mountain cities sent troops under their various banners to join Hacktor’s forces, each hoping to share in the spoils of war. These commoners, recruited from their fields and forges, were led to believe they would bring honor to their clans. The kings who stayed behind eagerly awaited the plunder their soldiers would bring back, while the elite elders and financiers pulled the strings from behind the scenes.
Lord Aric, Chaney Busz, and the rest of their cabal were all too happy to let Hacktor continue his game. The Priory of the Myz, with the help of Marge of the Thatches, had made certain ‘arrangements’ with their Drokka counterparts to ensure that the war would be profitable for those who mattered. [Some things never change, eh?]
Hacktor, for his part, cared little for the politics behind the muster of men. All that mattered to him was that his army had swelled in size, and with it, his chances of victory. So successful had been the muster that, by the time the roads became passable in the spring of AO 300, Hacktor marched at the head of more than twenty thousand men!
Just as important as the size of his army, was the way in which the Kon-Herr began to change it – for Hacktor had another plan that was taking shape that winter: introducing the use of ponies – starting with the commanders. It was a bold idea that Hacktor had first mentioned to Heraclez the year prior – and which the wily general had tried to talk the king out of – reminding Hacktor that the dwarves hadn’t ridden upon such beasts for centuries. Yet The Ghastwielder would not be deterred – insisting that courage, not stature, was the true measure of a warrior, and more importantly there was the fact that the long-term success of Hacktor’s war required such a tactical move if his army was going to have a realistic chance of matching up with the Derkka’s chariots and cavalry.
When he got wind of the idea, Monty Redstone was all to happy to provide his services – the wily Coinmaster used his network to connect with horse traders on the eastern borders of the mountains. From them he sourced a variety of breeds, including the sturdy ponies that were well-suited for mountain travel as well as field work. Throughout that winter, Monty managed to procure a sizeable number of these ponies, small but strong creatures capable of carrying the weight of an armored Drokka. Eventually there were enough ponies to outfit all the army’s officers and a sizable number of the troops with mounts.
Yet even when he had them, convincing his men to ride the ponies proved a challenge for Hacktor. The Drokka, especially the military leaders, were a proud lot, and the idea of straddling a beast—even a small one—felt unnatural to them. Hacktor himself led by example, mounting a pony in full armor and riding through the camp to demonstrate its advantages – yet it wasn’t without some difficulty. Nonetheless others joined their king – Gromm Stonefist, one of Hacktor’s most trusted lieutenants, was the first to volunteer, his loyalty to Hacktor outweighing his trepidation. More followed, albeit hesitantly, drawn by the promise of swifter movement and greater battlefield control.
It’s true that, at first, the results were less than encouraging. The Drokka commanders struggled to keep their balance, especially when weighed down by their heavy war equipment. More than a few fell from their mounts, much to the amusement of their comrades. But Hacktor’s persistence paid off. He ordered the men to keep training, pushing them to master the new art. Slowly but surely, they began to improve, learning to adapt to the rhythm of the pony’s gait.
By the end of that winter, Hacktor’s pony-led force had gained confidence. The commanders and officers now rode with pride, their ponies giving them a height advantage that was previously unimaginable for the Drokka. Though the infantry still marched on foot, the mounted units had gained a crucial edge, ready to lead the charge in the battles to come.
When they finally left for war, the king’s army, now reinforced by ‘professional’ soldiers and led by mounted commanded, moved through The Byways with a sense of purpose, eager for the coming battles.
But as the size of his army grew, so too did the baggage train that followed. Mobile shopkeepers, financed by Monty Redstone, saw an opportunity to make money off the war. They trailed Hacktor’s forces with their wares, offering wine, women, and song in exchange for the plunder that Hacktor’s soldiers acquired – eager to alleviate them of these ‘burdens.’ As you can imagine, the distractions and size of this traveling city slowed the army down – and quickly got on Hacktor’s nerves.
Yet, Hacktor’s irritation was short-lived. When his forces crossed into the Derkka’s kingdom this time, they found that the goblin peasants were no longer fleeing to the forests. Baal, under my direction, had instructed Zalzrog and his priests to preach to their people throughout Gor about the need to ‘cast out the dreaded Dwarf Disease’ — and the Derkka had responded. Armed with scythes, sharpened farming tools, and a motley assortment of armor, the goblin villagers in southeastern Gor tried to organize a defense against the Drokka storm.
It was a valiant effort, but ultimately futile. The Derkka peasants were outclassed in both weaponry and skill, and they stood little chance against the Drokka’s superior forces – especially Hacktor’s newly mounted troops. The fights were short, and the outcome was never in question, but Hacktor was delighted by his enemy’s new resolve. At least now the goblins were willing to take the field instead of running off like cowards. It gave Hacktor ample opportunity to showcase the awesome power of The Ghast, and he did so with savage enthusiasm.
Lo the atrocities with Hacktor wrought upon his enemies – heads were lopped off and limbs cleaved with minimal effort, and the blood and gore of his fallen enemies sprayed around Hacktor like a mist, as he reveled in the fear he instilled in all who witnessed his wrath. I even wove the fates to allow him to became a de facto Fear Caster – a living embodiment of death and destruction usually reserved for us gods.
The more he fought, the more Hacktor Derkillez walked the battlefield with purpose – and everyone knew it. Although he never met a goblin who was his equal, Hacktor wielded the Ghast without mercy – racking up a murder rate of over a thousand goblins by himself alone – a tally that filled him with pride.
After every victory, the Kon-Herr commanded the troops to spare at least one Derkka in order that the goblin could have his right hand cut off, his left eye burned out, and be released to carry a message to wherever the maimed man might escaped to. The message was simple: “Hacktor Derkillez is come for you!”
One morning, after a particularly bloody but brief battle, as the dawn sun streamed through the trees, General Fredrik surveyed the bodies scattered across the field, his armor splattered with drying blood. Hacktor sauntered over, grinning through exhaustion, blood streaking his hair.
Fredrik raised an eyebrow, gesturing at Hacktor’s blood-soaked armor. “You look more like a butcher than a warrior.”
Hacktor waved The Ghast and let out a gravelly laugh. “Says the man who fought like he was carving meat.”
Fredrik chuckled, clapping Hacktor on the back. “It was good work, Hack. But remember, we’re not just swinging axes for the joy of it. There’s a kingdom to protect, a legacy to build.”
Hacktor nodded, his smile fading slightly as he looked out over the battlefield. “One day, we’ll look back on this and wonder if it was worth it.”
Fredrik’s gaze hardened. “If we build something strong enough to last, it will be.” He offered a flask to Hacktor, their unspoken promise sealed with a silent drink as they watched the sun rise over the carnage they’d wrought.
Battle followed battle as spring turned to summer, and Hacktor’s forces carved out a growing section of control in Eastern Gor. They retook the village of Lubbuk and its surrounding lands, including a quarter of The Blackwood Forest. Hacktor’s fame grew, and his men adored him for it.
As the victories piled up, the mood in Hacktor’s camp lightened. The men, now accustomed to the great outdoors, found ways to cope with the Deepening Dread that had plagued them in the past. Hacktor allowed himself and his men to enjoy life a bit, and after every victory, he ordered the slaves from the supply train to roll out barrels of Gozaka. The potent drink, made from potatoes grown in the mountains, kept the warriors happy as they spent their evenings drinking, gaming, and abusing the female Derkka captives.
Hacktor knew that many of his men kept illegal female prisoners in their tents, but he turned a blind eye to it. As long as his soldiers were ready to fight the next battle, he didn’t care about their misconduct in camp. The Drokka men weren’t picky about appearances, and the common Derkka women, lacking The Glamour of their Babel counterparts and thus ugly beyond compare, were still a source of ‘comfort’ for the rabid warriors.
For his part, Hacktor remained aloof from most of the campfire revelries. He sipped mead and listened to the minstrels’ songs but skipped the gaming and the women. However, there was one occasion when the king did join in the evening fun, and I can’t wait to tell you about it…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 