Part XI: The Heart of Darkness
Chapter 2: The Head of Tairog
Timeline AO 300
Watching through the Eye, I observed how Hacktor and his men reveled in the spoils of their latest conquests. They had enjoyed a spring and summer of unbroken victories on the battlefield, yet the monotony of endless slaughter bored me. Battles alone were Gwar’s domain, not mine. I wanted something more interesting, so I wove the fates on Midsummer’s Eve to see how Hacktor might handle a new toy I threw his way…
The fire crackled, sending sparks into the warm summer air as Hacktor stood at the edge of the camp, surveying his men. The flickering flames cast long shadows across the faces of the warriors, their eyes gleaming with the effects of the Gozaka they had consumed in copious amounts. The scent of roasted meat and spilled ale mingled with the acrid stench of sweat and blood, creating an atmosphere both festive and feral.
Hacktor could hear the distant sounds of laughter and revelry, mingling with the cries of the unfortunate captives. He felt a strange satisfaction as he watched his men celebrate their victories, yet there was an undercurrent of restlessness in his mind. The Ghast hummed at his side, as if yearning for more blood, more conquest. The blade’s hunger was insatiable, and it mirrored Hacktor’s own.
But tonight, something was different. A camp guard had informed Hacktor and Fredrik that a Derkka soothsayer had somehow dared to enter their camp. Intrigued by the audacity of the intruder, Hacktor ordered the fool to be brought before him.
When the Derkka was cast down at Hacktor’s feet, the Kon-Herr observed a creature both pitiful and grotesque. The left side of his face was a ruin of burned flesh, where his eye, ear, and lips had been seared away, leaving a gaping hole where his nose should be. His wild hair was laced with small animal bones, and he wore nothing but a rough loincloth made of camel’s hair. The Drokka warriors recoiled in disgust and fear as the Derkka cursed them in the Gut language, his voice like the rasp of dry leaves.
Hacktor, however, was not impressed. He approached the soothsayer with an air of disdain, while his warriors cautiously gathered around their leader. “What’s your name, priest?”
“Tairog,” the goblin replied in Common, his voice slipping back into the strange, hissing language of his people as he continued to chant under his breath, his hands weaving arcane signs in the air.
“And why does the great Tairog approach The Ghastwielder?” Hacktor sneered. “Did you come to beg for your village?”
Tairog’s wild eyes glittered as he reached into a pouch at his hip. The Drokka soldiers tensed, their weapons raised, ready to strike, but Hacktor waved them back. Tairog pulled out a small bundle of herbs and held it up for Hacktor to see. “Balsam,” he grunted, “keeps you safe from spears. You buy?”
Laughter erupted from the Drokka soldiers at the absurd proposal, but it was Fredrik who asked, “So, not only are you not here to beg for your village’s freedom, but you’re willing to help me defeat it?”
“Ha, just like a Derkka!” Hacktor laughed. “Well, my friend, you’re in luck. I’ll buy your balsam—but only if you demonstrate that it works for me first!”
Tairog’s face faltered, his bravado slipping as Hacktor’s men seized him. The soothsayer spat curses at his captors, his words a venomous stream that made the soldiers uneasy, but their fear of Hacktor outweighed their superstitions. They forced the priest to the ground and rubbed his herbs across his chest.
“Hold him tight!” Hacktor barked, pulling a spear from one of his men. Tairog struggled, his wiry body writhing against the iron grips of the Drokka, but Hacktor was swift. With a brutal thrust, he drove the spear through Tairog’s balsam-coated chest, the point emerging bloody on the other side.
The soothsayer’s curses turned to gurgles as blood filled his mouth. His body went limp, the life draining from his eyes as Hacktor yanked the spear free.
“I guess his magic balsam didn’t work, eh?” Fredrik laughed.
The Drokka king and his men partied long and loud that night, the screams of the nearby Derkka villagers a haunting counterpoint to their revelry. The fires burned bright as Hacktor’s army celebrated their victory, unaware of the shadow that Tairog’s death had cast over them.
The next morning, the army advanced, with Tairog’s severed head mounted on a lance beside Hacktor’s standards. The battle that followed was swift and decisive, a slaughter that saw the Derkka forces crushed beneath the Drokka’s might. The scribe who accompanied the king recorded the day’s events in The Kroniklz, noting that “even had all the rays of the sun fallen on Hacktor’s face that day, it could not have been more radiant than when he stood on the field with The Ghast.”
[Did I mention Hacktor was the poster child for the sin of Pride?]
And so the battles of AO300 came and went – the Drokka demolished a few more Derkka border towns, took plunder galore, and [briefly] expanded their kingdom. They had a brief scare in one battle late in the season – lost a few more men then they would have liked, and after the fighting that day, Fredrik didn’t miss the opportunity to discuss the matter.
The army was still camped near Blookrock Gorge. At the campfire near the king’s tent, with flickering shadows playing over their faces, Hacktor and Fredrik sat on overturned logs, gnawing at charred meats from the wagon train. Around them, the camp buzzed with soldiers tending wounds, murmuring over the day’s grim victory at Bloodrock Gorge.
“You’re too reckless, Hack,” Fredrik grunted, tearing into a chunk of meat. “If you’d just stuck to the plan, we wouldn’t have lost half our flank.”
Hacktor snorted, wiping the blood off his lip where an goblin’s mace had cracked him when he’d fought with his visor off. “The plan was a rutting death sentence. You saw how they boxed us in—we’d have been slaughtered if I hadn’t cut through the eastern ridge.”
Fredrik’s eyes narrowed. “We’re not just here to win battles; we’re here to build a future. A bloodline doesn’t carry much weight if its heirs are all corpses.”
Hacktor met his cousin’s gaze with a hard glare. “Easy to say when you’re safe behind your shield wall, Fredrik.”
The silence stretched at that. Finally, Fredrik’s face softened—just a bit. “I’ll grant you this, Hack; I’m glad you didn’t die today. And for once, I’ll thank your recklessness.” He raised his flask in a salute, eyes glinting with reluctant admiration. “But next time, just stick with the plan we agreed upon,” he added, a smirk breaking his stern expression. “We spend all this time planning strategy – might as well use it, cuz.”
“This is the only strategy I need.” Hacktor downed his drink as he held up The Ghast.
Meanwhile, just like the year before, nothing Hacktor Derkillez did mattered to the powers that be in Babel – although Garrick of the Golden Hand urged the Derkka Parliament to let him respond to Hacktor with the full force of their people, Marge of the Thatches continued to wield her power to ignore the Drokka assault – little caring what happened in their far away borderlands.
And so Hacktor’s forces were free to ravage southeastern Gor without opposition.
Eventually, as the autumn approached, Fredrik reminded Hacktor they’d soon be forced to again retreat with the bulk of his army back to Rhokki Pass for the winter. They’d gained a bit more ground in The Blackwoods and left garrisons at Lubbuk. Blackrock Gorge, and in the forest to hold them, but those preparations completed the Kon-Herr finally made his way back home.
Loaded with plunder his men were thrilled at the riches they were bringing back to their families (although most of them had been lost to Monty’s fun machine in the Wagon Train). Yet for all his success, Hacktor was smart enough to know that he hadn’t accomplished anything of legend yet.
So far The War of the Ghast will hardly be more than a footnote in The Kroniklz. Hacktor belittled his efforts as he begrudgingly marched home with the men. I need something more – a bigger challenge! Should I try for Babel? Why hasn’t Garrick come to oppose me?
During the journey back, as they neared ruins of The Siq and made camp for the last time that year in The World Above, Hacktor found himself in a foul mood. His victories felt hollow, and the shadow of Tairog’s curse loomed large in his mind. As the men settled in for the night, Hacktor wandered to the edge of the camp, staring into the darkness.
It was then that Gromm Stonefist, outside of his older cousing Fredrik and General Heraclez, Gromm was now one of Hacktor’s most trusted warriors, approached him. War had reshaped Gromm’s body, the former merchant, now muscled and fit. Hacktor knew his loyalty was unwavering. “My lord,” Gromm rumbled, “you seem troubled.”
Hacktor grunted in response, his thoughts still distant. “Just thinking, Gromm. This war…it’s not enough. The victories are too easy. They are far from legendary. I need something more, something that will be remembered for all time.”
Gromm nodded, his expression serious. “We’ll find it, my lord. The Derkka are weak, but there are greater foes out there. The gods themselves tremble at your name.”
Hacktor turned to Gromm, a twisted smile playing on his lips. “Perhaps you’re right, friend. Perhaps it’s time to aim higher.”
Perhaps I should have been worried about that last comment, but honesty I couldn’t help but chuckle as I watched the scene unfold through The Eye. Hacktor’s descent into savagery was becoming a thing of beauty, a masterpiece of manipulation that I had orchestrated with care. The War of the Ghast was indeed proving to be a bloodbath, just as I had planned. But I had no intention of stopping here. The flames of war were just beginning to consume the world, and I would fan those flames until everything was reduced to ashes.
As for Hacktor, his role in my grand design was far from over. The king’s appetite for destruction was growing, and soon, very soon, I would unleash him upon the world in ways even he couldn’t imagine. The War of the Ghast would be remembered as the bloodiest conflict in history, and I would be the architect of its ruin.
With a satisfied sigh, I leaned back in my chair and took a long sip of blood-wine. The night was young, and there was still much to be done. The war was far from over, and I intended to enjoy every moment of it.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 