Part XI: The Heart of Darkness
Chapter 6: Glimmering Goblins
Timeline: AO 301
Intrigued by Hacktor’s promise to take the city of Antarez without a fight, I continued watching to see what he had in mind…
A day later Gromm Stonefist and his men rode back from Nuzha with over a hundred Derk prisoners in tow. The pitiful creatures had seen their village destroyed, had been tortured and abused, had been force marched back to Hacktor’s camp, and then corralled in makeshift pens to hear their fate. When they saw the Kon-Herr walking towards goblins from Nuzha wailed for mercy, yet Hacktor cared little for their plight and even less for their cries.
“Prepare to bind them to the stakes in front of the city walls and carry out your orders.” Hacktor spoke to a handful of guards as he pointed to the many rows of wooden stakes that now covered the grounds in front of the walls of Antarez Ford.
“I see you and my father have been busy while I’ve been gone.” Gromm said as he sauntered over towards his king. He saw that the Derkka governor was still calling out threats from atop his walls, so taking a long pull on his mead horn he asked. “Does that guy ever shut up? What’s with all the stakes? It’s going to take all night if you’re thinking of impaling so many.”
The Kon-Herr laughed. “Just watch.”
The king’s guards began to take groups of prisoners out of the pens. Although the goblins were kicking and screaming, the smaller Drokka warriors had little trouble manhandling the prisoners into position (clubs and whips tend to get people to do what you want). Following Hacktor’s orders, the guards bound the prisoners to the stakes with their hands tied above their heads. After being tied to the poles, another group of guards went around to each prisoner and swabbed their hands with pitch. Then yet another group of Drokka came around and pushed handfuls of dry straw into the prisoners hands so that the straw stuck to the pitch on their hands.
Gromm admired the Kon-Herr’s plan. “I think I see how this is gonna play out. Old Bazzu up there isn’t going to like it.”
Hacktor chuckled. “The governor warned us about Baal’s fire – so the jokes on him. Best of all I had my men make sure the stakes are beyond the range of Bazzu’s archers so they won’t be able to stop our fun. And without much of a moon tonight my display is going to be even better.”
The preparations done, Hacktor sent his emissary Hadrik Klyntz to the gates of the city. The king’s messenger called out from atop his pony. “Governor Bazzu and people of Antarez Ford, prepare to see the power of the Kon-Herr Hacktor Derkillez – Lord of the Rhokki’s, Champion of the Eight Kingdoms, The Fist of Rhokki, Hammer of the Gods, and The Great Ghastwielder. Hacktor Derkillez offers you a choice – open your gates and live to walk away or fail to open these gates by the time the last prisoner from dies, and every one of you will meet a face worse than what you are about to see.”
Although it sounded like chaos inside the city and Bazzu was beside himself atop the walls, the only reply the Drokka emissary received was an arrow shot in his direction. The quill fell short and Hadrik turned back towards his king. At a nod from Hacktor, the envoy took a torch from one of the guards and leaned over on his pony to set the hands of the nearest prisoner on fire. That was the signal to the other guards to do the same. In a short while, over one hundred captives were set on fire, lighting up the skies in front of the walls of Antarez Ford.
Now holding a horn of mead himself, Hacktor savored the sight, the fires reflecting from his eyes. “I call them Derkka Candles.”
“How about Glimmering Goblins.” Grimm shouted over the blood-curdling cries of the burning victims as he clicked his horn against Hacktor’s.
As the flames consumed the prisoners, their agonized screams echoed through the night, a symphony of terror that pierced the hearts of those within the walls of Antarez Ford. The burning hands, the “Derkka Candles,” illuminated the scene in a ghastly glow, casting flickering shadows on the walls that loomed like silent spectators to the horrors unfolding below.
My pawn Hacktor Derkillez stood tall, a figure of unyielding cruelty, his face reflecting the fire’s malevolent dance. His eyes, glimmering with the satisfaction of a predator, scanned the scene with an air of grim triumph. Gromm Stonefist, ever the loyal warrior, grinned beside his king, taking another swig from his mead horn. The cries of the dying prisoners, the smell of burning flesh, and the crackle of the flames seemed to invigorate them both.
“Old Bazzu up there thought he could frighten us with Baal’s fire,” Hacktor said with a dark chuckle, his voice thick with contempt. “Now, he gets to witness what real fear looks like.”
The Kon-Herr Fredrik Vendal joined them in a toast as he added, “I doubt Bazzu finds this as amusing as we do.”
“So will they open up before the last fire burns out?” Gromm wondered.
“We shall see.” Hacktor smiled.
The macabre sight of Hacktor’s cruelty was more than enough to weaken the resolve of Bazzu and his people. From atop the walls, the Derkka governor’s bluster had turned to frantic shouts, his once defiant voice now strained with desperation. Meanwhile his personal guard Rorik Mudfoot raged at the sight of the Drokka captain who’d brought the prisioners from Nuzha – certain that he’d seen that dwarf the prior year at the razing of his home Lubbok!
Bazzu was beside himself with worry and nothing Rorik said could calm him down.
“Doom! Doom.” The governor was pulling at his hair. “How can we resist such horrors?”
The sight of the citizens being reduced to mere fuel for the Drokka’s sadistic display was too much to bear. Knowing they couldn’t defeat the Drokka army and fearing what worse evils Hacktor might do to them if they resisted any longer, Governor Bazzu ordered his gates to be opened before even half the prisoners died. Thus it was that Hacktor took the city without a fight.
Bazzu’s decision to open the gates was not one made lightly, but it was born of fear and a desperate hope that he could salvage something, anything, from the wreckage. As the gates creaked open, a collective sigh of resignation rippled through the city. The people of Antarez Ford, who had once looked to their governor for leadership and strength, now saw him for what he truly was: a man who had gambled with their lives and lost.
Bazzu guessed that many of his people would perish from this decision but the governor hoped that he could bribe the Drokka king to secure freedom for he and his Babelenion friends – or at the very least that he himself might escape during the coming chaos.
Hacktor wasted no time in taking possession of the city. The gates, now open, offered no resistance, and his mounted troops poured into Antarez Ford with ruthless efficiency. The Derkka inhabitants, who had once taken solace in the familiarity of their homes, now found themselves herded like cattle by Hacktor’s invaders.
As Hacktor’s army corralled the people inside the city, his envoy explained the terms of their surrender. “You shall take nothing with you but the clothes on your back – no weapons, no livestock, and nothing of value. Relish your freedom and thank Hacktor Derkillez for his mercy.” And if that wasn’t bad enough, what the king’s mouthpiece said next made the people of that town realize they had merely delayed their doom and not escaped it. “The Kon-Herr has mercifully granted you two days peace with which to escape. After that he must continue to do the work of our Lord Rhokii – the all powerful God of the Mountains – therefore should our men encounter you after two days, we will destroy you. Now go! Run for your lives!”
The realization of their fate settled like a shroud over the people of Antarez Ford. They were not being spared; they were still being condemned to death. They knew the lands beyond the city were barren, scorched by the Drokka army’s relentless campaign. Villages had been razed, fields burned, and food supplies pillaged. The survivors of Antarez Ford, stripped of their homes, their belongings, and their dignity, could try to wander those desolate lands, but it would be a desperate search in vain for sustenance and shelter.
As the defeated exited their home and entered the fields outside their city the saw their future – the weaker among them, the elderly, the sick, and the very young, would be the first to fall. Starvation would claim many, as the summer heat and the barren earth conspired against them. Mothers would clutch their children to their chests, trying to shield them from the cruel reality that awaited them, but in the end, there would be no escape.
And this is indeed what happened. For those who managed to survive the initial days, the Drokka soldiers were a constant threat. Hacktor’s men, bloodlust unsatisfied by the city’s surrender, took to the hunt with glee. The Derkka became sport for them, a deadly game. Riding on their war ponies, the Drokka tracked the goblins down, the troops taking pleasure in the senseless killings as their leaders figured out the army’s next moves.
You’re wondering – why didn’t the people of Antarez cross the bridge that spanned the city and escape on the other side into eastern Gor?
The answer brings us back to Bazzu – he’d listened to the envoy Hadrik’s terms from a secure position – after hearing the terms of his city’s capitulation, the governor realized his plan to bribe Hacktor was doomed, therefore Bazzu, Rorik, and the rest of their retinue quickly fled across the bridge to the western portion of the city and burned the bridge behind them, after which they fled to Babel.
Bazzu’s flight across the bridge was an act of cowardice, a desperate bid to save himself at the cost of everyone else. Rorik hated being a part of it, but he’d sworn allegiance to Bazzu and in the desperation of the times he followed orders – doing his part to burn the bridge as his leader commanded.
That burning of the bridge was the final betrayal of Bazzu, sealing the fate of those he left behind. It’s true that in Babel, Bazzu would later be rewarded for his actions – hailed as a hero by those politicians who did not know or did not care about the true cost of his “foresight.” But even in Babel, the whispers of Bazzu’s cowardice would follow him, a stain that could never be washed clean.
When Hacktor saw the bridge destroyed, he raged at Bazzu’s trickery and his own impotence to stop its destruction. However as Antarez wasn’t his final destination, the Kon-Herr reminded himself of my Spirit’s promises and got control of his emotions.
Without the bridge to reach the other side of the great river, and given that Antarez Ford was too far west hold as a territory without stationing a large force there, the king had his men raze as much of the city as they could. They reduced the western portion of the town to ashes. Since it impossible to reach the far side across the river, Hacktor had his men build catapults to launch burning logs into the buildings across the water. It took the troops four full days to burn the majority of both sides of the town, after which the king finally told his men of the plan going forward.
With the summer near it’s end, the army far from home, and the men weary from the long campaign, the troops assumed the battle of Antarez was likely to be the culmination of their war this year and that Hacktor would surely turn the army around and head home to celebrate another successful year of pillaging.
Imagine their surprise when their king advised there would be no rest, no return to the comforts of home – for the great Kon-Herr had other plans, driven by the promises of the Spirit and the relentless pursuit of his dark ambitions, and what he told them next frightened these warriors to their very core…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 