Part XI: The Heart of Darkness
Chapter 8: The Road to Razzyn
Timeline AO 301
With the fires of Bazzu’s city still smoldering in the distance, casting a faint orange glow against the darkened sky, Hacktor Derkillez stood before his weary troops under the pale gaze of the moon. His booming voice, filled with resolve, shattered the silence of the camp. “We’re not going home this year, Drokkas.”
A ripple of surprise spread through the gathered ranks. The men, their faces weathered by the brutal campaigns of the season, exchanged uncertain glances. The wagons were loaded with the spoils of war, and the long march back to Rhokki Pass was eagerly anticipated by many. Yet, Hacktor’s words carried a weight that none could ignore.
“I know,” Hacktor continued, his eyes gleaming with a fervor that was almost unsettling. “The wagons are heavy with booty, and you’ve fought well this season. But understand this—whatever we’ve accomplished is but a mist. It will vanish into the annals of time, along with our names, unless we achieve something truly great.”
A murmur of confusion swept through the crowd. “But what, my lord?” someone called out, the question hanging in the crisp night air.
“Where can we find the glory you speak of?” another voice echoed, tinged with a mix of curiosity and doubt.
Hacktor’s smile was a fierce one, a grin that reflected both ambition and madness. “Ah, that is the question, isn’t it? Where indeed? But fear not, for The Spirit has shown me the answer. Instead of going home, we’re going to destroy Razzyn and recapture the kingdom of Oz!”
His words landed like thunder. The name “Oz” carried a weight of legend, and the mere mention of it sent a shiver through the ranks. Oz, the Drokka’s original mountain kingdom, had been lost to their enemies more than two centuries ago. It lay over a hundred leagues away, nestled at the very start of the Coctyz River in the northern Rhokki mountains, far beyond the reach of safety. Its proximity to the dreaded Dim Wood Forest and the rumored presence of Nektar’s Cauldron—a place whispered to be haunted by the God of Death’s minions—only added to the sense of dread.
Hacktor’s announcement was met with stunned silence, punctuated by the occasional mutter of disbelief. The very thought of marching to Oz, a place shrouded in fear and ancient curses, seemed like a fool’s errand—a road to certain death.
Yet Hacktor’s resolve was unshakable. Unsheathing The Ghast, his mighty blade, he raised it high, its sharp edge catching the moonlight. “I promised you fortune and glory if you came with me,” he declared, his voice rising above the whispers. “And we shall have just that when we retake our home kingdom. None have withstood our might so far—why should you doubt now? Even if The Marduk himself comes to meet us, The Ghast will destroy all in its path. We are unstoppable! Once you believe this, even the evil gods cannot stand in our way!”
The sheer force of Hacktor’s conviction began to seep into his men. Gromm Stonefist, one of the first Ghastwielders and now one of Hacktor’s most trusted commanders, was the first to step forward. He looked around at his fellow warriors, his face set in determination. “I’m with the Kon-Herr,” he growled, gripping his ghast tightly. His show of loyalty stirred the others, and soon the spirit of Hacktor’s vision spread like wildfire through the camp.
That night, the Drokka army celebrated not just their recent victories, but the promise of greater glories to come. As dawn broke, they turned their gaze northward, their hearts set on the distant, shadowed peaks of the Rhokki mountains, where the lost kingdom of Oz awaited.
The march north along the eastern shores of the great Coctyz River was grueling. The terrain was harsh, and the battles that followed were relentless. The Drokka forces clashed time and again with the Derkka, but Hacktor’s army, seasoned and emboldened, and with Hacktor’s magical Ghast to lead the way, the Drokka’s emerged victorious each time. The army’s confidence grew with every skirmish, their spirits buoyed by the sight of their enemies retreating before them.
Yet, as they neared the formidable city of Razzyn, a true challenge awaited them. Razzyn was no mere outpost—it was a fortress city, many times larger and more fortified than Antarez Ford. Perched on the eastern bank of the Coctyz River, Razzyn was a city built with both practicality and fear in mind. Its towering stone walls, ancient yet formidable, had withstood the test of time and countless assaults dating back centuries to the Drokka-Derkka Death wars when this region was once the center of the battles between the goblins of Gor and the Drokka of Oz.
The defenses of Razzyn were formidable, reflecting those centuries of conflict with the Drokka and other hostile forces. The outer walls, nearly fifty feet high and reinforced with iron and blackwood, were lined with parapets from which archers could rain down death upon any approaching army. Massive iron gates, adorned with the snarling faces of ancient demons, served as the main entrance, and were nearly impossible to breach without the use of siege engines. The gates were further fortified by an intricate network of murder holes and traps designed to repel any direct assault. Behind the walls, a series of concentric defenses added layers of security. Towers dotted the perimeter, each equipped with ballistae and catapults capable of launching deadly projectiles. The city’s barracks were strategically placed near the inner walls, ensuring that reinforcements could be quickly deployed to any point of conflict.
The city’s location was also a significant advantage. Because it had been built as the counter to Oz, Razzyn was nestled against the foothills of the northern Rhokki mountains, with the Coctyz River acting as a natural barrier on one side. The river itself was wide and deep, its dark waters fast-flowing, making any attempt to cross it under fire a perilous endeavor. Additionally, the forests surrounding the city were dense and treacherous, filled with hidden pitfalls and thorny underbrush that could easily entangle and slow an advancing army.
And so, while the Drokka’s kingdom of Oz was eventually overwhelmed and its outer gates destroyed, the Derkka’s city of Razzyn remained and continued to grow. Over time it had become a sprawling labyrinth of narrow streets and tightly packed buildings as the population expanded. The architecture had always been utilitarian, designed to endure both the harsh elements and the threat of battle. Because of it’s dark history of untold death in and around the area, every corner, every alley of Razzyn seemed to carry a sense of foreboding, as if the city itself were a living entity, ever watchful and wary.
Over fifty thousand goblins now called Razzyn home, their lives dedicated to farming, forestry, stone masonry, and shallow mining. These were not just civilians but fighters too, seasoned in the ways of battle that was required to protect themselves agaist their rival clans of the area and the many ‘creatures’ I’d released into those northern lands. Though they lacked the battle-hardened experience of traditional warfare like Hacktor’s forces, the Derkka made up for it with numbers.
As for the town’s leadership, Razzyn’s governor Ba’Far was a Babel Derk who also a practical goblin. Unyielding in his resolve to protect Razzyn, he ruled the city with an iron fist. His leadership was unquestioned, his authority absolute, and his willingness to do whatever was necessary to ensure the city’s survival was well-known. He had not been idle whilst Hacktor’s forces travelled towards them. Warned well in advance of the Drokka army’s approach by a messenger from Garrick, Razzyn had mustered his forces and fortified the city’s defenses. The stone walls of Razzyn, thick and high already, were stocked with provisions to withstand a prolonged siege.
Ba’Far’s chief advisor was a black mage named Omer, a disciple of Zalzrog, whose dark sorcery in the service of Baal had earned him a reputation as a feared and loathsome figure even among his own people. Little was known about Omer’s origins, and many in Razzyn whispered that he had come from the forbidden regions beyond the Dim Wood Forest, a place where even the bravest dared not tread, perhaps even from the shadows of The Cauldron.
Like his mentor Zalzrog, Omer’s magic was powerful, but it was also twisted, corrupted by the dark forces of Baal. Thin for a goblin, Omer’s gaunt appearance, with sunken eyes and pale, almost translucent skin, gave him the look of a Derk who had long since abandoned the light of day for the shadows of his own making.
Despite his quirks, Omer was indispensable to Ba’Far. Not only had he always given Ba’Far wise advice, but the governor knew the mage’s spells could minor summon storms, shroud the city in darkness, and confuse and overwhelm would be attackers. But Omer’s magic came at a cost—each spell took a toll on his body and soul, further binding him to the forces of darkness.
As Hacktor’s army approached, the citizens of Razzyn placed their trust in Ba’Far and Omer, confident that their city, their home, would once again stand firm against the Drokka invaders. But even in their confidence, there was an undercurrent of fear, for Razzyn had never faced an enemy quite like Hacktor Derkillez and his indomitable will. The city’s defenses would be tested as never before, and the outcome of the coming battle would determine not just the fate of Razzyn, but possibly the entire region.
As Hacktor’s army travelled into northern Gor, the weather turned against them. Perhaps this was due to the efforts of Omer, perhaps not. Yet either way the days grew shorter, and the air took on a biting chill that cut through even the thickest of furs from the supply wagons. Black clouds rolled in from the north, casting an ominous pall over the landscape. The march became a test of endurance, not just for the soldiers but for their mounts and the wagon trains as well. The ponies, already burdened with riders and supplies, struggled against the craggy cold terrain, their breath visible in the frigid air. The wagons creaked and groaned as they trudged along and the typical joy from the supply city had long since vanished.
As the first flurries of snow began to fall, a sense of dread settled over the troops. The closer they got to Razzyn, the more the men began to doubt. Whispers of doom circulated again through the ranks—was this march a suicide mission? Would any of them ever see their homes again?
Riding at the head of his army with his cousin General Fredrik, Hacktor felt the weight of their doubts but pressed on, driven by a vision that few could comprehend. But the weather, with its relentless onslaught, was an enemy all its own and even the great Ghast was no match for that. The snow fell heavier, the wind howled with a bitter fury, and the road ahead still seemed endless. Each league forward became a struggle, a drudgery that sapped the strength from even the most stalwart of warriors. Yet, there was no turning back. With Razzyn on the horizon and the promise of Oz beyond, Hacktor’s army had no choice but to press on, their fate hanging in the balance.
Finally, on the day before they were to reach Razzyn, in the predawn darkness before they broke camp, a chill hung over Hacktor and Fredrik as they walked along the edge of the encampment. The fires had died down, and men were busying themselves with duty
“Think they’ll remember us if we die here?” Hacktor muttered, scanning the horizon where the great city awaited them.
“Only if we make it memorable,” Fredrik replied. He looked at his younger cousin, a trace of concern shadowing his hardened face. “You’re in too deep, Hack. Taking risks young kings with a beautiful wife but no sons yet shouldn’t take.”
Hacktor’s eyes narrowed, resentment stirring. “Not everyone gets to pick their fate, Fred. Not everyone has three sons like you.”
Fredrik sighed, his voice dropping. “We’re all damned in some way, Hack. I have a wife who prays I return whole. I don’t even have the heart to tell her that whole is a lie we tell ourselves to feel better about this madness.”
Hacktor looked at his cousin, a rare vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “Tomorrow, then, Fred. We make it memorable.”
Fredrik nodded, clapping Hacktor on the shoulder. “Aye. Tomorrow, we either die as Drokka warriors or return as legends.”
Luckily for the the king and his army, what might be impossible for man, is always possible for the gods – and – for now at least – I was on their side…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 