Part XI – The Heart of Darkness
Chapter 9 – The Cold Winds Blow
Timeline AO 301
When Hacktor’s army finally arrived at the gates of Razzyn, they were a worn-out, haggard force. Exhaustion and dread hung in the air like a shroud, for what lay before them was no mere fortress but a behemoth of stone and steel that dwarfed all their previous conquests. The walls of Razzyn were formidable—thick, well-hewn stone rising fifty feet high, casting long shadows over the battered Drokka troops. Unlike the mud-bricked defenses of Antarez Ford, Razzyn’s walls were a testament to the cunning and might of the goblins who had crafted them, impenetrable and imposing.
To make matters worse, the city was encircled by a wide, man-made moat, fed by the skillful diversion of the Coctyz River. Its dark, icy waters churned menacingly, a constant reminder of the near-impossible task before the Drokka. To any military mind, it was clear that a frontal assault would be suicide. The only options were a long, drawn-out siege or a deadly advance by miners, but winter’s icy grip was fast approaching, and the Drokka lacked the cold-weather gear to survive even a few weeks in The Freeze. The terrain surrounding Razzyn was a broken, ravaged expanse that offered no safe passage to Oz without first breaching the city’s defenses. Razzyn held the only road to their destination, and it seemed an insurmountable obstacle.
As the Drokka made camp to plan their strategy, the mood was somber, almost defeated. The walls of Razzyn loomed over them, casting long, cold shadows that sapped their courage. Even the most stalwart among them felt the icy tendrils of doubt creeping into their hearts. Fredrik Vendal, the steadfast military leader from Kel-de-Kaba, privately lamented to his son that this might finally be the task that dimmed Hacktor’s star. Yet, despite his doubts, Vendal never wavered in his public support for the Kon-Herr. To him, there seemed to be only one choice: storm the walls with a smaller force and break their teeth against the stone, or die trying.
But Hacktor Derkillez had other ideas. He was acutely aware of the odds stacked against him—the goblin army outnumbered his by at least 50%, and they held the high ground, protected by impenetrable walls and more supplies of both food and arms. Any military manual would deem an attack under these conditions sheer madness. But Hacktor had something the goblins did not—The Ghast, a weapon of unimaginable power, and the belief in his own invincibility. And so it was that the great Kon-Herr believed in his star and the magic of his name and therefore he was eager to give his scribes a victory so astounding it would be worthy of the highest praise in The Kroniklz.
As the temperature plummeted the next day, Hacktor alone among his men rejoiced. Ba’Far and Omer watched from high atop the walls of Razzyn, laughing as they pointed to the threatening skies whilst they showcased their warm furs. With warm fires along the ramparts, the goblins hurled insults at the Drokka king’s poorly timed siege and everyone present – from the people of Razzyn to Hacktor’s own men — were certain the weather was going to force the Kon-Herr to give up the field to escape the brutal cold.
There was no hope for The Drokka to take Razzyn – it was just impossible – at least that’s what everyone said. Yet everyone was wrong…
Ba’Far was only slightly worried that Garrick of the Golden Hand hadn’t arrived yet – given that the Marduk’s entire force was mounted on horses or chariots and had less of a distance to travel, Garrick was already a week overdue. Yet Ba’Far wasn’t worried – for he was certain Razzyn could hold out until Garrick shortly arrived to trap Hacktor’s army unawares.
Yet what Ba’Far didn’t know, couldn’t know, what that I had other ideas. Garrick’s army was nowhere to be seen because I had willed it that way. I’d seen to it that the Marduk’s forces had been delayed on their journey from Babel as they traveled along the northeastern side of the Coctyz River. Their swift-moving chariots and horsemen, unburdened by a supply train, should have made quick time across the plains, had I not conspired to hold them back.
First, there was the sickness that swept through the Derkka’s horses, a strange and sudden illness that left them weak and fevered, barely able to stand, let alone carry Garrick and his goblins all the way to Razzyn. Then came the storms—unnatural tempests that churned the skies into a black, boiling sea, flooding the roads and turning the ground into a mire that slowed their progress to a crawl. But worst of all were The Morati.
Ill-begotten children of the evil goddess Sindra and the Atlanteans, The Morati were ghouls that fed on other living creatures to ‘infect’ them with the internal disease that kept them half dead, half alive. I’d always kept a gaggle of them around The Cauldron to play around with and I figured they’d keep Garrick busy so I portaled them in droves during the nights of Garrick’s march north. His forces were plagued by these ‘zombie attacks’ and even on the evenings when I didn’t send them to harrass his troops, Garrick’s warriors found themselves beset by strange dreams and sighting that left them sleepless and wary.
As an interesting side note, during the hardships of that journey, the commoner Rorik Mudfoot saw his station in the Derkka army advance – his unwavering determination and refusal to be afraid in the face of danger quickly earned him a place close to Garrick. And his taking down of a Morati who’d nearly victimed the Marduk during the night won him Garrick’s praise. So much so that when Garrick’s chariot driver died in a freak accident, it was Rorik who The Marduk entrusted with the reins of his chariot, a position of honor and responsibility.
Thus it was that Rorik Mudfoot drove Garrick in the lead chariot as The Marduk forced his army onward – for The Golden Hand vowed to meet Hacktor in battle or die trying.
Hacktor never knew about Garrick’s advance, nor that he was perhaps placing himself in a trap. Still forcing his men to line up before the walls of Razzyn to prepare for an assault, Hacktor continued to believe the gods had chosen him for greatness. So he sent his emissary, Hadrik Klyntz, to address the town.
Wrapped in wool against the biting wind, Hadrik raised his voice over the howling storm. “People of Razzyn, open your gates! The great Kon-Herr Hacktor Derkillez—Lord of the Mountains, The First of Rhokki, The Hammer of the Gods, The Doom of Antarez, and The Great Ghastwielder—stands before you… in peace.”
From atop the walls, the mage Omer amplified his voice with magic, his words dripping with contempt. “Peace? We heard of the peace your king offered to Antarez.” The goblins erupted in laughter. “Go find another village to pillage; it won’t be here.”
A boulder was flung from the city, landing short of the emissary but casting dirt in his direction. Hadrik scoffed at the attempt. “We look forward to taking your catapults from you. Until then, know this: Hacktor Derkillez offers you a choice—open your gates and escape into the countryside, where you might survive, or resist and face a slow, gruesome death. You have until sunrise to decide.”
Doom! Doom! Giant steel drums, lined with mammoth gut, were rolled forward through the Drokka ranks. The sound echoed across the fields, a steady, ominous rhythm that beat into the hearts of all who heard it. Doom! Doom!
As the drums called, the next part of Hacktor’s plan involved the use of Derkka captives. Since the army had been capturing prisoners in earlier battles on the way towards Razzyn, Hacktor’s men stood in groups and wondered what tortures their king had in mind to convince the people of this new city to give up. Would it be more Goblin Glimmers in the night? Would Hacktor give his men a bit of sport and allow them to pull the captives apart with ropes? Or did their leader have something new in mind? The cruel warriors argued amongst themselves how things would play out – yet what none of them realized was that Hacktor aimed to torture his own men too!
Hacktor played his cards slowly, savoring the tension. A full day passed with the drums continuing their relentless pounding, and still, Hacktor bided his time. The weather worsened as the moon rose, and the Kon-Herr rejoiced – rejecting the idea that the mage Omer was responsible and instead praising Kalypzo for sending down freezing rain and driving winds to add effect to his planned display. He ordered his entire army to take up their formal ranks before the city, just out of bow range but within sight of the goblins who lined the walls.
Boom! Boom! The drums contineud, a slow, steady beat that matched the pounding of the Drokka soldiers’ hearts.
Next, Hacktor ordered the guards to force Derkka captives forward, each carrying a bag of dirt. The goblins on the walls watched in confusion as their fellow goblins approached the moat, unmolested at first. But as the prisoners began to throw the bags into the moat, Ba’Far realized what was happening. His moat, the first line of defense, was being filled in by his own people.
“Archers!” Ba’Far shouted, and the goblin bowmen hesitated only a moment before firing on their brethren. The prisoners tried to retreat, but Hacktor’s guards, wielding pikes and firebrands, forced them back toward the moat. Arrows rained down, cutting through the prisoners as they desperately tried to escape. Many fell into the water, their bodies filling the moat as the drums continued their relentless rhythm.
Doom! Doom! The drums never stopped, echoing in the night, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth.
Ba’Far looked on in horror as his first line of defense was neutralized. Omer, beside him, tried to calm his nerves. “The walls are still impenetrable,” he said, though his voice wavered. He cast more spells, whipping up foul weather, but even he began to feel the strain of the cost of his magic as my Baal slowly drained his soul away.
Hacktor’s men, however, were almost enjoying themselves. The gruesome spectacle before them distracted them from the cold, and they laughed at the thought of the terror they were inflicting on the goblins. With the moat nearly filled, the Drokka warriors eagerly looked around for scaling ladders and a battering ram, but none were in sight.
Meanwhile Ba’Far’s commanders, confident in their defenses, took up their battle stations. Trumpets blared, weapons clanged, and orders were called out as the goblins braced for the assault they were certain was imminent.
But as the evening wore on, both sides waited for an attack that never came.
Hours passed. The drums continued their relentless beat, but the Drokka did not move.
The goblins on the walls grew impatient, tired, and cold. By midnight, a frustrated Ba’Far abandoned his position on the walls. The governor was confident in the city’s defenses, and he retreated to the warm palace to await news. Omer, too, left the walls, retreating to Razzyn’s Temple of Baal, where he continued to cast spells, turning the freezing rain to wet snow and preparing potions for the battle he was sure would come soon.
Yet Omer’s magic began to have unintended consequences – the gusts of wind he’d pulled down upon the city began to freeze the marrow even of the Derkka warriors on the high walls, whilst the beards of the Drokka in the fields became stiff with frost. For a time it still seemed like the Drokka were taking the worst of it – for while the Derkka had the benefit of being in their well-stocked city, Hacktor’s men were not so lucky – the sparse fires that the camp servants had lit around the field did little to ward off the cold which became worse and worse. Whenever one of the Drokka troops started to wilt, a captain called out “Stand Firm!” or “Save it for the Goblins!” Thus it was that Hacktor’s forces continued to wait – trained to obedience, standing in readiness, ominous and burning with hatred for their enemies who were forcing them to suffer because their gates remained closed.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Hacktor’s drums never stopped.
Impatient, Ba’Far again returned to the walls to see what was taking so long – as he looked upon his enemy the Derkka governor became frantic at the sight of the stoic army that was enduring such hardship, and he feared his people couldn’t stand up to such resolve. How the Drokka warriors could withstand Omer’s storms? Surely they must attack soon. Yet the cold was too much for Ba’Far to stand so before leaving the wall, he assured his warriors that an attack was coming any minute – for how could it not?
With Ba’Far anxious in his palace, Omer exhausting himself with black magic, and his warriors withering on the walls – the Derkka of Razzyn endured a night of mental terror just as challenging as the physical order of Hacktor’s forces, nay perhaps more challenging, since the goblins faced the unknown and the sight of the fearsome looking warriors surrounding their city soon took on supernatural proportions. The cold bit their Derkka hands that held grip to their swords and clubs, yet none dared to drop them against a charge that had to come soon. It just had to!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The moon sank, yet still the men of the mountains stood before the walls of Razzyn – without moving.
And still the drums sounded the doom of Ba’Far’s people. Boom! Boom! Boom!
In truth, Hacktor’s army suffered terribly, yet the king refused to let them attack – for the wait was all part of his plan. As the snow became thicker and the winds cut more cruel, Omer’s magic began to take a brutal toll on the Derkka who stood upon the walls – eventually forcing all but a rag tag crew to abandon their positions.
Then, in the dead of night, Ba’Far was awakened with horrible news – the mage Omer had destroyed himself with his own magic! It was presumed that Omer had been consumed while performing an arcane ritual to call Baal [in fact, I heard his call to me, and I answered that call – by harvesting his soul].
Ba’Far was distraught at the death of Omer. Racing to the wall, he was horrified to see his city still surrounded by that horrific Drokka army that continued to pound their drums and call upon their gods. Looking all around, Ba’Far could see his own men were lost – their eyes told the story of their defeat. Then it was that Ba’Far gave in to despair. How could they stand up before such a committed group of warriors? How could they resist the drums of Doom? Defeat seized their hearts of Derkka. And yet, all was not lost – for Ba’Far knew that so long as their gates could remain closed, there was still hope – surely Garrick The Golden Hand would arrive in time to save them!
And then it was that Hacktor unleashed the fury of The Ghast. With the gloam of the night fading, the fearless Kon-Herr pulled down the face plate on his magical helm and stoically walked towards gates. Seeing the hated Drokka king advance all alone, Ba’Far quickly ordered his archers to shower the foolish dwarf with arrows as he neared the moat – yet to Ba’Far’s horror the bolts of his goblins had no effect!
Walking over the bridge of bodies that filled the now engorged moat, Hacktor’s armor continued to repel the wave of arrows that showered him. Onward the Drokka king walked – until he came to the gates themselves – there he was met with two vats of hot oil. Warriors on both sides gasped at the sight – for the boiling liquid should have roasted the king alive, yet it too did nothing to stop Hacktor’s inexorable march. Standing before the massive gates of Razzyn – the tiny Kon-Herr looked like a child before the thick iron wrapped timbers that towered before him, yet Hacktor only laughed as he stook before them.
“Challenge not the Drokka!” Hacktor Derkillez raised his Ghast on high. “For Rhokki is our God!”
With a massive swing of his magical axe, whilst everyone on both sides of the walls watched, Hacktor Derkillez destroyed the great gates of Razzyn – the Ghast obliterating the timbers as if they were but matchsticks, even as the sun showed its first rays over the mountains to the east.
The new day burst forth in glory, as if the gods approved of Hacktor’s efforts, and with Omer gone, and the sun rising, the temperature quickly rose – it would have been perfect weather for the goblins of Razzyn to escape and the warriors of Hacktor to rest and recover. Unfortunately for Ba’Far and the pour souls of his city, Hacktor didn’t allow them to escape, nor did he give his men the opportunity to rest. Since the walls were not opened before sunrise as Hacktor’s envoyo Hadrik had warned the Derkka, the Kon-Herr ordered his men to attack and destroy Razzyn.
The Drokka warriors cared little for technicalities and given that the men were beyond angry at what they endured all night, when their captains gave the order to charge they were all too happy to take out their rage upon their enemies – with Gromm Stonefist leading them in the van.
The battle was a one-sided affair for the Derkka had lost their heart. Yet the Drokka showed them no mercy, cutting them down without discrimination, their axes stained with the blood of their enemies. It was a ghastly affair as Ba’Far and his people suffered unspeakable cruelties – countless goblins were sent ‘flying’ from the high walls, the number of those impaled was beyond measure, and atrocities worse still occurred. Not a soul escaped death and by the end of the day the faces of the Drokka warriors were smeared in blood.
As the dust settled and the cries of the wounded faded into the night, the Drokka soldiers gathered around the smoldering fires on the fields in front of Razzyn. Their hearts, still pounding from the thrill of combat, began to swell with gratitude. For it was not only their strength that had carried them through the chaos—it was the ever-present guidance of Kalypzo, their revered Mother Earth.
Kneeling in the soil, the soldiers pressed their hands into the ground, feeling the warmth of the earth beneath them. One by one, they offered silent prayers of thanks to Kalypzo, praising her for her protection and the strength she had lent them. “Blessed be Kalypzo,” murmured one soldier, his voice cracking with emotion. “May she guide us through the darkness to come, as she has guided us through this day.” The others echoed his words, their voices rising in a low, reverent chant that spread like wildfire through the ranks.
And yet there was a darkness that overshadowed this celebration – for Hacktor’s torture of his own ranks the night before caused his men to sink to their lowest forms during the fighting, many gave in to their cruelest animal instincts when they tortured their victims – as evidenced by the sight of countless Drokka warriors celebrating that night by displaying the steaming entrails of the cursed goblins as necklaces. Hacktor too wore a necklace, but his was made of rope from which hung the heads of Ba’Far and Omer.
“Judgment Day has come to Razzyn!” Hacktor raised a horn of Gozaka in one hand and The Ghast in another as he stood by the bonfire in the courtyard of town. “Today we delivered another victory to our lord Rhokki. Tomorrow we shall reenter Oz and make an offering on the altar there to thank our gods! Challenge not the Drokka…”
“For Rhokki is our god!” the rapid men cheered their leader.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 