Part XV: The Coming of The Myz
Chapter 6: On the Road to Gor
Timeline AO 323
As the spring fighting season of AO323 dawned, I watched from the shadows of The Cauldron as Hacktor gathered his forces at Rhokki Pass. The Drokka was relentless, driven by a burning desire to obliterate any remaining Myz and wipe the Derkka from the face of the flat earth. Despite the troubles caused by the Myz last year, Hacktor was confident, perhaps overly so, as he led a massive army through The Drokka Byways, headed towards Gor. His soldiers were a formidable force: infantry, cavalry, knights, archers, sappers, and siege experts—all marching under his banner. And behind them trailed a supply chain that stretched for miles, a testament to the sheer scale of his ambition.
When they finally emerged from the mountains and onto the road that led to Gor, Hacktor took his war pony to a hillock overlooking the road – there he sat next to his trust advisor Fredrik Vendal as they watched the ranks march past. The first light of dawn was creeping over the jagged peaks of Rhokki Pass behind them and lighting the vast expanse of Gor that stretched out ahead of the troops, and while the chill of the mountain air bit through their layers, Hacktor paid it no mind for his mind was consumed by the thought of the battles ahead.
“I think we’ve got more than enough.” The king said to his friend.
“Aye.” Fredrick replied, yet in his heart he wondered how many the Myz would take this time around.
Meanwhile, as the Drokka in the army looked up on their king they couldn’t help but be in awe – for Hacktor was a towering figure among the dwarves, his presence commanding respect and fear in equal measure. His armor, forged by Hef Fastuz from the finest blacksteel, gleamed dully in the early morning light, whilst The Ghast hung at his side, its blade etched with runes that pulsed with an eerie light. Many of those in the ranks carried pseudo-ghasts – and while some had blades forged by Hef, most had but poor copies – all of them knew their blades lacked the magic of Hacktor’s but there was a certain comfort in knowing they carried even a shadow of their leader’s legendary weapon.
Recruits young and old viewed their king with awe – for by now his reputation as a military commander preceded him—a warrior of unmatched skill, a leader whose strategies were as brutal as they were effective. Hacktor had fought in more battles than anyone could count, each one leaving its mark on his soul. It was clear to all that the Kon-Herr was no longer the young Drokka he once was; the years of war had hardened him, chiseling away at his humanity until all that remained was a relentless drive for victory. The lines of his face were etched, not with the scars of countless battles like other warriors, but instead with anger and determination. Even his eyes had changed and were now cold and devoid of mercy. Those Drokka who looked his way as they passed by below saw him saw not just their king, but also as force of nature, unstoppable and inevitable.
Even still, as the commoners in the army marched, the mood among the soldiers was jubilant. They believed that this campaign would be the end of the war, the final blow that would bring them victory and eternal glory. I could hear them singing as they moved, their voices rising in unison to the heavens. The first song was a hymn to Kalypzo, their Mother Earth, asking her to shield them from harm:
“Kalypzo, hear our plea,
Guard us o’er land, under tree,
In battle fierce, we pray to thee,
Grant us strength, and victory.”
The soldiers sang with such fervor, their spirits lifted by the promise of glory. It was almost amusing to watch, knowing what awaited them on the battlefield. For though they marched with confidence, they had no idea of the horrors that Gwar and I had prepared for them.
Later, when Hacktor and the commanders took up their position in the march behind the front van, the Drokka army stretched out in a seemingly endless column behind the king’s guard – a sea of steel and flesh that snaked its way for miles. After two decades of war, the army was by now a testament to the might of the Drokka people, a formidable force composed of seasoned warriors, elite knights, and hardened veterans who had fought alongside Hacktor in countless campaigns. They were a grim and determined lot, united by a common cause and an unshakable loyalty to their Kon-Herr.
Trailing Hacktor’s commanders and guards rode the cavalry, a fearsome sight to behold. Mounted on war ponies, bred for strength and endurance, these knights were the elite of the Drokka forces. Clad in plate armor that gleamed like silver in the sunlight, they were a wall of steel, their lances held at the ready. The horses, too, were armored, their heads covered with iron masks that made them look like beasts from the underworld.
The infantry, the backbone of the Drokka army, marched on foot. Walking in disciplined ranks, these fighters held their spears held high, many had pseudo-ghasts on their belt, and all carried their shields on their backs. These were dwarves who had been forged in the crucible of war, their bodies hardened by years of brutal training and harsh conditions. Their armor was simple but effective—chainmail shirts, leather cuirasses, and iron helms adorned with the symbols of their clans. They marched in silence, their faces set in grim determination, the weight of their task heavy upon their shoulders.
At the rear of the column, the archers and sappers marched, their eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of danger. The archers were deadly marksmen, their longbows capable of piercing even the thickest armor. The sappers, on the other hand, were specialists in siege warfare, experts in the use of explosives and tunneling to bring down enemy fortifications. They were the unsung heroes of the army, their skills often determining the outcome of a battle long before the first blow was struck.
Trailing behind the main force was the supply chain, a veritable lifeline that ensured the army could function far from home, but also a bustling, chaotic affair. Merchants sold their goods, Traders weapons and armor, while pawn dealers hawked anything that could be of value to the men—trinkets, charms, and dubious relics said to bring luck in battle.
Over the years the train had grown to immense proportions – now stretching for miles and encompassing a wide range of professions and services. Merchants of all kinds followed in the wake of the army, their wagons laden with goods and provisions essential for the campaign ahead. There were blacksmiths, tanners, and armorers, all working tirelessly to keep the army’s weapons and armor in top condition. Bakers and cooks followed as well, their ovens belching smoke as they prepared meals for the thousands of hungry soldiers. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread wafted through the air, a small comfort in the harsh reality of war.
But the supply chain was more than just a logistical necessity—it was a bustling, chaotic marketplace, where anything and everything could be bought for the right price. Pawn dealers hawked trinkets and charms, promising protection from harm and good fortune in battle. Traders sold weapons and armor, some of it scavenged from the battlefields of previous wars. There were also apothecaries, offering potions and salves to heal wounds and stave off the many diseases that plagued the soldiers. Even mystics and fortune-tellers found their place, offering glimpses of the future to those desperate enough to believe in their words.
Amidst the clamor of trade and commerce, there were the more unsavory elements—those who provided the soldiers with distractions from the grim reality of their situation. Rolling taverns and alehouses sprang wherever the army made camp, their doors open to any soldier with coin to spend. The sound of raucous laughter and drunken revelry filled the night air, as men sought solace in the bottom of a tankard. Women, too, followed the army, offering companionship and comfort to those who could afford it. These were not the noble ladies of the court, but rough, hardened women who had seen more of of the unfortunate side of life than most soldiers. They knew how to please a man, and they knew how to survive in a world where life was cheap, and death was always near.
And so those early days of the march passed.
After leaving the confines of the mountains, they army first came to The Blackwood Forest – that precious resource that the Drokka now largely controlled.
Over the past two decades Hacktor had installed various generals to protect the forest so that Drokka merchants and workers could harvest the blackwood and send it back to the mountains for Monty’s guilds to oversee for distribution to the people. [Unbeknownst to the king, it was a process rife with corruption]. Within the forest, Hacktor’s managers had done much to transform The Blackwoods – joining it with new roads, felling large swaths of forest, draining swamps, building a few settlements (complete with settlers who were daring enough to leave the mountains), defending against Goblin raiders (which more often than not were poor Derkka looking to reclaim their stolen lands), and maintain the peace necessary for the Drokka foresters and farmers to thrive. Under Hacktor’s rule, the Drokka’s Blackwood Forest had lived, grown, and flourished and that was something the king was proud of.
The days that army had spent in the Blackwoods were peaceful and the troops continued in high spirts, but the experienced fighters knew that as they pushed further into Gor the terrain would become more treacherous. Sitting around the camp fires, older soldiers explained to the new recruits how the once fertile land of Gor had become a harsh, unforgiving place due to decades of war – its now barren landscape dotted with jagged rocks and twisted trees where the sky was a perpetual gray, the sun hidden behind thick clouds that threatened rain at any moment.
The young soldiers listened to such tales with wide eyes, yet their captains buoyed their spirits with songs – encouraging the men to believe their gods would protect them in the coming battle.
“Rhôkki, grant us strength to wield,
Our axes, swords, and mighty shields.
Through battle’s roar and blood’s red rain,
Let us never fight in vain.”
Sometimes those songs built morale, sometimes now. Just as often groups of soldiers could be seen huddled around makeshift tables of the wagon city, dicing and drinking away their hard-earned coin. Some engaged in boisterous games of chance, their laughter echoing through the night as they gambled with dice or cards. Others sought out the comfort of women, paying for a few stolen moments of pleasure in the looming shadow of death. These encounters were fleeting, often taking place in the back of a wagon or behind the cover of a tent, but for the men, they were a brief respite from the cold, unyielding reality of war that would soon take them.
Yet, even in these moments of revelry, the shadow of the coming battle loomed large. The men drank and gambled, but they did so with the knowledge that this might be their last night alive. Conversations often turned to the coming clash with the Derkka, with veterans recounting tales of past battles, offering advice to the younger, more inexperienced soldiers. There was a sense of camaraderie among them, a bond forged in the fires of war, but there was also an undercurrent of fear—a fear that many would not live to see another sunrise.
For his part Hacktor didn’t waste time on foibles or fear. He knew the only thing that mattered was strength, and the will to use it. He could feel the weight of his people’s expectations pressing down on him. They looked to him for victory, for salvation, and he would not disappoint them. He could not afford to. Failure was not an option, not for a Royal Balkery like Hacktor Derkillez. Even if there were more Myz this time around, that was not going to stop him.
And so, the great king looked toward a fate that only the gods could foresee. Hacktor was ready to face whatever horrors awaited him in the heart of Gor, and he vowed to make sure his forces would fight with the ferocity of a people who would settle for nothing less than complete victory!
[Too bad for him, he had no idea what really awaited him – but he was about to find out!]
The Apocrypha of Azazel 