Part XV: The Coming of the Myz
Chapter 7: The Phantom
Timeline AO 323
The trouble started for Hacktor Derkillez’s army the moment they left the Blackwoods. The king’s forces were a relentless wave, marching with the unstoppable force of a landslide towards the fields of Gor, where Hacktor assured them they finally crush the hated Myz and goblins who dared to challenge the might of the Drokka. But as they made their way into more rugged terrain, their journey soon became anything but smooth.
The Myz commander I’d created named Sizor had been sent by Gwar into Gor – with a special mission to wreck havoc on Hacktor’s advance. As the slow moving dwarf army left the safety of the Blackwoods, the cunning Myz warrior clad in his segmented carapace armor, watched from a hidden vantage point atop a ridge. A twisted grin spread across his face as he observed the Drokka below, their long wagon train laden with supplies and weapons. He knew that Hacktor’s forces were formidable, but they were also burdened by the heavy armor of their war ponies and the cumbersome wagons. Sizor, on the other hand, had speed and stealth on his side, and he intended to use both to make Hacktor’s march a living nightmare.
“Riders, ready up,” Sizor commanded, his voice a low hiss as he spoke in the Gut language to his men. In the shadows behind him, a small but elite force of Myz cavalrymen began to move, each one mounted on a swift steed. Although Sizor himself would have preferred a chariot, in the rocky terrain of the area, and for the purposes of his present task, he knew the freedom of a horse would be required.
“Tonight, we feast on their fear,” Sizor sneered, gripping the reins of his mount – a horse with hair the color of knight. “Let’s remind the Drokka that the shadows are not their friend.”
As darkness fell, the Drokka army set up camp as usual, unaware of the danger lurking just beyond their fires. Hacktor sat by his command tent, brooding over the maps laid out before him, his brow furrowed with frustration. He’d had a growing fear that they were being watched—stalked even as yet his scouts could not identify the source.
Suddenly, a distant horn blew, and the air was filled with the thunder of hooves. Sizor’s riders descended upon the rear of the Drokka wagon train like a storm, their blades flashing in the dim light. They slashed through the tents and supplies, setting wagons ablaze, and cutting down the merchants and camp servants who dared to stand in their way. The screams of the dying echoed through the night, sending waves of panic through new recruits who scrambled for their weapons but didn’t know what to do to help.
“Damn them!” Hacktor roared, grabbing his battle axe as he stormed out of his tent. “To arms! Protect the supplies!”
With his own cavalry the king charged toward the rear of the camp, where the chaos was most intense. But by the time they arrived, Sizor’s riders had already melted back into the night, their work done. Only the smoldering remains of wagons and the bodies of fallen of the supply train’s people remained to mark their passage.
Hacktor surveyed the destruction, his teeth grinding in rage. “Cowards,” he spat. “They refuse to meet us in battle, and instead they skulk like vermin in the dark.”
A scout approached him, breathless and pale. “Lord Hacktor, we saw them moving toward the eastern ridge. Should we pursue?”
Hacktor’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he growled. “That’s what they want. They’re leading us into a trap.”
“But, Lord—”
“No!” Hacktor snapped. “They will pay for this treachery in due time. For now, we will march on. And starting tomorrow we’ll burn everything in our path. Let the earth remember the fury of the Drokka.”
As they continued their march, Sizor’s riders struck again and again. One night, they targeted the Drokka’s food stores, setting them alight and leaving Hacktor’s army with nothing but ashes. On another occasion, they attacked the water supply slashing water barrels and carrying away a large gaggle of women from the pleasure tents. Each time, the Myz vanished before Hacktor’s forces could retaliate, leaving the Drokka frustrated and demoralized.
Days turned into weeks as Hacktor’s army pushed deeper into Gor, their anger fueled by the relentless harassment. Villages were razed, goblins slaughtered, and every trace of life in their path was obliterated as Hacktor’s fury knew no bounds. He ordered the complete destruction of every settlement they encountered, his warriors leaving nothing but smoking ruins in their wake – and doing unspeakable war crimes against any and all goblin women and children they encountered. In the beginning the new recruits among the Drokka army were horrified to witness such despicable behavior but after spending so many knights being terrified by Sizor’s unpredictable attacks the young soldiers also devolved into evil themselves. And the land of Gor quickly became a place of terror for everyone unlucky enough to be stuck there.
The name Sizor was soon whispered among the Drokka scouts and then eventually among the rest of the army. None knew who first learned the myz commanders’ name but Hacktor grasped that knowledge like a nugget of gold – for it gave him another piece of the puzzle.
“Where is this Sizor?” Hacktor snarled one evening, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He had grown paranoid, expecting an attack at every turn, yet Sizor remained elusive. “That damn Myz strikes at us like a viper, but he refuses to face me!”
Fredrik Vendal, his trusted general and closest friend, spoke cautiously. “Lord Hacktor, these attacks… they’re not just random. Mayhap this Sizor is delaying us, trying to wear us down.”
“Delay us for what?” Hacktor snapped, though in his heart, he knew the answer. The Myz was stalling, keeping them in Gor while something else, something far more sinister, was brewing elsewhere.
“My gut tells me he want to keep us here.” The old general surmised. “I’d bet something is amiss up north.”
Hacktor’s fist clenched around the hilt of his axe. “Then we will give Sizor no more time. We’ll march through Gor and cut down anything that stands in our way. Perhaps we turn the tables on them and attack Babel too!”
But Sizor had other ideas for Hacktor and he soon launched his most daring raid yet. Under the cover of a stormy night, his riders struck at the heart of Hacktor’s supply line, targeting the wagons carrying extra weapons and armor. Fire and steel ripped through the camp, and by the time Hacktor’s forces arrived to help, the entire area was ablaze and it took hours to put out the fires.
Hacktor’s patience finally snapped. “Enough!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through blaze. “I will end this Myz myself if it’s the last thing I do!”
But as he mounted his war pony and led a charge in pursuit of Sizor’s retreating riders, the same scenario played out once again. Sizor’s horse, more swift and agile than the Drokka’s war ponies, darted through the trees. They led Hacktor on a wild chase, always staying just out of reach, until finally, they disappeared into the shadows, leaving Hacktor seething with rage.
“Come back and fight, Sizor, you coward!” Hacktor roared into the darkness, but only the wind answered him.
Sizor, watching from a hidden perch, could not contain his laughter. “Let him rage,” he murmured to his friends. “Every day we keep him here is another victory for Uruk.”
As the first light of dawn broke over Gor, Sizor turned his mount toward the wast. “It’s time to finish this,” he said, his voice cold and determined. “We’ll lead him to Gor, where the goblins are ready. There, we’ll destroy them.”
And so, as Hacktor’s army marched into the fields of Gor, burning and pillaging everything in their path, Sizor rode ahead, joining the gathering forces of goblins near the city of Morgash. The final battle was drawing near, but Sizor’s mission was nearly complete. He had kept Hacktor at bay long enough, and now, the time for true war was at hand.
It should be noted that I wasn’t the only god watching all this unfold – Gwar too was eagerly observing his champion Sizor.
From high atop Kagor Island, Gwar’s Aerie clung to the peak of the mountain like a predator poised to strike. The fortress was a brutalist masterpiece, forged from black iron and jagged stone, with spires that jutted into the storm-laden sky. The wind howled through the narrow gaps between the walls, carrying with it the scent of salt from the Stormy Seas far below. From his perch in the highest tower, Gwar overlooked the world with an insatiable hunger for conflict.
The chamber where Gwar resided was vast and shadowed, illuminated only by the flicker of braziers that burned with a cold, blue flame. The walls were adorned with the trophies of countless battles: shattered shields, broken swords, and the skulls of defeated foes. At the center stood a massive throne, forged from the bones of ancient beasts, where Gwar sat, his piercing eyes locked on the events unfolding on far away Gor. From this vantage point, Gwar could see everything—every skirmish, every betrayal, every drop of blood spilled in his name.
His gaze was now fixed on Sizor, the relentless warrior who the god had sent to harass Hacktor Derkillez. “Yes, Sizor,” Gwar murmured to himself, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. “Give him no respite. Hound him until he breaks.”
The god watched with satisfaction as Sizor led his band of marauders in a relentless pursuit of Hacktor. Each ambush, each attack, brought a rush of exhilaration to the god of war. Sizor was cunning, ruthless, and above all, effective. Every blow he struck at Hacktor was a blow for Gwar’s amusement.
[I knew Gwar was watching and I was all too happy to let him have some fun for a bit – because I knew something he didn’t. And what I knew was going to cause him great anger – which is when MY fun would begin!]
The Apocrypha of Azazel 