Part XVIII: The Darkest Day
Chapter 4: It’s a Trap!
Timeline: AO 326
The sun hung low in the sky of The World Above as it cast long shadows across the weary landscape. Dust clung to the air, kicked up by the thousands of war ponies and the boots of the Drokka infantry as their army marched steadily toward the battle site where they planned to face off against Garrick’s forces.
Hacktor Derkillez, Kon-Herr of the Drokka, led his people with his usual fiery determination – a testament to his single-minded ambition. Supporting him in managing the ranks were his commanders Rodrik Vendal, Gilber Thunn, Balthuz Hamwise, Kordak Gumm, and others – all proven leaders from campaigns past. Along with their army, they’d been on the move for days now since leaving The Siq behind.
It wasn’t a hard march and only a small wagon train was required since the plan was for a final decisive clash with the Derkka that was supposed to mark the end of this long miserable War of the Ghast. Believing The Balkeryz were surely with them, the Drokka were happy as they marched – singing songs to their gods, teasing each other about unfaithful Drokkinas back home, and bragging about the spoils of war they were certain to get.
[Too bad none of those fools knew what I had planned for them].
I watched as Hacktor barked orders to his commanders – directing Rodrik, Gibler, Balthuz, and Kordak to make preparations to lead the bulk of his army ahead to the pre-arranged battle. The Herrs were to ensure they selected the high ground for the Drokka as per the site strategy they’d planned together ever since the location for the battle had been agreed upon. His envoy Hadrik had assured him that the Derkka forces, under Marduk Garrick, would meet them Hacktor there, on neutral ground for an honorable confrontation.
How droll. And yet Hacktor, blinded by his need for victory, had readily accepted it. And why not? He was the Kon-Herr, after all, a Drokka with a destiny. Or so he thought.
It was during that final stretch of their march, as his army neared the final league of the journey to the battlefield, and just as the commanders were getting ready to take their legions forward when a sudden disturbance interrupted things.
“Look, a skirmish!” Rodrik pointed towards a small band of Derk goblins—perhaps a thousand strong—that had dared to attack the rear flank of Hacktor’s army. The action was so close that all the commanders as well as their Kon-Herr could see the enemy.
“That’s near the wagon train.” Balthuz observed.
“How dare they?” The Kon-Her spat, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. The goblin band was a mere pinprick to a force as vast as Hacktor’s, but enough to ignite the embers of his temper.
“They’re hardly a threat.” Herr Thunn scoffed. “Grant me leave to destroy them, Lord.”
“No.” Hacktor barked. “All of you continue forward as we planned – I don’t want to lose the high ground. Prepare our Drokka for battle. I’ll deal with this scum myself and then join you shortly.”
And with that, Hacktor took his elite cavalry – perhaps few hundred veteran warriors to chase down the ragged group of goblins. Meanwhile, Rodrik and the other commanders followed the orders of their leader and moved the rest of the army further along the road.
Excellent. I thought to myself as I watched. That was almost too easy.
So it was that while the bulk of the Drokka army trudged obediently toward the site of their inevitable non-battle, whilst Hacktor and his chosen few galloped back towards the action at the wagon train. Yet before they arrived on the scene, the goblins were already retreating – clearly they had no interest in continuing the skirmish against the Kon-Herr’s Calvary.
The goblins were already scattering – running off in disorganized manner, their pathetic assault a fleeting memory. Enraged at the affront, and afraid he was going to miss out on an opportunity to knock a few Derk heads around, Hacktor was not about to let the fleeing cowards escape.
“Follow me!” Hacktor bellowed, his voice carrying over the clamor of hooves of his calvary. His eyes burned with a manic intensity and he could almost taste their blood on his lips. “We can’t let them get away with this insult to Rhokii!”
The chase was on.
With Hacktor and his men in hot pursuit it became obvious that the Derkka were more intent on running than fighting – a cowardly trait that incensed Hacktor all the more. Although the larger force, the goblins fled before the dwarf riders fast as their bandy legs would carry them – racing towards what was left of the Blackwoods in this area with their frantic cries echoing off the trees. Although most of the forest had long since been felled, the woods that remained here were thick enough to give the Derkka a chance to escape.
“They run like the cowards they are!” Hacktor snarled. “I’ll show them what it means to challenge Rhokii!”And he spurred his pony forward, The Ghast gleaming in the sunlight, its edge hungry for blood.
His men followed close behind, the rhythmic thunder of hooves shaking the earth. As the morning wore on, Hacktor’s forces closed in, picking off the stragglers one by one. Blood spilled onto the forest floor, but the goblins did not stop. They fled, wild-eyed, through the woods. Trees loomed overhead, and the path narrowed, making the chase all the more infuriating for Hacktor. Yet, he pressed on, his heart pounding with the thrill of impending slaughter. He was so close to tasting their blood—so close.
And then, at last, they reached a clearing—a wide, open glade nestled between two hills. The goblins, in their desperation, sprinted toward the center, thinking they had found safety in the open. But to Hacktor, it was a gift. An open space meant no more hiding, no more trees to shield them from his blade.
“Fools,” Hacktor muttered under his breath. He raised his axe high. “For the might of Rhokii!” he roared, and his men let out a deafening war cry as they prepared to charge into the open field.
But then—ah, this is where it gets interesting—the tables turned. From the shadows of the opposite woods, another force emerged. Not a handful of goblins, no. These were legion upon legion of Derkka and Myz warriors, their numbers stretching so far into the tree line that it seemed as though the earth itself had vomited them forth.
Hacktor’s sneer faltered as he saw them flood into the clearing, their banners raised high, their weapons glinting in the sun. His eyes narrowed in disbelief.
“This was no random skirmish.” Hacktor gasped, too late. “It’s a trap!”
The great Kon-Herr’s day only got worse from there – for standing atop a small hillock, overseeing the entire spectacle, was a figure that Hacktor recognized at once. The gilded armor, the flowing red cape, the massive, shimmering hand that gave him his name – Garrick of the Golden Hand!
The Babelonian sat astride his warhorse like a god of war brought to life. His armor was not merely a protective shell—it was a work of art, gleaming under the pale sun with a brilliance that seemed almost unnatural. The gold-plated armor was crafted with such intricacy that it hugged his powerful frame, each plate engraved with runes of power, pulsing faintly as if alive. His chest piece was a tapestry of swirling designs, the muscles beneath so perfectly sculpted that it seemed as though his very skin had been transformed into metal.
Upon his right arm, the fabled Golden Hand glowed like molten metal, as if it had been plucked from the heart of a volcano. The massive gauntlet extended from elbow to fingertip, each finger sharp enough to cut stone, the joints moving with an unnatural fluidity. In his left hand he held a golden sword – a masterpiece of both beauty and death. Like his famed gauntlet, Garricks’s sword was forged from enchanted goldsteel and its blade gleamed with a radiant, sunlit glow, reflecting the light in a way that made it seem almost alive. Intricate runes, pulsating with the magic of Baal, spiraled along its length, enhancing its power and granting its wielder unmatched speed and strength. Though elegant in design, the sword’s edge was impossibly sharp, capable of slicing through armor as easily as air. In Garrick’s hands, it was not just a weapon—it was an extension of his will, a symbol of his might, and a harbinger of death to all who opposed him.
His helm, adorned with a crest of blood-red horsehair, was open-faced, allowing Hacktor to see the cold, unyielding gaze of the beautiful man whom legends claimed knew no equal on the battlefield. His warhorse was equally magnificent, a beast bred for war, its own armor shimmering gold with black accents, a perfect match to its master. The beast’s nostrils flared, and its eyes gleamed with a predatory intelligence, as though it too longed for the bloodshed to come.
All this Hacktor took in regarding his nemesis in but a breath, and as his grip tightened around The Ghast’s haft he realized, far too late, that he had led his small band of warriors into the jaws of death. For his commanders and the main army was now miles away, marching towards a battle that Hacktor realized was but a ruse – while he and his men were left to face a force far greater than they could ever hope to withstand – the final door to Hacktor’s fate had just been closed, sealing his fate.
With a smirk at Hacktor, Garrick raised his sword on high – two legions of Myz trotted out of the woods like a dark tide. A forest of spears and lances dropped towards the heads of their mounts as the giant knights form ranks – a flood of cruel faces and savage intent. Towering giants in jagged black armor – the Myz reflected the light like a sea of onyx. Their helmets were crowned with wicked spikes, and their eyes burned with a fierce crimson glow. Their shields were made from the bones of fallen enemies, adorned with the grotesque faces of those they had killed, a grim testament to their merciless nature.
Once they got onto level ground the Myz captains barked: “Charge! Crush! Kill!” At once the knights spurred their mounts into a gallop – rolling towards Hacktor’s tiny force like a river of iron. The earth groaned under the weight of the myz – and it was clear that those evil knights would break everything before them. And the dwarves – even the most veteran among them — knew it would be impossible to withstand the surge that was about to overwhelmed them.
<Clang! Bash!> Metal met metal as the grey giants slammed into the Drokka ranks. Hacktor’s troops were broken, pushed back, beaten, trampled, slashed. Like an overstrained chain that bursts, Drokka flew apart like broken links in every direction – death had come for them. And a quarter of them were destroyed in that first charge!
<Ba-roooom! Ba-roooom!> A handful of Drokka desperately blew on their warhorns, calling for reinforcements. Yet it only got worse from there.
As the Myz cavalry reformed their ranks, Babelonian chariots moved forward to harass Hacktor and his men. The charioteers, clad in bronze and leather, cracked their whips, urging their beasts forward as the wagons rumbled across the ground. The chariots themselves were adorned with cruel barbed spikes, designed to tear through flesh and bone as they sliced through the enemy ranks. The Babelonians laughed as they rode, their faces twisted into cruel grins, eager to spill Drokka blood. Their spears were tipped with poisoned iron, their shields painted with symbols of death and destruction – and while they didn’t do near the damage as the Myz had done, they did enough to keep the dwarves busy until…
The Derkka goblin infantry covered the distance to the Drokka — tens of thousands many times over poured out of those woods – rabid and frothing at the mouth as they surged forward. Clad in mismatched armor made of scrap metal and scavenged bones, they wielded jagged blades, clubs wrapped in barbed wire, and rusted spears. Their eyes gleamed with a manic hunger for death, their mouths twisted into snarls of hatred as they screamed their war cries, charging toward Hacktor’s forces with reckless abandon. To them, this was not just a battle—it was a blood feast, and they would tear apart any Drokka they could get their hands on. They moved in a swarm, a chaotic wave of malice, driven by an insatiable desire to prove themselves worthy to their dark gods.
Outnumbered, outmatched, and attacked from all sides, the best Hacktor could hope for was that his small group of warriors would be able to maintain their ranks long enough for a few dwarves to escape and get word to the rest of the army.
Little did he know that his Doom had finally arrived.
To their credit, the Drokka fought like men possessed, their backs pressed against the crushing weight of fate, but their will unbroken. These were the veterans of Hacktor’s war, professional killers who’d faced terror before and survived. Many of the had pseudo Ghasts that looked like Hacktor’s famed blade – these they swung over and again – the sparks flying and blood spraying as war surrounded them.
The air became thick with the smell of iron and sweat, the earth beneath their boots slick with the gore of fallen enemies and comrades alike. Hacktor’s men screamed their war cries, voices ragged and hoarse, desperate to drown out the despair gnawing at their hearts. “For Rhokki! For the King!” they bellowed, slashing and hacking through waves of Derkka goblins and Myz knights, their faces contorted with fear and fury.
Yet the odds were impossible, and the Drokka soldiers knew it. They fought on with a fierce, almost suicidal determination, cutting down their enemies with the precision of seasoned warriors, but their numbers dwindled with each passing moment. And still, there was Hacktor, their king, at the forefront of it all—an unyielding pillar in the maelstrom. His Ghast blazed like a blackened sun, its power swelling with every life it claimed. It hummed with dark energy, almost as if it was alive, feeding on the death surrounding it.
Hacktor’s heart pounded with a mix of rage and exhilaration. He knew, deep down, that this might be his last stand, but if he was going to die today, he’d take as many of the enemy with him as he could and he would not die until he destroyed Garrick as well. With every swing of his magical axe, The Ghastwielder sent another Myz knight crashing to the blood-soaked earth, their ornate armor crushed under the force of his blows. Yet no matter how many fell, more surged forward, a tide of steel and fury that seemed endless.
His eyes blazed with a fire that matched the Ghast in his hand, and in those moments, he felt invincible. He was invincible. For each time his axe carved through flesh, it felt like it grew lighter, sharper, hungrier. The more time passed, the stronger Hacktor became. He even began to feel a strange hope entering his soul – an uncommon power penetrating his limbs, — a power before which everything must fall. It seemed to Hacktor’s men that wings were growing from the Kon-Herr’s shoulders – and he turned into a joy whirlwind on that battlefield.
Yet even as he fought, a gnawing hatred churned within Hacktor. His eyes darted to the hill in the distance, where Garrick of the Golden Hand watched the slaughter unfold. There he sat, astride his war horse, the Marduk clad in that gleaming golden armor, directing his forces with calm detachment, yet never entering the fray himself. Hacktor growled low in his throat, his blood boiling at the sight of his rival.
“What kind of coward lets his men fight while he watches from afar?” Hacktor snarled to himself, hacking the head off a Derkka goblin with a brutal swipe. He wanted nothing more than to tear Garrick from that horse and crush him beneath his boot.
Yet here and now, in this battlefield stained with blood, Garrick remained out of reach, orchestrating the death of Hacktor’s men with cold efficiency. His forces pressed harder, relentless, as if sensing their victory was near.
Hacktor swung his Ghast again, cleaving through a Babelonian charioteer who had rushed at him with a spear. He was surrounded now—his personal guard whittled down to a dozen or so men. They fought in tight formation, backs to each other, their faces grim but fearless. Their armor, once shining, was battered and covered in blood, their bodies marked with wounds, but their eyes still burned with the determination of warriors who would die for their king.
“Stand fast, lads!” Hacktor shouted, his voice carrying over the din of battle. “We are Drokka! Let us write out names across the mountains!” His words gave his men strength, even as the enemy pressed in from all sides.
The Drokka shouted back their defiance. “For Rhokki! For Hacktor!” They hacked and slashed, praying desperately to their gods for a miracle. “Rhokki, break the mountains upon them!” one man roared, his axe crashing into the chest of a Myz knight. Another Drokka screamed as he was run through by a Derkka blade, his dying breath spent cursing the enemy. “Kalypzo, protect us with your power!”
But their gods did not answer. The skies remained still. The ground did not quake this time. They were doomed.
And then, Garrick summoned the Ghorbles. A dark, swirling mass of winged death, the shrill cries of these flying bloodsuckers cut through the air like the wail of the damned. The leathery flaps of their wings filled the sky as they descended upon the battlefield, their tiny, needle-like teeth biting into flesh with terrifying speed.
The Drokka soldiers looked up in horror as the sun vanished behind the cloud of Ghorbles. Panic spread like wildfire. Men who had once stood fearless began to falter. “No! Not like this!” one of Hacktor’s men cried as the first of the Ghorbles latched onto his face, draining his life within moments.
Hacktor swung his Ghast at the creatures, but there were too many. For every one he knocked out of the sky, ten more took its place. His men screamed, dropping their weapons to bat the creatures away, but the Ghorbles were relentless, their hunger insatiable. The once mighty Drokka were being consumed, and all the while Garrick watched from his hill, laughing at the plight of his rival.
And as the last of the war horns fell silent, Hacktor realized that his prayers, too, would go unanswered. This was not a battle. This was slaughter. And soon, only he would remain.
Yet even then, Hacktor did not give up – The War of the Ghast was not over yet – so long as the great Kon-Herr had breath, he would fight on. To the bitter end…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 