Part XVIII: The Darkest Day
Chapter 5: The Bitter End
Timeline: AO 326
Hacktor Derkillez was doomed.
He’d foolishly allowed himself to be separated from his main army after chasing a goblin false flag with a small group of his best fighters. Only too late did he realize his mistake – and now all his men were dead or dying.
Standing alone against impossible odds, the battlefield around the Drokka’s king was chaos incarnate. The cacophony of clashing weapons, the shrieks of his dying men, the rage of his attackers, and the high-pitched wails of the Ghorbles that swarmed from above blended into a haunting, endless symphony of death. Dust and blood filled the air, mixing with the rancid stench of battle. The sun, a weak smudge in the darkening sky, now cast long shadows over the broken corpses littering the ground, and the once green valley was now a sea of red—mud and blood churned into a grotesque quagmire by the relentless trampling of war.
Fighting bravely on, Hacktor still believed he was more than a match for any number of attackers—from the air or the land—for the immortal powers of The Ghast coursed through his body, filling him with a wellspring of unholy power. His body, seemingly sculpted from the earth itself, glowed with the energy of Rhokii, and The Ghast he wielded shimmered with a black, ethereal light.
Through it all, Hacktor stood defiant – the Drokka Kon-Herr, the Ghastwielder, the Royal Balkery, a legend in his own right, fighting on like a mortal who had long abandoned the notion of death.
As soon as the fighting had started, the mighty king pulled down the visor on his famed Helm – that work of art forged by the legendary Hef Fastuz. With the fact plate molded into the features of Rhokkii in all his fury. Beneath the gilded eyebrows arched in divine anger, gems around the eye holes caught the light and reflected it back towards his attackers. His silver embossed lips depicted a gruesome sneer, while two jagged scars of rubies in his cheek scoffed at the danger facing him. Any who faced against him, surely saw Hacktor as more god than man.
“Krrrrrrr! Fight you monsters!” Hacktor roared, his deep voice cutting through the noise like a crack of thunder. He swung his battle-axe in a wide arc, decapitating a Myz knight in a single, savage blow. “I am The Ghastwielder!”
The warrior’s voice boomed like the echoes of Rhokki’s wrath, his rage palpable in every swing. He reveled in the slaughter, in the blood splattering his armor, in the fear he saw in the eyes of his enemies. There was no retreat in him, no weakness. Only the endless drive of battle and the undying power of The Ghast.
A trio of Ghorbles swooped down from the sky, their needle-sharp fangs aimed for Hacktor’s neck. But before any could strike, Hacktor swung his axe overhead, and with a deafening BURST! PHOOSH! POP!, the creatures exploded into a shower of gore and grume, their twisted bodies shredded in midair. Countless more Ghorbles dove at him in rapid succession, but Hacktor was a whirlwind of death against them, his axe moving with impossible speed, cutting every one of them from the sky before they could even reach him.
The more he fought, the more the Drokka king’s body glowed brighter, the black flames of The Ghast illuminating the battlefield in harsh, searing bursts. His enemies recoiled at the sight of him—an indomitable force, filled with power beyond mortal comprehension. In addition to his armor, the Ghast shielded him from harm, burning through the very air around him. For a time, it seemed that nothing could touch him.
“Challenge not the Drokka!” Hacktor spat through gritted teeth as he split the skull of another Myz knight, the giants tough hide no resistance against his strength. “For Rhokii is MY god!”
His battle cry was met with astonished gasps from the goblins that surrounded him. While the Myz kept attacking, the Derkka warily stayed away, often watching in awe, many of them believing that they were witnessing the creation of a new god on earth.
Are you shocked at Hacktor’s Last Stand? Amazed at his strength?
Remember, The Ghast filled this legendary warrior with <Limitless Strength> and <Unending Endurance>, therefore it was a long while before Hacktor’s armor received anything more than a dent, as the blinding brightness of The Ghast seared through the air, protecting him from all harm.
Although there was a part of the Drokka king who knew that eventually even he would taste death, it didn’t matter. For Hacktor Derkillez was in his element – fighting a holy war against his people’s eternal enemies — thus, he continued doing the only action available to him: cutting down any Derk, Myz, or Ghorbles who came near! In fact, for nearly twelve hours, so successful was Hacktor at holding his ground that, for a time, it seemed as if he might somehow out until his army found him, or even, dare he dream, that he could perchance win the day?
And indeed that was almost the case.
Yet despite the might of The Ghast, or even the fact that Hacktor had personally dispatched over 1,000 Myz, tens of thousands of the Derk, and countless Ghorbles, the evil spawn never stopped their onslaught. So reckless was their attack that it was as if some unseen hand beyond simply King Garrick was forcing them to fight. Thus Hacktor was forced to cut and chop, cut and chop, again and again and again — for all told his enemies still outnumbered him over 100,000 to one!
Garrick! Hacktor’s eyes darted to the distant hill where The Marduk remained, watching from his lofty perch, safely far away from the fighting. The Kon-Herr’s blood boiled at the sight. The cowardly Derkka king sat astride his majestic steed, directing his troops like some war god untouched by the carnage. Garrick had yet to lift a sword, yet to engage in battle, and that infuriated Hacktor more than the thought of his own impending death.
“Coward!” Hacktor growled under his breath, hacking down another Myz soldier. “I’ll rip you from that horse, you gilded bastard! Come down here and fight me!”
And so Hacktor continued to fight. But the tide was simply too much. The numbers were too great, the relentless waves of enemies too overwhelming. Eventually, despite the power of The Ghast, he began to feel the weight of the battle pressing down on him. His muscles ached, his vision blurred with exhaustion, but he refused to stop. He fought on, slashing, hacking, tearing through flesh and armor, the black energy of his axe growing hotter with every swing.
In the end, the odds against him were simply too much even for The Ghast to save Hacktor. [Actually, that’s not true – with The Ghast could very well have defeated Garrick’s entire army, but as I did not need Hacktor any longer, it was time for this charade to end and that more than anything is what spelled his doom].
Over time the blows of his attackers got through and soon Hacktor’s black crystal armor began to show the scars of battle. He fought hard, but there came a time — like all of his fallen brethren around him — when Hacktor too was overcome.
Fortune finally turned a fickle face upon King Hacktor when an unseen blow from a faceless Myz at his rear bit deeply into his momentarily exposed left heel, causing him to lose his balance (and his concentration!) for but a moment. Then it was that Hacktor’s Iliad was lost, for in the instant before he could regain his composure, of a sudden five more attackers savaged in from the fore and rained down an onslaught of monstrous blows upon the Drokka king! His helm was torn away and even as he turned to fend off more blows, a final Myz blade found its mark – the grey menace chopping straight into Hacktor’s right forearm – severing it off at the wrist!
It looked as if that last blow would spell Hacktor’s doom — for he needed two hands to effectively wield the heavy Ghast and his attackers knew it. Backing away, they laughed as Hacktor’s arm spewed blood even as the Drokka king tried in vain to lift his precious axe with his one remaining hand.
Just then – from the ranks of the Derkka army, a trumpet blared—a sharp, triumphant note that cut through the chaos of battle like a blade. In an instant, Hacktor’s enemies, once rabid and relentless, parted – like the sea bowing to the tide, they made way, leaving a clear path through the bloodied field.
From atop the hill, Garrick now spurred his horse forward at a trot. Like a lion in all his glory, the proud Marduk a sight to behold. From beneath his helm, Garrick’s long, flowing golden curls cascaded to fall upon the cape that lined his broad shoulders. Those curls, untouched by the grime and blood of war, gleaming like spun gold in the dying light – they framed a face that seemed chiseled by the gods themselves, with high, aristocratic cheekbones, a strong jawline, and full lips that curved into a perpetual, arrogant smirk. His piercing eyes—cold and calculating—looked out over the battlefield with a mix of disdain and superiority, as if no mortal foe could ever hope to challenge his rule. His skin, made beautiful by Sindra, was unmarred by the harshness of combat – smooth and bronzed, it added to the picture of a king born not just to lead, but to conquer.
As he rode casually forward, the Marduk’s golden armor, dazzling even in the dim twilight, gleamed like the dying light of a setting sun. Each plate of his armor was polished to perfection, catching the last vestiges of sunlight and reflecting it like a beacon. Enchanted runes, glowing faintly with an ethereal light, crawled over the armor’s surface, further enhancing his aura of invincibility. And beneath his radiant armor, Garrick’s body was no less impressive. He was a mountain of muscle, every inch of his frame exuding strength and power. His chest, broad and sculpted, filled out his armor to perfection, while his powerful arms and legs rippled with the kind of raw physicality that made him not just a warrior but an embodiment of battle itself. Even the way he carried himself atop his horse—confident, unyielding—was a testament to the sheer force of will and dominance that coursed through his veins. He was the picture of male perfection, a man forged in war, yet groomed in beauty, combining the best of strength and allure.
As he neared his enemy, Garrick’s face, handsome and cruel, was a mask of unshakable arrogance. He wore a smirk, the very picture of a king who believed himself untouchable, destined to reign supreme over all. When he reached his prize, Garrick dismounted. Then, looking down upon the broken form of Hacktor Derkillez, the Marduk raised his golden sword, its blade shimmering with a deadly allure.
For his part, Hacktor, battered and bloodied, stood in defiance. His famed helmet was lost, his armor was scarred and blackened, his body beaten from countless hours of brutal combat, yet his eyes still burned with the fire of a warrior who would never submit.
“Drokka king,” Garrick savored the moment, relishing the imminent kill. To him, this was more than victory—it was destiny. He was the conqueror, the victor, and Hacktor would be his trophy. “At last, you will kneel before me.”
Hacktor gritted his teeth, his left hand gripping The Ghast tightly, the blade still glowing with a faint, ominous light. He struggled to stay standing, unwilling to die on his knees, even as Garrick’s shadow loomed larger with every passing second.
Garrick raised his sword high, its golden blade catching the twilight as if to signal the end of an era. “This is your end, Hacktor. All your strength, all your valor—wasted.” His words dripped with venomous pride.
Hacktor’s vision blurred. Blood loss was sapping his strength, but he refused to yield. And before his nemesis could deliver the death blow, with a final, defiant roar, Hacktor raised The Ghast high with his remaining hand and screamed, “Shedu Mazai!”
The earth trembled beneath Hacktor’s feet as the name Shedu Mazai escaped his lips, carried by a primal roar that reverberated through the heavens. The Ghast, although magical before, now transformed it into an instrument of cataclysm. The very air around Hacktor crackled, thick with raw energy, as if the atmosphere itself was recoiling in fear from what was to come.
Time seemed to slow. The battlefield, previously chaotic whirl of steel, blood, and dying screams, fell into an eerie silence. The sky darkened as though the gods themselves had turned their faces from this moment of impending doom. And then, Hacktor moved.
Filled with divine power, Hacktor delivered one final, whirling strike with The Ghast. The blow was a torrent of destruction, an apocalyptic force that surged outward in every direction. The very ground split open in jagged lines, a pulse of annihilation spreading as far as the eye could see. Mountains trembled, rivers dried to dust, and the sky turned a furious shade of crimson as the power of The Ghast vaporized everything in its path. Drokka, Derkka, Myz, Ghorbles—none were spared. It was as though the world itself had died in that single, fateful swing.
It was death blow so powerful that every mortal creature for nigh a hundred leagues was destroyed — including the remainder of the Drokka’s army that, unbeknownst to Hacktor, was just emerging from the woods to come to his aid. Yes, in a sad twist of fate, the king’s army had finally arrived – ready to assist their beleaguered king and turn the tides of war in his favor. Yet they too were swept away in The Ghast’s wrath – their shouts of glory turned into silent screams as their bodies were reduced to ash.
[Even the Blackwoods themselves were wiped out completely as a result of Hacktor’s fateful blow – destroyed down to their roots – meaning the original basis for Hacktor’s war was all for naught. Never again would that precious natural resource benefit the Drokka. In fact, it would take these woods centuries to regrow and when they finally did, they would emerge as the famed Redwoods of your modern day — their color a remembrance of all the blood that was spilled that day].
And still, amidst the devastation, only Hacktor and his rival remained — for lo, it appeared that Garrick’s magical armor had protected him from Hacktor’s fury. [Hmm, I wonder who gave Garrick that armor?]
Hacktor stood, his breathing ragged, drenched in blood—some of it his, most of it his enemies’. His right arm dangled uselessly, severed at the wrist, yet still, his heart pounded with the echoes of The Ghast’s strength. His eyes, wild with a mix of fury and regret, fell upon his last remaining foe: King Garrick, untouched, his magical armor gleaming under the crimson sky.
“How?” Hacktor growled, barely able to stand. His body, filled with the exhaustion of having unleashed such tremendous force, threatened to collapse. Yet the Ghastwielder’s will would not break, not yet.
Garrick, a mountain of a man compared to Hacktor, sneered as he stepped forward, each of his heavy footsteps cracking the already broken ground. Even now, surrounded by the desolation Hacktor had wrought, the Derkka king’s beauty was undeniable. Despite the gore of the battlefield, there was a radiance about him, a dark allure that captivated even in the thick of combat. “We are the same, you and I,” he said, his voice calm despite the ruin surrounding them. “Warriors. Kings. But in the end, pawns to powers greater than us.”
Hacktor knew Garrick’s words were true, but he could only grunt in reply, as Garrick raised his sword and moved towards him.
It had taken more than two decades for this battle to finally happen – for Hacktor to get his chance at facing off against his nemesis. Yet he quickly learned that Garrick was no ordinary warrior. The Babelonian’s body was the embodiment of vitality and strength. Every step Garrick took took was measured, his towering form exuding confidence, the movements of a predator who had never known fear. His muscles, finely honed beneath his enchanted armor, rippled as he raised his broadsword with ease. His strikes were not rushed—each one was precise, calculated, the product of a lifetime spent mastering the art of killing. In his eyes, Hacktor could see a man who saw himself as the champion of his people, a figure of pride believed there was no doubt in his mind that he would prevail. For who could stand against The Golden One? Who could match his beauty, his strength, his legacy?
Hacktor could! Or so The Kon-Herr still believed. Though smaller in stature, though fighting with countless injuries, Hacktor Derkillez was no less formidable on this day. If Garrick was the epitome of Derkka strength and grace, Hacktor was the living testament to Drokka ferocity and resilience. The Kon-Herr’s armor, cracked and battered from the endless battles of the day he had endured, was now a patchwork of black crystal and bloodstained steel. Every scar on his flesh told a story, and though his right arm was nigh useless, Hacktor’s gaze burned with the fire of a warrior who would not be broken.
With his helmet lost, his bearded face, rough-hewn like the mountains his people called home, was twisted in determination, the lines of pain etched into his features only adding to his hardened, battle-worn aura. Injuries riddled his body—wounds that would have killed lesser men—but Hacktor was no ordinary man. He was a Drokka king, bred from centuries of warriors, his endurance far surpassing what should have been possible. His eyes, though dimmed by exhaustion, still gleamed with a savage, unrelenting focus. Every step was labored, every breath a struggle, but Hacktor did not give up.
And so it was that the two great kings clashed in a fury for the ages. Garrick’s strikes were swift, elegant, as if his sword was an extension of his flawless form. Hacktor, by contrast, swung The Ghast with brute force, each swing like the crashing of a mountain, his movements slower but fueled by the kind of strength that was unyielding. Where Garrick’s attacks seemed like a dance of death, Hacktor’s were raw and primal, like the earth itself had taken form and fought alongside him.
The ground shook beneath their feet as they traded blows, the sound of steel on steel echoing through the wasteland. Garrick, even with his magical armor, felt the weight of Hacktor’s strikes reverberate through his bones. His pride, his flawless exterior, was being tested. He had never faced an opponent like this—someone who could match him not in speed or grace but in sheer, unbreakable will. Hacktor knew he was weakening. His vision blurred, his limbs grew heavy, but still, he pressed on. With every ounce of strength left in him, he lifted The Ghast, knowing that this would be his final stand.
I will not die, not here, not to this goblin! Hacktor’s mind screamed. And then, although he knew it might be futile, the Kon-Herr called on Shedu Mazai to answer his prayer. His voice was ragged, his body broken, but his faith in the power of me as his god remained unshaken.
“Shedu Mazai.” Hacktor screamed with all his mind as his prayer shot through the heavens like an arrow.. “My god, my god, do not forsake me!”
[Ok, I’ll admit I was touched by Hacktor’s faith in me. That kind of belief in the gods is rare. As a result, although I wasn’t planning to, I blessed Hacktor with a bit more Strength and a double helping of Luck, and I also removed the magic that was protecting Garrick – since I didn’t need the Derkka king either, it was no loss to me if he fell].
Then it was that something shifted – the air around Garrick shimmered, the glow of his armor dimming as the magic protecting him vanished. The invisible hand that had shielded him faltered, undone by Hacktor’s prayer. Garrick’s face twisted in confusion, his steps faltering as he felt the protection leave him.
With the magic cruelly stripped away, the reality of his mortality hit Garrick full force. He had underestimated Hacktor, but it was too late now. There was no room for retreat, no chance for escape. And so, with a snarl, Garrick charged forward – unfortunately for him, that’s when Hacktor’s warrior instincts kicked in, and with the last reserves of his strength, the dwarf king raised The Ghast again. As The Golden One rushed towards him, Haktor swung The Ghast with the last of his strength – the blade met its mark – smashing into Garrick’s chest, The Ghast shattered Garrick’s armor in a deafening explosion of metal and magic!
The Derkka king staggered, blood pulsing from the deep wound in his chest. But even then, Garrick did not falter. Gritting his teeth, his face twisting in both pain and defiance, Garrick looked at his Hacktor as he wrapped his massive, bloodied hands around the hilt of The Ghast, now lodged deep in his chest. With a roar of fury, he yanked the weapon free, tearing it from his flesh with a sickening sound of ripping muscle and cracking bone. Blood now gushed from the gaping, open wound, but Garrick, unbowed and unbroken, cast the mighty weapon aside with a last act of defiance.
Mortally wounded, The Golden One struck back in one last desperate move, his immense frame closing around Hacktor in one final, bear-like grip, pulling the dwarf into a crushing embrace. As he held his rival, Garrick drove his dagger deep into Hacktor’s exposed ribcage, finding the gaping weak spot left in Kon-Herr’s battered black crystal armor.
Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, warrior to warrior, king to king, as Garrick’s blade slid between Hacktor’s ribs, a sharp, burning pain coursing through his body as blood poured from the wound. Garrick, bloodied and beaten, whispered his last words, his voice a mere rasp, “Was it worth it?”
Hacktor grunted as he felt Garrick’s body go limp in his arms. The Derkka king slumped forward, dead, his massive weight dragging them both to the ground.
And so they fell—two kings, bound in hatred and blood, lying in the wreckage of a battlefield that stretched for miles. Hacktor’s breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale pulling the icy pain of death deeper into his chest.
As he lay there, the destruction he had wrought stretching in every direction, the burning question echoed in Hacktor’s mind.
Was it worth it?
But before Hacktor could answer, the darkness began to close in. His vision blurred, and the world around him grew cold. Yet he knew, deep within his soul, that this was not the end of his troubles. A cold, creeping dread whispered to him that something far worse awaited him before death came for him…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 