Part IX: The Coming of the King
Chapter 7: The Derkka Parliament
Timeline AO 299
Tired of watching Hacktor, I toyed around with the fate lines in The Eye one day and decided to drop in on The Babelonians – mildly curious to see what they thought about Hacktor’s ‘war’…
The city of Babel, capital of the Derkka, sprawled across the plains of eastern Gor like a giant, throbbing heart. The massive stone walls, weathered and scarred from centuries of abuse, loomed over the horizon, their shadows stretching far beyond the city limits. The streets were a cacophony of life—merchants peddling exotic wares and the ever-present murmur of the common folk whispering rumors and tales of news from afar. And everywhere there was beauty – at least among the Babelonians themselves – for “The Glamour” had turned these deformed goblins into works of art – beautiful creatures compared to their common Derkka brethren or any other visitors to the city.
Babel’s central square, a vast expanse of stone, was dominated by the towering statue of Baal, the god to whom the Derkka pay homage – the god I’d given them. The statue’s eyes, made of polished obsidian, seemed to follow all who pass, a constant reminder of my alter ego’s omnipresence. Surrounding the square, the great halls of the Parliament rose like titanic sentinels, their marble columns adorned with intricate carvings depicting the glories of past conquests and the site of countless other lesser statues of former Derkka Kings – among them my old pal Bashumel.
Yet I was more interested in what was happening inside the Parliament Chambers and as I gazed inside that grand hall I was happy to see the air was thick with tension. With a ceiling dome of stained glass that cast multicolored patterns of light across the polished floor, the chamber below was arranged in a semicircle, with rows of seats ascending in tiers. At the center, on a raised dais, sat the Marge of the Thatches, her flaming red hair cascading like a waterfall of fire down her broad shoulders.
For a Derkka, Marge was an imposing figure; easily towering over most men of her race, her frame thick with muscle and fat alike. Marge’s presence commanded the room and it was clear to all that she was true power behind the Derkka throne. Her voice, deep and resonant, cut through the air like a battle cry, leaving no room for doubt or dissent. Her eyes, a piercing green, flickered with the cunning of a thousand battles in the halls of power. However, beneath the surface of her Skin Mask, I knew Marge hid the gruesomeness that afflicted Babelonians and common Derkka alike—the twisted features of Baal’s Curse. Marge’s true face, which she dared not gaze upon, was a grotesque mockery of beauty: her cheeks sagged unnaturally, her jawline bulged with unnatural growths, and her eyes drooped with heavy lids.
Her Skin Mask, like those worn by all in the chamber, was a masterpiece of Derkka craftsmanship – made from the finest materials harvested from living flesh and expertly shaped to cover her deformities, it gave her the appearance of a powerful and beautiful matron. But Marge, like all the others in Parliament, knew that her ‘confident’ appearance – like her Skin Mask – was but a lie, a fragile barrier between herself and the horror of her true visage.
Standing before her, at the center of the chamber, was Garrick of the Golden Hand. He was the Marduk, the king in name only, of the Derkka. Garrick was a picture of Babylonian beauty—tall and muscular, his skin tanned from countless hours under the sun. His long, flowing blond hair was meticulously groomed, cascading down his back like a golden river. His face, chiseled and flawless, bore the marks of a man who spent as much time in the baths as he did in the training grounds. Or so it seemed.
For this, too, was an illusion. Beneath the Glamour, Garrick’s true appearance was a twisted nightmare. His lips bloated and misshapen, his right ear mangled and barely recognizable as such, his eyes drooping with a lifeless heaviness, and his nose but a single, gaping orifice. The golden locks that the people so admired were nothing more than a carefully placed wig, concealing the patches of tightly wound black coils that clung to his dry and cracked scalp with little success.
Garrick’s Skin Mask was his most prized possession. Crafted to perfection, it molded his features into those of an Adonis, hiding the hideous truth that lurked beneath. But, like all the rest of the Babelonians, when Garrick looked into a mirror, as he did every chance he got, he only saw the abomination that Baal’s curse had wrought upon his people. It was a torment he endured in silence, his vanity ever battling with the knowledge of his deformity.
I watched as the chamber buzzed with the whispers of the elite. News had reached them of a disturbance in the eastern territories—a Drokka warrior wreaking havoc near the Rhokki Mountains. As the reports were read aloud, the murmurs grew louder, a mix of fear and disbelief.
Marge raised a hand, and the room fell silent.
“We have all heard these outlandish tales,” she began, her voice steady, “A Drokka, larger than life, burning towns and wielding a glowing axe? These are the delusions of frightened peasants.”
Garrick stepped forward at that, his golden hand gleaming in the light, a perfect illusion of strength and power. “Marge, with all due respect,” his tone firm but measured, “these reports cannot be dismissed so easily. This Drokka is Hacktor Derkilez, the son of Baldur – now dead. Hacktor is the new Kon-Herr and he seems far different than his peace-loving father. Hacktor has already caused significant damage. Our people are suffering. Let’s take action!”
Yet Marge waved a dismissive hand, the metal clasps of her Skin Mask catching the light as she moved. “The eastern borderlands are of little consequence, Garrick. Let them have their fun. The Rhokki Mountains are no place for a proper war. You and I both know that our cavalry and chariots would be useless in those rat-holes.”
Garrick’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck straining against the tightly fitted Skin Mask that hid the loose, discolored flesh beneath. He had heard this argument before, and he was growing weary of it. “I have refrained from action before,” he said, his voice rising, “when the Siq towers fell, I held back because my commanders advised against it. But now the situation has changed. Let me lead our forces against this Drokka on the open fields of Gor. Let us show our people that their king can bring them glory!”
The chamber erupted in discussion, but Marge remained unmoved. She leaned forward, her piercing green eyes locking onto Garrick’s, her Skin Mask pulling taut over her cheekbones. “Our population is many times larger than that of the mole-men,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Babel is hundreds of miles away from these skirmishes. We have nothing to fear.”
Garrick opened his mouth to protest, but Marge cut him off, her tone icy. “Listen to me, Garrick. We will give them a few villages, let them play with their toys. This dwarf king is nothing but a pup, a warrior with delusions of grandeur. He may be a problem for those poor sods in the east, but he poses no threat to us here in Babel. Unless, of course, they wish to become our slaves again!”
A ripple of laughter spread through the chamber, but Garrick did not join in. Beneath the mask, his expression was one of seething frustration. Clenching his fists, his golden hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, the cold metal pressing against the cursed flesh beneath. “And what if you’re wrong, Marge?” he asked quietly, “What if this Hacktor Derkillez is more than just a nuisance?”
Marge smiled, her Skin Mask creaking slightly with the movement, revealing the cold, calculating mind behind it. “Am I wrong, Zalzrog?” And here she turned to a figure that sat apart from all the rest – a grotesque goblin who served as the high priest of their religion.
Baal’s Mage had been silent the entire meeting, yet now he stood. His form was twisted and horrifying, with a face scarred by deep, jagged lines and eyes that burned with an unnatural fire. Since Zalzrog was not born a Babelonian he didn’t have the The Glamour to hide his ugliness. The other members of parliament shifted uneasily in their seats at the sight of the massive goblin before them whose skin was a sickly, almost translucent, gray revealing the dark veins beneath. Yet those same people did not dare look away – for Zalrog was more feared than Marge and Garrick combined. Why? Because Zalrog was not just their high priest, not just a high ranking member of the Priory of the Myz, and not just a ghastly face – he was also a powerful black magic wizard whose for evil had become the stuff of legends in Babel.
[If you must know, I’d raised up Zalzrog from an early age. The goblin was born into the lowest caste of Derkka society, but Zalzrog came to my Baal’s attention because of his hunger for power and knowledge that set him apart from his common peers. I helped the boy discover his magical potential at a young age and then used the Eye of Seraphiel to weave the fates so that he could be recruited by The Priory of the Myz. As he entered his adult years he not only rose through the Priory’s ranks but he’d also become a priest in the Derkka religion worshipping my alter ego Baal. My fateweaving plus Zalzrog’s cunning and ruthlessness eventually earned him the title of High Priest of Baal – an honor I allowed him to achieve because his devotion to me as Baal was absolute.
As a bonus I helped Zalzrog learn the dark arts. With fervent study his spells became potent and destructive – capable of summoning storms of fire, controlling the minds of the weak-willed, and projecting illusions that bent the perception of others, making them see what he wanted them to see. This ability helped him to infiltrate the highest levels of power among the Drokka and manipulate them to his advantage – which is why he was present at the meeting today, and why his opinion mattered].
The mage took his time to respond – making sure all those present had time to be subjected to his ghastly visage. At last he spoke, his voice a hiss, “The blood does not lie – the dwarf will die.” As the politicians around the room rejoiced at the news, Zalzrog held up a hand to silence them. “But not before he brings doom.”
Before Garrick could speak up, Marge jumped in to take back command of the situation. “We thank Baal for his wisdom. And I think we’ve heard enough. The dwarf will die. And we’ll deal with him in due time. But for now, let’s see what happens in the winter. These cave-dwellers will surely be eager to return to their holes and hibernate. Trust me, Garrick. There is no need for war right now.”
The rest of Parliament nodded in agreement, swayed by Marge’s confidence and not wanting to have to endure any more of Zalzrog’s presence than was necessary. As a result minor players, members of the council, quickly echoed Marge’s sentiments, their voices distorted slightly by the Skin Masks they wore:
“Let the winter do our work for us,” said Lord Zaldrik, a shrewd politician with a sharp tongue, his lips unnaturally thin beneath his mask.
“They’ll freeze before they reach our gates,” laughed Lady Hylda, a matronly figure whose mask hid the sagging jowls beneath.
Garrick felt the weight of their words pressing down on him. His dreams of battle, of leading his people to victory, seemed to be slipping further from his grasp. Yet, in his heart, he knew that Hacktor Derkillez was no ordinary foe and when he caught Zalzrog’s eye he knew the mage felt the same.
But for now, Garrick knew he’d been overruled – again. The Parliament, led by Marge of the Thatches, made its decision and he had no real power to oppose it. The Drokka invaders would be ignored, their threat dismissed as nothing more than the ravings of frightened peasants.
As the session of Parliament drew to a close, Zalzrog was the first to leave, followed by Marge and the rest of the politicians. Eventually Garrick stood alone in the chamber, staring at the empty seats. His hand, adorned with the golden gauntlet that earned him his title, clenched around the hilt of his sword. He could feel the weight of it, the cold metal pressing against his skin, a reminder of the power he could hold yet was still denied to him.
“Winter is coming, and with it, a reckoning.” The beautiful man mused to himself. “Whether it will be the Derkka or the Drokka who emerge victorious, only time will tell.”
And so Garrick of the Golden Hand – like his rival Hacktor Derkillez – was forced to wait for glory to find him.
Little did he know that I was weaving both their fates – they would eventually meet – when it suited my designs…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 