Part XI: The Heart of Darkness
Chapter 7: Bazzu Comes to Babel
Timeline AO 301
With Hacktor on his way to Oz, I had some work to do in Babel so I portalled there and check in on how the Derkka would receive the news about their enemies ravaging through Gor…
Babel—the sprawling capital of the Derkka, was a city where twisted architecture reached towards the skies whilst narrow alleyways wound through the darkened streets like serpents. The skies above were perpetually shrouded in a sickly yellow haze, casting an unnatural pallor over everything. Yet the city’s inhabitants were a mix of common Derkka, the genetically modified Babelonians I’d created in the past, and various travelers and merchants from the world over.
The Derkka variations were easy to tell apart – although both were goblins, the Babelonians didn’t look like their ghastly brethren for the Babel Derk appeared unnervingly beautiful to any who laid eyes on them, thanks to The Glamour, that enchantment that my alter ego Baal had bestowed upon them to mask their grotesque forms.
Naturally I could see through the magic to their deformities, and by a quirk of my spell, I’d made it so that Babelonians would also be tortured by the sight of their own reflection. The famous Skin Mask industry had been birth to help self-conscious (and wealthy) Babel Derk cover their horrid embarrassments.
Yet I wasn’t in the city to pick out any beauty contestants. Instead I headed to parliament – intrigued to see how the news Bazzu carried would be received.
In the grand chambers of Babel’s Parliament, the tension was palpable as I took on the form of a page and appeared in the background to listen in. The high stone walls, adorned with tapestries of past kings back to their glory days of Bashumel, did little to dispel the unease that gripped the room. Marge of the Thatches, the imposing leader of the city, sat at the head of the chamber, her raging red hair framing a bulbous face that even The Glamour and a priceless skin mask struggled to make pretty. Around Marge were gathered other politicians and elites – their beautiful facades and mask did little to hide the fear that lurked beneath.
When the now former Governor of Antarez entered, Bazzu was limping and pale and the room fell silent at the sight of him. A high born Babel by birth, Bazzu’s usual bravado was absent, replaced by the hollow look of a goblin who had witnessed horrors beyond imagining.
“Antarez Ford is gone,” Bazzu croaked, his voice trembling. “That cursed Drokka Hacktor Derkillez razed it to the ground. It’s gone. All gone!”
Gasps and murmurs spread through the room like wildfire but Marge raised her hands, commanding silence as she urged Bazzu to tell the rest of his story. Through it all Marge’s face remained impassive, though her eyes darkened. At last the Derkka leader asked, “And what of the survivors? What of the bridge?
“Of survivors there are none,” Bazzu replied, shaking his head. “Hacktor showed no mercy.”
Bazzu hesitated before replying, “Of survivors there are none. As for the bridge – destroyed, as planned. But not before Hacktor laid waste to both sides of the river. The eastern bank is now nothing but ash.”
Marge nodded, her expression betraying nothing of the turmoil that roiled within her. “You did what was necessary to protect Babel, Governor. You will be rewarded for your foresight.”
Bazzu’s shoulders slumped in relief, though his eyes flickered with unease. He had survived Hacktor’s wrath, but the memory of the burning stakes, the screams of the prisoners, haunted him still.
As Bazzu took his seat, the doors to the chamber opened once more, and I watched as Garrick of the Golden Hand, the powerless Marduk of Babel, entered. Unlike Bazzu, Garrick’s presence was imposing—his muscular frame, the beauty of his Glamour and the beauty treatments he was addicted to, and yea even his fiery eyes commanded the attention of all.
The politicians began to whisper among themselves, their voices filled with dread. Marge silenced them again.
“We must prepare for the worst,” Marge declared. “If Hacktor comes to Babel, we will defend our city with everything we have. We cannot afford to lose.”
“We cannot wait for Hacktor to come to us!” Garrick roared. “Give me leave to take our chariots and cavalry. We must strike now, before he finds a way to cross the river and grows stronger along the way!”
The room fell silent, all eyes on Marge. She met Garrick’s gaze, her expression unyielding.
“No,” she said firmly. “Babel is our priority. We must fortify our defenses at home, ensure that we are prepared for any attack. Hacktor will come, and when he does, we will be ready.”
Garrick’s jaw clenched, his fists trembling with anger. “Marge, if we wait, we give him the advantage. We must act now!”
But Marge was unmoved. “You will remain here, Garrick. This is not a debate.”
With a final glare, Garrick turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the room in tense silence.
You’re wondering – why does Garrick even listen to Marge? After all, Garrick is younger, physically far stronger, and commands an army, whilst Marge is merely a political creature.
While I’m know Garrick oft wondered the same thing, the answer (as The Golden Hard well knew) were many layered and complex and much of it was rooted in the fateweaving that I’d put in place decades prior. The skinny of it all is this…
Centuries ago, the escape of the Drokka slaves under Ajax the Freemaker led to the Fall of Bashumel and the erosion of the power of the Derkka kings. As the god Baal I orchestrated events so that politicians and wealthy elites would rise to power – much like with the Drokka’s cabal – however in Gor I made it so the swamp creatures were free to rise to power in full view of everyone. This led to the eventual creation of the Derkka Parliament.
Marge herself was not just any politician; she proved to be a master manipulator who understood the intricacies of Derkka politics better than anyone before her. As such she’d spent years building alliances, blackmailing rivals, and positioning herself as an indispensable figure in the governance of Babel. Her ability to navigate the treacherous waters of Derkka politics made her a formidable opponent, even to someone as powerful as Garrick.
Given her position as the head of Parliament, Garrick knew that Marge controlled vital resources – food, weapons, or even the economy of Babel, giving her leverage over Garrick. Sure, Garrick could ride at the head of an army, but how long could he control it if Marge cut off his the supply lines? The Golden Hand knew she could starve his army or cut off funding, rendering his military power useless in the long run.
Then there was the reason behind the reason. Both Garrick and Marge were high ranking members of The Priory of The Myz, yet Marge’s role was the higher. Garrick knew that Baal had always favored Marge. With The Priory’s power to declare the divine will of Baal, the high priest Zalzrog’s gift to interpret omens, and the priests role in influencing the masses, the people themselves would quash any rebellion by Garrick if he acted without Baal’s authority (which I wasn’t about to give him just yet).
And finally there was the issue of Garrick’s past – particularly as related to his wife. Marge knew of those dark secrets and Garrick knew that she could use to blackmail him into submission – leading to his disgrace or even execution if revealed. [Remind me to tell you about that little secret sometime].
In any case, now you know why Garrick didn’t openly rebel against Marge. But that didn’t mean he was happy. And that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to meddle in affairs to spice things up a bit…
That evening Garrick was back in his royal apartments – the mask of calm he wore for the council cracked as soon as he was alone, revealing the fury seething underneath. Marge’s refusal to let him lead his forces against Hacktor had humiliated him in front of the other leaders, and now the rage that burned in his chest threatened to consume him.
He was desperately trying to find calm in the sanctuary that was his boudoir. Servants scurried around him – a retinue of attendants preparing a beauty treatment for their Marduk —a lavish ritual meant to cleanse and restore the skin beneath Garrick’s mask. The King was reclining in a stone bath, the warm waters laced with fragrant oils, while the attendants applied a layer of fresh skin to his face, smoothing over the imperfections that Marge and the council couldn’t see. The ritual was supposed to calm him, but today it only reminded him of how powerless he felt—trapped behind a mask, both literally and figuratively.
As the last attendant left, a soft knock echoed through the chamber. Garrick scowled, not expecting any visitors, but waved a hand to let them in. The door creaked open, and I stepped into the dim light—appearing in the form of a common goblin yet wearing a robe and with my face obscured by a deep hood.
“Who are you?” Garrick demanded, sitting up in the bath, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at the side table.
I raised a hand, a gesture of peace. “I am but a humble messenger of Baal, sent to you in this hour of turmoil.”
Garrick’s hand drew back into the bath, but his eyes narrowed. “Baal? What does Baal want with me? Does He not see how I am shackled by those scheming politicians?”
I took a step closer, my goblin voice low and smooth, almost hypnotic. “Baal sees all, Marduk, and He knows the frustration that burns within you. But He also knows the path you must take. There is a power in Babel that you have yet to harness—a power that could turn the tide in your favor.”
Garrick leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. “What power? Speak plainly.”
Here I let the messenger’s eyes be seen from within the hood, causing them to gleam with a dark promise. “The power of prophecy, Marduk. The power that resides with Zalzrog, the High Priest of Baal. He alone can reveal the true path to victory, but you must seek him out, away from the prying eyes of the council.”
Garrick hesitated. Zalzrog was feared by everyone – including Garrick himself – for the horrors of the mage’s dark rituals were not to be toyed with. And yet if there was a chance to outmaneuver Marge, to strike at Hacktor before he reached Babel, surely Garrick would bite. After but a moment, The Golden Hand nodded, his decision made.
I bowed my head slightly. “Baal guides your steps, Marduk. Seek Zalzrog – even this very night.”
As the moon sank over Babel, the city’s narrow alleys grew darker, more foreboding. The sickly yellow haze that lingered in the sky was now tinged with a deeper shade of green, and the very air seemed to hum with a malevolent energy.
I trailed along in the shadows as Garrick made his way through the twisting streets, moving with purpose. I could sense how his mind raced, thoughts of vengeance and strategy swirling together as he approached a hidden part of the city—the temple of Baal, a place avoided by most, even among the Derkka. The building was a foreboding structure of black stone, with grotesque gargoyle goblins leering from the roof.
Garrick entered through a small, unmarked door, and then my spirit followed after as he stepped into a chamber lit only by the flickering glow of a single torch. The smell of blood and incense filled his nostrils as he descended a winding staircase, leading him deep beneath the city.
At the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in a vast, underground chamber. The walls were carved with ancient runes, and the floor was stained with the blood of countless sacrifices. In the center of the room, before a massive brazier filled with black flames, stood Zalzrog.
The High Priest’s appearance was as grotesque as ever. His skin was a sickly green, covered in boils and scars, his eyes gleaming with a feral hunger. He wore a tattered robe that did little to conceal his twisted form, and his long, bony fingers clutched a ceremonial dagger.
Garrick watched from afar as a young Derkka from the country, gagged and bound, was dragged towards the brazier by two other priests. The goblin youth’s eyes were wide with terror, and muffled cries of desperation echoed through the chamber as he struggled in vain against his captors.
Zalzrog turned towards his visitor, the priest’s voice, low and rasping. “You seek the knowledge of Baal, Golden One. But the shadows do not give freely. A sacrifice is required.”
Garrick nodded, forcing down his revulsion. He had known what would be required, but the sight of it still turned his stomach. “Do it,” he commanded, his voice steady.
Zalzrog raised the dagger high, his lips moving in an ancient chant. The black flames in the brazier flared, casting long, twisted shadows on the walls. The poor victim’s struggles intensified, his muffled screams filling the chamber.
With a swift, practiced motion, Zalzrog plunged the dagger into the goblin boy’s chest. Blood poured from the wound, the dark liquid flowing into a shallow basin carved into the stone floor. As the blood pooled, it was consumed by the black flames, hissing and sputtering as it was “washed in the fire.”
Garrick watched in horrified fascination as Zalzrog, his hands trembling with anticipation, reached into the flames and lifted the now-purified blood. The dark liquid clung to his hands, dripping down his arms in thick rivulets. With a feral grin, Zalzrog brought his hands to his lips and drank deeply.
The chamber seemed to tremble, the very air thick with dark power. Garrick could feel a presence—a malevolent force—that seemed to emanate from the very walls. The shadows lengthened, twisting into grotesque shapes that seemed to dance around the brazier.
Zalzrog’s body convulsed as he drank, his eyes rolling back in his head. And then, suddenly, he froze. The air in the chamber grew cold, the black flames dimming to a faint ember.
A voice, deep and resonant, filled the chamber. It was not Zalzrog’s voice, but something far more ancient and powerful.
“You dare to summon me, mortal?” my voice as the god Baal spoke though Zalzrog with a force that boomed through the room, sending a shiver down Garrick’s spine.
Garrick fell to his knees, his heart pounding in his chest. “Mighty Baal, forgive my intrusion,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “I seek only to serve you.”
I caused the shadows to coil around Zalzrog, wrapping him in darkness. The priest’s eyes, now glowing with an otherworldly light, locked onto Garrick. “You seek knowledge, Garrick of Babel,” my voice rumbled, each word dripping with malice. “Hacktor does not march on Babel. His path leads him to Oz, through Razzyn.”
The prophecy, delivered with the force of a curse, sent a chill through Garrick. I caused him to see it in his mind—the armies clashing in the desolate plains before Oz, Hacktor’s forces caught between the massive city of Razzyn and his own troops.
But I wasn’t done yet. “Do not think to deceive me, Garrick,” I hissed through Zalzrog’s lips. “You may hide your plans from the fools of Babel, but I see all. Betray me, and you will know true suffering.”
Garrick swallowed hard, his mind racing. He had no choice. He would follow through with his plan, but he had to ensure Zalzrog’s silence. “I swear,” Garrick said, his voice steadying, “I will not fail you, Lord Baal. But, my lord, can we keep this secret unknown to the Parliament?”
I made shadows around Zalzrog tighten, squeezing the breath from the High Priest, and making the Marduk grow nervous. Then, with a cruel smile, Zalzrog nodded. “Very well, Garrick,” my voice said, a note of dark amusement lacing the words. “Your secret is safe with me. But remember—secrets have a price. Should you fail, not even the shadows will hide you from my wrath.”
I released my hold on the priest and immediately the oppressive presence in the chamber began to recede, the shadows loosening their grip on Zalzrog. The flames in the brazier flickered back to life, casting a wavering light over the High Priest’s gaunt features. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, his body trembling from the ordeal.
Garrick rose to his feet, his legs shaky but his resolve firm. The prophecy had given him the advantage he needed. Hacktor was heading to Oz, through Razzyn. If Garrick could time his attack right, Hacktor’s forces would be crushed between Razzyn’s formidable defenses and his own well-trained army.
But first, he needed to ensure that Zalzrog remained silent. He approached the High Priest, who was still recovering from his communion with Baal. The dark energy in the room had dissipated, but a lingering sense of dread clung to the air.
“Tell no one of this,” Garrick commanded, he feared the priest’s magic but hoped he could use the current situation to his advantage. “I need time – time to fulfill your master’s commands.”
Zalzrog looked up at Garrick, his eyes still glowing faintly from the ritual as he tried to recover his mind. At last Zalzrog rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “The shadows demand silence, and I shall obey.”
At this point I need to let you about another Derkka who’d found himself wandering the labyrinthine streets of Babel – Rorik Mudfoot. Although he’d followed Bazzu all the way to Babel after they’d lost Antarez Ford to Hacktor’s forces, when they arrived in the capital, Rorik found himself abandoned, cast aside by the very leader he’d pledged his life to. For Bazzu, once grateful for Rorik’s protection, wanted nothing to do with a “common goblin” in the grandeur of Babel.
The city, with its towering spires and opulent temples, had no place for a humble soldier like Rorik, and he was left to fend for himself among the teeming masses. Alone and with nowhere to turn, the memories of Lubbok’s destruction weighed heavily on him, the flames of that night still burning in his mind.
It was in this state that Garrick found Rorik. The Marduk had just left Zalzrog in the Temple, his mind already turning to the pressing need to organize his troops and pursue Hacktor. Both Derkka were walking and not paying attention as their minds were occupied – I thus arranged the fates so they would bump into one another in the night. Rorik immediately recognized The Golden Hand – the king of his people – and in desperation he fell to his knees before the mighty leader, babbling a request to join Garrick’s ranks, his voice thick with the pain of his past. He gushed a story of Lubbok, of the horrors he had witnessed, and added details to the tale of Antarez that Bazzu had left out. But more of all he displayed a burning desire for vengeance!
Garrick, always attuned to the value of a warrior’s spirit, saw something in Rorik—a tenacity, a fire that could be forged into something useful. With a little nudge of the fates from me, Garrick gave a nod – he accepted Rorik’s plea, allowing the goblin to join his ranks – taking the commoner with him he made his way back to the barracks where his forces were stationed.
I followed behind them as they kept to the shadows and I could feel Garrick’s heart pound with anticipation. If his plan succeeded, Hacktor and his army would be crushed, and he would win glory. But it had to be done in secrecy; if Marge or the council knew what he was planning, they would never approve. They were too focused on defense, too blinded by fear to see the opportunity that lay before them.
As he entered the barracks, Garrick was greeted by the sight of his loyal captains. They were strong, disciplined, and utterly loyal to their Marduk.
“Prepare the troops,” Garrick ordered, his voice commanding and confident. “We march tonight. Quietly. We head for Razzyn.”
His captains exchanged surprised glances but did not question him. They knew Garrick well enough to trust his judgment, even when his orders seemed unconventional.
“Are we to engage the Derkka at Razzyn?” one of the captains asked, his voice laced with curiosity.
Garrick shook his head. “We are going to corral Hacktor Derkillez. His forces will be caught between Razzyn and us. It will be a slaughter.”
The captains nodded, understanding dawning on their faces. This was not just a battle—it was an opportunity to strike a decisive blow against their greatest enemy. The Marduk’s plan was daring, but if it succeeded, it would change the course of the war.
“We move in silence,” Garrick continued. “No one must know we’re leaving Babel until we’re already gone. The element of surprise is our greatest weapon.”
The captains dispersed to rally their troops, moving with the silent efficiency of seasoned warriors and upon Garrick’s suggestion Rorik was added to their ranks. Garrick watched them go, his mind racing with thoughts of the coming battle. This was his chance to prove himself, to secure his place as the savior of Babel – but he had to do it quickly – for he knew he couldn’t count on supplies or backups in the event anything went wrong. He had one shot – one opportunity to change the world and he aimed to make it happen.
The night deepened as the forces of Babel gathered in the darkness, their preparations swift and silent. Garrick oversaw the mustering of his chariots and cavalry, his eyes sharp and his mind focused. Every movement was calculated, every order precise.
In the wee hours of the night, whilst the city slept, the army was ready. Thousands of Derkka warriors, clad in their battle armor and mounted on their war chariots and horses stood in disciplined silence, Rorik Mudfoot among them.
Garrick mounted his own chariot, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He looked over his assembled forces, feeling a surge of pride. This was the moment he had been waiting for. The moment when he would lead his army to victory.
“Onward to Razzyn,” he commanded, his voice ringing out over the assembled troops. “Tonight, we bring the fight to Hacktor. Tonight, we crush him beneath our wheels!”
A low cheer rose from the ranks, the anticipation of battle electrifying the air. Without another word, Garrick signaled for the advance, and the army of Babel began to move.
As they marched out of the city under the cover of darkness, Garrick could not help but feel a twinge of unease. He had sworn Zalzrog to secrecy, but the High Priest was a snake—a creature of the shadows. Would he tell Marge? What would his nemesis do in response to Garrick’s clear treachery?
The Golden Hand didn’t have those answers and pushed them from his mind. For now, his focus was on Hacktor. The enemy was within reach, and Garrick intended to deliver the killing blow. The Marduk clenched his Golden fist around the hilt of his sword, determination burning in his eyes.
Hacktor would not see them coming. And when the dust settled, it would be Garrick who stood victorious, the savior of Babel and the destroyer of their greatest foe.
With the city of Babel fading into the distance behind them, Garrick and his army marched toward their destiny, the wheels of war already turning in their favor.
Too bad for him, he wasn’t going to get what he wanted…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 