Part XI: The Heart of Darkness
Chapter 10: The Wrath of Baal
Timeline AO 301
After a grueling journey north, battling the abuse of Baal’s minions and magic, Garrick of the Golden Hand finally had his troops near Razzyn. It had been a terrible journey. His forces horses had been plagued, his troops had trudged through the mire, relentless storms pummeled them, and even roving bands of Morati had terrorized them in the night – all a testament to Baal’s displeasure. And yet Garrick had forced his goblins ever onward – for he could not be denied the chance for glory.
Even still, that journey had taken its toll not just on his armys morale but on Garrick’s carefully cultivated appearance. Whilst his attendant Rorik Mudfoot drove the lead chariot for The Marduk, Garrick floundered – the endless rain soaked through his ornate armor, turning the polished metal into a dull, mud-caked shell. His once-pristine cloak, a symbol of his status and beauty, was now a sodden, tattered rag clinging unceremoniously to his form. But the true indignity came with the effect of the elements on his Glamour.
Beneath the magical sheen that normally cast him as a radiant figure of golden allure, the true nature of The Marduk’s goblin form began to creep through. His skin, usually smooth and flawless under the Glamour’s influence, now showed signs of blotchiness where the rain had managed to seep through his skin masks. His long, golden hair, typically curly and gleaming, hung in damp, tangled strands, more like a nest of oily ropes than the flowing mane he took such pride in.
Each glance at his reflection in the rain-splattered surfaces around him brought with it a new wave of frustration. Garrick could feel his confidence, always intertwined with his appearance, waning as the journey progressed. His beautiful mask was slipping, and with it, the image of the invincible warrior-leader he had cultivated among his troops.
He cursed the storm, cursed the river, and most of all, cursed Baal’s wrath for reducing him to this bedraggled state. Yet, even in his vanity, there was a glimmer of resolve. If Hacktor Derkillez thought this weather could dampen his spirit, he would soon find that even a sodden, mud-streaked Garrick was still a force to be reckoned with.
And so it was that Garrick’s will brought his army to Razzyn – ready to save the day and destroy their enemy!
Yet even then his troubles didn’t stop. A bitter wind howled through the narrow valley, lashing his face with icy tendrils. His forces were strung out along the banks of the frigid Coctyz river, their breath steaming in the cold air. The most recent storm had been relentless, battering his army as they trudged through the treacherous mountain pass. Now when they finally reached the river, swollen and raging from the unseasonal tempest, Garrick found his forces on the wrong side of fate.
The great city of Razzyn lay just beyond the rushing waters, its formidable walls visible through the shifting mist. Garrick could see the flickering torches of his fellow goblins along the battlements and he heard the booming drums of the cursed Drokka as their army amassed below – gathered like a storm cloud on the plains before the city.
“How could Hacktor and his train have arrived before us?” Garrick said to Rorki in the chariot. The Marduk clenching his fists in frustration, his golden gauntlet creaking under the strain. “How did they escape the many curses of Baal that hampered my troops?”
“It’s not too late.” Rorik tried to sound reassuring but feared the worst.
“Indeed.” Garrick gritted his teeth. “That fool of a dwarf king will break his teeth on Razzyn’s walls and while he is doing so we’ll find a way to cross this river and pen them in! Send out the scouts to find us a ford where we can get to the other side. Now!”
As The Marduk waited, the day wore on. The sound of the Drokka war drums never stopped as they echoed across the valley, a slow, ominous beat that sent shivers down the spines of Garrick’s men. The drums were like the heartbeat of some monstrous beast, relentless and unyielding. The Marduk watched in vain as the goblins on Razzyn’s walls stirred uneasily, their eyes flickering between the dark mass of the enemy and the swollen river that separated them from their allies.
A full day passed and the weather turned blacker as the night wore on. Garrick’s heart sank as he realized the truth. There was nothing he could do. The river, raging with a fury born of Baal’s wrath, was impassable. He had sent his best scouts to find a crossing, but they had returned empty-handed, their faces pale with fear. The river was too wide, too fast, and too cold. Any attempt to cross it would be suicide. The river seemed to pulse with dark energy, as if Baal himself had placed a barrier between Garrick and the battle.
Still those horrible drums boomed and yet Garrick could only watch as Hacktor unleashed his fury on Razzyn.
With a roar that echoed across the valley, the gates of Razzyn exploded inward, shattered by the Ghast and even Garrick was horrified at the power Hacktor displayed. The infernal weapon in his rival’s hands emitted a sickly green glow that illuminated the carnage it wrought. The Marduk and his forces watched in horror as the Drokka then stormed the city, their battle cries mingling with the screams of the goblins as they were slaughtered where they stood.
Garrick’s blood boiled with rage and frustration. He wanted nothing more than to charge into the fray, to bury his blade in Hacktor’s chest and end the monster’s reign of terror. But Baal’s curse held him back, the river an insurmountable barrier that mocked his every attempt to cross it.
The night wore on, the sounds of battle gradually died down and were eventually replaced by the eerie silence of death. Garrick’s forces huddled by the riverbank, now freezing with cold and watching helplessly as the city of Razzyn fell to the Drokka. When dawn broke, the smoke from the burning city rose into the pale sky, a dark plume that blotted out the sun.
The next morning, Garrick, wrapped in furs, stared across the river, his heart heavy with sorrow as Rorik and the captains of the army stood around their leader. The great goblin city of Razzyn was lost, and with it, any hope of stopping Hacktor before he reached the mountains. Garrick’s failure weighed heavily on him, a burden he could not shake. He knew that the cost of this defeat would be felt by every Derkka across the land.
But as the sun rose higher, Garrick’s sorrow turned to anger. I will not let Hacktor escape! We will find a way across the river, and when we do, we’ll hunt Hacktor down and make him pay for the lives he’s taken. The Drokka will not reach Oz! Garrick would see to that.
For two days, Garrick’s forces scoured the riverbank, searching for a way to cross. It was only on the third day, after the storm had finally abated, that they found a narrow ford further upstream, where the river was shallower and the current less fierce. They crossed cautiously, having to abandon their chariots and use only horses to wade through the cold water. By the time they reached the other side, the city of Razzyn was little more than a smoking ruin.
Garrick led his men through the shattered gates, his heart heavy as he surveyed the devastation. The streets were littered with the bodies of goblins, their lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. The buildings were blackened and crumbling, the stench of death thick in the air. Not a single survivor remained.
He walked through the desolate city, his anger growing with each step. The Drokka had spared no one. Even the young and the old had been slaughtered, their blood staining the streets. Garrick could barely contain his rage as he stood in the center of the ruined city, the Ghast’s lingering energy still crackling in the air.
“This is madness!” Garrick found an abandoned chariot still in working order. Rorik was already tying a team in place as The Marduk rallied his forces, his voice ringing out with determination. “Come on. They won’t get far! Let’s chase them down!”
With Rorik driving the chariot, Garrick led his mounted troops away from Razzyn. The Drokka warlord was heading for the mountains, toward the ancient city of Oz and they had a three day lead but Garrick knew his nimble army was faster. Surely they could reach Hacktor and his slow moving train before they attained the mountains. And then it would be a slaughter – only this time the Derkka would take revenge!
For two more days, Garrick and his forces pursued Hacktor’s army, pushing themselves to the limit. They followed the trail of destruction the Drokka had left in their wake, the fires still smoldering, the earth scarred by their passage. Along the way they found the Drokka’s siege engines and some broken down supply wagons abandoned by the road. Garrick took these as signs of desperation from an enem in flight and sped up the pace. However, try though they might to catch them, Hacktor’s army was always just beyond the Derkka’s reach, slipping through their fingers like sand.
It was on the third day of the chase that Derkka scouts finally caught sight of the Drokka army – it appeared that most of them were already inside but for a few handfuls of troops. The supply wagons, slaves, and servants of the baggage train were all gathered around the entrance waiting for their turns. Although eager to get inside, it was clear they never knew they were being trailed by the Derkka forces and there was no sense of urgency among them.
Garrick salivated at the thought and immediately readied his team to attack – but then it happened. The Marduk and his driver Rorik watched in disbelief as the mountainside above the entrance to Oz began to tremble. Then, with a deafening crack, the earth seemed to split apart, sending massive boulders and an avalanche of debris crashing down. The landslide was swift and violent, a torrent of rock and dust that rained down upon the Drokka and swallowed the entrance to the mountain – sealing it in an impenetrable tomb.
Garrick, Rorik and the rest of their army could only stare as the dust cloud rose into the sky, obscuring the view and muffling the cries of those trapped beneath the chaos. For a moment, the world stood still, the only sound the fading echo of the mountain’s wrath. And then, as the dust began to settle, Garrick realized the enormity of what had just occurred. Hacktor and his army were entombed within the mountain, cut off from escape, while a portion of their forces lay shattered outside, exposed and vulnerable to the wrath of the Derkka!
Garrick and his troops rode forward, through the chaos of the landslide’s aftermath – and the sight before them was one of chaos and despair. As he suspected, a portion of the Drokka army, along with the wagons, supply chains, slaves, and servants, had cut off by the slide – they were now cattered across the rocky plain outside the mountain, many injured or dead from the violent cascade of stones. The dust of the landslide was still settling, and the cries of the wounded pierced the air.
Garrick’s eyes narrowed with cold fury as he surveyed the scene. These remnants of Hacktor’s forces were disoriented, their morale shattered by the sudden catastrophe. They had been abandoned by their leader, left to fend for themselves in the aftermath of nature’s wrath. Without hesitation, Garrick raised his sword and signaled to his men. This was their moment to exact vengeance. With a savage roar, his troops descended upon the Drokka stragglers, cutting through them with merciless efficiency. The slaughter was swift and brutal, a blood-soaked reprisal for the losses the Derkka had suffered. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the plains were littered with the bodies of those who had been left behind, their blood staining the earth beneath the shadow of the mountains.
Yet what now? The Marduk after the slaughter was over. He could not follow Hacktor into the mountains, not without sacrificing his entire army. But he also could not let Hacktor escape. He had to find another way. And then it dawned on him. Yes, he had failed to save Razzyn, but all was not lost. Yes, Hacktor had ‘escaped’ into Oz with the help of that landslide but surely they would find a way back out, right? For Garrick knew the legends well enough—Oz had been destroyed long ago, its riches plundered, its people scattered. And he also knew this – there would be no food, no shelter within its ruined walls.
The fool must emerge – his miners will move the rock – the moles will show themselves again, Garrick grinned in evil glee as he turned his chariot team back towards his commanders. “We’ll hold the pass. Hacktor will have to come out eventually, and when he does, we’ll be ready.”
The Derkka goblins moved to secure the pass, Garrick had ordered his army to set up camp, positioning them strategically along the pass to prevent any surprise attacks. He’d sent riders out in all directions, ordering them to muster any local forces they could find. And The Marduk had dispatched a courier back to Babel, with news about the fall of Razzyn as well as demanding reinforcements from the Parliament. He had no doubt that Marge and the Parliament were seething with anger at his bold maneuvers to leave Babel in the dead of night, but he also knew they would recognize the opportunity before them. With Hacktor cornered, they had the chance to deal a crippling blow to the Drokka forces, to finally tip the scales in their favor. Garrick was counting on their pragmatism to override their fury.
That evening fires were lit, and the Derk soldiers huddled around them, their faces shadowed with weariness and resolve. At his tent Garrick remained awake long after his men had settled in, his eyes fixed on the dark mouth of the pass. Somewhere beyond those jagged peaks, Hacktor was plotting his next move, but Garrick vowed it would be in vain. The mountains were a trap for both of them, but Garrick intended to spring it on his own terms. He would choke off every possible escape, starve Hacktor out if he had to, and when the Drokka warlord finally emerged, it would be to the sight of Garrick’s forces, ready and waiting to deliver justice.
With every hour that passed, Garrick’s determination grew. He could almost see the moment of reckoning—the clash of steel, the roar of battle, and finally, the sight of Hacktor brought low before him. Garrick knew this campaign had become more than just a mission; it was a personal vendetta now, one that he would see through to the bitter end. His golden hand clenched into a fist as he swore to himself that Hacktor would pay for every drop of blood spilled, every life lost at Razzyn, and every injustice wrought by the Drokka.
“Your mountains might shelter you for now, Hacktor,” Garrick spit, “But The Golden Hand will get you eventually.”
The Apocrypha of Azazel 