Part XII: The Reckoning
Chapter 3: The Fall and Rise of Garrick
Timeline: AO 301-302
The Derkka army had waited for weeks in the shadow of the mountains of Oz. They’d expected them to emerge desperate and starving, their anticipation growing as they watched for any sign of Hacktor Derkillez and his troops from the ruins. But the landslide that sealed the mountain had left nothing but silence. Garrick, the marduk of the Derkka, had retreated to Razzyn, frustrated by the stalemate. There, he was met with the gruesome aftermath of his conquest. The once proud Drokka city was now a field of death and decay, the stench of rotting flesh hanging heavy in the air.
Garrick’s goblins still recoiled at the sight. The battlefield was littered with the bodies of fallen Drokka, their twisted forms a testament to the ferocity of the Derkka assault. Flies buzzed incessantly, and scavengers picked at the remains, unbothered by the Derkka soldiers who now moved among them.
“Clear this filth,” Garrick ordered, his voice laced with disgust. “Burn the bodies, and make this place fit for a marduk. I will not suffer to stay in a graveyard.”
The soldiers obeyed, dragging the corpses into piles and setting them ablaze. The fires burned for days, sending thick, black smoke into the sky, a signal to all who watched that the Derkka had claimed this land. As the cleanup continued, Garrick turned his attention to his own comforts. The destruction of Razzyn had left few survivors, but Garrick’s men scoured the surrounding villages, seizing any who could be of use. Commoner goblin women were brought before him, their eyes wide with fear as they were forced to serve the marduk.
“These will do,” Garrick said, appraising them with a cold eye. “Make sure they are clean. I want them to attend to me personally.”
The women were stripped of their former lives, reduced to nothing more than tools for Garrick’s pleasure. They bathed him, tended to his wounds, and performed beauty treatments to soothe his vanity. For a month, Garrick indulged in these comforts, all the while keeping one eye on the mountain, hoping for a sign that Hacktor had survived. But as the days passed, and the realization sank in that the Drokka might never emerge, Garrick’s thoughts turned to other matters.
Meanwhile, back in Babel, the news of Razzyn’s fall and the subsequent standoff reached the ears of Marge and the Derkka politicians. The Great Hall of Babel was abuzz with rumors and speculation, the air thick with the tension of uncertainty. Marge, the cunning and ambitious matriarch of the Thatches family, wasted no time in gathering her allies.
“This cannot stand,” Marge declared during a heated council meeting, her voice cutting through the din. “Garrick’s recklessness has cost us dearly. Razzyn was meant to be a strategic victory, not a senseless slaughter.”
The other politicians nodded in agreement, their faces shadowed with concern. The loss of Razzyn, coupled with Garrick’s traitorous act, gave Marge an opportunity and she sized it.
“We must call him back,” one of the councilors suggested at a look from Marge, his voice trembling slightly. “He must answer for his crimes before the Priory of the Myz. Let him be judged.”
Marge smiled, her expression predatory, her plant had succeeded. “Yes, summon him. Let him face the consequences of his actions. The time has come to put an end to the Marduk line once and for all.”
The message was delivered to Garrick, who bristled at the command. Yet he had no choice but to comply. Reluctantly, he left Razzyn and returned to Babel, accompanied by a small retinue of loyal soldiers, his chariot driven by Rorik Mudfoot.
When they arrived back, Babel was as oppressive as ever, with its towering spires and darkened streets – and there was a also undercurrent of hostility towards the marduk that had not been there before. The people watched him with wary eyes, and the whispers of treachery followed him wherever he went.
Garrick was not a fool. He knew that Marge and her ilk would not be satisfied with mere rebuke. They wanted his blood, and they would stop at nothing to see him destroyed. But Garrick was too proud to back down from a fight and he was not without his own plans.
In the shadows of Babel, the Priory of the Myz convened. This secretive council, comprised of the most powerful Derkka, was the true power behind the kingdom Their faces hidden by ornate masks, the members of the Priory sat in judgment, their voices echoing in the dim chamber.
Zalzrog, the High Priest of Baal, stood at the center of the chamber, his presence both commanding and sinister. “Garrick,” he intoned, his voice low and dangerous. “You have brought shame upon the Derkka. The blood of the innocent stains your hands. The Priory has deemed you unworthy to continue as marduk.”
Garrick, who earlier had willingly brought himself to the meeting had never suspected he’d have been bound and condemned without the opportunity to defend himself, yet that is indeed what happened as events rapidly cascaded against him. As it stood now he was forced to kneel before the council. He glared up at Zalzrog, his eyes burning with defiance. “Do what you must,” he spat. “But know that I will not die so easily.”
Marge, watching from the shadows, could barely contain her glee. The fall of Garrick would solidify her power and that of her family. The Marduk line would be extinguished, and with it, any threat to her dominance.
Zalzrog raised his hands, preparing to unleash a spell that would end Garrick’s life. The chamber crackled with dark energy, the air thick with the scent of brimstone. But just as the final incantation left his lips, a chilling voice cut through the chamber.
“Enough.” My ethereal voice hissed.
The air itself seemed to shudder as I, in the guise of Baal, materialized in the chamber. The form I chose was monstrous, a towering figure of darkness and wrath, with tendrils writhing away from my black body like serpents. The Priory recoiled in terror, their masks hiding nothing of the fear that gripped them.
Zalzrog’s eyes widened in horror as my tendrils reached him, wrapping around his body. “Master, no—” he began to beg, but his pleas were cut short as my Weeping Death consumed him. The mage’s flesh melted beneath his skin, his screams echoing through the chamber as he was reduced to a puddle of goo and bones. After which I harvested his soul in delight.
For her part Marge watched in stunned silence as my Baal then turned its gaze upon her AND the remaining members of the Priory. My tendrils lashed out, striking them down with ruthless efficiency. The Babelonians skin-masks were torn away, revealing the true goblin faces beneath, now twisted in agony as their flesh bubbled and oozed. In moments, the chamber was filled with the stench of death, and all who had conspired against my pawn Garrick were no more.
Garrick, now free from his bonds, rose to his feet in horror and thanks. “My deliverer!”
Pulling the black tendrils of the Weeping Death back into Baal’s half-goat, half-goblin body, I hissed from the monstrous mouth of the Derkka’s god, “Rise, Marduk. You are not finished yet. Babel is yours to command.”
Garrick felt a surge of power course through him, the divine favor of my god infusing his very being. “What would you have me do, my lord?”
Baal’s eyes glinted with dark purpose. “Kill them all and deliver your enemies to me!”
As the dawn broke over Babel, Garrick’s first orders were carried out with brutal efficiency. Every politician who had stood against him was hunted down and executed, their bodies displayed as a warning to any who would dare challenge the new regime and their hearts given to the priests of Baal to burn as offerings to their god. A new high priest to replace Zalzrog was needed, but Garrick would see to that soon. Meanwhile, his nemesis Marge’s ambitions died with her, her family’s power shattered, and the rule of the Marduk line restored.
But Garrick was still not content. The shadow of Hacktor loomed large in his mind, and he knew that their paths would cross again. As he stood on the balcony of the Great Hall, overlooking the city that now bent to his will, Garrick allowed himself a grim smile.
“Let Hacktor prepare,” he muttered to himself. “The next time we meet, there will be no mercy.”
Meanwhile Rorik, his trusted lieutenant and personal chariot driver, approached. “Marduk, the city is secure. What are your orders?”
Garrick turned, his eyes filled with determination. “We begin rebuilding the army. I want every able-bodied Derkka ready to fight. And Rorik, I need scouts in the mountains. Find out what’s left of Hacktor’s forces. I will not be caught off guard again.”
Rorik nodded, understanding the weight of the command. “It will be done, Marduk.”
As Rorik departed to carry out his orders, Garrick remained on the balcony, his thoughts on the future. The power of the Marduk was his once more, but the real battle was yet to come. Hacktor might have escaped him at Oz, but their final confrontation was inevitable. And when that day came, Garrick vowed that the Derkka would emerge victorious.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 