Part XVI: The Golden Hand
Chapter 2: The Dread Road to Karkemesh
Timeline: AO 302 – AO303
It was decided. Garrick would leave Babel, under the guise of a diplomatic mission, but his true goal was the Pleasure Palace of Sindra. He assembled a small entourage, handpicked from his most loyal guards with the former commoner turned commander Rorik Mudfoot among them. Together they set out on the long journey to the south – to find The Goddess of Lust.
The journey to Ramos was supposed to be straightforward—leave Babel, cross Gor, and make their way south to the legendary Pleasure Palace of Sindra. Unfortunately they found more than they bargained for a long the way…
It took weeks for them to travel through Gor – first by road to Antarez Ford, then via water on the Coctyz river, and finally by road again via the Nazir-Gor Trail all the way to Nazir on the shores of the Stormy Seas. The journey was long but not arduous and given that Garrick was the king of this country, he was welcomed everywhere his entourage visited. From Nazir, the group hugged the west coast of TerrVerde in order to bypass the southern tip of the Rhokki Mountains – which marked the very end of Garrick’s kingdom.
That was the easy part.
The next leg of their journey was the most grueling – the famed deserts of Loco Land. This was a land of heat and dust, a merciless wasteland that stretched endlessly in every direction. But Garrick, with his mind fixed on the promises of beauty and eternal youth, remained undeterred – Loco Land separated Gor from Ramos and unless he wanted to travel by sea, this desert had to be crossed.
Having outfitted himself with fresh horses and supplies in Nazir, the king’s party wisely opted to skirt the desert’s heart, hugging the treacherous slopes of the Rhokki Mountains to the north as they made their way from west to eat. The range provided some relief from the sun’s fury, but even here the air was dry, the ground parched and cracked. Garrick’s troop, seasoned warriors and loyal servants, rode alongside him, but he could see the strain in their eyes, the way they squinted against the glare of the unrelenting sun.
From the mountains, they descended to the south and east toward the Bay of Muchiano, following the coastline south toward the port city of Caldonia. As they trudged along the arid borderlands, Garrick considered his options. Caldonia would offer them some respite, but the choice from there was perilous. They could either venture by sea, risking the pirate-infested waters off Bjork Point, or take the dreaded Waterless Road through the heart of the desert once more.
Belgrath had warned the king of tales of ships vanishing without a trace in those waters, their crew either enslaved or slaughtered by the ruthless pirates that prowled the seas. That was enough for Garrick to decided the sea was not for him. After all, he hated boats anyway, hated the way the waves made him feel small and helpless. The thought of being at the mercy of the water—and worse, at the mercy of men—was intolerable.
“We’ll take the Waterless Road,” Garrick declared to his men after they’d relaxed a few days in Caldonia. His men exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared challenge the king. The road through the desert was no kinder than the sea, but they trusted Garrick’s leadership, even as their doubts festered.
Unfortunately, once they left Caldonia behind and began their trek along the ancient Waterless Road, the hardships mounted. The desert was a harsh and unforgiving mistress, its sands shifting underfoot, its winds hot and biting. Water became scarce, and each day seemed hotter than the last. Although the camels they’d acquired in Caldonia proved up to the journey, the Derkka not so much – two of the king’s goblins fell to the heat, their skin blistered from the sun, their bodies too weak to continue.
Yet worse than the loss of life for Garrick was the fact that the desert was doing terrible things to his appearance, and it was driving him mad! Each morning, as the sun blazed over the horizon, Garrick would feel its fiery kiss on his skin—skin he had spent years perfecting, preserving with the finest masks and lotions from across the world. But here in the desert, the heat was relentless, and there was no balm that could save him. His face, so carefully maintained, was beginning to feel parched, rough, and cracked. His lips were chapped, his eyes bloodshot, and worst of all, his flawless hair weave, which had always flowed like molten gold, was now dry and brittle, hanging limply at his shoulders.
“What is this hellish place doing to me?” he muttered to himself, shielding his face with his hands as though the gesture alone could block out the sun’s assault. He glanced at his men, their faces blistering and peeling in the unforgiving heat. If they look that hideous, what horrors is own reflection? The thought sent a shiver down his spine, and he quickly pulled a mirror from his satchel, one of the few luxuries he had insisted on bringing with him.
He gasped as he peered into it. “Oh no… this can’t be happening.” He dabbed his forehead frantically, then pulled at the skin masks on his cheeks as if he could stretch them back into youth. “Gods, I look… ordinary! No, worse. I look… mortal.”
Garrick groaned, casting a sidelong glance at Rorik Mudfoot, whose face resembled something between scorched leather and an overripe fruit. “By Baal’s glamour, if I end up looking like him, just bury me in the dunes. No one deserves that.” He sighed dramatically, trying to reapply some of the fading skin masks with trembling fingers. “I didn’t come all this way to become a walking raisin before I even meet Sindra. If this desert doesn’t kill me, my reflection certainly will.”
With a final, pitiful glance at his men, Garrick whispered to himself, “Hold on, Garrick… hold on. Beauty is pain, after all.” But deep down, he couldn’t help but curse the sun for every crack, every burn that marred his precious face.
Eight days out from Caldonia and they had lost their bearings. The road had all but disappeared beneath the dunes, and the men staggered through the heat like ghosts, their supplies dwindling. Garrick felt his resolve waver for the first time, his obsession with Sindra’s secrets dimming in the face of death. He could hear his men murmuring, fear creeping into their voices. The water they carried was nearly gone, and they were certain they would perish in the desert before ever reaching Ramos’ border city Gaspar.
But then, just as hope seemed to fade entirely, they stumbled upon an oasis. Palm trees rose from the sand like sentinels, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze. Water shimmered in the distance, a sight so surreal that Garrick feared it was a mirage. But as they neared, the air cooled, and the scent of fresh water filled their parched lungs.
They drank deeply, their strength returning as they rested in the shade of the trees. It was then that Garrick noticed the old man. He seemed to appear out of nowhere, his form bent and cloaked, a traveler’s staff in hand. His face was weathered by time, but it was the mark on his forehead that caught Garrick’s attention—a strange, twisted scar that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly light.
“You look lost, my lord,” the man said, his voice a gravelly rasp, though there was a knowing glint in his eye.
Garrick, suspicious but too weary to dismiss any help, stepped forward. “And who are you, old man?”
The traveler smiled, revealing teeth too sharp and too white for his age. “A simple wanderer. But I know these lands well, and I know the dangers of this road. You are far off your path.”
Garrick’s gaze narrowed. “And you would guide us?”
“If you wish to find Gaspar before your men die of thirst, then yes,” the old man replied. “But know this, the desert doesn’t forget, and neither should you.”
With no other options, Garrick accepted the traveler’s offer. For more than a day the old man led them through the dunes, showing them hidden wells and routes that Garrick would never have found on his own. Soon they were back on the Waterless Road, with Gaspar only a few days’ march away. Yet before they could thank him, the old man disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived.
As they resumed their journey, Rorik Mudfoot, muttered under his breath to himself, “That mark… on his forehead. Could it really be?”
“What of it?” Garrick snapped, though the memory of it lingered in his mind.
Rorik looked around nervously, his voice lowering. “That mark—it’s the sign of Kane, the father of our people. The man who wanders forever, cursed with immortality. My mother used to tell me stories of him when I was a child.”
Garrick didn’t respond, but the possibility gnawed at him as they made their final approach to Gaspar. Could it be true? Had they truly been guided by the immortal Kane, or was it simply a coincidence?
Either way, the mystery of the old man hung heavy in his thoughts until at last Garrick pushed it aside as the gates of Gaspar came into view. He had survived the Waterless Road, but deep down, he knew the real danger awaited him beyond the borders of Ramos, where Sindra’s beauty—and her treachery—would test him in ways the desert never could.
As Garrick and his weary band arrived at Gaspar, they were greeted by a welcoming party of the border town. These village elders were not the stately figures of northern courts but weathered, jungle-hardened men whose skin gleamed like oiled mahogany beneath the sun. Their robes, frayed at the edges and stained with the hues of the jungle, swayed as they moved with practiced caution. They had lived too long in this dangerous borderland between civilization and wilderness to trust any stranger easily, but Garrick was no ordinary guest. Sindra’s orders had reached them long before the Derkka king’s arrival, and though they eyed him with suspicion, their deference was absolute.
When Garrick and his men staggered out of the desert, the elders met them with a subdued, almost wary welcome. The leader of the group, a wiry figure named Jokal stepped forward. “King Garrick,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, “you are expected.”
Without fanfare, they ushered him and his goblins through the tangled streets of Gaspar, past rows of ramshackle huts where pirate crews drank and brawled in the shadows. The smell of salt, sweat, and rotting fruit clung to the air. The jungle, thick and oppressive, seemed to press in from all sides, its vines creeping into the very bones of the city. Garrick, though exhausted, kept his hand close to his sword, unnerved by the furtive glances from the darker alleys. He was even more upset about his appearance, certain that everyone was looking at him in disgust from the horrid effects that Loco Land had wrecked upon his visage.
The welcoming party led Garrick’s crew to an inconspicuous building on the outskirts, its stone walls overgrown with moss and vines. Inside, however, was a different world: a shaded, breezy courtyard filled with lush ferns and the scent of jasmine. Cool, clear water trickled from a stone fountain, and hammocks strung between the trees beckoned with promises of rest. The jungle men offered bowls of fresh fruit and flagons of chilled fruit wine, but their sharp eyes never left Garrick. They were here to obey Sindra, but the edge of danger in their gaze made it clear that they were not to be trifled with. “Rest here,” Jokal said. “Your journey south begins soon. Sindra has made all arrangements.”
After a week spent recovering in Gaspar, Garrick was ready to move on. Jokal surprised him with an unexpected surprise: two sleek, well-outfitted riverboats waiting at the dock for him, their hulls painted in rich reds and golds, adorned with intricate carvings of serpents. A full staff of servants was on hand, all bowing deeply at Garrick’s arrival.
“A gift from The Goddess,” Jokal explained. “A show of her anticipation to…receive you.”
“I’m honored.” Garrick’s spirits soared; the image of Sindra, whom he had yet to meet, sent a flutter through his chest. A jungle cruise, but it was clearly not going to be an insurmountable threat—instead this final part of the journey would be made in luxury.
The next day Garrick’s boats set off down the Oro River, gliding smoothly along the glassy surface, cutting through the thick, humid air. The dense jungles of Ramos crowded the riverbanks, teeming with life. Towering trees rose like ancient sentinels, their canopies thick with vines and moss that hung low, almost brushing the water. Garrick leaned against the side of the boat, his eyes narrowing as he spotted movement in the shadows—monkeys, their bright eyes gleaming as they swung from branch to branch, parrots flashing their vibrant colors as they screeched overhead. The air was alive with the hum of insects and the distant growl of unseen predators. Garrick’s heart raced; the jungle was wild, dangerous, and utterly foreign – would it be good for his appearance or further destroy it?
That first night, they made camp by the riverbank, the boats tethered to thick, gnarled roots. Fires flickered, warding off some of the jungle’s less welcome inhabitants, but Garrick’s sleep was troubled. The sounds of the jungle never ceased—rustling leaves, far-off howls, and the ever-present hum of mosquitoes – sure to wreck havoc on his skin. At one point, a scream pierced the camp, waking everyone from their uneasy slumber. One of the Derkka stumbled forward, clutching his leg where a venomous snake had sunk its fangs deep into his flesh. A healer among the boat crew worked frantically on Garrick’s man, but the goblin’s cries echoed through the jungle until they eventually faded into silence. Another one of the king’s troupe had died on this harsh journey into the unknown.
Yet the dangers were no less by day. As the boats continued south, Garrick was leaning over the edge with a foot in the water. The river provided a welcome relief to the hot, humid climate. He was about to call for the boats to halt so he could jump in for a swim to cool off, but he caught sight of group of tiny yet sleek, dark shapes cutting through the water towards him. “What are those fish?”
“Pinhas.” A crewman gasped, urgently pulling the king’s leg out of the water. “Beware. Watch.” Now that the king’s flesh had been taken from them, the fish swirled away, their tiny eyes gleaming with hunger. They quickly found another prize – a furry mammal trying to cross between the banks – to the great horror of the Derkka, the fish proceeded to viciously attack the larger beast and, despite the creature’s screams and its desperate attempt to defend itself, the razor sharp teeth of the fish took apart the animal in seconds.
“Stay in the boat,” Garrick growled to his wide-eyed men. He had no intention of losing anyone else to this cursed journey. “Some pleasure cruise, huh?”
On the plus side, after a few days on the river, as the thick moisture clung to his skin, Garrick could feel the desert’s punishment melting away. His face no longer felt like a dried-up fig, and his hands, which had started to peel and blister in the relentless Loco Land sun, now appeared somewhat rejuvenated. But it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy The Golden One’s obsession.
Holding up a small mirror he’d brought along, Garrick fretted over his reflection. “By Baal, look at me!” The king was horrified by the sight of his patchy complexion. “This humidity might help the common folk, but it’s barely an improvement for me!” He dabbed a bit of salve under his eyes, wincing at the deep lines that had set in. His once-golden curls were now damp and limp, clinging to his forehead in an unflattering mess and threatening to pull apart from his real hair. Meanwhile his cheeks had lost that youthful glow, replaced by a pallor that no amount of river mist could erase.
“Sindra is going to take one look at me and send me right back to Babel,” he muttered, inspecting his pores with the intensity of a general surveying a battlefield. “The most beautiful woman in the world, and here I am… this.” He tugged at a loose bit of skin on his nose with a frown. “How can I face her like this? I haven’t had a proper skin treatment since I left the palace!”
His personal servant, Rorik, tried to reassure him. “Sire, the jungle’s moisture will work wonders. By the time we reach Karkemesh—”
“Karkemesh?” Garrick snapped, cutting him off. “By the time we reach Karkemesh, I’ll look like one of those blasted river fish! Wrinkled, bloated—oh gods, Rorik, what if I smell like one too?” He pressed a perfumed cloth to his nose, inhaling deeply to mask the earthy scent of the jungle, and added with a sigh, “Sindra is going to laugh me out of her palace. Or worse, pity me.” He shuddered at the thought. “I’d rather she kill me on the spot.”
With every passing day on the river, Garrick’s anxieties grew, despite his men’s encouragement. His appearance, though far better than it had been after the desert, was still far from the perfection he craved. And the idea of meeting the goddess—whose legendary beauty haunted his every waking thought—gnawed at him, each ripple in the river’s water seeming to mock his fading looks.
The Golden One received a welcome distraction when, a few days later, they made a brief stop at Thulsa. The city of shadows and serpents, Thulsa nestled deep within the heart of the jungle that was Ramos. It was no place of beauty, but rather a place of darkness and ritual. Although unseen because of the jungle’s foliage, the aura of the nearby ziggarat known as the Temple of Shadows cast an ominous hold over the people who lived in its grip.
Ssu-Ra Val’Khaz, ruler of Thulsa, welcomed Garrick with a magnanimous smile, but The Golden One was smart enough to know that the ruler’s smile hid other emotions beneath it. Standing in the jungle ruler’s throne room, Garrick was struck by the strange blend of reverence and dread that Val’Khaz commanded. Towering over his courtiers, the Thulsa king was an embodiment of the dark, ancient power that pulsed through the city. His skin was marked with intricate ceremonial tattoos, each line telling a story of sacrifice and conquest. But what drew Garrick’s attention most was the man’s aura of unnatural youthfulness, despite the unmistakable weight of centuries in his cold, calculating eyes. The Derkka king guessed that Val’Khaz’s appearance was the result of something beyond magic—something darker, older, and more sinister.
As the evening wore on, though he was outwardly composed, Garrick felt a gnawing envy in the pit of his stomach as he and his men dined with Val’Khaz. The Golden One had spent his life chasing beauty, but here was a man who had harnessed the power to defy age itself, not with mere potions and salves, but with something far more primal. Garrick couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to unlock his rival’s secrets. Yet, despite his envy, the Babelonian king was careful to maintain his own confidence. Overcoming his anxiety, Garrick flashed what he hoped to be a dazzling smile, having faith that The Glamour would work its magic, ensuring that he appeared every bit the ethereal, flawless king from the north.
Little did Garrick know, Val’Khaz watched him with the same envious eyes. The Glamour that masked Garrick’s true appearance presented him as a figure of unparalleled beauty, a god-like man untouched by the ravages of time. To Val’Khaz, who had sacrificed countless lives to maintain his power, it was both maddening and perplexing to behold such beauty in one who appeared so effortlessly youthful.
The tension between them soon became palpable, not overt but lurking in the undercurrents of their polite conversation. Both men desired what the other possessed—Garrick, the unnatural longevity that Val’Khaz wielded, and Val’Khaz, the seemingly effortless beauty that Garrick presented.
As they exchanged pleasantries over a feast of exotic fruits and meats, Garrick probed, as subtly as he could, for details of the Thulsan king’s secret to longevity. “You have ruled for many years, your majesty,” he began, swirling the wine in his goblet. “There are tales in Babel of your city’s mastery over time itself. Surely, one of your stature must have learned all there is to know about preserving… one’s gifts.” His eyes flicked toward Val’Khaz’s hands, smooth and unlined, betraying no signs of age.
Val’Khaz’s lips curled into a knowing smile, his dark eyes narrowing. “The sands of time, King Garrick, can be cruel… unless one learns how to bend them to their will,” he replied, cryptically. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his chalice, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. “But such knowledge comes at a price. Not everyone is willing to pay it.”
Garrick forced a smile, but the weight of those words lingered. He was willing to pay any price to achieve what Val’Khaz had—he just needed to know how. Yet, beneath the cordial exchange, he sensed the Thulsan ruler’s own curiosity, and a trace of resentment, though Val’Khaz masked it well. The king of Thulsa was no fool; he recognized the Glamour for what it was, but even with that knowledge, the power it wielded made him uneasy.
The evening passed in an uneasy dance of veiled compliments and subtle inquiries, each king guarding his secrets fiercely, while seeking to uncover the other’s.
Eventually Ssu-Ra Val’Khaz gave Garrick a warning. “You seek the goddess, but be wary, my friend. She is not as she seems. Her beauty… consumes. Those who go to her rarely return unchanged—if they return at all.” His voice was a whisper, laced with fear. “She offers more than pleasures, instead you might find oblivion itself.”
But Garrick, now committed heart and soul to the idea of Sindra, dismissed the man’s warning with a wave of his hand. “I have seen much in this world, Val’Khaz, but the goddess will eclipse it all. I must see her.”
“I expected nothing less.” Val’Khaz smiled, showing his pointed eye teeth as he narrowed his eyes through veiled lids in delight.
After a brief two-day stay in Thulsa, the boats set off once again, pushing farther south along the river, which twisted and turned through the jungle like a snake. As they neared the end of their journey, the air became thicker, more oppressive. The river grew wider, its waters dark and slow-moving, as though anticipating the spectacle that awaited them.
Finally so many months of travel, they rounded a bend in the mighty river, and there it was—Sindra’s palace, the Serpent’s Embrace. Garrick and his men stood in awe on the decks of the boats as the twin palaces came into view, perched atop a towering waterfall where the Oro cascaded into the ocean below. The palaces’ spires reaching toward the sky like the fangs of a great serpent, their white marble walls catching the sunlight, their towers crowned with golden domes. Around the twin cities, lush gardens spilled down the cliffs, filled with strange, exotic flowers and statues of writhing serpents.
“Welcome to Karkemesh, my lord.” The boat captain relished the sight – secretly hoping the goddess might reward he and his men for their service.
“It’s….magnificent!” Garrick’s heart raced. He had never seen anything so breath-taking in all his life. The sight was intoxicating, overwhelming, as though the jungle itself had conspired to create this paradise for Sindra alone. He could feel the pull of her presence even from here. The palace seemed to call to him, and in that moment, all his weariness from the journey vanished. He knew he had arrived at the place where his destiny—and perhaps his undoing—awaited.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 