Part XVI: The Golden One
Chapter 6: The Usurper
Timeline: AO 302-309
Although Garrick was on his way back home, what he didn’t know is that much had changed in his absence. For starters, the city of Babel, once the vibrant jewel of the Derkka civilization, now lay under a shadow. Its homes and towers had become stained with the grime of neglect. The streets, once bustling with traders and merchants, were now home to beggars and thieves. A thick tension hung in the air, the kind that made even the bravest of Babelonians glance nervously over their shoulders.
It had been nearly six years since anyone in Babel had heard from The Marduk. His last message had come from Caldonia – describing his continued journey south to Karkemesh and promising a quick return after he had completed his mission. But after years of silence, hope had withered, replaced by rumors and fear. The talk in the taverns was that The Golden One had died in a foreign land; others claimed he had abandoned them for greener pastures. Few dared to believe that their king would ever return.
Naturally the rich and powerful of society saw Garrick’s ‘death’ as a opportunity to secure power for themselves. Lord Thane Rukstinz – the shadow elite who’d previously emigrated to Babel in order to escape Hacktor’s purge – was among the first to put his capital to work to seize the Babelonian throne – raising up a goblin general from Gor named Kahros Bloodscale. Charismatic, cunning, ruthless, and with the Rukstinz money behind him, the military man made a bold claim for the throne – forcefully declaring that Marduk Garrick was dead and that the Derkka people needed a new leader to guide them through the troubled times that had fallen upon their people. That was back in AO 305 – after dispatching with any rivals who dared to oppose him in Babel, and then rooting out any petty rulers who tried to carve out a kingdom for themselves in Gor or Kra, Kahros now stood alone as the new ruler of Garrick’s former land.
On this day he surveying the city of Babel from the balcony of his palace – The Iron Citadel. Despite being its king, Kahros’ feeling towards the capital hadn’t changed – he still despised the city and it’s people. Now middle-aged, the goblin had survived countless battles, his body bearing the harsh evidence of the many encounters with the armies of Hacktor Derkillez. Kahros’ skin was a pale, sickly green, the hue uneven across his body, with patches of rough, scarred flesh running across his face and arms. His left eye was clouded over, a remnant of his participation in the infamous Battle of Gor, while the other eye, a piercing yellow, burned with the cold intensity of a goblin who had clawed his way to power.
The ruler’s face was lined with deep wrinkles, not just from age, but from years of grimacing through pain and fury. A jagged scar ran from the corner of his lip to his ear, giving him a permanent sneer. Kahros’ nose, slightly crooked from having been broken more than once in battle, only added to his gnarled appearance. His once-strong hands, now rough and calloused, bore more scars than smooth skin. Despite trading his armor for royal robes, there was no hiding the warrior beneath. The regal garments—a deep crimson with gold embroidery—sat uncomfortably on his broad, hunched frame. They could not erase the image of a goblin hardened by war.
The Glamour—the magical spell that caused the Babel Derkka to appear beautiful—had never touched him. As a common Derkka, Kahros never felt such magic, and he despised those who did. The people of Babel, with their enchanting beauty, seemed like false gods to him, wrapped in illusions while he carried the reality of war and bloodshed on his shoulders. He’d fought to give the people of Babel a life of luxury, yet he knew they still looked down on him. And now that he was in power over them, Kahros made sure to pay them back for their insults.
His hatred for those with the Glamour was evident in every cruel decree he passed and every execution he ordered. Babelonians had once looked down on him, scorned him for his ugliness, and took his military efforts for granted. Now, as king, Kahros ruled over them with an iron fist, exacting his revenge in subtle and brutal ways. To him, beauty was a mask for weakness, and he wore his scars as badges of honor—proof that he had survived where others had fallen.
Yerxel, the current high priest of Baal and a high ranking member of The Priory of The Myz, was standing beside the king on the balcony. Elevated to his position by Kahros – the first common Derkka to hold the rank of high priest – the gaunt cleric broke the silence when he murmured, “The people are restless, Marduk. They grow hungry, and hungry men are dangerous.”
Kahros smirked, his eyes gleaming in the fading light of dusk. “Dangerous? No. Desperate men are weak, easily controlled. We need only feed them a little hope… and a great deal of fear.”
The priest nodded, his goblin face twisting into a cruel smile. “And Baal will provide both. The people need a reminder of the old curses… of the wrath that awaits those who defy the gods.”
Kahros turned his attention back to the city. “Let the Priory do as it wishes. Spread the fear. But remind them, priest, that I am Baal’s chosen. The people must see me as their salvation, or all of this—” he gestured to the crumbling city below—”will be for nothing.”
As yet Garrick knew nothing about Kahros the usurper. Something else the former king didn’t know is that his beloved daughter had fallen victim to the cruel Kahros’ purge.
Shortly after Kahros had seized the throne, he’d taken the advice of Lord Thane to ‘eliminate every last memory of The Golden One.’ Garrick’s daughter Arlena was the last obstacle to remove, the last link to the rightful bloodline. The teenage Arlena, beautiful beyond compare because of The Glamour, as well as her access to the best skin masks and beauty treatments, she’d been the toast of Babel her entire life. Yet after her father left, Arlena had kept a low profile. Later, when Kahros rose to power, she’d exiled herself into hiding – for she and her protectors knew her very existence was a threat to goblin general’s ambitions.
In a quiet corner outside Babel, far from the gaze of the city’s crumbling elite, Arlena had been hiding in a small, discreet house, surrounded by loyalists. But loyalty was a fragile thing in these dark times, and it wasn’t long before Kahros’s men reach found her. Nearly two years ago, Arlena was murdered in her sleep by an assassin – yet another victim of political intrigue in humanity’s long line of useful violence.
The news of Arlena’s supposed “disappearance” spread quickly through Babel – though Kahros’ advisors (with the help of Rukstinz’ money) made sure to control the narrative. The talk in the taverns was that Garrick’s daughter had fled in cowardice to the Drokka – intent on telling their enemies state secrets. Kahros himself later addressed the people of Babel in the town square, his booming voice carrying over the hushed crowd.
“Babelonians!” he roared. “Garrick, your former ruler, is dead. His daughter has sold you out to our enemies. But hear this – I will lead you through these dark times. I am Baal’s chosen. You will follow me or die.”
The crowd on hand murmured uncertainly. Some attempt a spiritless cheered, while others simply watched, their eyes hollow with fear. Yet none dared to challenge their new ruler.
As the months passed, with none to oppose him, the entire political landscape of Babel had decayed – Kharos was the Marduk – the sole dictator, and Lord Thane was the tenuous puppet master who used his wit and wile to drive policy. Since neither Kharos nor the elderly Rukstinz cared much about Babel beyond what it was worth to them, the once-thriving city soon began to rot from within. The streets became filled with the stench of neglect. Food became scarce, and those middle class Babelonians who had once lived in comfort eventually struggled to survive. Worse yet, public executions quickly became a common spectacle – a grim reminder of Kahros’s iron rule against any who dare to complain.
In the midst of the chaos, the Priory of the Myz again grew stronger. The priests of Baal, who’d been diminished into minor players under Garrick, had returned to prestige – for Lord Thane (an elite member of The Priory) had convinced Kahros of the tremendous ‘opportunities’ that would be created by feeding on the people’s fear. The new Marduk agreed – all too happy to terrorize the Babelonians – and so he allowed the priestly ranks to flourish again – leaving them free to preach of sacrifice and to spill blood in Baal’s name to cleanse the city of its sins.
In truth, Kahros himself cared little for the religion – to him, Baal was just another tool, a weapon to control the people. But he understood the power of belief, and he knew that as long as the people feared Baal’s wrath, they would fall in line behind him.
Meanwhile, Kahros’s influence over the Derkka military had grown ever stronger. Although he’d formerly risen to become a general of middling power in Gor, now that he was Marduk, he commanded the entire army of his people. Having lived most of his life on the battlefield, Kahros longed to taste war again – and he had the means to make it happen.
One evening, in the year AO 309, Kahros was standing before the war map in his private chamber, eyes narrowed at the jagged lines marking the border between the Derkka lands and the Drokka stronghold of Rhokki Pass. The name Hacktor Derkillez was etched into the parchment with a heavy hand. The cursed Kon-Herr had led the Drokka in countless battles against the Derkka – many of which Kahros himself had fought in. Some had gone the way of the Derkka, but most had not.
Kahros blamed his people’s losses on Garrick’s failures. The Golden One had never faced Hacktor head on in a pitched battle – this was beyond belief to Kahros and the new Marduk aimed to change that. Lord Thane had explained that the Drokka army had the benefit of deep-rooted traditions and jihadist beliefs that gave their military and edge. Kharos planned to mimic that – using the Priory to incite religious fervor among the Derkka, hoping to fuel his own armies with blind devotion.
Still, even with the The Priory’s power behind him, the thought of the myz knights left an icy knot in Kahros’ stomach. The Myz – those giant warriors who’d been unleased by Gwar were an unpredictable force. Kahros loathed them—feared them even. Their incredible power, their near invincibility, and their lack of respect for the goblins who were supposed to be their allies, made Kahros clench his fists in anger.
Yet, how could he avoid working with the Myz when Gwar, the very god of war, had ordered the goblins and Myz to fight together against the Drokka? To defy Gwar outright was impossible. The Myz’s influence had woven its tendrils deep into Derkka military politics, yet their very existence could be both a deadly weapon and a threat to Kahros’s power.
“I will bend the Myz to my will,” Kahros muttered to himself, his voice cold. “But they will never be my allies. They serve only because they must, and when I have no further need for them, I will see them undone.”
For now, he had no choice but to cooperate with Gwar’s favorite warriors, but the Marduk would ensure the Myz were kept at arm’s length. They were tools—nothing more. He would use their power to defeat Hacktor, to finally claim the victory that had eluded Garrick, and then, once the war was won, he would deal with the Myz on his own terms.
As the years passed, the situation in Babel and Gor only worsened. Kahros tightened his grip on power, while the The Priory continued to stoke the fires of fear. The people, by now broken and starving, had little choice but to accept the rule of the new king, even as they whispered Garrick’s name in secret, hoping against hope that their true king would return.
But Kahros was not one to be easily challenged. The city that had once been Garrick’s was now Kahros’s plaything, and as the Iron Citadel loomed over the crumbling streets, a new era of darkness settled over the Derkka lands.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 