Part XVI: The Golden One
Chapter 8: The Battle of Babel
Timeline: AO 310
The dusty road stretched northward like an old scar across the plains of Gor, leading Garrick and his army toward their final destination—Babel, the towering capital of the western lands he once ruled. The wind blew hard from the north, as if trying to push them back, but Garrick’s resolve was unshakable. His violet eyes glinted with cold determination, hardened by the recent news that the usurper had murdered of his daughter shortly after he’d seized Babel. Kahros Bloodscale – the brutal goblin general who once served without acclaim in Garrick’s army had not just taken his kingdom, but also his family – as a result Garrick vowed that he would personally avenge Arlena’s death – and he’s do it in a most gruesome fashion.
Retaking the throne meant unleashing civil war upon Babel, but Garrick had no other choice. He only hoped he could complete the task in a way that didn’t cripple the entire kingdom and make it vulnerable to their enemies – for Hacktor Derkillez war still raged in the eastern parts of the land. The former king’s army that moved north with him had been cobbled together in the last few months – it was mostly comprised of a few thousand conscripts of common goblin from Southern Gor, along with a hundred or so Babelonians exiles. Sindra had indeed fulfilled her promise to Garrick to have Gwar supply him with some of his Myz – and therefore Garrick also had a few score of the grey giants in his ranks. The Myz rode on war horses, the Babelonians in their chariots, whilst the goblins marched on foot, their crude iron weapons glinting under the midmorning sun. Garrick rode at the front of the column, his chariot pulled by two massive steeds. His new armor, gifted by Sindra, shimmered with magical enchantments—its silver plates etched with runes of protection.
Along the way, they’d encountered resistance—small bands of goblins at Kahros’ army outposts whose mission it was to slow Garrick’s advance. Sometimes the usurpers troops would fight, sometimes not. Those that didn’t fight were usually eager to switch sides and join their former Marduk. Those that resisted were easily dispatched – the Myz all to happy to have a reason to murder some goblins. For his part, Garrick didn’t take part in the skirmishes and instead remained focused on the road ahead, his thoughts darkened by grief and the need for vengeance.
In one such encounter on the road north, a group of Kahros’ forces had ambushed Garrick’s army in a narrow valley, thinking they could hold the passage. Garrick watched from his chariot as the Myz knights engaged, his hands gripping the enchanted spear that rested across his lap. The battle below was quick and brutal. The rebels were outmatched, their blades useless against the nigh unkillable giants in Garrick’s front line. As the last of the ambushers were cut down, Garrick turned to one of his scouts, a wiry goblin named Torz. “How far to Babel?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of rage.
“Two days’ march, my lord,” Torz replied. “Although Kahros will surely know we’re coming by now.”
“Let him,” Garrick said, his eyes narrowing. “He’ll know what it means to steal from me.”
He cast one final glance at the bodies littering the valley floor. His daughter’s face flashed in his mind, her beautiful smile tainted by the cruelty of Kahros’s assassin. She had been a light in his life, and now that light was gone. There was nothing left but darkness, and it would consume everything in its path.
Meanwhile, as The Golden One was marching north, inside the halls of Babel’s Iron Citadel, tension simmered like a pot on the verge of boiling over. Kahros Bloodscale sat at the head of a long, polished table, his massive form casting a shadow over the seated figures before him. His dark armor gleamed in the torchlight, and his one good eye flicked between his closest advisors. Yerxel, the high priest of Baal, sat to his left, draped in blood-red robes that stank of incense and death. To his right, Lord Thane Rukstinz, the elderly Drokka who’d been the shadow elite that had financed Kahros’ rise, now stroked his long beard thoughtfully, his eyes filled with calculating intelligence.
“Garrick’s coming,” Kahros growled, slamming his gauntleted fist onto the table. “He’ll be here within days.”
Yerxel nodded, his thin lips curling into a sinister smile. “He’s a fool if he thinks he can simply walk back into Babel and reclaim the throne. Baal is with us, my lord. The rituals we’ve performed, the sacrifices… the power of the gods flows through us.”
Kahros’ gaze hardened. “Power is nothing without numbers. Garrick has the Myz with him. They’ll be a problem.”
“We’ll match them,” Yerxel assured him, his voice dripping with confidence. “We have Baal’s blessings. Their magic is nothing compared to what I can conjure.”
Lord Thane Rukstinz cleared his throat, his voice dry and raspy with age. “Don’t underestimate Garrick,” he cautioned. “He’s always been a manipulator. His beauty hides a cunning mind and who knows that gods might be backing him?”
Kahros turned to wizened dwar, his eyes narrowing. “Then what do you suggest, old man?”
Lord Thane leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Use his pride against him. Lure him into the city, let him believe he’ll score an easy victor. Then strike. You’ll break him when he feels most secure.”
Kahros let out a low growl, considering the plan. “Very well,” he said after a long pause. “We’ll fight him on our terms. Ready the troops, and make sure every street in Babel is a death trap.”
Yerxel stood, his grin widening. “We’ll spill rivers of blood for Baal. He’ll be pleased with the offerings we make.”
Kahros stared out the window toward the distant horizon. Somewhere out there, Garrick was marching, and the thought filled him with a primal rage. “He’ll wish he never returned.”
The sun had barely risen when Garrick’s forces reached the outskirts of Babel. The neglected walls of the once great city loomed before them, casting broken shadows over the landscape. The gates were closed, but Garrick knew they would not remain so for long. Kahros would want him inside the city, where his forces could be overwhelmed. It was a trap, and Garrick knew it.
The Derkka, Babelonians, and Myz within his ranks all stood ready in the morning light. Garrick, resplendent in his enchanted armor, stood at the front upon his chariot. Beside him was his driver, a skilled Babelonian soldier who’d formerly served with the Markdu and who’d eagerly joined his muster in Nazir.
The tension in the air was palpable as Garrick raised his spear, the magic within it crackling with energy. “For Babel! For Gor!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the field. His soldiers roared in response, their battle cries shaking the earth.
The gates of Babel creaked open, and from within, Kahros’ army poured out. They were a sea of iron and leather, their banners bearing the blood-red sigil of the usurper. Kahros himself led them, his hulking form clad in dark armor, bearing the enchantments of Baal’s priests. He strode on foot, a battle-axe in hand, and his eyes locked on Garrick from across the battlefield.
“Let them come,” Garrick muttered to his driver. “We’ll crush them.”
The two forces clashed with a deafening roar. Garrick’s warriors, led by the Myz, surged forward, their weapons slashing through Kahros’ front lines. They were followed by an assault from the goblins, and supported along the flanks by Babelonian charioteers.
From his own chariot, Garrick surveyed the battlefield from behind with a cold precision. He was holding back on purpose – saving himself for Kahros – as his magical armor glowed with a faint aura, deflecting any arrows sent his way whilst he watched.
Kahros, for his part, did not disappoint – for although he may have served without acclaim during his time under Garrick, he quickly proved that he was no mere foot soldier any more. On this day he cut through Garrick’s forces with savage strength, his battle-axe cleaving through flesh and bone with terrifying ease.
“There’s a magic in that goblin’s blade.” Garrick observed to his driver. And when Kahros appeared to call out a challenge to him, Garrick knew the moment of reckoning had come. “Take me to him,” he ordered his driver.
The Golden One’s chariot cut through the battlefield like a thunderbolt, carving a path toward Kahros. Garrick stood tall, his spear raised, as they closed the distance. Kahros saw him coming and let out a roar, swinging his axe in a wide arc to clear the way.
They met in the center of the battlefield, Garrick’s first pass a collision of power and fury as his spear clashed with Kahros’ axe, the impact sending a shockwave through the air. Another pass yielded similar results – but no advantage to either. “Enough of this charade!” Garrick raged, jumping from the chariot to face his rival on foot.
“You stole my throne,” Garrick hissed at Kahros, his voice filled with venom. “You stole my daughter.”
Kahros sneered, his bi-colored eyes gleaming with malice. “You were weak, Garrick. And now I’ll kill you, just as I killed her.”
The words ignited something deep within Garrick, and with a snarl, he lashed out with renewed ferocity. The clash between Garrick and Kahros intensified, their blows reverberating through the battlefield. Garrick’s spear glowed with magical energy, its tip seeking every weakness in Kahros’ defenses, while Kahros swung his battle-axe with raw, brute force, each strike aimed to crush his rival beneath its weight.
The air around them crackled with tension, the magical wards in Garrick’s armor shimmering every time Kahros’ axe came close. Meanwhile, the battle all around the pair continued to rage – with Derkka soldiers on both sides locked in deadly combat, whilst the Myz wrought havoc beyond compare.
Garrick swung his spear in a sweeping arc, forcing Kahros back. “This city was mine,” he spat, pressing forward with a series of rapid strikes. “And you destroyed everything I held dear!”
Kahros growled, deflecting the blows with his axe, but Garrick was relentless. His spear crackled with magical energy, striking with impossible speed. Every step Kahros took was met with another strike, each one cutting closer to his armor.
“You’ve lost your mind, Golden One,” Kahros snarled, swinging his axe in a wide, desperate arc. Garrick easily sidestepped the blow, his spear slicing through Kahros’ gauntlet, leaving a deep gouge in the metal. “You Babelonian scum deserve the pain I’ve given them. And will give you!”
But Garrick didn’t relent. Memories of his daughter’s smile, now lost forever, fueled his rage. He would make Kahros pay for her death. Once more his spear thrust out, and this time, it found its mark—piercing Kahros’ with a liver shot.
The usurper roared in pain, staggering back. Blood seeped through the gash in his armor, staining the ground beneath him. But he wasn’t defeated yet. With a furious growl, he hurled his axe toward Garrick, a desperate, final attack.
Had it not been for Sindra’s magic, The Golden One surely would have been felled – for Kahros’ axe blade struck Garrick full on in the chest. As it was, the goddess’ enchantments on his armor diminished the attack yet the force of the impact of still knocked Garrick backwards, and for a moment the Babelonian thought he was doomed; yet his armor held – glowing brightly as it absorbed the axe’s energy and dissipated it away. With a snarl, Garrick then threw his own spear towards his nemesis – like a bolt of lightning it struck the already staggered Kahros square in the heart. So powerful was the thrust that the tip came bursting out of the goblin’s upper back.
Kahros’ eyes widened in shock, his massive frame writhing as the spear’s magical energy burned through his flesh. Moments later he collapsed backwards – dead.
Garrick strode forward, his eyes cold and unfeeling as he looked down at the goblin who had taken everything from him. “This city was never yours,” he said quietly, his voice filled with icy finality. “It belongs to me.” After a final twist of the spear, Garrick then viciously wrenched the pike back out, the tip’s barbs pulling out Kahros’ heart as well. Yet The Golden One didn’t stop there – picking up his rival’s own blade, Garrick used Kahros’ axe to chop off the dead goblin’s head – which he then impaled on his spear.
With his chariot standing nearby, Garrick hopped into the wagon and raced around the battlefield – screaming in wild delight as he showcased the ghastly head of Kahros for all to see. The sounds of battle soon faded as word of Kahros’ death spread through the ranks. His army, seeing their leader fall, began to retreat, leaving the battlefield in chaos.
The Derkka loyal to Garrick cheered, raising their weapons in victory. The Myz continued to murder as many goblins as they could, but eventually their prey was gone so they regrouped as a unit and watched Garrick as he surveyed the field.
Babel was his once more.
Garrick rode at the head of his army as they entered the gates of Babel. The streets were lined with the few remaining citizens, their faces a mixture of fear and awe as they watched their rightful ruler return. His armor, still gleaming with the enchantments that had protected him in battle, was covered in the blood and dust of war. But his eyes, those striking violet eyes, gleamed with triumph.
His chariot moved slowly through the city streets, followed by the battle carts of the other Babelonians, after them came the Myz, whilst the common Derkka was left to make camp outside the walls where they would be ‘more comfortable’ in their ranks. Meanwhile Garrick’s heart pounded with satisfaction as he gazed at the towering spires of the palace, now once again within his grasp.
But not all had stayed to face the consequences. Word was passed from a scout that while Kahros’ aide the priest Yerxel had been captured along with other rebels, Lord Thane Rukstinz, the aging Drokka elite who had financed Kahros’ coup, had fled the city a day before the battle had begun. Garrick made a mental note of the the old dwarf’s flight but he was smart enough to guess that there was little he could do to find such a wealthy powerhouse as Thane when he was protected by a shadow network that spanned the continent if not the entire flat earth.
At last his chariot arrived at the palace gates, Garrick dismounted and strode inside with a newfound confidence. The palace guards bowed low, their loyalty unquestioning now that their king had returned. Garrick’s violet eyes scanned the grand halls that once echoed with laughter and music—now cold, sterile, and tainted by Kahros’ crude rule. There was work to be done, but for now, Garrick would savor his victory.
Later that evening Garrick reclined in the Marduk’s chambers – they’d been horribly changed by the lower class tastes of Kahros and The Golden One couldn’t wait to remodel, but for now he tried to overlook those shortcomings and just relax.
The scent of exotic oils filled the air as attendants busied themselves with his beauty ritual. His skin, slightly scarred and marred from battle, was already healing under the expert hands of his servants. The enchantments from Sindra’s gifts had protected him well, but even the most powerful of spells could not shield him from the weariness that gnawed at his bones.
The bathwater rippled as he sank deeper into its warmth, his mind drifting. His eyes flicked toward the gilded mirror at the far end of the room, his reflection catching the soft candlelight. Even in the Mersian Mirror his face was flawless like never before —youthful, radiant, the very picture of perfection and all without the aid of The Glamour, for such was Sindra’s magic.
Yet beneath the surface, a shadow lingered – Garrick still wasn’t satisfied.
Sindra had been right. She always was. Her gifts had been the key to his victory, her influence the secret to his strength. But as he stared at his reflection, a seed of doubt crept into his thoughts. Has she always viewed me as a pawn, a mere puppet in her grander schemes?
She’d appeared to him in a vision shortly after he’d regained the palace – her words filled with congratulations; but there had been something behind her words—an unspoken reminder of her control over him.
“You are victorious,” she had purred, her slender fingers appearing to traced the edge of his jaw. “But remember, Garrick, your beauty is a gift from Lust, and I expect tribute. You will become Baal’s high priest, as we discussed. You will lead this city in his name, but you will serve me.”
Garrick had nodded, too tired to argue. He had promised to comply, to honor Baal as she demanded. But deep within, he wondered—how much of this victory was my own? How much of the power was truly mine? Am I destined to be a ruler, or merely a beautiful figurehead for the dark gods that linger behind the veil?
The water lapped gently against his skin, and Garrick closed his eyes, allowing the warmth to envelop him. I will rest for now. Tomorrow, he would begin the next phase of his reign. And he would decide, in time, whether Sindra was his ally—or his enemy.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 