Part XVI: The Golden One
Chapter 9: Oh, Babelon
Timeline: AO 310
The midday sun hung like a dull eye above the city of Babel, casting its harsh light on the square where another execution was to take place. The citizens had gathered in silence, a sea of watchful eyes and worried faces. The tension in the air was palpable as the city braced to endure more violence.
At the center of it all stood Yerxel, the High Priest of Baal under the usurper Kahros, his thin lips curled in disdain as he was dragged to the execution platform. His once grand robes, now tattered and dirtied, clung to his gaunt frame. The goblin who had once been Kahros’ closest ally now stood diminished, but his eyes still burned with a fervent malice.
Marduk Garrick watched from a balcony above the square, his expression impassive, his arms crossed over his chest. This was still the beginning of his return to rule, the purge that would sweep away the remnants of Kahros’ reign and cleanse Babel of its corruption. He could feel the weight of it, the importance of this moment, but there was no joy in it for him—only necessity.
As Yerxel was brought to his knees, the square fell into a hushed silence. The executioner stood ready with his blade, but before it could fall, Yerxel raised his head, his voice ringing out in a bitter, almost ecstatic laugh.
“You think you have won, Garrick of The Golden Hand,” Yerxel spat, his voice dripping with venom. “You think you can erase the past with steel and fire, but Baal sees all. Baal knows all. And his wrath will be upon you.”
Garrick’s eyes narrowed, his hand tightening on the railing of the balcony. Below, the crowd shifted uneasily, whispers rippling through the throng.
“You will never be free of me,” Yerxel continued, his voice rising with the intensity of a mad prophet. “I curse you, Garrick. May your blood turn to ash, may your bones rot before your time. May your empire crumble to dust, and may you see every hope, every dream you hold dear, torn from you. Baal will have his vengeance!”
The curse hung in the air like a thick cloud, oppressive and foul. Garrick felt a chill crawl down his spine, but he did not waver. He signaled to the executioner.
The blade came down in one swift motion, severing Yerxel’s head from his body. The crowd gasped, but the tension lingered. The curse had been spoken, and its shadow stretched long over Garrick.
The purge began in Babel, but it did not end there. Garrick knew that Kahros’ influence had spread like a cancer throughout the lands, seeping into cities throughout Gor and Kra, where rebels still lurked in the shadows, waiting for their own opportunity. The Marduk knew they had to be dealt with or else his hold on the throne may not last long.
Garrick decided to send the Myz to cleanse the cities of all those who had supported Kahros. Besides giving him a chance to rid Babel of their ominous presence – where nothing good could come of it – the Myz themselves gladly relished the task – for it gave them another excuse to spill goblin blood.
The giant knights proved up to the task – spreading throughout Gor and Kra to eliminate the rebel leaders who had held power under Kahros’ regime. Their first target was the Gor Council, a group of merchants and minor nobles who had secretly funneled supplies and resources to Kahros during his reign.
The council met in the backroom of a tavern in the partially rebuilt city of Antarez, a dimly lit place reeking of stale beer and desperation. The members, seven in total, huddled around a table, their faces pale as they discussed rumors of the purge in Babel.
“We need to leave,” one of the councilmen, a fat merchant named Zegor, whispered nervously. His eyes darted toward the door. “If Garrick’s men come, we’ll be dead by morning.”
“Calm yourself, Zegor,” replied Linsha, the only woman goblin on the council, her voice sharp and steady. “Garrick’s forces are focused on Babel. Gor is far from his reach.”
“Not far enough,” came a voice from the shadows.
The council members froze, their eyes widening as they looked toward the source of the voice. A giant in crimson stepped into the dim light of the tavern, his hood obscuring all but the glint of his cold eyes.
“The Myz…” Zegor stammered, backing away from the table.
Before he could utter another word, the Myz’ rampage began. A thin, gleaming wire sliced through the air, wrapping around Zegor’s neck. With a swift, brutal yank, the wire tightened, cutting off his scream as blood gushed from the wound.
The remaining council members scrambled to their feet, desperate to escape. Linsha drew a dagger, her face twisted with fear and fury, as she plunged the blade into the back of the attacker – but the evil knight only laughed as he turned around to deal with the brave goblin. A backhand slap sent Linsha flying across the room – the blow so powerful it snapped her neck, killing her.
One by one, the remaining council members fell, their cries swallowed by the night. The Myz left the tavern without a sound, leaving behind only the stench of death and the knowledge that no one in Gor would dare defy Garrick again.
Similar stories played out in other parts of Gor, but in Kra, the matter was a bit more challenging. The city of Razzyn had been partially rebuilt in recent years – a foil to the Drokka’s city of Oz. Its new stone walls, important military position, and it’s distance from the capital had always made it appealing for those who wanted to escape the watchful eye of the Marduk in Babel. After Garrick disappeared, Razzyn’s ruler Lord Ratham had openly supported Kahros – believing that, by doing so, he could carve out northern Kra for himself. When the usurper fell, Ratham believed that his fortified city would protect him, that his loyalty to Kahros would go unpunished.
But he had underestimated the reach of the Myz.
As dawn broke over Razzyn one day, Lord Ratham sat in his study, pouring over maps and reports. His fortress was strong, he reassured himself, and his soldiers were loyal. He believed himself untouchable, secure in the knowledge that Garrick would be too occupied with Babel to bother with Kra.
He was wrong.
The Myz entered Kra under the cover of a storm, their presence masked by the howling winds and heavy rains. They infiltrated the fortress through forgotten tunnels beneath the city, long unused and hidden from even the most vigilant of guards. One by one, they made their way through the labyrinth of stone and steel until they reached the heart of the fortress—the Lord’s private chambers.
Ratham’s guards, though well-trained, were no match for the Myz. The assassins moved with supernatural speed, dispatching the sentries with a series of swift, brutal strikes. By the time Ratham realized something was wrong, it was already too late.
He heard the door to his study creak open and turned to see a giant gray knight standing in the doorway, his crimson robes wet from the rain, his hood shadowing his face.
Ratham reached for the sword hanging on the wall, but the Myz wasn’t scared – he approached slowly, his own blade gleaming in the dim light of the chamber. The Derkka ruler lashed out, but the Myz parried Ratham’s sword and then with a swift counter the knight’s blad pierced Ratham’s heart, silencing him forever.
And so the purge continued, with the Myz systematically eliminating anyone who had supported Kahros in Kra. Within a few weeks Garrick’s will had been enforced with brutal efficiency, and the message was clear: loyalty to the usurper would not be tolerated. Their work finished, the Myz returned to Nazir before making their way over to the island of Kagor to be with Gwar. Meanwhile Garrick’s hold on the lands of Babel, Gor, and Kra was now absolute – again.
In addition to the external ‘cleansing’ that was taking place in Garrick’s kingdom, he also had to deal with internal affairs – specifically The Iron Citadel, that grotesque monument to Kahros’ rule, still stood defiant in the heart of Babel. Its walls, blackened with soot and rust, loomed over the city like a festering wound. It had been the seat of Kahros’ power, a place of cruelty and degradation that showcased the goblin’s hatred for the Babelonians he ruled. As you can imagine, Garrick despised it with every fiber of his being.
“Not a trace of Kahros will remain,” Garrick muttered to himself, his voice low and filled with resolve. His black cloak billowed in the wind as he turned to his advisors, Babelonian guildsman who stood nervously by his side. “We will build something greater than this city has ever seen—my city, my empire. And we shall give Babel a new name to mark the occassion of its new glory – once complete it shall be called Babelon forever more.
Behind him, hundreds of common goblins from Gor shuffled uneasily, and more of their ranks were still camped outside the city walls. These were the backbone of the force that had helped Garrick overthrow Kahros, and they had fought valiantly for their freedom, hoping to return to their farms, homes, and families in the distant lands. But now, they found themselves facing a new kind of servitude under the very leader they had fought to put on the throne.
Garrick turned to the foreman, a Babelonian master mason. “Begin with the demolition of the Iron Citadel. I want no trace of it remaining. Every stone, every wall must be torn down. And once it is gone, we will raise my new palace—one worthy of my reign.”
The foreman nodded and cracked his whip, the sharp crack cutting through the air as he barked orders to the goblins. “You heard The Marduk! Tear it down, all of it! There will be no rest until it’s done!”
The goblins murmured in protest, their dirt-streaked faces sullen. They had fought for freedom, not to be enslaved by another tyrant, but they were outmatched by the intelligence and cunning of the Babelonians. Though they outnumbered the Babel Derkka tenfold, their disorganization and lack of leadership left them vulnerable. One by one, they picked up tools—sledgehammers, crowbars, and picks—begrudgingly starting the monumental task of dismantling the Iron Citadel, the very symbol of their hard-won victory.
“Why can’t we just go home?” one of the goblins muttered to his companion, his gnarled hands gripping a pickaxe. “This ain’t what we fought for.”
“Because we got no choice,” his companion replied grimly, watching as another goblin was struck by a whip for working too slowly.
“They’ll kill us if we try to leave,” the first muttered, spitting into the dust. “And if not, they’ll starve us out. No way we make it back to Gor alive.”
The Babelonian overseers, sharp-eyed and ruthless, patrolled the work site, ensuring that no rebellion stirred among the goblin ranks. They kept the goblins busy, forcing them to work from sunrise until long after the moon had risen. The goblins grumbled, but they worked, knowing they had no real alternative.
As the goblins toiled on destroying the work of Kahros’ hands, Garrick convened with his architects and artisans, unrolling vast blueprints on a grand table inside a temporary hall that had been hastily repurposed for him near the city square. The hall was remodeled to be opulent enough to suit his royal stature for the time being, but it would never suffice as a permanent residence.
“Imagine it,” Garrick said, his voice carrying a fervent intensity. “A palace that reaches The Firmament itself, where my reign will be immortalized for all to see. A palace that speaks of my glory and casts the shadow of my power across the entire Derkka world.”
He pointed to the heart of the blueprint, where a massive central tower stood, crowned with a golden spire that would pierce the sky. “This—this will be the heart of Babel. The Golden Tower, where I, The Golden Hand, shall reside and rule. From here, my eyes will look down upon every corner of the city, upon every citizen who will kneel to my power.”
The architects nodded eagerly, already imagining how they would bring Garrick’s grand vision to life. “And here, along the grand avenue leading to the palace gates,” one of them suggested, tracing his finger along the path, “we will erect statues of your greatest victories, my lord. Each one a testament to your conquest and the restoration of Babel.”
“Yes,” Garrick mused. “Statues. Monuments to my reign. But more than that. I want statues of me—at every corner, at every turn. Let all who walk the streets of Babel see my face, and let them never forget who saved them from the scourge of Kahros.”
He paused, his gaze darkening with a rare glimmer of something more personal. “And a shrine,” he added quietly, “to my daughter, Arlena. Her loss still haunts me. She will not be forgotten. In the gardens, I want a marble statue of her, surrounded by the finest flowers from all the realms. She will watch over the palace as I watch over Babel.”
The artisans exchanged glances, understanding the gravity of the request. They knew Garrick’s heart still ached from the death of his daughter, but they also knew that this shrine would not merely be a place of mourning. It would be a symbol—of Garrick’s vengeance, his unyielding will, and the depth of his pain. And it would serve as a reminder to all who entered the palace that even a king was not immune to loss.
Even still, it was clear to all that the construction of the new palace would take years, and Garrick had no intention of ruling from a simple hall for that long. He demanded something befitting his status—a grand temporary residence, one that would serve as a symbol of his rule while the palace was being built.
“Convert the ruins of Kahros’ pleasure palace into my own,” Garrick ordered. “Strip away every foul vestige of his rule. I want it to be reborn as crown jewel where I will dwell while Babel is rebuilt around me.”
As before, the common Derkka from Gor were tasked with the construction, again unwilling but coerced by the ever-watchful Babelonian overseers. They stripped away the gaudy remnants of Kahros’ rule, transforming the palace into the beautiful structure that mirrored Garrick’s vision.
While the Iron Citadel was torn down piece by piece, Garrick’s temporary palace took shape. Its walls were reinforced with gold, its towers looming above the streets of Babel. Inside, Garrick’s quarters were furnished with rich tapestries, furs, and relics from Gor, Kra, Ramos, and even Mersian. His new throne sat at the center of the grand hall, a seat of power from which he would command the restoration of Babel.
During all this time there was no respite for the common goblins. They labored day and night under the iron fist of their Babelonian masters, their hopes of returning to their simple lives in Gor fading with each passing day. Though they outnumbered their overseers, the Babelonian Derkka’s cunning and ruthless control kept them in check, preventing any uprising from taking root.
And so, as the months turned to years, the goblins toiled, and Garrick’s vision for Babel began to take shape. His palace would be grander than anything any Marduk had ever dreamed, and in every corner of the city, statues of Garrick would rise, forever reminding the people of who their true king was.
One thing that hadn’t changed during Kahros’ rule and continued with Garrick’s return was that The Priory of the Myz remained a dominant force. Now that he was The Marduk again, Garrick once more took his place among the Priory elites.
Upon his first meeting back, Garrick sat in a room that was lit only by the flickering flames of braziers lining the walls. Other high-ranking members, their faces obscured by the hoods of their crimson robes, sat in a circle around a massive stone table. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the weight of unspoken power.
Garrick took his place among them, his presence commanding despite the tension that hung in the room. He had been an elite member before, but now, as the newly restored king of Babel, he returned with renewed purpose. His eyes scanned the faces of those seated, eager to see if the Drokka courtier Thane Rukstinz would show his face.
“We know who you are seeking.” One of the elders declared. “But know this Golden One – the matter of revenge against Lord Thane is off the table. It is the will of Baal that you put aside your personal vendetta against our ally. The Rukstinz family is too valuable to the Priory, and to our interests.”
Garrick’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. The Priory cared not for personal feuds—only for power, wealth, and the perpetuation of their order. He knew better than to challenge them on this.
“However,” the elder continued, “the war with your rival Hacktor is another matter. Conflict breeds profit. War strengthens The Priory. You may continue your campaign against him.”
Garrick’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Then we are in agreement.”
The room murmured in approval, but before the discussion could end, Garrick raised a hand. “I have a proposal.”
All eyes turned toward him.
“I propose an alliance—with Ramos and the goddess’ Sindra.”
The room erupted in whispers, the name of the Goddess of Lust sending ripples of intrigue through the chamber. Garrick’s voice cut through the noise.
“The opportunities are endless,” he continued. “Ramos controls the jungle and access to oceans on both sides. Sindra holds sway over the entire south. Together, we could dominate trade across the continent, strengthen our armies, and secure the Priory’s influence over all the lands.”
The elders listened, intrigued but cautious. Then Garrick leaned forward, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “I also seek to become more than just king. I wish to serve Baal as his high priest.”
At that the room fell into stunned silence.
“You would combine the roles of Marduk and high priest?” one of the elites hissed. “That has never been done.”
“It would elevate the Priory to heights never before imagined,” Garrick countered. “With me as both Marduk and priest, our influence over the people would be absolute.”
The elders shifted uneasily, clearly divided on the matter. Then, as if from nowhere, a soft, sultry voice filled the room.
“Why do you hesitate? Do you feel Baal?”
The voice was unmistakable. It was Sindra. Her form shimmered into view, a spectral presence at the head of the table, her eyes glowing with otherworldly allure. The wealthy and powerful around the table froze, caught between awe and terror.
“Do you not know Baal is my brother?” Sindra lied. “We unite on all things, yet some are my domain. Do you not crave beauty as well as power? Do you not wish to be forever young, forever desired? I can grant you this and more. Serve both Baal and myself and you will enjoy power, wealth, immortality. All are within your reach.”
The room trembled with the weight of her promise.
“But defy me or my brother,” Sindra continued, her voice darkening, “and you will wither. You will be forgotten. And neither Baal nor I will have any mercy.”
The veiled threat sent a shiver through the chamber. The Priory elites, faced with both the promise of eternal pleasure and the terror of death, had no choice but to agree.
“It is decided,” the eldest leader announced, his voice shaky. “Garrick will be trained as the high priest of Baal.”
Sindra’s form flickered, her eyes locking with Garrick’s for a brief moment before she vanished, leaving the room in stunned silence and the Marduk to wonder what he’d gotten himself into.
The very next day, the air inside temple of Baal was suffocating, thick with the scent of incense and blood. Black candles flickered on the periphery, their flames casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. This temple, built deep beneath the surface of Babel, had no windows or source of natural light; it was a cavern of darkness, a sanctuary of secrets and death. Every surface was adorned with carvings of twisted figures—grotesque demons with wide, grinning mouths, serpentine bodies entwined with tortured souls, and cruel depictions of Baal himself, towering over the suffering masses.
Garrick stood before the altar, his body cloaked in the ceremonial robes of a novice priest. The robes were dark crimson, almost black, and embroidered with golden sigils that shimmered in the dim light. A chill ran down his spine as he gazed upon the altar before him. It was a slab of black stone, slick with the blood of previous sacrifices, its surface etched with deep, ancient runes that pulsed faintly with a malevolent energy.
The new high priest, a Babelonian known as Vorkath, stood opposite Garrick. Having advanced to his position upon the execution of Yerxel, Vorkath then willingly gave up The Glamour in favor of showing his true appearance – relishing his goblin deformities as part of his personal power. The priest’s eyes were deep-set, his skin pale and gaunt, his face hidden behind a mask of bone. In his bony hand, Vorkath held a sacrificial dagger, its blade jagged and cruel, forged from the obsidian found in the mines of Kra.
“Tonight, you begin to learn the secret power’s of Baal,” Vorkath said, his raspy voice echoing softly in the hollow chamber. “You will offer more than just blood, Garrick. You will offer your soul in service to Baal.”
Garrick’s pulse quickened, but he fought to remain calm, to still his trembling hands as he gazed into Vorkath’s hollow eyes. This was what he had come for—power, knowledge, the ancient secrets that would elevate him above all others. Yet the control of his soul was already taken. Why does it feel like I’m sinking into a pit I can’t escape?
He pushed the thought aside. Sindra had led him here, and her voice was never far from his mind, urging him forward, urging him to embrace this dark path. But still, a part of him—small and flickering, like the candles around him—questioned. What will be left of me after I complete this journey?
Sensing the Markduk’s mind wandering, Vorkath motioned toward the altar, where a young goblin slave, barely more than a boy, had been chained. The child’s eyes were wide with fear, his body trembling as he struggled weakly against his bonds. His whimpers were lost in the oppressive atmosphere of the temple.
“This is the first offering you will make to Baal,” Vorkath continued, his tone devoid of empathy. “Feel no pity for these creatures – such is their lot in life. It is through these sacrifices that Baal grants those of us in power more strength, that we might ascend above the rest of our kind. Every drop of blood shed in his name brings all our people closer to eternity.”
Garrick approached the altar, his eyes locked on the terrified boy. The dagger was pressed into his hand, its weight cold and unfamiliar. His fingers gripped the hilt tightly, though his mind was at war. It wasn’t that he felt any remorse for the victim, but instead…something else. What power am I unleashing with this act?
The Marduk raised the dagger, his arm trembling slightly. He tried to focus on the promises that had been made to him—the power he would gain, the glory that awaited him, and the praise of Sindra that he craved. And yet, as he stared down at the boy, he saw not an offering to the gods, but a reflection of his own descent into the abyss.
“There is no turning back,” he told himself.
The dagger plunged into the boy’s chest, and the temple itself seemed to draw a breath, as if the very stones were drinking in the sacrifice. Blood gushed forth from the victim, pooling on the altar, running into the carved channels that led to a basin below. As the tiny goblin’s life ebbed away, his eyes locked with Garrick’s, a surprising look of evil delight showing forth.
Vorkath’s voice rose in a guttural chant, speaking in a language Garrick could barely comprehend, the ancient tongue of Baal that only the priestly ranks knew. The flames around them flickered violently, casting grotesque shapes on the walls, and a low, throbbing hum seemed to emanate from the very earth beneath their feet.
Garrick stepped back from the altar, his hands stained with blood. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The dark magic in the air felt alive, curling around him like a serpent, filling the chamber with a sinister energy that seeped into his bones. This is true power. This is what it feels like.
But alongside the rush of exhilaration came something darker, more insidious. Anxiety, fear, anger – emotions that he thought he had buried deep within himself.
This is what I must do. This is the price for serving her.
The high priest’s chanting intensified as held a cup of the victim’s blood above his head towards a statue of Baal. The liquid in the goblet began to glow, sickly red light that pulsed in time with the rhythmic chanting. Vorkath stepped forward, his voice low and reverent.
“Drink, Garrick. Drink and be reborn in Baal’s name.”
Garrick took the cup but hesitated, his mind racing. He had come this far. He had already made his choice. But now, standing on the precipice of darkness, he felt the weight of his decision like a heavy chain around his neck. However he could feel Sindra’s presence, her whisper echoing in his mind. This is what you were meant for. I am pleased.
Swallowing hard, Garrick drained the cup. The metallic scent filled his nostrils, overwhelming, intoxicating as the thick liquid slid down his throat, burning with a fire that both repulsed and invigorated him. As the blood coursed through him, Garrick felt a surge of energy, a dark power that filled every fiber of his being. His vision blurred for a moment, and then sharpened, clearer than ever before. The air around him crackled with electricity, and the weight of the temple’s oppressive atmosphere seemed to lift, replaced by a feeling of invincibility, of dominion. I am no longer just Garrick the Marduk. I am something more.
Vorkath’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You have taken the first step, Garrick. Baal has accepted your offering. But there will be more. There must always be more.” The high priest’s eyes gleamed from beneath his mask, a dark smile tugging at his thin lips. “One day, you will understand that there is no limit to the sacrifices required. The more you give, the more you will take. This is the path of Baal, the path you have chosen.”
Garrick stared at the high priest, his heart still racing, the power still surging through him. He had crossed the threshold. He had become something more, but even as he reveled in his newfound strength, a shadow loomed over his thoughts, a quiet voice buried deep in the back of his mind. How much of myself will I lose before this is over?
As the ceremony came to a close, Garrick wiped the blood from his lips, forcing a smile as he turned away from the altar. His thoughts were a swirling maelstrom of ambition and fear, desire and doubt. He had taken the first step toward becoming the High Priest of Baal, but deep down, in the darkest corners of what still remained of his soul, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside him had been irrevocably lost.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 