Part VIII: Weapon of Mass Destruction
Chapter 4: Hacktor visits the Well of Wyzdom
Timeline AO298
I’ll never forget the day I first spoke to Hacktor about The Ghast — it was in the middle of AO 298, about nine months before he became king. His father, Baldur, was still the Kon-Herr, while Hacktor, the prince, was frustrated beyond compare. Baldur had dismissed Hacktor’s concerns about The Priory of the Myz as unsubstantiated conspiracy theories and refused to heed his son’s advice to protect The Siq. Worse yet, Hacktor watched in growing horror as his father seemed to fall deeper under the influence of Monty and Thork—pawns controlled by Lord Aric Rukstinz and Chaney Busz. Meanwhile, the nefarious courtiers from the Gaatz, Boma, and Klyntz clans continued to push the king to implement Agenda 330—a plot to unleash the dangerous Quvid herb on the Drokka people under the guise of solving an ‘overpopulation’ problem that supposedly threatened the mountain’s climate and the kingdom’s survival.
Hacktor was convinced that the Drokka were being compromised and that Baldur was jeopardizing the safety of the clans. The prince ached to provide leadership, to protect his people, yet at every turn, he was stymied. Even his own twin seemed to be keeping secrets from him. His frustration festered, raging within him like a caged beast. Hacktor floundered, desperate and powerless, consumed by the fear that everything he valued was slipping away.
Yet, in his darkest hours, he had me for support, and I was now ready to help him get what he wanted.
Hacktor Derkillez was marked from birth—a Balkery, as Mirkir The Wyze had proclaimed after noticing the infamous Krangor’s Mark on the boy’s flesh. This mark, declared a sign from the gods, had given Mirkir the leverage to steal Hacktor away from his father and bring him to Iztak during his formative years, where the high priest had defiled both the prince’s mind and body. Though Hacktor had returned to the royal courts when he came of age and had been home for a few years, tradition required him to return to Iztak at least twice a year to receive guidance from The Spirit of The Well of Wyzdom—and that’s where I came in.
Although Hacktor had visited The Well of Wyzdom many times over the years, he was still in awe of the sacristy. The Well was in the center of a small, ancient cavern, itself buried deep within the Rhokii Mountains. The air was thick with incense, a swirling haze that clung to everything, casting the space in a perpetual twilight. Shadows flickered and danced on the walls, thrown by the dim, wavering light of oil lamps. The cold of the stone beneath his feet seemed to seep up into his bones, making the sacred chamber feel even more isolating.
As Hacktor prepared to enter the sacristy in the early winter of AO 298, he struggled to keep his anxiety under control. The Wyze One had advised that today’s visit would be unlike any before. His heart pounded in his chest, the pressure building as he fought to maintain composure.
“Today is the day you shall finally see The Spirit in the flesh.” Mirkir’s voice was uncharacteristically giddy, a sharp contrast to his usual cold demeanor. Hacktor had never seen him so animated. “Even I have not had that privilege, boy. Yet I do know this—soon you shall be Kon-Herr! The Spirit has told me so. It has shown me secrets, amazing secrets about what is in store for you. And now the time is right—The Spirit wants to reveal itself to you. This very day. Are you ready, boy?”
“Yes.” Hacktor could barely contain himself, the anticipation coiling within him like a spring ready to snap. Mirkir’s unbridled excitement fed his own, pushing aside the doubts and fears that had plagued him.
“And dost thou remember The Rules?” The priest tried to regain his composure, his voice regaining some of its usual sternness.
“I shall remain here… alone… praying to our gods. I am to kneel prostrate before The Well and wait for The Spirit to arrive. In addition to revealing itself to me, the great spirit will delve into my soul and read my destiny. Whatever is spoken to me is not to be revealed to anyone… er… except you. When I finish, I am to ring the Bell of Conclusion.”
Mirkir’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Hacktor, his gaze sharp and penetrating. “You must tell me everything, Hacktor—everything.” The priest laid a bony hand on the prince’s shoulder, his fingers digging in with surprising strength, as if trying to assert control over the larger man. “Do not forget—I won’t be able to help you interpret The Spirit’s knowledge unless you tell me ALL that occurred. Without my help, you will waste this opportunity. Do you understand, boy?”
Hacktor averted his gaze, feeling the weight of the priest’s grip. “May I begin?”
“Indeed.” Mirkir nodded, muttering under his breath as he exited the chamber, leaving Hacktor alone to face The Well.
At first, Hacktor hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. The sacristy seemed to close in around him, the air thick with the pungent aroma of incense. The shadows loomed larger, as if the cavern itself was alive and watching. He was unsure of what to expect—perhaps afraid of what The Spirit might look like, or worse yet, what it might find within his soul. A shiver ran down his spine, but he forced himself to move forward.
The cold stone beneath his knees sent a shock through his body as he knelt at the base of The Well. He pressed his forehead against the icy surface, his heart racing. In the silence, he could hear the faint trickle of water from deep within the well, a haunting sound that echoed through the chamber. The incense continued to fill the air, its tendrils snaking into his lungs, making his head swim. Even with his eyes closed, tears began to well up, stinging his eyelids as the smoke burned.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly as Hacktor waited, each moment a weight pressing down on him. The discomfort in his muscles grew, his legs trembling from the strain of kneeling on the unforgiving stone. The air in the cavern thickened with the herb-infused smoke, the scent growing stronger, more overwhelming. He could feel it filling his lungs, coating the inside of his throat, each breath a struggle as if he were inhaling shards of glass. The prince’s discomfort escalated to pain, yet still, he remained prostrate, determined to prove his faith, to endure whatever trial the gods set before him.
A candlemark passed, the pain in Hacktor’s lungs becoming unbearable, the pressure building as the smoke continued to infiltrate his body. His chest felt as though it were on fire, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Still, he forced himself to remain kneeling, his mind clinging to the hope that The Spirit would soon arrive.
“Arg, the spirit …is willing… but the flesh… is weak. Deliver …me.” Hacktor gasped, his voice hoarse, his lungs ripping with each word. Finally, in desperation, he looked up from his position at the base of The Well.
“Arise, my child.” The voice that answered him was a raspy whisper, echoing from the depths of The Well. The strength of the incense smoke suddenly subsided, as if the unseen force that had filled the air relented, releasing Hacktor to breathe freely again.
Gasping, Hacktor sucked in precious air, the relief washing over him. But as his vision cleared and the sting left his eyes, he saw something that took him by surprise. The figure before him was not what he had expected. In truth, it was nothing like what he had imagined.
Hacktor had long assumed that The Spirit he’d been communing with over the years was the god Rhokii, the patron of his people. Secretly, he had hoped that perhaps, like the legendary Ajax and Volzung, he might be granted the rare honor of meeting He Who Has No Name, the Creator God, during his visit to The Well. But instead of the divine presence he had anticipated, Hacktor found himself staring at… ME.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 