Part VIII: Weapon of Mass Destruction
Chapter 5: Shedu Mazai
Timeline: AO298
Hacktor Derkillez, future king of the Drokka and the linchpin of my grand designs, knelt before the god in the sacred chamber of the Well of Wyzdom—but it wasn’t the god he had expected.
The chamber was an ancient place, carved deep into the heart of the mountain. Its walls, worn smooth by centuries of whispers and prayers, were damp with the eternal moisture that clung to the underworld. Flickering shadows danced across the rough-hewn stone, cast by the faint, ghostly light emanating from the Well itself. The air was thick with the mingled scents of old incense and something far less pleasant—a subtle undercurrent of decay that spoke of forgotten sacrifices.
The only sound was the faint drip of water somewhere in the darkness, a slow, rhythmic beat that echoed through the cavernous space, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. It was as though the very air was heavy with the weight of the centuries, laden with the hopes and fears of all who had come before.
I emerged from the shadows, my form slowly taking shape as I stepped into the dim light. The mists that swirled around the Well parted as I approached, revealing the figure I had chosen to present to Hacktor—a figure designed to inspire both awe and terror. I appeared as an ancient skeleton, draped in tattered ebon robes that seemed to absorb the light, leaving only the faintest outlines visible. The fabric clung to my bones like a shroud, the dark material shifting subtly as though alive. My skeletal face was partially hidden beneath a deep hood, and where eyes should have been, only twin pinpricks of cold blue fire flickered, adding to the sense of unease.
As I stepped forward, the air seemed to grow colder, and the shadows deepened around me. The very presence of death itself.
Hacktor’s breath caught in his throat as he beheld me, his strong warrior’s composure faltering for just a moment. The future Kon-Herr of the Rhokki’s, a man who had faced countless battles without flinching, was now kneeling before a power far greater than any he had ever encountered. Overcome by the magnitude of the moment, he bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the cold stone floor.
“Shedu Mazai…My Lord?” His voice trembled with both reverence and fear, the name of the God of Death escaping his lips like a prayer.
I allowed myself a hollow, echoing laugh, the sound reverberating off the chamber’s stone walls, mingling with the ever-present mists. My robes billowed slightly, merging with the fog, creating the eerie impression that I was more wraith than flesh. “You were expecting someone else?” I teased, knowing full well he would not dare ask me to leave.
Hacktor took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling visibly as he tried to steady himself. “No, please…stay. Share with me your knowledge.” There was a desperation in his tone, a man on the brink, grasping for anything that could assure his destiny.
“I’ll do more than that, Great Hacktor,” I intoned, my voice carrying a weight that seemed to press down on him, pushing him closer to the cold stone. “For I’ve come bearing a gift.”
I extended a bony hand, and before him, shimmering into existence from the very air, appeared the image of a great, gleaming battle-axe—The Ghast. The weapon glowed with a sinister light, its blade etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, as though alive with a dark power. The handle was wrapped in black leather, adorned with silver spikes that gleamed ominously in the dim light.
The very air around it seemed to hum with power, a low thrumming that vibrated through the stone floor and up through Hacktor’s knees, resonating in his bones. He jumped back instinctively, fear and awe warring within him, his eyes wide as he beheld the weapon. It was a long while before he found his tongue again. “What is it?”
“With this blade, Great Hacktor, you shall deliver your people,” I said, my words cutting through the stillness like a knife. Each syllable was heavy with promise and portent. “I shall also tell you how to forge countless copies of this blade. Although not as powerful as your own, you can arm your people with the copies and then make war upon your rivals. When you do, all that you desire shall be yours—Blackwood Forest, untold riches, your name carved into every rock in The Rhokki’s—Hacktor Derkillez will be remembered for all eternity. For such is my covenant with you, and it shall stand for all time.”
Hacktor’s eyes gleamed with a mix of greed and ambition as he listened to my words. The vision of his future, as painted by me, was intoxicating. He smiled, the expression one of a man who could already taste the power that was just within his grasp. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out, intent on claiming The Ghast—only to be met with empty air as the apparition vanished into the mist.
“Wha—what happened?” He looked around frantically, as if searching for the weapon that had just been before him.
“I’ve shown you naught but an image,” I explained, allowing a note of mockery to creep into my voice. “But fear not, great Kon-Herr. The Ghast awaits you with its maker.”
“Who? Where?” Hacktor’s mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle. “There can be only one with the knowledge to create such a blade—Hef Fastuz!”
“Indeed. Seek him out. Take hold of your destiny, Hacktor Derkillez!” My voice rose, filling the chamber with an almost physical presence, pressing down on Hacktor with the weight of inevitability.
The remainder of our conversation was insignificant compared to the grand scheme at play. How or when I left Hacktor alone again, the ringing of The Bell of Conclusion, or even how he got out of The Well—all those details blurred in the face of the larger narrative. What mattered was that Mirkir, the cunning and ambitious Wyze One, was immensely pleased to learn of Hacktor’s vision of the weapon of power.
Mirkir had already been aware of The Ghast. I had seen to that. A month before, I had ensured that Hef Fastuz, the master weaponsmith, would seek Mirkir’s counsel after crafting the blade. The tradition of consulting The Wyze One to read The Runes was one I had exploited for my purposes. When Hef Fastuz presented the weapon, Mirkir had dutifully interpreted the runes—predictably advising the smith to gift The Ghast to none other than Hacktor Derkillez, the future Kon-Herr of the Rhokki’s.
Thus, when Hacktor relayed his vision to Mirkir, the old priest’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of satisfaction and barely contained ambition. Mirkir advised Hacktor to travel to Kel-de-Kaba with all haste, urging him on with the prophetic weight of his words. “The Ragnarok is at hand, my boy! Obtain the blade and take hold of your destiny!”
What Hacktor didn’t know, and what Mirkir carefully withheld, was that The Priory of Myz’s plans were also moving forward behind the scenes—with the aid of the Drokka elites. A murder was being plotted, one that would soon leave the throne of the Kon-Herr vacant. And Mirkir was determined that Hacktor would be the one to fill it.
Arming Hacktor with a magical weapon like The Ghast was crucial for Mirkir’s long-term strategy. The Wyze One was well aware that the powerful clans—the Gaatz, Klyntz, Ruks, Busz, and their ilk—were already conspiring to seize the throne for themselves. Although they had previously agreed to support Mirkir’s plan to install Hacktor as the next Kon-Herr, Mirkir knew that their agreement was as fragile as a spider’s web. But with Hacktor, a royal Balkery, now possessing a gift from the gods, Mirkir was confident that no clan, no matter how powerful, could contest Hacktor’s claim to the throne.
Mirkir’s visions of the coming Ragnarok filled him with a sense of destiny and purpose. He saw himself not merely as a kingmaker but as the true power behind the throne, pulling the strings of fate. As Hacktor prepared to depart, Mirkir could not resist reminding the young prince of the divine hand guiding his steps.
“Rhokii works in mysterious ways—many are the plans of a man’s mind, but it’s The Lord who directs his steps. Challenge not the Drokka…” Mirkir’s voice was laden with the weight of prophecy.
“…For Rhokii is our god!” Hacktor finished with a smile, his voice filled with the confidence of a man who believed the gods themselves had chosen him.
[We had indeed chosen Hacktor, it just wasn’t going to turn out like he’d hoped…]
The Apocrypha of Azazel 