Part VIII: Weapon of Mass Destruction
Chapter 6: There are Two?
Timeline AO 298
Having said his goodbyes to Mirkir, Hacktor wasted no time. He immediately summoned his royal guards, the clatter of their armor echoing through the stone halls as they journeyed along the labyrinthine Drokka Byways to Kel-de-Kaba. The weight of his mission pressed heavily on his mind, each step bringing him closer to the legendary Ghast, the weapon that would secure his place in history.
As they traveled, the narrow passageways seemed to close in around them, the dim light from their torches casting flickering shadows that danced along the rugged walls. The deeper they descended, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, the weight of the mountain above bearing down on them like an ancient, slumbering beast.
The chronicles would later recount this journey with great reverence. In the year AO 298, Hacktor arrived at Kel-de-Kaba, quickly dispatching with the formalities of meeting Fredrik Vendal, the new Kon-Herr of this region. Although Fredrick was a friend to Hacktor, the latter didn’t have time for pleasantries on this visit. Instead, Hacktor’s impatience was palpable as he commanded a guide to lead him through the mountain’s dark, twisting passages, deeper and deeper into the heart of the Drokka community. The walls seemed to close in further as they descended, the air growing cooler, laden with the scent of iron and stone.
Finally, they arrived at a massive iron-bound door. The guide, a stoic figure clad in worn leathers, gestured for Hacktor’s guards to remain outside. “The Hef Fastuz requires solitude,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the distant roar of subterranean forges. Hacktor nodded, more intrigued than wary, and stepped forward to face whatever awaited him beyond the threshold.
The door creaked open with a groan of protest, revealing a cavernous workshop bathed in the fiery glow of forge fires. The heat was oppressive, thick with the acrid smell of molten metal and burning coals. Sparks flew as hammer met anvil in a rhythm as ancient as the mountains themselves. Yet the room, vast and shadowy, was empty — or so it seemed.
Hacktor’s eyes were immediately drawn to the center of the room where a simple wooden table stood, a stark contrast to the dark, rough-hewn walls. Upon it, bathed in the flickering light of the forge, lay the objects of his desire. The Ghast, a battleaxe of unparalleled craftsmanship, glinted with an almost otherworldly sheen. Its blade seemed to drink in the light, reflecting back a cold, steely glimmer that sent shivers down Hacktor’s spine.
“By the Right Hand of Rhokii,” Hacktor whispered, his voice trembling with awe. “What devastation I can bring upon the Derkka with this blade!” The air around him seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his words, the power of the weapon calling out to him, promising untold glory.
But then, Hacktor’s eyes fell upon a second object, one that had almost escaped his notice. A small black dagger, unassuming in comparison to the grandeur of The Ghast, lay beside it. For a moment, Hacktor dismissed it as inconsequential, his gaze lingering on the battleaxe that had dominated his thoughts. But the dagger, despite its modest appearance, seemed to draw him in with an inexplicable force.
“There are two?” Hacktor murmured, confusion clouding his features as he reached out to touch the smaller blade. The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, a jolt of energy shot through him, as if the very essence of the weapon had fused with his soul. The Grim, as it would later be known, was no mere afterthought. It was a blade steeped in dark, arcane power, a power that both repelled and enticed Hacktor in equal measure.
Time seemed to stretch and warp as Hacktor stood frozen, his mind grappling with the enormity of what lay before him. Sweat beaded on his brow, each drop trickling down his face like a tiny river of molten fear. His breath came in shallow gasps, the air thick and oppressive, laden with the smell of smoldering coals and singed metal.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Hacktor mustered the strength to act. His legs quivered beneath him, the weight of his destiny almost too much to bear. Yet, with a Herculean effort, he forced his trembling hands to close around the hilts of both The Ghast and The Grim. The moment he made contact, a surge of raw, unbridled power coursed through his veins, filling him with a heady mixture of strength and madness.
The room seemed to tilt and spin as the energy from the blades overwhelmed him. Hacktor’s knees buckled further, but he did not fall. He held fast to the weapons, his grip like iron, his heart pounding in his chest as if it would burst. The power was intoxicating, dizzying, and he reveled in it, feeling the divine energy seeping into his very bones.
At last, Hacktor’s gaze searched the shadows for Hef Fastuz, the master craftsman who had forged these extraordinary weapons. The smoke-filled air made it difficult to see, but Hacktor could just make out a figure lurking in the farthest corner of the room, shrouded in shadow. The dim light revealed little of Hef’s features, but there was an air of solemnity, almost reverence, in the way the blacksmith watched Hacktor.
Realizing that Hef would not step forward, Hacktor bowed low, a gesture of genuine respect that was rare for him. Holding the weapons before him as if in offering, he allowed himself a moment to savor the triumph of the moment. Then, without a word, he turned and left the workshop, the weight of the weapons in his hands a constant reminder of the power he now wielded.
As he stepped back into the cool air of the passageway, Hacktor’s thoughts were consumed by a single, burning desire: to meet his destiny head-on, and carve his name into the annals of history with these legendary blades.
What Hacktor didn’t know is that I was going to let him become famous – but it wasn’t going to be the kind of fame he wanted…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 