Part VIII: Weapon of Mass Destruction
Chapter 8: The Pale Shadows
Timeline: AO 298
Another day, another missed opportunity. Looking back now, I can’t believe how many chances I had to see The Grim and failed to recognize them. It’s embarrassing to think that my plans were foiled because I got a bit addicted to whiling away my time with The Eye of Seraphiel whilst drinking more than a few glasses of blood wine – instead of pushing myself further, like in the old days. Maybe, if I had made that one additional visit to check in on my pawns instead of wasting so much time, I would have avoided my troubles later. But at least the blood was good…
Hacktor Derkillez returned to Hef Fastuz’s forge on a mission to have the Smith make more Ghasts. When he arrived the air in the smithy was thick with heat and smoke, a suffocating haze that clung to everything. The shadows cast by the forge fire danced across the walls, creating an illusion of the room being alive, whispering secrets to those who could hear them. Hef stood at his usual place, a dark silhouette against the glowing embers, his dog Garf at his side, growling low in his throat. The forge’s flames flickered erratically, casting eerie shadows that seemed to twist and writhe as if the room itself was watching, waiting.
Before Hacktor could voice his request, Hef spoke—something he had rarely done. The smith remained close to the far side of the room, half-concealed in the smoke and shadows, his eyes barely visible through the haze. Yet there was something different this time, an urgency that drove Hef to break his usual silence.
“The B-bl-blackness will save you, Pr-pr-prince Hacktor.”
The words, stuttered and strained, cut through the oppressive air like a knife. Hacktor froze, unsure of how to respond, the unexpectedness of Hef’s statement catching him off guard. The room seemed to darken as if the forge fire dimmed in response to the smith’s ominous words. Hacktor’s hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of The Ghast at his side, seeking comfort in its familiar weight.
Then, something remarkable happened. Hef’s voice steadied, and when he spoke again, the stutter that had marred his speech all his life was gone. “My Lord, The Grim was forged especially for you. Although I know not what your future holds, Myndoz was adamant that this dagger will help you fulfill your destiny. One day, you will confront your Darkest Day, but on that day, The Grim will be your light.”
Hacktor felt a shiver run down his spine. Hef’s voice had taken on an eerie resonance, a power that seemed to echo unnaturally in the confined space of the forge. It was as if the smith were no longer speaking with his own voice, but was instead a vessel for something greater, something beyond this world. The flickering light of the forge cast strange shadows across Hef’s face, making his eyes gleam with a light that was not entirely his own.
Recovering his composure, Hacktor tried to deflect the conversation. He bowed low to the floor, trying to gather his thoughts. “I d-don’t know what to say, Hef.” His voice wavered, betraying his unease. “Thank you. The Grim is certainly… an interesting piece.”
“It’s more than that, great one.” Hef’s voice was firm, almost commanding. The words seemed to reverberate in Hacktor’s mind, pressing down on him with a weight that was almost unbearable. “Hacktor, when you live your Moment of Truth, trust in The Grim – for at that time, this blade shall give you the strength… yea, even to overcome Death.”
If I had been privy to this conversation when it happened, I would have immediately put the kibosh on this entire charade! Analyzing the words now, it’s clear that Myndoz was communicating to Hacktor via Hef Fastuz. It’s also clear that Myndoz and Rhokii knew about my use of The Well to influence Hacktor and my plans concerning The Ghast. This conversation is yet another example of A’H’s interference in my grand designs. The Great Creator (or Great Deceiver?) let me string myself along my entire life, allowing me to lay a web of lies that had terrible consequences for humanity (which apparently A’H didn’t really care about if he let those disasters occur) and most of all for myself, since I was clearly fooling myself the entire time. Alas, had I but witnessed this conversation, I could have taken action concerning The Grim – but once again I allowed myself to be busy elsewhere, mistakenly believing that once Hacktor obtained The Ghast, nothing could derail my plans for it.
Meanwhile Hef’s words struck a chord deep within Hacktor, and he felt his face flush with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. The mention of The Grim— a blade he had already sent off to The Akka Mountains before his return to Kel-de-Kaba— brought an unwanted memory of the cold, unsettling feeling he’d experienced when he first held it. It was a feeling he had tried, unsuccessfully, to forget.
“Thank you for your advice, Hef. I can see how important The… Grim is… to you.” Hacktor’s voice was strained, his discomfort evident. He wanted to escape this conversation, to move on to something more concrete, more within his control. Before Hef could say more, Hacktor pulled The Ghast from his belt and held it up, its blade gleaming wickedly in the dim light. “Speaking of powerful weapons, I can’t thank you enough for this one. So inspired am I by your work with The Ghast that I am left wanting more.”
The silence that followed was thick, oppressive. Hef remained still, his figure barely visible through the haze, and only the sound of Garf’s low growl broke the quiet.
Hacktor took a tentative step forward, the heat from the forge brushing against his face like a warning. “What I mean to say is, can you make more Gh—?”
“Come no further!” Hef’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and commanding. Hacktor halted mid-step, the force of Hef’s command stopping him in his tracks. The air around him seemed to thicken, pressing down on him with an unseen weight. The firelight flickered, casting dark, ominous shadows that seemed to reach out towards him, grasping at his cloak.
Confused and somewhat unnerved, Hacktor tried again, his voice more hesitant now. “I want you to make copies of The Ghast. Can you do it?”
There was another pause, longer this time, as if Hef were considering something deeply. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it carried a strange power that made the words linger in the air. “Yes.”
Hacktor felt a pang of dread at what he was about to ask next. The thought of leaving The Ghast behind, even for a short time, filled him with unease. Hesitating, he asked, “Do I need to le-leave it? The Ghast… with you?”
“I need not that blade again. It is yours. I have every space of The Ghast seared in my psyche. You will get your copies, but mind you…”
Hacktor’s fingers tightened around the hilt of The Ghast, the familiar weight of the weapon grounding him. Relieved that he didn’t have to part with it, he asked, “Mind me what?”
“These copies will not carry the divine gifts that your Ghast has – they will be but pale shadows.”
Hacktor had expected this, and in a way, he was relieved. The idea that his blade would remain unique, untouched by the magic of Myndoz or Rhokii, stroked his ego. He would be the only one wielding such power, and that thought pleased him. Eager to keep Hef focused on the task, he offered a compliment. “They may not carry the magic of Myndoz or Rhokii, but they will carry the maker’s mark of Hef Fastuz – that will provide all the magic my army needs.”
“As you wish,” Hef’s voice echoed from the shadows.
Hacktor hesitated, fearing the answer to his next question. “Ah, how… long?” The thought of waiting years for these copies was almost unbearable. The forge’s heat seemed to intensify, making the air thick and heavy.
“You shall have them by Mining Day.”
Hacktor couldn’t have been more pleased. The tension that had gripped him moments before melted away, replaced by a sense of triumph. “You truly are a gift from Rhokii, Hef.”
With that, Hacktor took his leave from the great weapons maker, his mind already racing ahead to the future. The conversation about The Grim was all but forgotten, lost in the excitement of having multiple ghasts to present to Baldur. In his mind, victory in the coming war was already assured.
As Hacktor stepped out of the forge and into the cool passageway, a strange feeling lingered at the edge of his consciousness, like a whisper carried on the wind. But he brushed it aside, too focused on his plans to give it any real thought. The forge door creaked shut behind him with a heavy finality, and the shadows within seemed to grow darker, as if closing in on themselves. Unseen by Hacktor, Garf let out one final, low growl, his eyes fixed on the door as if sensing something that had gone unnoticed. The mountain air was still, but for those attuned to the subtle shifts in the world, there was a sense that something had changed, something that would not be easily undone.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 