18.2 The Gambit

Part XVIII: The Darkest Day
Chapter 2: The Gambit
Timeline: AO 326

The thick stone walls of Rhokki Pass Palace were draped in shadow, the cold of winter from The World Above seeping into every crevice inside the mountains. Outside, in the battlefield of Gor snow swirled in the air, settling over the frozen landscape like a shroud. But inside The Rhokki’s, in the heart of the palace, the war room lay quiet but for the crackling of a fire, casting long flickering shadows over the large table where a map of Gor was unfurled.

Hacktor Derkillez stood alone in the room, at the table’s head, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he stared down at the map. His face, scarred and weathered by years of battle, was set in a grim expression. The lines around his eyes were deeper now, not just from the weight of war, but from something darker, something that had changed him since the ritual at the Tree of the Forsaken.

Once, Hacktor had been a near broken man—his ambition chipped away by the failure to fulfill his final destiny, his spirit cracked by the pressure of living up to the legacy of his forefathers. He’d also failed as a father – many times over. And perhaps as a husband too. He turned to drink, lost his faith, and lost his connection to the gods. It seemed as if his star had fallen for good.

But all that had been before the crucifixion ritual, before the agony of being lashed to the cursed tree. It was a test that, although others had tried, only the famed Ajax The Freemaker had ever survived – until Hacktor. It was a ritual meant to strip a Drokka of everything he thought he knew, leaving only the raw truth. Hacktor had endured it, suffered through its cruel crucible, and in doing so, he had come back different—stronger, wiser, and with a newfound purpose.

The knowledge he had gained in the ritual coursed through him now, a cold clarity of thought that cut through the haze of war like The Ghast did through flesh. He had survived what others hadn’t, and that had proven him worthy not only of his ancestors but of his position as Kon-Herr of the Drokka. The transformation had not just been of the mind, but of the spirit. Ajax and Rhokki had tested him through the ritual, and Hacktor had emerged as a man reborn.

His gaze lifted from the map as he heard the soft click of a light tread on stone. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was—Hecla, his wife, had entered the room.

The beautiful queen’s figure moved through the shadows, small and graceful, her fur-lined cloak trailing behind her as she approached. Her raven-black hair, streaked with a few lines of silver from the years of turmoil, framed her delicate features. In the dim light, her eyes glowed with a fierceness that matched Hacktor’s own. Though time had hardened them both, it had also brought them back together, stronger than ever.

Once, their marriage had been fraught with bitterness and blame. Hecla had seen Hacktor as a man lost to war, consumed by ambition and the need for victory. She had resented him for the devastation his absence had caused their family and distanced herself from the pain of watching him throw everything into the conflict. But that had changed after Hacktor’s transformation at the Tree of the Forsaken.

She had watched him return from that ritual with a new sense of purpose, a quiet strength that she hadn’t seen in him for nearly twenty years. Slowly, their relationship had healed. The distance between them had been bridged by the understanding that both of them had been tested—her in her patience and loyalty, and him in his will to lead. Now, they were united again, bound not just by their love, but by the shared knowledge that Hacktor was destined for something greater.

“Hacktor,” Hecla said softly, stepping beside him at the table. She placed a hand on his arm, her touch gentle yet firm, anchoring him in the present.

He turned to face her, his expression softening at the sight of her. Despite all they had been through, she remained his greatest ally, his fiercest supporter. “Hecla,” he replied, his voice low but steady. “It’s time.”

She glanced at the map, her brow furrowing slightly. “Hadrik has returned?”

“Yes,” Hacktor nodded. “Garrick has agreed to the terms. The final battle will take place in area that’s left of Blackwood Forest, just as we wanted.”

Hecla’s eyes lingered on the map, the lines of the forest traced by the flickering firelight. “This will be the end, won’t it?”

Hacktor hesitated for a moment, knowing that Hecla was asking for more than just a military assessment. She wanted to know if this war—the one that had stolen so many years of their lives—would finally conclude. He knew what victory meant, but he also knew that their enemies were many, and nothing was ever certain in the games played by gods.

“It will be the end,” he said finally, his voice calm. “One way or another.”

She nodded, her eyes darkening with the weight of his words. “And you’re ready? Truly?”

Hacktor inhaled deeply, the memories of his transformation still fresh in his mind. “I am. I’ve been ready since the moment I survived the Tree of the Forsaken. That crucifixion was my test—my trial. The gods have shown me what must be done, and I will see it through.”

Hecla met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a rare moment of vulnerability. “You came back different after the ritual,” she said quietly, her fingers tightening on his arm. “Stronger. But sometimes I wonder… at what cost?”

Hacktor placed his hand over hers, his rough fingers brushing her smooth skin. “The cost was high, yes. But we are both stronger for it. You stood by me when others wouldn’t. You saw the Drokka I became, not just the warrior. You and I… we are united now, more than we’ve ever been. And together, we will see this through.”

Hecla’s eyes softened, the tension in her shoulders easing as she leaned into him. “Together,” she whispered.

For a moment, they stood there, side by side, both knowing that the path ahead would be fraught with danger. But there was also a silent resolve between them, a bond forged in fire and blood. Hacktor may have returned from the Tree with newfound knowledge, but it was Hecla who had kept him grounded.

She pulled away slightly, as if embarrassed. “And what of Mirkir? What role does the Wyze One play in this final chapter?”

Hacktor’s jaw tightened at the mention of Mirkir. The priest’s influence had long haunted him, a shadow over his life. “Mirkir has summoned me to Iztak. He claims The Spirit has demanded I visit… that It has important to tell me. Something that will help me end the war.”

Hecla’s eyes narrowed. “Do you trust Mirkir?”

Hacktor’s expression darkened. “No. But I will listen to The Spirit if It speaks. Mirkir is weak now, barely hanging on to life. Whatever he has to say, it will be his last play. And I will hear it before I go to the Well.”

Hecla’s hand slid from his arm, her gaze hard. “Be careful, Hacktor. Mirkir has always had his own agenda. He will not let you go easily.”

Hacktor gave a slight nod, his eyes returning to the map. “I know. But this time, I am not the same Drokka boy he once manipulated. This time, I hold the power.” He turned to face her fully, his hand brushing her cheek. “We will survive this, Hecla. We will rebuild after the war. The gods have shown me the way.”

She leaned into his touch, her eyes never leaving his. “I trust you, Hacktor. And I will be here, no matter what happens.”

Hacktor nodded, his heart swelling with the knowledge that no matter what battles lay ahead, no matter what tricks Mirkir or the gods themselves might play, he had Hecla by his side. Together, they were unstoppable.

As the fire crackled behind them, Hacktor’s thoughts shifted to the coming battle, to Garrick, to Mirkir, and to the wellspring of power he now wielded. He would end this war. He had no other choice – but not for the reasons he thought.

The fact is that all things worked together for the good… of the gods. And Hacktor Derkillez would play the part I assigned to him – for MY benefit – whether he liked it or not.

---

A week later Hacktor was in Iztak – as usual the air was heavy, the scent of incense thick and cloying as it filled the narrow corridors of the temples. Hacktor moved through the halls with the confident stride of a man who had walked these city paths many times, though this time felt different. The buildings seemed darker, colder, as if the very stones themselves were mourning the slow demise of the once-mighty high priest Mirkir the Wyze.

When the king arrived at his former mentor’s abode, the chamber doors creaked open, revealing the small, dimly lit room where Mirkir lay. The old priest had not left his chamber in months, the years finally weighing too heavily upon him. Hacktor entered, his boots echoing softly on the stone floor as he approached the priest’s bed.

Mirkir had been reduced to little more than a skeletal figure, his skin pale and thin like parchment, stretched over brittle bones. His famous bushy white beard and hair were now nearly gone and his once-vibrant eyes were clouded with age. The once-grand robes he once wore were now adorning the walls instead of his frail frame which was covered by a thin tunic as he lay under warm blankets.

And yet, despite his physical decay, there was still something dangerous about Mirkir, an air of authority that had not yet fully dissipated. Hacktor could feel it in the room, a cold, creeping presence that whispered of The Wyze One’s lingering power.

By Mirkir’s side stood Alf, Hacktor’s son. Though once a shadow under the priest’s control and despoiled in ways that the king couldn’t bring himself to think about, Alf now stood tall and proud – a transformation evident in his posture and the sharpness of his features. Gone were the delicate, androgynous robes that Mirkir had forced upon him; now Alf dressed as a would-be warrior, a true Drokka. The young man’s eyes—once clouded with confusion and shame—were now clear, steady, and filled with a quiet determination.

Hacktor’s heart stirred with pride as he looked at his now adult son. It was as if the veil that had once shrouded Alf had been lifted, revealing the true strength that had always been within him. Hacktor had worried that leaving his son under Mirkir’s influence for so long had broken him, but Alf had not only survived—he had thrived. And yet, Hacktor’s guilt still gnawed at him for allowing it to happen in the first place.

“Kon-Herr…” Mirkir’s voice rasped from the bed, breaking the silence. He struggled to push himself up on his thin arms, but his body failed him. Alf moved to help, gently propping the old priest up with a pillow.

Hacktor took a step forward, his gaze hard and unyielding. “Wyze One.”

The priest coughed weakly, a wet, rattling sound that filled the room with an unsettling chill. “You’ve come… as I knew you would.”

“I came because you summoned me, Wyze One,” Hacktor replied, his tone cold and measured. He glanced at Alf briefly before returning his attention to Mirkir. “But let’s not pretend this is a cordial visit.”

Mirkir let out a breathy chuckle, though it quickly turned into another fit of coughing. “Cordials… are for those who still have time to waste. I have little of that left.”

Hacktor approached the bedside, his imposing figure towering over the frail priest. “Then speak plainly, Mirkir. What do you want from me?”

Mirkir’s cloudy eyes met Hacktor’s, and for a moment, the old priest’s lips twisted into a knowing smile. “I do not want anything from you, Kon-Herr. But the gods… they demand much from you still. You have not yet fulfilled your destiny.”

Hacktor’s jaw clenched. “I have fought for the Drokka, for Rhokki. I have shed blood in the name of our ancestors. What more could the gods want from me?”

Mirkir’s bony fingers trembled as he lifted a hand toward Hacktor, though it barely rose off the bed. “Your final test… is near. And it is not one of battle, but of will. The war will end, Hacktor, but only if you are strong enough to see it through to its end.”

Hacktor’s gaze narrowed, suspicion flickering in his mind. “What are you talking about?”

Mirkir’s breath hitched, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might slip away into unconsciousness. But Alf, still standing by the priest’s side, placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

“I made a promise to serve him, Father,” Alf said quietly, his voice calm but firm. “Even after everything, I will see it through.”

Hacktor’s eyes shifted to his son, a mixture of pride and sadness washing over him. “You owe him nothing, Alf. You’ve given more than enough.”

Alf shook his head, his expression resolute. “I owe myself. To see this through to the end, to honor the vow I made, even if it was made in darkness. I serve out of duty.”

Hacktor studied his son’s face, the weight of those words settling heavily in his chest. It was not submission he saw in Alf, but honor. Despite the years of manipulation and control, Alf had emerged with his integrity intact. Hacktor felt a pang of guilt, knowing that his son had suffered under Mirkir’s rule while he had been consumed by the war.

“Mirkir no longer holds power over you,” Hacktor said quietly, his voice softening for a moment. “When this is done, you will return home, Alf. You deserve that much.”

Alf gave a slight nod, his eyes flicking briefly to Mirkir’s withered form. “When it is done,” he agreed.

Mirkir’s voice, weak and rasping, cut through the moment of silence. “It is not… about me, Hacktor. It has never been about me. I am but a vessel. The Spirit of the Well of Wyzdom… the gods speak through me, and they have one final message for you.”

Hacktor stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “And what is that message?”

Mirkir’s hand trembled as he reached for the edge of the bed, pulling himself up with what little strength he had left. “The Well… the Spirit will reveal it to you. But heed my words, Hacktor… the power you seek comes with a cost. You will have to choose.”

Hacktor’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Choose what?”

Mirkir smiled again, but this time it was a grim, almost sorrowful expression. “Between victory… and everything else.”

Hacktor’s eyes darkened, his mind already calculating the meaning behind the priest’s words. He turned to Alf, who stood still, watching the exchange in silence, then glanced back at Mirkir, who had closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The once-powerful priest was fading quickly, his hold on the living world slipping away.

After giving his son a heartfelt embrace, Hacktor turned and left the chamber, his steps echoing down the darkened hall. He had come to hear Mirkir’s final counsel, but it had only strengthened his resolve. The war was coming to an end, but it would be on Hacktor’s terms, not the whims of an old, dying priest.

As he stepped out into the cold, night air of Iztak, Hacktor’s thoughts shifted to the Well of Wyzdom, the Spirit that awaited him, and the power it promised. There would be no turning back. Whatever the cost, he would see this war to its end.

---

The Well of Wyzdom.

An ancient oracle cut deep within the earth. Hacktor had been here many times before – he knew the suffocating air, the eerie silence that swallowed even the sound of his own heartbeat. But he’d always been taken on the path to The Well by Mirkir. And he’d always have to tell the priest whatever had transpired inside. Yet this time, Hacktor walked the path towards the Well alone. Mirkir was too frail to make the journey, and Alf, bound by his promise to the old priest, had stayed behind.

As Hacktor descended the spiraling stone steps, each step seemed to draw him further into himslf, as though the weight of the mountain pressed down upon him, reminding him of how far he had come. He could feel it—the presence, the power of the Well—growing stronger with every footfall, a dark pulse that resonated in his bones, whispering promises of greatness and doom. The walls around him grew damp and cold, glistening with condensation that trickled down like the tears of forgotten souls.

Finally, Hacktor emerged into the cavernous chamber where the Well of Wyzdom resided. The chamber was vast, the ceiling lost to darkness, and the air was thick with a sulfurous stench that burned at his throat. The Well itself was a wide, yawning pit at the center of the room, ringed by jagged stones covered in ancient, indecipherable runes. A low hum echoed from the depths, like a voice speaking just below the threshold of hearing.

Hacktor approached the edge of the Well, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the blackness below. The last time he stood here, his prayers had gone unanswered. The last ten times in fact. Yet this time was different – for I made sure of it.

My voice, soft and slithering, broke the oppressive silence.

“Kon-Herr of Rhokki… you have returned.” The voice I used was neither male nor female, but something else entirely, a distorted amalgamation of whispers that seemed to rise from the depths of the earth itself.

I’ll give him credit, Hacktor didn’t shrink from the encounter. Whether it was because of his new found resolve after the Tree of the Forsaken ritual or something else, Hacktor straightened, clenching his fists as my sinister presence settled around him. “I have come to claim what you promised me, Great Spirit.”

A long pause followed, the darkness around the Well stirring like the surface of disturbed water. Then my voice returned, dripping with amusement. “Ahhh… so eager to embrace your destiny. And yet, do you truly understand what you seek?”

“I understand enough,” Hacktor growled. “You have the power to end this war, and I will have it.”

I allowed a low, rumbling laugh echoed from the Well, sending a chill down Hacktor’s spine. The temperature in the chamber seemed to plummet, the darkness pressing closer.

“You seek power,” The Spirit mused, my voice curling around him like smoke. “But power is never freely given. It is taken, stolen from the hands of those who believe themselves worthy. And you, Hacktor Derkillez… you shall take that power, but at a cost.”

Hacktor’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “I will pay whatever price is necessary.”

“Will you?” My voice twisted, mocking. “You may think yourself hardened by war, battle-hardened, but you have never tasted true destruction. The power you seek is not the mere strength of armies or the bite of steel. No, it is something far more… final.”

From the depths of the Well, something began to rise—an unnatural light, faint at first but growing brighter as it emerged from the abyss. The light was not warm, but cold, a sickly greenish glow that flickered like the dying embers of a cursed fire. As it swirled upward, Hacktor could make out shapes—faces, twisted in agony, their mouths open in silent screams as they spiraled upward from the pit.

“The name… Shedu Mazai,” the Spirit whispered, my words hanging in the air like poison. “It is the key. The ancient name of power that holds dominion over death itself.”

Hacktor stepped closer to the Well, his eyes fixed on the swirling light, the ghostly faces twisting in torment. “How do I use it?”

My Spirit’s laughter returned, dark and echoing. “So eager to learn, Kon-Herr. When the time comes, you will invoke the name of Shedu Mazai, and the Ghast—the weapon you so covet—will awaken to its true potential. But understand this: the Ghast is not merely a tool of war. It is a harbinger of annihilation. Once you speak the name, the weapon will transform, imbued with the power of the ancient name, and it will destroy everything.”

Hacktor’s heart quickened, though he did not flinch. “Everything?”

“All mortal life,” the Spirit hissed, my voice curling like a snake around his thoughts. “For as far as the eye can see. The Ghast will become a storm of death, consuming flesh, bone, and soul alike. Nothing will survive. Not your enemies, not your allies, not even the land itself. It will become a wasteland, a monument to your victory… and your sacrifice.”

Hacktor’s breath caught in his throat. Even as a seasoned warrior, the thought of such destruction gave him pause. But he was not one to turn away from the path he had chosen. The war with the Derkka had to end, and if this was the price, then so be it.

“And there’s no turning back once the name is spoken?” Hacktor asked, his voice steady despite the cold dread creeping into his chest.

“None,” the Spirit replied, my tone deadly serious now. “Once the name is invoked, the Ghast will do as it was created to do. There will be no stopping it, no undoing what is set in motion. You must choose wisely, Kon-Herr. The power is yours… but it comes with finality.”

Hacktor’s mind raced, weighing the Spirit’s words. He could feel the weight of the decision pressing down on him like the stones of Iztak itself. But as he looked into the swirling abyss of the Well, he thought of the endless war, the bloodshed that had consumed his people for generations. He thought of Hecla, of Alf, and of the burden he carried as Kon-Herr of Rhokki.

This war needed to end, and it would end on his terms.

“I’ll do it,” Hacktor said, his voice low but resolute. “Tell me how to wield the name.”

The Spirit’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “When the moment is right, when the blood of battle spills across the land, raise the Ghast high and speak the name: Shedu Mazai. Speak it with intent, with all the hatred and fury that lives within you. The weapon will respond, and the world will tremble before you.”

Hacktor’s hand moved to the hilt of the Ghast, feeling its cold weight against his side. He had wielded the blade countless times, but now it felt different, as though it had been waiting for this moment—waiting for the name that would unlock its true nature.

“One more thing, Kon-Herr,” the Spirit’s voice turned soft and sinister, dripping with anticipation. “Remember what I said. The power you unleash cannot be undone. When you speak the name, you will become the instrument of death itself. Do not take this lightly.”

Hacktor clenched his fist, his gaze locked on the pit below. He had been forged in battle, tempered by sacrifice. He had survived the Tree of the Forsaken, had walked the path of death and returned with the knowledge of a Kon-Herr. He would not falter now.

“I understand,” Hacktor said, his voice cold and determined. “I will wield the Ghast as you have instructed.”

The Spirit’s laughter echoed once more, a sound that reverberated through the hollow chamber like the final toll of a death knell.

“Then go, Hacktor Derkillez. Go forth and claim your destiny. The war will end, one way or another. Let the world burn in your wake.”

Hacktor turned from the Well, his footsteps heavy as he ascended the stone steps back toward the surface. The weight of the name Shedu Mazai pressed against his mind, the knowledge that he now held the power to destroy everything around him with a single word.

As he emerged from the depths of Iztak, the cold mountain breezes cascaded against his face, but Hacktor felt none of it. His eyes were fixed as if afar, on the coming battle. And in his hand, he held the Ghast—the weapon that would bring death to all.

The world was on the edge of oblivion, and Hacktor would be the one to tip it over.

Even I watched him standing there, I couldn’t help but smile. For now both my pawns were in place. Soon, both Hacktor and Garrick would face their doom. And I, Azazel, would be the one to pull the strings. Yes, this war would end, but not in the way either of them expected.