Part XVIII: The Darkest Day
Chapter 6 – The Moment
Timeline AO 326
If this was an opera, the fat lady would be singing right about now…
I watched with cold detachment from the cozy confines of The Cauldron as my two pawns lay upon the battlefield.
Hacktor Derkillez was stuck beneath the lifeless weight of Garrick of the Golden Hand – the massive Derkka king having fallen upon the dwarf in the moment of his demise. Hacktor, the great Ghastwielder – once a pillar of strength and might – was now reduced to a broken body amidst the carnage of his own making.
A vast silence hung over what was once Blackwood Forest, that eerie quiet of a world suddenly devoid of life. With with one fell swoop, Hacktor’s Ghast had destroyed all that was alive in his vicinity – the Derks, the Myz, the Ghorbles, Hacktor’s arrived-just-a-bit-too-late Drokka army, the animals, the grass, the insects, and yea even Blackwood Forest (not a single tree was left standing). All of it was gone.
I had to admire it—the sheer power of destruction, the perfect devastation. I allowed the power of Shedu Mazai to be unleashed when Hacktor called upon my name – and in doing so, he had unleashed an annihilation the likes of which even I, as the God of Death, found…breathtaking.
[I know I’m going on and on about this but really, it gives me goosebumps even now when I think about it all. The Ghast empowered with the divine gifts I gave it, plus the secret gifts from Myndoz and Rhokki who thought they did me when better when they went behind my back to grant their magic to the blade. Yet neither of those fools realized I had the final card to play – and when the river was laid down – it was my alter ego Shedu Mazai who turned The Ghast into a true Weapon of Mass Destruction – the first your world had ever seen. It was real and it was spectacular!]
And then there was Hacktor – poor Hacktor. Never knowing he was but a pawn – yet he was faithful to the very end. He held on to that one truth – hoping it would save him – even calling me His god. I chuckled to myself – Shedu Mazai — Hacktor’s god, I guess I played my part well.
But was I perhaps too hard on Hacktor? All this time, I’d Ben pushing him beyond his limits, testing his faith, breaking him just enough to make him obedient. He had remained loyal, after all, to the bitter end. Did I do him dirty? Well it’s too late to worry about that now – after all, it’s always the loyal ones who suffer the most, isn’t it?
Still, something in me stirred, a faint twinge of something not quite guilt but… appreciation? I look at at him through the threads of fate in the Eye – at those last flickers of life in his bloodied body, his chest rising in ragged breaths beneath the crushing weight of Garrick’s corpse. Hacktor was not a mortal who ever begged for mercy, not even now. But there was something desperate in his eyes, as if he sought release from the burden of life itself.
“Goodbye, Hacktor,” I murmured softly, though I doubted he could hear me. “May the Balkeryz rise up to take you.”
The Ghast, although only a few feet away, remained tantalizingly out of Hacktor’s reach – yet it mattered now – for the blade no longer pulsed with the magic of the gods. Without the magic blade filling the him with its divine gifts, Hacktor lacked the strength to push Garrick off him. The Golden One had fallen upon the dwarf in his final act of defiance – stabbing Hacktor in the process. Garrick died in that morbid embrace, and now Hacktor too was dying quickly. The blood from his wounds mixed with Garrick’s as it pooled on the earth beneath them, two rival kings reduced to mere flesh and bone.
I pulled the threads of The Eye to zoom in on Hacktor – his gaze lifting, straining as he beheld the face of his bitter rival – and he was horrified by what he saw! Once beautiful, Garrick’s face was now monstrous to behold. The magic of Sindra and Baal’s Glamour spell had left Garrick’s body upon his death, and what remained was the truth beneath the facade—a mangled visage, bloated lips, hollowed eyes, the nose reduced to a single misshapen orifice. Those famous golden curls, once the envy of all who beheld him, were now limp patches of hair clinging to his scalp like remnants of a forgotten dream.
Hacktor’s didn’t understand the magic at work, of course. He had never known about The Glamour, the trickery of my god Baal that made Babelonians like Garrick appear so beautiful to others. He didn’t know Sindra’s magical gifts that she gave to the Golden One upon during his time in Karkemesh either – yet that too was now gone.
[Why did we gods take back our magic? Isn’t it obvious? Why should we waste our spells upon a dead man? A useless pawn?]
Thus it was that Hacktor now he saw Garrick as he truly was, and yet, after the shock of it wore off, the dwarf king looked away – no longer moved by the grotesque transformation – all he wanted was release from the pain, all he wanted was to die.
His breath shallow and ragged, the world around him began to blur. The cold earth beneath him seemed to pull at his broken body, and he knew his time was almost at an end. In those final moments, his life flashed before his eyes, a flood of memories rushing over him like a torrent. He saw himself as a young warrior, eager and full of ambition, standing proudly beside his twin sister Hecla. She had always been his greatest companion, his confidante, and later his wife—a love so profound that, in spite of the ups an downs of their marriage, in the end even the gods could not come between them. He remembered their shared laughter, the bond they had forged through all the trials of their lives, and the deep love that had guided them through every hardship. A sharp ache pierced his heart as he thought of her now, far away, unaware of his fate. He would never hold her again, never feel the warmth of her presence beside him.
His thoughts turned to his children—Livy, Uria, Garl, Alf, and Jini – all of them lost either in death or their own personal destruction – all of them failed by Hacktor himself as father who wasn’t there when they needed him most. He had always told himself he fought for them, for their future, for the world they would inherit. But none of them would ever experience the future he’d hoped for them – and now neither would he.
Yet even as regret clawed at his heart, Hacktor found a small measure of peace. He believed in Kawkawzuz, the sacred afterlife of the Drokka, where the valiant would dwell until the final Ragnarok. He knew, deep in his soul, that he would see them all again—his children and his wife. They would be reunited when the Final Battle came. In that distant, promised land, they would fight side by side, together again. And so, with a final breath, Hacktor allowed himself to surrender to the darkness, clinging to the faith that this was not truly the end.
But lo! Death, sweet as it might seem in that moment, was not ready to claim Hacktor. Not yet. Because from out of the shadows another figure emerged.
A slow clop of boots upon the earth echoed across that silent field, and I pulled back up on the fates to see him—Gwar, the God of War. His presence was like a shadow that had been watching, waiting for the perfect moment to step into the light.
“Well, well,” Gwar laughed, his voice as cold as the void between the stars. “Look at what the gods have wrought upon our pitiful challengers.”
The battlefield reeked of blood and decay, the acrid stench of death hanging thick in the air as the giant form of Gwar strode over the corpses that littered the ruined ground. His boots crunched through the detritus of war—the mangled bodies of Myz and Derkka who had once sworn their loyalty to him. But Gwar, the God of War, gave them no heed. They were little more than pawns in his grand game, fodder for his insatiable hunger for chaos. Even the Ghorbles he kicked aside in disdain – for his eyes, sharp and gleaming like the steel of his weapons, were fixed solely on the broken form of Hacktor Derkillez.
“Bravo, my boys, bravo,” Gwar called out, his voice dripping with mockery as he waded through that sea of death. Each step was deliberate, each action carefully measured as if he were savoring the moment, relishing the carnage that surrounded him. The battlefield was his stage, and he played his role to perfection. With casual cruelty, Gwar jabbed his massive sword into the body of a fallen Myz, a a step or two later he drove his pitchfork into another knight. The satisfaction of feeling bone crack beneath the force of his blows only heightened the euphoria that bubbled beneath his grey skin.
The vile perfume of battle—the blood-soaked earth, the burning flesh, the mingled scents of sweat and fear—filled Gwar’s lungs, and he exhaled with pleasure. War was his element. His dominion. In moments like these, Gwar felt truly alive.
Yet even as he gloried in the destruction, Gwar’s vanity was on full display. His movements were slow, almost theatrical, as he approached Hacktor, taking his time, letting the moment stretch out before him like a feast laid before a starving king. The God of War reveled in his supposed victory, his golden eyes glinting with the triumph of one who believed himself the architect of fate.
[But it wasn’t Gwar’s doing, not really. The destruction, the deaths, the chaos—all of it had come from Hacktor’s hand, from the black magic of The Ghast, empowered by ME. Gwar was simply here to claim the spoils – and that only because I let him. Oh, I would get my rewards soon enough – the brute just didn’t know it yet – so I let him have his fun for now].
Hacktor, still pinned beneath the weight of Garrick’s lifeless body, lay dying, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps – but he’d seen Gwar coming and something inside made him…endure. Blood seeped from his wounds, staining the earth beneath him, yet his eyes remained open, burning with a fierce, defiant light. He could feel his lifeforce slipping away, his body breaking under the strain of battle. But even now, in the face of death, something stirred in Hacktor’s mind—a bold, desperate plan. One so reckless, so audacious, that it could only have been inspired by the gods.
Perhaps by Myndoz himself… I mused, watching from my position of safety with The Eye of Seraphiel. It was clear to me now, rival gods were at play, each manipulating events to suit their designs. I found myself suddenly happy that it was Gwar on the scene and now me – that fool though he was in control, but I could tell that something wasn’t right – Gwar was about to become as much a pawn as the dead soldiers beneath his feet. This is getting good! I laughed to myself in the safe confines of my Cauldron. I hope the suspense lasts!
Hacktor’s body trembled with pain, every inch of him screaming for rest, for the sweet release of death. But his mind…I could sense his mind was sharp, clear, focused. He had one last task, one final act of defiance. With agonizing effort, Hacktor’s left hand crept toward his hip, fingers trembling as they grasped the hilt of a small, bejeweled dagger—his grandfather blade: Baldur’s Bane – hoping beyond hope there was magic in that blade.
Without the power of The Ghast coursing through his veins, Hacktor Derkillez knew that he was now no more than any other common Drokka in a physical sense, yet mentally, he still believed he was The Great Ghastwielder. And so, laying there on the forsaken ground, he proceeded with his plan. His grip tightened around the dagger, so fierce that his fingers bled, the crimson staining the ornate handle. The pain in his hand was nothing compared to the agony that consumed the rest of him, but Hacktor clung to that blade like a lifeline. His mind repeated the command over and over, the thought pounding in his skull with the force of a war drum: Strike the heart. The heart!
He had one chance, one fleeting opportunity, to deliver a blow that might change everything. Gwar was approaching, his arrogance blinding him to the danger. Hacktor’s vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening as his strength faded. But he refused to yield. Not yet. Even as he felt his lifeforce continuing to drain away, King Hacktor’s mind became focused and clear, and that one single thought, nay that one command, roared within his psyche…Deliver a strike to the heart! The heart!
[Reliving this moment, it gives me the chills even now. Why must the gods contend in vain like this? Can’t we all just get along?]
“I…am the Ghas—” Hacktor tried to speak, to summon the strength to empower himself once more, but the words caught in his throat, choked by the blood that filled his lungs. He coughed, a violent spasm that wracked his body and sent fresh waves of pain coursing through him – his mortal muscles finally revolting at the super-human efforts he had demanded of himself this day.
Unable to speak, Hacktor sank further into wet ground, his back pressing into the blood-soaked earth. His breathing was shallow, every breath a struggle. But even as his body failed him, his mind held on to that one, single thought: Strike the heart. The heart.
He watched as Gwar finally reached him, the God of War looming above like a dark storm cloud, casting a shadow over Hacktor’s broken form. Gwar’s eyes glittered with amusement, as if this moment of triumph was nothing more than a game – he used his pitchfork to lift Garrick’s massive body off the dwarf king – tossing both the fork and the impaled Marduk aside like a bale of hay. Then drawing his sword, Gwar looked down upon this prize – even as Hacktor’s fingers tightened around his dagger.
The battlefield, bathed in the red light of a Blood Mood, had grown eerily quiet. A cold wind swept across the desolate field, carrying with it the mingled stench of death, iron, and damp earth. The once roaring flames of war had long since been reduced to smoldering embers in the dark as if the earth itself was groaning from the carnage.
Hacktor Derkillez, Kon-Herr of the Drokka, lay among the fallen, looking up at the God of War Gwar who was about to deliver the final death blow to the dwarf king. Yet there, in the heart of death’s embrace, a stubborn thought struck Hacktor with the force of a hammer against an anvil.
Strike the heart!
The thought blazed in his mind, a command so powerful that Hacktor was certain it came from the gods themselves. Perhaps Rhokii had been watching him all along? Perhaps the divine gaze was upon him even now. He could almost feel it—divine intervention. The notion filled him with a flicker of hope, and that hope stoked the dying embers of his strength. The weight of death on his chest lifted, if only for a moment.
[But it wasn’t Rhokii watching. It never was].
Gwar, the God of War, loomed over his victim. His eyes were aflame with sadistic glee, his breath coming in ragged, excited huffs, as black drool dripped from the corners of his mouth, oozing down his chin in streams. The vile hunger in him was palpable—the kind that only murder could satisfy. His gaze locked on Hacktor, lying helpless before him, and the god’s lips curled into a grotesque sneer.
“So, this is the mighty warrior who once dared challenge me?” Gwar’s voice boomed across the battlefield, filled with contempt and amusement. He towered over Hacktor like a dark storm cloud, blocking out the sky. “You had the gall to proclaim your superiority over the God of War? Let me teach you a lesson, little midget.”
His words dripped with venom, each one laced with mockery as he casually pointed his silver sword at Hacktor, the blade gleaming in the dying light. The god twirled his blade menacingly over Hacktor’s face, savoring the moment as if the coming death of the Drokka king was nothing more than an afterthought—a toy to be played with before the kill.
Hacktor’s mind raced. He could feel the presence of the gods, but who? Rhokii? Myndoz? It didn’t matter. He had only one thought left: Strike the heart!
Gwar laughed cruelly, his sword raised high with both hands, the tip gleaming black as night, ready to deliver the final blow. And with his face a mask of cruelty, the god jumped up, using that momentum as he came down, looking as if he would drive Hacktor down to Illusia, impaling him in the process. Yet lo, instead of driving his sword into Hacktor’s chest, Gwar gleefully jammed it into the earth next to Hacktor’s head…for Gwar was eager to see his enemy’s fear and he wanted to toy with him a bit.
Thus it was that Gwar played the fool yet again — for he’d underestimated his enemy and didn’t pay attention to Hacktor’s counter attack!
In the moment Gwar drove his sword into the ground, Hacktor struck. With one last effort, summoning every ounce of strength he had left, the Drokka king thrust the bejeweled dagger upward, aiming for the god’s chest. Gwar’s own momentum worked against him, his body crashing down just as Hacktor’s blade found its mark – the dagger plunged deep into the god’s chest, driving into flesh and bone with a sickening crunch.
“Noooooo!” Gwar’s scream tore through the battlefield, echoing into the night like a death wail. His massive hands flew to the wound in his chest, his black blood spilling over Hacktor’s fingers, hot and thick. His eyes widened in disbelief, the burning arrogance replaced by sheer, primal fear. He stumbled backward, his black hair turning white in an instant, as if the very life had been drained from him in that one strike.
Hacktor, exhausted, let the dagger go. He collapsed back onto the blood-soaked ground, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. A small, triumphant smile curled his lips as he watched Gwar stagger, his massive sword clattering to the ground beside him. The god of war—immortal, invincible—was stricken.
[At this point even I was confused – I knew that no mere mortal weapon such as Hacktor’s dagger could kill a divine specter from Ragnarok. Only the power of another immortal could accomplish that feat – and yet Gwar was somehow stricken to the core? I could only assume that rival gods had imbued Balder’s Bane with power without me knowing. Thankfully it was Gwar paying the price and not me].
Hacktor’s mind wandered as he lay there, basking in the glow of his final triumph. He imagined the parades, the celebrations that would be held in his honor throughout the clans. The name Hacktor Derkillez would echo across the mountains, from Rhokki Pass to the farthest reaches of the world. He would be remembered as the Drokka king who defeated a god.
He could almost hear the cheering crowds. He could see the banners flying in his honor, the people lifting him up as their savior. He thanked the gods—Rhokii, Myndoz, and even the Spirit of the Well—for this moment. Surely, they had been guiding his hand all along.
But as Hacktor’s vision began to blur and his body grew cold, Time itself seemed to slow…
…as the world waited for War to die.
And yet…Gwar did not die.
Still stunned, the god of war stood, trembling, his face twisted in agony and disbelief. The wound remained, the dagger buried in his chest. But this was not the end. Not yet.
Hacktor’s triumph evaporated in an instant.
The dagger had struck true, and for a heartbeat, Hacktor had believed it was over. He had won. But now, as he lay in the bloody dirt, staring up at the towering form of Gwar, realization dawned with terrifying clarity. The God of War, though momentarily staggered, was not dead. Worse, he wasn’t even injured. The blade—Hacktor’s final desperate gamble—had done nothing.
Hacktor’s breath hitched as disbelief turned into horror. How is this possible? His mind raced, grappling with the incomprehensible reality before him. He had felt something, hadn’t he? That surge of divine power—wasn’t it the gods guiding him? His hand, the strike—it had all been perfect! The blow had struck true, driven deep into Gwar’s chest. By all rights, the god should be dead!
And yet, Gwar still stood, tall and unyielding, his cruel eyes burning with amusement. The fires of his victory danced within those black orbs as if mocking Hacktor’s every effort. Recovering his psyche, Gwar jumped atop Hacktor’s body – then crouched low, he got close enough so that Hacktor could feel the god’s breath—hot and foul—against his face. “Do you feel it, Hacktor? Do you feel your defeat?” Gwar’s eyes glinted with pleasure, savoring the moment.
Hacktor’s pulse quickened. He had been certain of his triumph. Certain that the gods—his gods—had been with him in that moment. But now, in the face of Gwar’s unrelenting presence, the gravity of his failure crashed over him like a tidal wave.
The gods had toyed with him.
Hacktor had thrown everything he had into that final, desperate strike, only to find himself powerless against the divine. It was then that he knew, beyond doubt, that this was the darkest day of his life. The bitter realization cut deeper than any wound. This was not just the end of his life; it was the end of everything he had fought for.
And then, in the swirling chaos of his mind, another thought struck him like a thunderbolt—My Grim! My Grim! Why have I forsaken you?
[I should tell you that THIS was the first moment ‘in real time’ that I learned of a weapon called The Grim. Even today the thought of that dagger fills me with terror – for had I not agreed to give Gwar his request and let him kill Hacktor, then I would have been the one to do it. For such was my original plan – it was only when Gwar demanded he be the one — and I recognized that I could hold this card against him for a future play — that I changed my plans. Yet witnessing what was unfolding before my very eyes, I raged at the treachery of Myndoz and Rhokii – for surely they had worked with Hef Fastuz behind my back to empower him to create this Grim and they had further used my own designs against me. Don’t you see — had Hacktor kept The Grim, he would have destroyed me!!!]
A wave of despair greater than any pain he had ever known washed over Hacktor as everything became clear: The Grim was the key to it all. For that seemingly insignificant black dagger that he had so carelessly given away had been created by the Hef Fastuz under the divine influence of the gods for a purpose. Yea, this was the day, this was the instant, this was a moment of truth which The Grim had been created for!
Hacktor Derkillez could indeed have been the mortal who successfully rid the world of War if only he could have called forth the power of the Hand of He Who Has No Name – which he could have done with The Grim. Who knows perhaps Hacktor might even have survived himself, had he wielded that enchanted weapon?
Yet, this was not his reality now. It was a mistake so colossal, so catastrophic, that Hacktor could barely grasp the full horror of it.
The weight of his failure pressed down upon him like a mountain. Hacktor had thrown away the one thing that could have saved his people. The one weapon that could have freed them from War’s endless grip. And now, lying broken at Gwar’s feet, Hacktor understood the full measure of his defeat. Not only had he failed to kill Gwar, but he had also failed his people. His legacy would not be one of heroism and triumph. There would be no parades, no songs sung in his honor. No history written of the great Kon-Herr Hacktor Derkillez who defied the gods.
There would only be silence. And death.
Hacktor lay there, his body a shattered husk, feeling as if his soul had already left him. His limbs were heavy, his strength spent. There was no more fight left in him. He was nothing but a worthless bag of bones now. The grandeur of his imagined victory faded into the stark reality of his defeat. He had doomed them all.
He looked up at Gwar, the god’s face now alight with a terrifying glee. His black eyes blazed with the fires of victory, and a cruel smile spread across his lips as he stood over Hacktor, towering above him like an unbreakable force.
“You thought you could defeat me?” Gwar’s voice dripped with scorn. “You, a mere mortal, thought you could challenge the God of War?” His laughter, dark and mocking, echoed across the battlefield. “Your pitiful attempt has failed, and now you shall watch as I grind your people into the dust.”
Hacktor could barely hear Gwar’s words. The world was dimming around him and with a final, exhausted breath, The Ghastwielder closed his eyes, surrendering to the darkness.
Yet even then Hacktor’s darkest day was not quite over…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 