Before Ghulgrim the Dark became the greatest force for evil on the planet Aerth, he was Samael, the greatest weaponsmith who ever lived.
This is the story of his choosing by the Dark Powers that live beyond the stars.
This is the story of the forgin...
"Welcome, Forgemaster." The figure seated at the far end of the audience hall was shrouded in shadow.
Samael's escort prodded him forward with his spear. He approached the dais, awe overtaking him as he glimpsed the marvel of architectural splendor revealed in the flickering torchlight.
"Yes," said the dark figure. "The savages our great people have degenerated into since leaving the lands beyond the ice have forgotten their common ancestry with you. And here you are, the great Samael of Arcturus, peerless in his craft."
Samael reached the foot of the dais, and was again overcome. For the speaker was not a man but a giant.
"Not precisely. My mother was the last Frost Giant. But she is long departed. So I am the last of the True Blood."
"Kuroth?" Samael finally managed to say.
The giantkin nodded. His hair was snow streaked with molten platinum, his beard a mountainous quicksilver scraggle, his moustaches full and drooping. His eyes were frozen lakes that flashed in the torchlight. His limbs looked to be carved from pale granite. He wore a tabard wrought of winter wolf pelts. Across his knees lay the black sword.
Kuroth laughed. The booming baritone chuckle had a cruel, jeering quality.
"So you have come to take my prize from me. And this is the recompense you offer?" He gestured to the saddlebags of gold at his feet.
"Consider it payment. For your soul." Samael drew closer until his boot scraped the bottom step of the dais.
The giantkin's snowy eyebrows arched inward. His thin gray lips curled in a sneer. A maniacal glint shone in his slitted eyes. But he did not speak.
"The weapon you hold in your hands will not content itself merely with doing your bidding on the battlefield, Great Kuroth. It will have your soul before it is done with you. Just as it stole mine even as I strove at its forging. It is a sword not meant to exist in the realms of men. Its home is the Black Pit of Tartarus, and I would see it banished whence it came."
Kuroth guffawed and the great hall quaked.
"The Dark Merchant told me as much when I commissioned the work. If it has drawn yours so subtly, so will it draw the vital essences from all of my enemies. All of their power, all of their greatness, will be mine! Thank you, Forgemaster. I am glad to see my benefactor spoke truly. With this weapon, none may stand before me. I am sorry, Master Samael. But I cannot surrender this brand to you, not for all the gold in the Known World. But I can grant you a singular honor."
Then Kuroth rose from his icy throne and held the black sword forth. He was half again the Arcturian's prodigious height. He held the sword easily in one huge hand. The cold ebon blade drew the ambient torchlight into abyssal depths.
The giantkin smiled faintly. And plunged the weapon into Samael's breast, piercing his heart. The black point burst from his back and he hung there, impaled upon his masterpiece.
Kuroth made to wrench the sword free but it had somehow stuck fast. Samael convulsed and fell back, and the hilt was torn from the giantkin's grasp.
"The Maker becomes the first to die by his own blade. A singular honor indeed." Kuroth bent to retrieve the sword from the Forgemaster's corpse. Try as he might, both hands firmly gripping the hilt, the weapon refused to budge. Cursing, the giantkin braced one huge foot on Samael's sternum and heaved. The weapon came free, releasing a torrent of dark blood in its wake.
"The blade does not abandon its maker easily." Kuroth sighed and his cruel features seemed to grow somber. He turned to the slack-jawed guard who had escorted Samael before him.
"Fetch the seneschal. The Forgemaster showed great courage in seeking me out. He will be celebrated in death. His gift of gold shall build his sepulcher."
An aeon later, long after the burnt remains of once-mighty Arcturus were entombed beneath the ice sheet and Kuroth Iceborn had razed the Southlands and the Black Sword had passed to the Last of the Frost Giant's scions, the Forger's penance was done.
The shadow of his shadow lay curled in the black sphere of the Void. And for the first and only time since the beginning of his torment until the end of eternity, the Dark Powers showed him the most insignificant facet of Their greatness. A face.
"Who are you?" Samael's voice echoed in the null-space.
"Your Advocate," said the Dark Stranger. "Your spirit, what remained of it, refused to rest. But do not think We were not prepared for such a turn. The Black Sword is yours now, as much as it ever was. From the time Our essence was forged into it by your hand until it was baptized in your blood. We Three are now inextricable. Forever. Is one thousand years of purgation not a paltry price to pay for earthly dominion unto eternity? Rise again, Ghulgrim the Dark. Reclaim your blade. Dispense your vengeance on all the realms of men that were forged in Kuroth's wake. And remake the world in Our image..."
Within the midnight confines of the sarcophagus, two eyes of burning hellfire opened. Thus was Forgemaster Samael of Arcturus reborn, Undead forever.
THE END
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Thus ends this little tale. But if you liked the world I am developing, there is a novel coming!
As always, if you liked (or disliked) the story, please leave me a COMMENT and I will respond!
