Part VIII: Weapon of Mass Destruction
Chapter 7: Hacktor and Hecla
Timeline: AO298
There is yet another event I failed to witness firsthand. Confident that Hacktor had secured The Ghast and that he would follow the instructions I had imparted at The Well, I turned my attention to other matters. With the Siq still standing, there was little action Hacktor could take until it fell, so I left him to his own devices while I busied myself with The Eye of Seraphiel. As a result, I missed a rather critical moment—one that could have saved me much heartache later…
Though Hacktor now wielded The Ghast, he knew he couldn’t declare war without his father’s approval. However, before revealing his new prize to his father, there was someone else Hacktor wished to show it to first.
Upon his return to the palace, the prince wasted no time heading to his sister’s chambers, the weight of The Ghast hanging heavily at his side. He could barely contain his excitement, eager to share his triumph with Hecla. But as he approached her door, Hacktor hesitated, an unsettling feeling gnawing at the back of his mind—a feeling that quickly faded as he reminded himself of their shared ambitions.
Hecla had been expecting him. Her informants had already whispered of her brother’s impending return, and she had prepared accordingly. The heavy, velvet drapes in her chamber were drawn, shrouding the room in a dim, almost oppressive light. Candles burned low, their flickering flames casting long shadows that danced across the walls. The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of myrrh, aloe, and cinnamon—aromas that clung to the luxurious linens draped across her bed, imported from the distant lands of Mersia.
Hacktor entered to find Hecla reclining on the bed, her figure barely concealed by the richly colored sheets. As he drew nearer, she let the fabric slip away, revealing her body to him with a languid, deliberate movement. The future king felt a familiar rush of desire, but there was something different in the way Hecla looked at him tonight. There was a hunger in her eyes, a brazen boldness that sent a shiver down his spine.
With a knowing smile, Hecla reached out, pulling Hacktor to her. She pressed her lips to his, her voice a sultry whisper, “Livy and Arkan are with the maids. We are alone, my future king. Come, let us drink deep of love until the dawn; let us enjoy ourselves with love.”
You might wonder—who are Livy and Arkan? And are Hacktor and Hecla truly lovers? Indeed they are—this is nigh four years after Hacktor’s return to court. Much has transpired in that time, especially between two power-hungry young adults secretly conspiring to seize control of the world. Their union was inevitable, and once I reunited them, fate took its course swiftly. Hacktor, unable to resist Hecla’s charms when in her presence daily, soon realized he needed her as much as he desired her. And Hecla, ever the strategist, was only too happy to fulfill her brother’s needs, for she knew how to leverage their bond to her advantage. Given that both were in their most fertile years, it is little surprise that their union bore fruit. By now, Hecla had birthed two children—Livy and Arkan. Hacktor believed both to be his, though neither had yet been formally recognized as his heirs. The royal scribes had carefully omitted Hecla’s name from the records to preserve the illusion of her public chastity, though the truth was widely known. During both pregnancies the princess had lived in seclusion to promote the great lie although everyone knew the truth – not just her fellow conspirators, but even the commoners too – for the ‘unofficial’ story that made the rounds in the taverns was that these were indeed the offspring of the powerful royal couple.
However, even this was not the full truth. Livy, the firstborn daughter, was indeed Hacktor’s. But the boy, Arkan, was the offspring of his father, Baldur. The child’s striking resemblance to Baldur, more apparent with each passing day, should have raised Hacktor’s suspicions, yet he dismissed it as a familial quirk. Hacktor remained oblivious to his father’s continued abuse of Hecla, but she knew the truth well. While Hecla doted on Livy, she harbored a deep, secret loathing for Arkan. The boy was a constant reminder of her father’s cruelty, and so she was content to let Livy and the maids care for him, keeping him at arm’s length from her heart.
Hacktor and his twin shared a burning desire between them, and soon they were frantically tearing away his garments, casting aside all thoughts of war and power—until they reached his belt.
“What’s this?” Hecla’s breath caught as her gaze fell upon the massive battleaxe at Hacktor’s side.
Hacktor paused, his heart pounding in his chest. With a deliberate motion, he unfastened the weapon, removing the sheath to reveal the blade’s gleaming edge. The candlelight caught on the polished surface, reflecting a thousand points of light that danced across the room. “It’s called The Ghast,” he said, his voice filled with pride.
Hecla’s eyes widened in awe. “It’s magnificent.”
“It’s more than that,” Hacktor replied, his voice low and filled with conviction. “This weapon is our future. With The Ghast, I will crush our enemies, both abroad and within our own borders. I will carve my name into the very bedrock of Mittengarten, and I will do it with you at my side—as my queen.”
Hecla’s eyes burned with a fervor that matched his own. “Indeed you will,” she purred, pulling him and the massive axe onto the bed with her.
Their passions consumed them, the room filled with the sounds of their desire until the flames of the candles had nearly burned out. Candlemarks later, Hacktor awoke, his body still entwined with Hecla’s. But as he stirred, he noticed something unexpected—the princess was holding The Grim.
Hacktor frowned as he reached for the small black blade, but Hecla resisted, her gaze fixed on the dagger in her hands. “It’s… strange,” she murmured. “It doesn’t look like much, and yet, I can’t seem to let it go.”
Hacktor drew her closer, allowing her to keep the blade for now. “The feeling will pass. I too felt a mysterious pull from that little dagger when I first held it. But it is nothing, my love. Pay it no mind.”
Hecla’s lips curved into a sly smile. “It is amusing, though, don’t you think?”
“How so?” Hacktor asked, curious despite himself.
Hecla pointed to the pommel, where a small ruby was embedded in the intricate carvings. “The craftsmanship is fine, but look here—Hef Fastuz didn’t even get your name right! Shouldn’t there be an ‘H’ instead of a ‘G?’”
Hacktor chuckled, shaking his head. “The ‘G’ stands for The Grim—the truename of the blade. Though why such a worthless weapon would have a truename is beyond me. The stone blade is dull and outdated—it would be useless in battle.” He reached into his pack, pulling out another dagger and handing it to Hecla. “Now this—this is a weapon.”
Hecla’s eyes widened as she took in the sight of the gem-encrusted, steel-bladed dirk. “Brega’s Bane,” she whispered, the spell of The Grim breaking as she marveled at the new blade. “Where did you get it?”
“Haraclez gifted it to me,” Hacktor explained. “He said his stewardship over it had ended.”
“Grandfather would be proud,” Hecla said softly. “And even more pleased that father never held it.”
“He wasn’t worthy,” Hacktor agreed. “But I will prove myself. Brega’s Bane will be a fitting companion to The Ghast.”
“And what shall we do with this?” Hacktor asked, lifting The Grim from where Hecla had dropped it.
Still entranced by Brega’s Bane, Hecla barely glanced at the smaller blade. “Send it to Uncle Rawf,” she said dismissively. “Let him deal with it.”
Hacktor smiled at her suggestion. Rawf V, the Kon-Herr Drokka of the Akka Mountains, ruled a distant kingdom far removed from the soon-to-be war-torn lands of The Rhokii. “I like the way you think, dear sister. Yes, let Uncle Rawf bear the burden of this little dagger. Perhaps one day he’ll find a prophet who can unlock its quirky magic.”
With The Grim cast aside, Hacktor and Hecla turned their thoughts back to The Ghast as they lounged on the bed. Hecla traced a lazy finger across Hacktor’s chest, her voice a sultry whisper. “How can we make the most of your weapon?”
Hacktor, still exhausted from their earlier exertions, sighed. “Sister, your passions are insatiable.”
Hecla laughed, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “The weapon I’m talking about is The Ghast, silly.”
Hacktor pondered her words, considering the power of the blade he now possessed. “It’s a magical weapon—isn’t that enough?”
“Perhaps,” Hecla mused. “And yet, I wonder—if one Ghast is formidable, wouldn’t an army of them be unstoppable?”
[And so it was that Hecla hit upon the idea I had already planted in Hacktor’s mind—create more copies of The Ghast. The thought caught the prince off guard – on the one hand, he was impressed that his sister had come up with the same plan as The Spirit, on the other he wasn’t yet ready to reveal to Hecla just WHO that Spirit was. It seems Hacktor was a bit ashamed that he was taking advice from The God of Death – well, that could be a problem for you eventually, my son].
Hacktor’s mind was already racing ahead, considering the possibilities. “It would take time, and the process would not be easy. The original Ghast was made by a master craftsman under the most extreme conditions.” And pretending that Hecla’s idea was original, Hacktor played along, “Baldur said he despises war because there are no winner. Perhaps that may be true if both sides have similar weapons. But, when one side is superior, victory can almost be assured.” Rising up from bed, Hacktor ran with the idea as he hastily dressed himself again. “I shall return to Hef Fastuz and command him to make more Ghasts – once I have them I’ll return to father.”
The smile fell from Hecla’s face at the mention of Baldur. “But…”
Hacktor ignored her, getting ready to leave. “With an army equipped with Ghasts, we’ll be invincible. Baldur must buy into my idea then!”
“Hacktor wait. I need to tell y–”
Nearly at the door, Hacktor continued talking to himself, “With a hundred or more Ghasts, who could oppose us? We could wipe the Derk clean from the face of Mittengarten. We could destroy the ancient families who hate us. We could create our own destiny? How could Baldur deny us that right if victory was certain?” And he hurried out of his chambers in search of his guards.
For her part, Hecla remained in bed, finishing her own thoughts, unable to hide a smile from her face. “Dear brother, I wanted to tell you about The Siq. The plans of The Priory and the elites you hate so much will soon come to pass. And when they do, you won’t need to worry about Baldur interfering any longer. In fact, we won’t need to worry about Baldur at all.”
As Hacktor raced to his own room, his thoughts were consumed by his father’s impending wrath. He knew he had to confront his father eventually, but the thought of doing so filled him with anxiety. The smell of myrrh, cinnamon, and burnt candles still lingered in the air, and the memory of Hecla’s touch clung to his skin like a second layer. He could still feel the weight of her gaze, the fire of her ambition, burning into him. But beneath that fire, there was something else—something cold and calculating, something that sent a chill down his spine.
Hacktor instinctively reached for The Ghast, feeling the comforting weight of the battleaxe at his side. But even as he reassured himself with the weapon’s presence, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
He had seen it in Hecla’s eyes—the hunger for power, the unrelenting ambition. And he knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before that ambition consumed them both.
But for now, Hacktor pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the task ahead. He had a weapon to wield, a kingdom to conquer, and a father to defy. And he would need all the strength and cunning he could muster if he was to survive the trials that lay ahead…
Meanwhile, with Hacktor gone, Hecla relaxed further into the comforts of her ded, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She could still feel the lingering sensation of The Grim’s pommel in her hand, the strange pull of its mysterious power. But she pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the image of Hacktor wielding The Ghast in battle, cutting down their enemies with ruthless efficiency. She had no doubt that her brother would succeed in his quest for power, and when he did, she would be right there beside him—his queen, his equal, and his greatest ally.
But even as she drifted off to sleep, a nagging thought tugged at the back of her mind—a thought she couldn’t quite shake. There was something about The Grim, something that didn’t sit right with her. As the last candle flickered out, plunging the room into darkness, Hecla’s smile widened. The future was bright, and soon, the world would tremble at the name of Hacktor and Hecla Derkillez!
The Apocrypha of Azazel 