Part IX: The Coming of the King
Chapter 9: A Royal Wedding
Timeline AO 299-300
I’d pulled myself out of bed and was doing some research in my library for a change. Life was good, I was feeling productive. But then I felt a slight vibration in the folds of my robe so I reached a bony hand into the pockets and pulled out The Eye – a thread was pulsing. Unable to resist – I set aside my book and took a peek inside…
Hacktor’s mood soured before he even set foot back in Rhokki Pass. As his troops made their way through the narrow streets towards the palace, the reception awaiting him was a far cry from what he had expected. Instead of a jubilant crowd, only a meager gathering of corralled citizens stood waiting. It was clear that their cheers were forced, their excitement feigned – Hacktor felt as though the life had been drained from the very air around him, more like a death march rather than a hero’s return.
When he finally arrived at the palace, things only worsened. A cold mountain breeze blew through the grand halls, its icy fingers creeping into his bones as he followed a page who led him towards a meeting with his council – already waiting for him. The massive wooden doors to the chamber groaned open as if reluctant to let him enter, revealing the grim faces of his advisors. There Hacktor learned the shocking news that two of his most vile enemies, Fukbyl Gaatz and Duktyr Fowzci, had escaped from what was supposed to be the most secure dungeon in all of TerrVerde. The dungeon had allegedly been breached by unknown ‘terrorists,’ yet Hacktor knew the truth – a sting of betrayal stabbed at him as he realized conspirators within this very room, working on behalf of the elite cabal, had orchestrated the escape. As Monty nervously explained that Fukbyl and Duktyr were now hiding, their whereabouts unknown, Hacktor clenched his fists in silent fury, the betrayal gnawing at his insides like a festering wound. He paid little attention to the rest of the meeting and quickly left once it was over, eager to see his sister Hecla and perhaps find solace in her arms.
Yet the news only got worse – a month later, alone in his chambers with Hecla, the king’s pysche raged. The soft glow of candlelight flickered across the room, casting long shadows on the stone walls as Hacktor held his sister close, her warmth doing little to thaw the cold rage simmering within him. “Today Heraclez returned unexpectedly from The Blackwoods,” Hacktor murmured, his voice heavy with bitterness. “He reported that his men at Lubbuk were routed by a surprise attack from Garrick. The old general claimed the goblins brought a real army, complete with infantry, archers, and chariots. Said their numbers were beyond measure, and his men never had a chance. Can this be true? Why didn’t the Marduk come while I was there? How did Heraclez alone escape? How can I ever hope to win a war like this?”
[News Flash – it wasn’t Garrick that routed Heraclez, but instead a well-organized union of petty kings from the hinterlands of Gor – knowing they weren’t going to receive any support from Babel, those goblin leaders banded together and overwhelmed the Drokka general’s forces at Lubbuk with surprise and guile. Without Hacktor on hand to hold his men together, Heraclez’s smaller forces were quickly routed. The general escaped by abandoning his men and using his wiles to secret his way home].
Hecla, her head resting on Hacktor’s chest, traced absentminded circles on his skin. Her voice was dreamy, almost detached. “It’s no better here at home, love, but the good news is that everything is in place for our wedding.”
Hacktor forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “I’m sure our wedding will be grand. But you speak of problems at home—tell me more.”
Hecla sighed, her breath warm against his chest. She had hoped her brother might show more enthusiasm for their upcoming nuptials, but she knew his mind was elsewhere. “Monty has been pestering me with concerns about the war’s impact on trade. He says that both our exports and imports are… constrained—his word. He proposed we lessen the impact by doing something with the coins. I believe he called it ea—”
“What do I care about money?” Hacktor snapped, cutting her off. “These are household affairs that you can manage without me. Tell me about the ghasts that Hef Fastuz was suppossed to be making – are they ready?”
Hecla didn’t like the way her twin was talking to her. She gave her lover a warning look and measured her reply. “I already knew you wanted more pseudo-ghasts for your army, Hacktor, and I took it upon myself to make some decisions since you’ve been so busy preparing to run off again. Hef Fastuz may be our best weapons-smith, but reliance on him alone will be a limiting factor. I knew that if anything should happen to the old hermit, we’d have major problems if he was to remain our sole source of your ghasts. Therefore I told Monty to commission every smith in the mountains to make your ghasts.” Here Hecla paused to see if Hacktor would dare to challenge her initiatives. When the man smiled, Hecla continued with pride, “Monty now has his smiths working night and day to meet a quota – that means more ghasts for your Drokka. And Monty knows that if he falls short, it will be his hide on the line. And as for what’s really important, you’re going to marry me within the fortnight – haven’t you seen all the decorations at court?”
Hacktor paled, though he tried to play it off, stroking Hecla’s hair with a gentle hand. “Well done, my beloved. You are wise and beautiful. As for Monty’s weapons, it doesn’t matter to me who makes the ghasts. And frankly, I don’t even care how good the weapons are. I just need the men to believe their weapons are like mine. When more Drokka see what MY Ghast can do, they’ll believe they can do great things too. More importantly I can’t wait to make you my queen, and I’m sure I’ll pay dearly for this wedding. But tonight, I’m going to ravish you for free.”
Their passions sated, the twins lay together, the room now filled with the scent of burnt candle wax and the quiet hum of satisfaction. But Hacktor’s mind was restless again, churning with thoughts of war and conquest. “We have more than enough men and resources to destroy our rivals,” he muttered, his voice dark with determination. “Quite frankly, the Derkka’s armies are pitiful, and they’re certainly no match for my Ghast. Victory is a certainty—we merely have to go back out there and take it.”
Hecla shivered at his words, a chill running down her spine. She could not bring herself to lift her head, her voice barely a whisper. “When do you leave next, my lord?”
“Not soon enough,” Hacktor grumbled, his thoughts already far from the warmth of their bed, lost in the distant lands where his enemies awaited their doom.
Winter’s icy grip tightened around Rhokki Pass, freezing the very breath of the Drokka even inside the mountains. The cold winds blew like a mournful ghost through the ancient stone corridors of the palace, but within its walls, warmth and light bloomed in stark contrast. For amidst the frost and chill, a grand event was being prepared—the wedding of Hacktor and Hecla Derkillez.
The palace bustled with activity, servants scurrying like ants, their breath visible in the cold air as they hurried to complete the final preparations. The great hall, normally a place of somber council, was transformed into a vision of opulence. Banners bearing the Derkillez sigil draped the walls, rich tapestries woven with scenes of past glories hung beside them, and the tables groaned under the weight of lavish feasts prepared for the honored guests.
The wedding day arrived, and the palace was flooded with nobles and dignitaries from across eastern TerrVerde. The Drokka elites, draped in their finest silks and adorned with jewels that glittered in the torchlight, filled the great hall, their voices a low murmur of speculation and gossip. Monty’s minions of ambassadors had spent the past year assuring their eastern allies that Hacktor’s expansionary plans were focused solely on the west. Although these dignitaries didn’t fully believe Monty’s propaganda, they were seasoned enough in the art of politics to attend and smile, making sure to keep up appearances.
But politics never slept. While the grand hall echoed with toasts and laughter, secret deals were being made in shadowy corners. Foreign elites whispered in hushed tones to the wealthy Drokka landholders—Rukstinz, Gaatz, and others—sealing agreements that would pay off handsomely should anything unfortunate befall the newlyweds. Power plays and alliances, veiled beneath the veneer of celebration, hinted at the dangerous game being played behind Hacktor’s back.
Outside the palace walls, the commoners were not forgotten. Though uninvited to the royal affair, they celebrated in their own way. Taverns overflowed with patrons, their bellies full of ale as they cheered for their beloved monarchs. The streets of Rhokki Pass, usually so cold and uninviting, were alive with festivity. Sergeant Gromm Stonefist was the toast of the town, regaling anyone who would listen with exaggerated tales of his military exploits, his ghast a constant reminder of the king’s might.
As royal weddings go, Hacktor and Hecla’s was spectacular, a display of wealth and power meant to awe and inspire. Yet, despite the grandeur, one element of the ceremony stood out as both unique and unsettling—the public consummation of their union. Hecla had convinced Hacktor of the necessity of this display, arguing that it would quash any whispers that the twins were not truly husband and wife. Although Hacktor initially balked at the idea, Hecla’s allure and persuasive charms eventually won him over.
A massive bed was raised on a dais in the feasting hall, surrounded by a circle of nobles who watched with a mix of fascination and discomfort as Hacktor and Hecla performed the ritual. The atmosphere was charged with a strange energy, a mingling of raw passion and power that left the witnesses breathless. The people, who had long suspected the twins’ intimate relationship, could not help but be drawn to the spectacle, their minds filled with whispered rumors of the girl Livy and the now-dead child Arkan, believed by many to be the couple’s offspring.
Within a month after the wedding, Hecla informed Hacktor that she was again with child. The news was a balm to the king’s troubled soul, brightening his mood as he began to dream once more of a strong heir to carry on his legacy. Though he still mourned the loss of his son Arkan, he was certain that another boy was on the way, and this belief gave him a renewed sense of purpose.
Yet, even the joy of marriage and impending fatherhood could not fully soothe Hacktor’s restless spirit. That winter, driven by a gnawing need for guidance, the king made a pilgrimage to the Well of Wyzdom, a place shrouded in ancient mystery and power.
The journey to the Well was a harsh one, even through the Byways – for Winter’s hold within the mountains made the passage as bleak and unforgiving as Hacktor’s thoughts. By the time he and his entourage reached the sacred site, his body was numb with cold, but his mind was aflame with turmoil. The Well itself was a thing of legend, a deep, dark pool surrounded by swirling mists that seemed to whisper secrets to those who dared approach.
After paying his respect to Mirkir, Hacktor entered The Well. Kneeling before the misty pool, Hacktor bowed his head in prayer, seeking answers to the questions that plagued him—questions of war, of loyalty, of the future that awaited him and his unborn child. He remained there for what felt like hours, his breath frosting the air as he listened to the murmur of the water, the wind’s eerie song through the barren trees.
At last I let my Spirit appear to him.
“Shedu Mazai, my master. I beseech you. How can I ever hope to be a legendary Kon-Herr if I can’t fight any real battles.” Hacktor whined as he knelt before my shade amongst the swirling mists of The Well. “You promised me that my name would be written of in The Kroniklz like no other Kon-Herr before me.”
“And so it shall, my child.”
“I’m tired of these skirmishes in the woods. Ajax destroyed fifty thousand at Razzyn. Volzung a hundred thousand at Garn. Yet I’ve never seen more than a a few score of goblins at a time and none will fight me in a pitched battle! How can I display my military tactics if there’s no army to fight against?”
“Free your mind from the ‘rules of engagement’ you’re imposing on yourself. You give your enemy too much freedom of choice. Force them to fight you.”
“How can do I that when they always run away before my army arrives?”
“Make them want to stay and fight?”
“Tell me how, Oh Great Spirit, and my soul is yours.”
I laughed at that, “Rest assured, it already is. As for the answer to your question – you’ll find it inside yourself. You keep your rage caged – barred by rules about what’s proper in war and what’s not. Yet your colleague Fredrik Vendal spoke the truth – there are no rules in war, but what you make.”
Hacktor was still unsure so I continued. “Why do you kill the enemy’s men but not their women and children? Why do you leave their buildings standing? Why do you not destroy everything as a testament to your power? Let the Derkka people see the devastation The Ghast can really do and the name of Hacktor Derkillez shall be written in the stars!”
By the horrified look on Hacktor’s face, I could see my words struck home – evil would surely follow.
And now it was about to get really interesting…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 