Part XII: The Reckoning
Chapter 5: The Plot Against the Queen
Timeline: AO 302
The rumors of Hacktor’s death began to spread like wildfire through the kingdoms of the mountains, Meanwhile in the darkened corridors of power, the elites conspired.
“If Hacktor is truly dead, we must act swiftly to remove Hecla,” Lord Aric said, his voice a cold whisper. “We cannot allow the throne to remain in the hands of a lesser family like the Derkillez any longer.”
Although the Derkillez line was part of the Busz clan, the elderly Chaney didn’t dispute Lord Aric’s point, but gave a nod of agreement.
Meanwhile Hylra Klytnz sneered, “Little Hecla clings to that throne like a drowning woman to driftwood. But her time is running out. Hacktor is dead, buried beneath that landslide, and yet she refuses to see it.”
“Perhaps we can have some agitators start a riot,” Byryk suggested. “In the chaos that follows we could seize power.”
Aric leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “There may another way to transfer power without the need for bloodshed. If we were to marry Hecla off to a suitable candidate, the throne could change hands smoothly. She wouldn’t have a choice in the matter, and the people would accept it as a sign of stability.”
Chaney Busz raised an eyebrow at that, intrigued at the obvious power play, “If we control Hecla, we control the kingdom. But who would be the lucky groom?”
Byryk, happily married to his heshe wife Mykk, glanced around the room, a mischievous grin spreading across his seemingly ageless face. “Lord Aric, you are the most powerful among us. Perhaps you should take the throne through marriage.”
Aric’s expression soured. “Hecla’s beauty does not sway me, nor do I have the patience for the burden of the crown. I am more effective in the shadows, where real power lies.”
Fat Fukbyl Gaatz, however, leaned forward eagerly. “I would be more than willing to take her hand. The people would accept me as king, and the transition would be seamless. Plus, with Hecla at my side, our rule would be unchallenged.”
Hylra smirked, her eyes flashing with amusement. “It seems Fukbyl is eager to trade his ambitions for a crown. Perhaps he’s more suited to ruling than we thought.”
Aric nodded slowly, his mind already calculating the potential advantages. “Very well. Let’s explore this option. But remember, if Hecla resists, we must be prepared to act swiftly. The kingdom cannot afford weakness.”
“And if she refuses I can always unleash Zarz,” added Fukbyl, his voice low and calculated. “With Monty’s propaganda network the entire kingdom would be consumed by fear. They’ll look for someone to blame, and it won’t take much to turn them against Hecla.”
“We’ll take it under consideration.” Aric said dismissively, “In the meantime…”
Yet Queen Hecla refused to believe the rumors. She could not—would not—accept that Hacktor was dead and she flatly refused to even listen to proposal for a future marriage – especially not from the despised Fukbyl.
Desperate for answers, Hecla turned to the soothsayers, those who could read the runes and divine the future. They confirmed that Hacktor lived, though they could not say where or in what condition.
Despite these assurances, the pressure from the elites grew stronger. Whispers filled the underground kingdom, and the people began to doubt. They were suffering, after all, their lives growing increasingly difficult as the elites drained the kingdom’s wealth for their own gain. Hecla knew all this, yet still tried to hold out hope. Finally, against every fiber of her being, she turned to Mirkir the Wyze – the lecherous priest who’d abused her husband during his formative years, but who also served as his mentor and staunchest ally. Mirkir – her hated enemy who now might prove to be her last life line.
The flickering light of a single lantern cast eerie shadows across the room where the Wyze One met with the queen in quiet study of the palace – far from the prying eyes of the oligarchy or the teeming masses.
“He’s alive, Mirkir,” Hecla said, her voice firm but tinged with desperation. “I feel it in my bones. But I need proof. The elites are circling like vultures, waiting for any sign of weakness. And I’ve already learned about their plot to marry me off once Hacktor is written in The Kroniklz as dead.”
Mirkir, his eyes hooded and unreadable, nodded slowly, cautiously. “The runes speak of life, but they do not speak of place or time. The Spirit of the Well has whispered to me, but the words are elusive, veiled in shadow.”
Hecla’s hand clenched into a fist. “I need more than whispers, Mirkir. The kingdom is slipping from my grasp. If Hacktor doesn’t return soon…”
“The Nave priests are Hacktor’s strongest allies.” Mirkir interrupted. “Never forget your husband has Krangor’s Mark – he is a royal Balkery! My clan has no love for the oligarchy who would seize our power and we are committed to seeing Hacktor fulfill his destiny. As long as you maintain our favor on Hacktor’s behalf, you have a shield.” And through veiled lids the aged cleric added. “I can perform another ritual, a darker one, to seek deeper counsel from Rhokki. There are paths yet unexplored.”
Hecla looked into Mirkir’s eyes, searching for any hint of reassurance. “Do it. Whatever it takes, find him. I may not be able hold this kingdom together much longer. The walls are closing in.”
Mirkir inclined his head. “I will do what I can, Queen Hecla. But remember, the will of Rhokki is not easily deciphered.”
That same night, in the privacy of his opulent quarters, Monty, the obese Coinmaster, was lost in thought. His rotund figure sank into the plush cushions of his chair, but his mind was fixated on one thing—Hecla. Her beauty had always captivated him, and despite the years that had passed, his desire for her had only grown stronger.
“And now that Hacktor is gone…” Monty grinned to himself as she licked his fingers in delight.
Although he served the elites in order to advance his own station in life and was far older than the queen, Monty had always angled to gain Hecla’s interest, using his wealth and influence as bait for the younger Drokkina. It mattered not to him that she was married, in fact that only added to her intrigue. And so, every glance Hecla spared him, every word she spoke, he interpreted as a sign that she might finally see him as something more than just her advisor. Deep down he knew that she kept him close only because she needed his support, but he refused to believe that was the only reason.
Still, hope was a dangerous thing. Monty allowed himself to imagine a future where he was not just the Coinmaster, but Hecla’s lover, perhaps even her husband, nay her king!
The thought of it made his pulse quicken, and he wondered if she could be swayed if he played his cards right
A few nights later, after another exhausting council meeting where she again refused to acknowledge Hacktor’s death and again refused any thought of remarriage, Hecla found herself alone Monty. The obese financier had served her father and had continued in his post under Hacktor. He now served the queen too. Although his advice had always seemed to pan out, Hecla still felt some unease around him. She had long noticed the way he looked at her, the way his gaze lingered too long, how he leaned in too close during their private meetings. She was repulsed by his oily flattery and his overindulgent figure, but she also understood that Monty’s loyalty could be bought with the right words and gestures.
“My Queen,” Monty said, his voice dripping with honeyed sympathy as he inched closer to her, “you mustn’t worry so. The people love still Hacktor, and they love you. They are simply… frightened. Times are hard, but with the right guidance, they will come around.”
Hecla’s casually moved away. “And what guidance would that be, Monty? I’ve heard talk that the town criers are proclaiming Hacktor’s death in the taverns, stirring unrest among the common folk. Tell me that isn’t true.”
Monty spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “My criers have done no such thing, my Queen. The have only spoken the truth as it stands. The people need to prepare for all eventualities. They look to you for strength, and that’s what I’ve encouraged.”
Hecla was silent for a moment, weighing his words. Then running a hand through her hair she mused to herself, never gave him too much, just enough to keep him hopeful, and then said aloud, “And if Hacktor returns? What then?”
Monty’s smile never faltered even though his face flushed. “Then all will rejoice, and we will build a new era of prosperity together. But in the meantime, you must keep the elites at bay. Let them think you are their ally, and they will not move against you.” And then he added in a whisper, “You must know that I am your ally in all this. The others may plot and scheme, but you can trust me. I can be all that you need me to be…and more.”
Hecla kept a chair between them as she studied Monty’s face, searching for any crack in his facade, but found none. She knew he was lying but she also knew that Monty’s support was crucial. For right or wrong the Coinmaster controlled the flow of wealth within the kingdom, and without his backing, she would be isolated and vulnerable. So she played her part, smiling at him and letting Monty believe there was a chance—no matter how slim—that he could win her favor. “You’ve always been there for me, Monty. I will consider your counsel for you are my closest friend and mean more to me than you know.”
“My Queen, I live to serve you and Hacktor,” Monty replied smoothly, his bow deep and full of practiced humility. “I am your most loyal servant.”
As Hecla watched him leave, a cold shiver ran down her spine. Monty’s words were sweet, but there was a rot beneath them. She knew he was not to be trusted, but with the walls closing in, she had few allies left.
Things only got worse for Hecla – her nights were haunted by visions of her brother—alone, besieged by enemies, and lost to the darkness of the underground world that was Oz. But the days were no better – even the scribes were now hounding her to let them write Hacktor’s ‘final story’ and close The Kroniklz on his chapter.
“Never!” She raged at them, and anyone else who dared to broach the subject with her.
And then there were the growing reports of problems down in Duzarez – scores of people getting sick, rumors of another plague, the very last thing she needed with her grip on the throne growing more tenuous by the day. She had no time for that news and delegated it to Monty to take care of – thankfully her advisor happily took that off her plate.
As the year of AO 302 progressed Hecla valiantly weathered the storms battering against her. As she was still the official queen and refused to acknowledge Hacktor’s death, without formal confirmation, she could not be removed from her throne. Much to the elites charging, Hecla clung to that power with a tenacity that frustrated her enemies.
Desperate for answers, she continued to turn to Malchior Der Naves, Mirkir the Wyze, and magicians and soothsayers from beyond the realm – paying exorbitant ‘donations’ to anyone who would perform rituals to seek the guidance of any god who could tell her brother’s fate. In every case, the message was the same: Hacktor was alive, but none could verify his location or circumstances.
This ambiguous news did little to quell Hecla’s fears, nor did it stop the growing unrest among the elites. While the Nave priests remained her staunchest allies, their support the only thing standing between her and the wolves at the gate. But even Mirkir and his allies could see the writing on the wall—without Hacktor, Hecla’s days as queen were numbered.
And though she resisted with all her might, Hecla knew deep down that she needed her brother to return, or all would be lost.
By Autumn AO 302, Hecla found herself surrounded by enemies. The elites grew bolder, their plots more overt. She’d tried to ignore the news months before, but she could no longer deny that a new horror had begun to spread through the kingdom: there was a Zarz outbreak in Duzarez!
Although that region was the farthest from Rhokki Pass in the mountains, the news that came from Duzarez was horrifying – somehow a bad batch of mushrooms from the farms in that area had become infected with Qzar, before anyone knew realize it those ‘shrooms had been sold at the market and thus made their way into the food supply. Zarz took root and spread.
When Monty told her the news, Hecla had immediately recognized the work of Fukbyl Gaatz and his minion Duktyr Fowzci.
“They call it Event 201.” Monty frowned, pretending to be appalled at this turn of events and hoping the queen would forget that he himself had previously championed the plot. “Of course you know the remember the rest of that sinister design – even as we speak Fukbyl’s servant Duktyr is testing his Quvid herb against the disease.”
Hecla well knew the rest of the plot – the virus would spread, driven more by the fake cure than the disease itself – and all the while Fukbyl and his ilk would profit from the people’s plight.
“Ach! I have no time for this.” Hecla raged.
“And I hate to bother you with it.” Monty reached a hand out to pat the Drokkina on the back, but Hecla shook him off. He continued. “Alas though, my people tell me the commoners in the taverns are looking for someone to blame. Some believed the plague was a curse from Baal, a divine punishment for Baldur’s death. Others claimed it was the scourge of Rhokki himself, angered by Hacktor’s failure to wipe out our enemies yet. Whatever the cause, the plague is real, and unrest among the citizens is spreading.”
By the winter of that year fear had gripped the population – although Zarz had not yet reached Rhokki Pass and the other northern kingdoms its effect was felt. The underground cities at the main kingdom, once bustling with life, became silent as people withdrew into their caves, many covering their faces with scarves and afraid to breathe the very air. The markets that had once thrived were more and more deserted, the goods left to rot as merchants abandoned their stalls and didn’t return. The rich of course merely retreated to their fortified mansions, leaving the common folk to fend for themselves in the ‘disease-ridden’ tunnels. Meanwhile, Hecla was powerless to stop Fukbyl’s plan and she was sure it had all been orchestrated by those conspirators who’d formerly partnered with her. Yet what could she do about it?
At last, standing in the great hall one evening, staring at the empty throne beside her, the queen longed for Hacktor’s return. “Where are you, my love?” she whispered into the darkness, feeling the weight of her loneliness pressing down on her. “It will soon be over. All that we’ve worked for will be lost.”
Falling to the ground near the throne Hacktor had once sat upon, Hecla lamented her fate – the kingdom was crumbling around her, and without Hacktor, she feared she would not have the strength to hold it together much longer.
Even still, the proud queen raised her head – something deep within her refused to give up hope. “Somewhere, deep within the mountains or beyond, I know you’re alive, my love. Come back to me. I need you. Return before it’s too late.”
The Apocrypha of Azazel 