The Grim Conspiracy

by C. Craig Coleman

  The witch stood up, slowly turning slightly to her side, swaying to make a smaller target. She cleared her throat stalling for time. A smile that might have been beguiling on a young lady grew on Nokmay like withered mushrooms on rotting wood.

  “Well, you see, I was passing by and heard you having dinner and thought I’d say hello.” The ax she held behind her back felt as if it wouldn’t let go of her. She tried to flick it back in the undergrowth, but it clinked on a rock. She could feel the heat of her flushing face.

  The troll frowned, stepped forward, and shoved her out of the way. He reached down, picked up the ax, inspected it, and then waved it in her face. “You come calling with bones and an ax?” He gripped the weapon in his hand, clearly going to use it.

  Still on the ground, Nokmay shuffled backward. “I meant no harm. I was looking for firewood.”

  “Firewood? There ain’t nobody living within miles of this place. I’d cook and eat your scrawny self if’n I hadn’t just eat. I’ll keep you fresh to cook later.” He snatched Nokmay in one hand and started shuffling back down the steps to his cave below.

  Nokmay flopped like a doll in his hand. She hung out over the sinkhole, looking down. A cloud passed over, and when the moonlight returned, she saw black things crawling on a sandy mound deep in the bottom of the pit. Startled, she gasped, “What are those black things down there?”

  At the cave entrance, the troll dropped Nokmay on the stone floor and looked over the edge. “Them’s the god’s young’uns. They eats dead stuff like ya bowels.” He grinned.

  Nokmay crawled to the edge and looked over. The moonlight reflected off the glistening tapir bowels as three things, black as midnight tore at them.

  “They’re as big as pigmies and have six legs! Their only distinguishing features are glowing yellow eyes.” She backed up away from the edge until her back rested against the smoky, greasy wall.

  The troll stoked the coals of his fire and threw on another log. He picked up the half-eaten tapir leg from the dirt and gnawed it. The sound of sand grinding against his rotted teeth and the bone gave her chills. He glanced at Nokmay and grinned. When he finished, he tossed her the bone. “Eat, you need to fatten up before I cook you.”

  She didn’t bother to hide her disgust and shoved the bone away from her with her foot. He chuckled. His laughing face faded into a frown, “Don’t be trying to get away. You do, and I’ll tie you up on a stick and prop you up against the wall for cooking tomorrow.”

  “What’s your name?” Nokmay asked.

  “Tiny,” he said. His head hung backward laughing. It reverberated through the cave.

  “Tiny, what are those things at the bottom of the pit?”

  Tiny stiffened, “Those be the kids of the god of the Underworld. He made’em. They ain’t live. They eats dead flesh, but they ain’t live. I feeds’em, so the god don’t bother me.”

  Nokmay’s brain was racing. The gods I know are stone, she thought. They certainly don’t talk to people. Evil priests exploit the peoples’ fears pretending to relay the will of gods, but they promote what enriches themselves and their kings.

  She shuffled to the cave edge and leaned over to look once more. The bowels and black things eating them were gone. She turned back to the troll; he laughed. She crawled closer to the fire as the night chill spread into her old bones.

  “You say they aren’t alive, but they appear to be and eat dead stuff, too?

  “Yeah, something went wrong. The god of the Underworld takes care of them down there. They beze between life and death.”

  4: The Council Meeting

  Ickletor stood beside King Jornak of Octar’s primary advisor. They were meeting with the king’s other councilors and several of Octar’s most powerful nobles. The lords were restless, passing among their fellow members grumbling their fears just short of spawning a conspiracy.

  Ickletor stood and raised his hand to stop the muttering. “Let us hear our chief minister’s good opinion.”

  One older man turned towards the dais, bowed then rotated to Ickletor. “Where is the rain your demands for sacrifice called for? Our children have died for Yingnak, and yet there is no rain.”

  Though the old man’s shaky limbs betray his age, Ickletor thought, his eyes still flash the fire of confrontation.

  He looked to the king’s advisor who sat mute, trembling and shifting from side to side on the throne as if he had piles. Disgusted that King Jornak had virtually abandoned his high priest to the mob, Ickletor barely nodded to the king’s representative and turned to the crowd.

  The intensity of the mumbling has reached a dangerous level, he thought. I must crush this seething rebellion, or I’m likely to be the next sacrifice. He raised his hands and smiled.

  “The sacrifices of your children have not been in vain. Yingnak has forgiven your transgressions. He is testing our resolve and devotion to him. Do not now waver in your faith in Yingnak! He will send rain in time to save our harvest.”

  The confrontational noble with the white hair that voiced the challenge earlier stepped closer to the dais. “You sacrificed the eldest sons of Octar’s finest families, Ickletor.” He pointed to the high priest and turned to scan the room assuring attention to his words. He turned back to face Ickletor. “Why did you not sacrifice the hostage of Tigmoor, Prince Malladar before the sons of our best families?”

  Ickletor smiled indulgently if insincerely at the old man, “Were we to sacrifice Prince Malladar, would Yingnak not favor King Agmar his father and all of Tigmoor before Octar?” He scanned the room. The people looked to each other at that possibility. Heads nodded. “We have sacrificed our best. Yingnak knows that and will reward Octar. Prince Malladar may well serve as a sacrifice if more is needed.”

  The nobles seemed to accept this response backing Ickletor, not the old man. The king’s representative nodded agreement, and Ickletor smiled.

  “Yingnak will save our crops as promised. Now return to your homes and families. All will be well soon.”

  The old man melted back into the crowd, but Ickletor had noted his threat. That old fool will lead the sacrifices in the next round, the high priest thought and smiled.

  *

  When he left that audience, Ickletor met with the king’s councilors in private. Scanning the room of twitching ministers, Ickletor noted all had been among the prior assembly that dared question his decisions and authority.

  “Gentlemen, the unrest requires more stringent measures while we wait for Yingnak’s blessed rain. The god is on our side, but he requires our patience. Meanwhile, we must squash this rebellious fervor before it becomes a dangerous threat to the kingdom.”

  The twitchy-eyed councilors looked one to the other. All seemed reluctant to argue with the high priest. One finally spoke up, defusing the strain by deferring to Ickletor to resolve the issue.

  “What do you suggest we do, High Priest?”

  Ickletor moved to sit in the absent king’s seat at the head of the table. He was pleased to see the symbolic move wasn’t lost on the councilors.

  “Clearly, Yingnak is still annoyed. There are those among us that would defy our god. We would do well to identify the minorities that must be the source of the god’s irritation. We must point out their evil natures and so bring the wrath of the people down on those few. That will shift the people’s rage to them and away from the king and court.”

  The noble councilors, the wealthiest men in the kingdom, instantly saw the advantage of that move. Heads nodded to each other, and they looked to Ickletor like a savior.

  “You must each one identify those that argue against the king’s decisions and confront you on your very estates. Those are the source of unrest. Select those that are well known or easy to identify as different and difficult. We will find common threads among them and focus our blame on those individuals.”

  Ickletor sweetened the pie. “King Jornak should proclaim a tax reduction to relieve the strain on our poor people. Of course, the tax reduction wi
ll benefit only you nobles who deserve it most, but the peasants won’t realize that. We’ll make it sound like it benefits them. You get richer, and they will imagine they won a great concession.”

  A councilor towards the far end of the table suddenly stood up. “Ickletor is the wisest of us all. No wonder the god Yingnak favors this man.” He raised his goblet in a toast: “Blessed are we to have such a seer.”

  The others stood and raised their libations in a toast to Ickletor. As they rose to leave the room, the high priest tapped the table. The men hastened to sit back down.

  Ickletor looked at each man in the eye. “If the rain doesn’t come soon, we may need to initiate a war of conquest.” The room erupted in chatter. Ickletor raised his hands, and the room was silent at once. All turned to the high priest.

  “If the people grow into a mob, they are likely to attack their overlords first, will they not? You saw the strained faces in the plaza. Each day the rains fail, the people grow more agitated. We as nobles will be first to suffer from mob’s anger. They might demand your sacrifices to Yingnak if they don’t kill you in your beds in your own homes.” Ickletor let the men chatter to feed their fears and assure their compliance with his next suggestion.

  “In times of internal crisis and division, nothing works so well as a war to unite the people. We must begin to consider such a move, gentlemen. Go now to your estates and give this some thought.”

  This time the men rose slowly. They grumbled as they meandered out. The air and tone were thick with dread and skepticism.

  I planted the seed, Ickletor thought. They will soon come around to the war solution. I know just which kingdom would be the object of our aggression.

  Prince Malladar is now nineteen years of age. He’s been a hostage to ensure peace with Tigmoor for the last fourteen years. He’s grown muscular and handsome through those years. King Jornak’s daughter, Princess Kayla and Prince Malladar have been spending too much time together laughing and playing. The young man is coming of age and perhaps is feeling frisky. Perhaps it is time Prince Malladar has worn out his welcome and usefulness. Now he may well do something that would provoke a war rather than prevent it.

  Ickletor smiled at the thought. Then there’s the Princess Kayla’s beauty. She has enticed me in the past, causing me to stare too long at her when she entered and left a room. She is, after all, our widowed king’s daughter and heir to the throne. What a wife she will make, what a queen, what legitimacy she could bestow to my claim to the throne when old King Jornak dies.

  Now that I’ve planted those causes for action in the noble minds, I must create the trigger for implementation. Being rid of that Malladar hindrance to my marital plans will be an excellent additional benefit, Ickletor thought.

  5: Murder

  Nokmay lay down by the fire and watched the troll gnaw the last of the tapir bones. Tossing the femur, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand and looked at the boney old hag. Eyelids drooping, he began to wobble. With a grunt, he rose and shuffled over to her and grinned. She stiffened. He reached down, and she drew back.

  “Leave me alone!”

  The troll grabbed her arm and dragged her to the back of the cave where a rough cage sat in the gloom. He unfastened the door and shoved her in. “Shut up and keep quiet. Your time will come tomorrow.” He closed and fastened the door then went back to lie down by the fire where he pulled a tattered animal skin over himself. He was soon snoring.

  Nokmay hurried to test each bar of the cage. Near the back, she found the vine rope that tied the bars in place had been chewed by some previous victim. Scrounging the gravel under the floor, she found a piece of a broken bone. She used the sharp tip to pick at the vine shred by shred until it unraveled. She pulled the cage bar away.

  It must have taken me half an hour to free that one bar, she thought. She looked over the rock separating her from the snoring troll. The light was dim from the fire’s dying coals, but she could make out he was sound asleep. How long before he wakes up? She shook her head; I mustn’t think of that.

  Carefully pulling the bar free so as not to make a sound, she pushed it aside and found she could just squeeze out of the cage. Then she noted the first rays of dawn had just begun to shoot through the cave opening striking the wall.

  How long, she thought.

  She watched the sun creep across the wall and down to the cave floor toward the troll. Minutes, she only had minutes before the sun’s warmth woke the creature. He’ll leap up to avoid the sun turning him to stone. Snapping out of her fear, she scanned the cave for that femur bone. Keeping an eye on the troll, she crept to the bone, disturbing a bevy of flies. Disgusted, she took the greasy weapon in both hands and moved without a sound to the troll. His smell grew stronger with each step she took. Her heart was racing. The sun struck the troll’s sandal. Out of time, she drew back the bone in both hands and slammed the spiky hip tip down into the troll’s temple. The muffled crunch confirmed his skull had caved in as the head of the bone plunged into his brain.

  The troll moaned once and began to convulse. For a second, his eyes opened and glared at her. She jumped back, but then his eyes went blank, and his head sank back to the floor. Nokmay’s tense body gave way. She fell back on the cave floor where her fear dissipated. It took her a few moments to gather her courage to poke the troll, ensuring he was really dead. With her new confidence, she stood and started for the cave entrance to escape. Then she turned back, remembering she needed the troll’s forearm. She took his knife from his belt and sliced off his forearm, then its hand. She fleshed the bones and wrapped the two arm bones in animal skin, tucking them into the pouch at her side. Again she started to leave the cave. At the edge, she noted movement below and looked down.

  Those black things are gathering at the bottom, scurrying about, looking for something, she realized. One looked up; she jerked back out of sight.

  They sense or smell the dead troll, she thought. Do I dare try to scale the sinkhole wall with them down there? Can they crawl up if the troll doesn’t throw dead flesh down to them? If one grabbed my leg on these narrow steps, it would certainly pull me into the pit. I’d die from such a fall. I can’t risk it.

  She went back to the troll. Disgusted, she approached the body then struggled to drag and roll it to the cave entrance.

  “Here you go. Eat all you want down there.”

  One last push with her foot and the carcass slid over the edge. The body tumbled down into the dark pit. The sun hadn’t cast enough light for her to see well, but she heard the thump at the bottom by the stream. The black shadows scrambled towards it. Nausea turned her empty stomach.

  Again her situation returned her to the dire circumstances she was in. She moved with stealth to climb out of the pit when a voice spoke. She froze.

  “You killed my troll,” the voice said. Nokmay looked all around; there was no one there. Only a black mist, a black mist that she’d not seen before hovered suspended in the center of the sinkhole. The voice was in her skull. She cocked her head, staring at the rippling vapor.

  “You killed my troll who fed my children,” the voice said. “Now you must provide for them.”

  Nokmay shook off her terror and gathered her fake confidence, “Who are you?”

  “I’m the god of the underworld, the troll told you. You now belong to me. You must remain and provide flesh for my children.”

  “Are you really a god?” Nokmay asked.

  “God or demon, I could destroy you in an instant, witch. Do as I say and return to the cave.”

  “No, I won’t live in that cave! If you’re a god, get your own flesh.”

  The vapor grew thicker, and its movement intensified. It moved closer to Nokmay, and fear overcame her.

  “Who are you?”

  “Call me Tingtwang, you arrogant fool. Must I destroy you for your defiance?”

  Nokmay shook off her fear and clutched the stone wall she held onto.

  “If you kill me, you will have no on
e to bring dead things to the pit.”

  “True, but I won’t let you escape your responsibility for my children’s care, witch.”

  Nokmay looked down and heard the faint, gruesome sound of teeth gnawing the troll’s bones. Her mind was racing.

  “Let me go, and I’ll get you bodies for those things down there.”

  “How would you do that? Why should I trust a witch to honor her word?”

  Nokmay stood up, chest out to portray self-assurance. “What choice do you have? If you kill me now, you only feed those things for the day. You have no one else to rely on. You must trust me.”

  The vapor began to draw back and dissipate slightly. “You have a point. Very well, I shall allow you to leave, but should you fail to deliver on your promise, I will come for you.”

  Feeling victorious, Nokmay started up the wall steps once more.

  “How will you provide flesh for my children?” Tingtwang asked.

  “I’ll find a way,” Nokmay said. She looked up. The edge of the sinkhole was but a man’s height away. A moment more and she’d make her escape.

  “You will initiate war, Nokmay! War will feed my children well.”

  Nokmay looked back at the mist, “How did you know my name?”

  The mist was barely visible. “I’m a god, Nokmay. And I will make your suffering long and painful should you fail to bring my children sustenance.”

  Nokmay scurried up out of the sinkhole and gathered up her satchel and handaxe. Looking back to be sure the god or demon hadn’t followed her; she scurried into the thick forest and far away from the hell’s sinkhole as she could get before dark.

  I hope the thing can’t get out of that death trap, she mumbled. She trembled; she knew it had kept up with her.

  6: Malladar, Prince of Tigmoor

  Prince Mallader was nineteen, taller than most of the young men, and well-muscled. His vibrant green eyes made him strikingly handsome and unique, where most had brown eyes. Those eyes sparkled as he ran across the grand plaza between the Yingnak’s great temple pyramid and King Jornak’s royal palace atop the great mound at the opposite end of the plaza. Laughing, he looked back to see if Kayla was still fussing and chasing him with a stick. She was winded. He stopped and covered his bent head with his forearms crossed on top.