With a gentle touch, he pressed her shoulder, “Lay back down; you’re recovering from exhaustion. Don’t try to stand too soon.” He smiled, reached for the chair by her bed, and sat down.
“I should be helping you, my lord,” Eva said.
Agmar turned to the maid, “Go get this lady some soup and be sure it’s fresh. Close the door behind you.” When the maid had left, Agmar turned again to Eva, “You are very brave or foolish. Others have told me privately that you stood between Lord Mensor and me while I was unconscious. He would have killed me had it not been for you keeping a vigil by my side all that time.”
“I’m so glad you are recovering, my lord, but you mustn’t do too much too fast. You had a nasty wound.”
Agmar tapped the bandage on his head where the wound was healing. “I’ll recover fast and be strong now that I have someone looking out for me. That’s more than I can say for Mensor.” He looked out the window into a thought. “There are more who would have my throne if given a moment of weakness on my part. I shall be more cautious in the future.” He looked back at Eva and smiled. “Meanwhile, you rest and recover your strength.” He rose to leave when the maid returned with fragrant soup.
As the door closed, Eva pushed the full spoon back to the maid, “You eat it first.” Her glare and tone made clear it was a command.
The maid flushed, revealed a weak smile, and ate the soup. Only then did Eva feel safe eating some. Mensor may be gone, she thought as she ate, but there were others in that party that would have acted had Mensor not been the first to seize the opportunity. My life is still very much in danger now.
40: A Covenant with Death
Deep in the temple mound, Ickletor sat fidgeting with The Book of the Underworld flipping pages, pointing to the words he thought he recognized across lines here and there. Candles flickered in the gloom of his study where the air seemed to be stifling. He slammed the book closed and jumped up out of his chair.
At the snap of the closing book, Sestec knocked lightly on the door. Ickletor spun round glowering at the sound source as if some monster pounded and was about to crash through and devour him. He felt his heart pulse twice before calming.
“What is it?” he bellowed.
“A thousand pardons for breaking your concentration, my lord. I heard a loud noise and feared you might have fallen. Is everything alright? May I help with anything?” Sestec asked.
Ickletor calmed, “No, Sestec, all is well. I dropped a book, that’s all. You may return to your duties.”
Ickletor looked again at the book, his stress somewhat diminished but not the frustration itself.
I’m getting nowhere on my own making sense of this book, he thought. I must accept help in translating it. Nokmay refuses to assist, but there is one who will not refuse me.
Later, the high priest jerked open the study door and stalked off down the hall to Sestec in his tiny office, updating some temple accounts.
“Sestec.”
The assistant priest stood dropping the turkey quill on the desk. “Yes, my lord, how may I assist you?”
“The bodies of the sacrifices this morning, where are they now?”
“The temple slaves are removing the last of them, I believe.”
“Go at once and bring one body to me down at the bottom of the staircase.”
“Pardon, but you want me to bring a body down to the bottom of the staircase… to the chamber where the tunnel to the underworld is?”
“Precisely! Now go before all the bodies are gone and I’m forced to take yours.”
Sestec swallowed hard, and his eyes swelled. He dashed around the table. As he passed Ickletor, the high priest added, “You may have slaves bring it down the internal staircase to the bottom administrative level, but you alone will bring it down the stairs beyond that point. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
No sooner had Sestec disappeared up the staircase than Ickletor hurried on his mission. He descended the stairs passing down under the administrative levels. The air got stuffier and hotter as he went deeper. He’d taken a torch at the last activity level, and now only torchlight lit the steps. In time, he reached the large room that surrounded the opening to the tunnel leading to the underworld. The partially exposed bones of a hand stood out on the floor. He kicked sand over the fragments but thought them appropriate to his mission.
He heard Sestec huffing and puffing dragging the dead body down the steps and entering the chamber. His wide-eyed assistant scanned the room before facing Ickletor.
“Drop the body there near but not too near the tunnel and return to your duties above.”
As Sestec dropped the stiff, bloody body on the floor and turned back to the doorway, Ickletor thought it funny his assistant failed to offer further assistance. He can’t get out of here fast enough.
Alone in the chamber with the torches lit, Ickletor took his knife and hacked off an arm from the body. He wiped the coagulated blood off his knife on the dead man’s garment and sheathed the blade. With the arm in hand, he stepped to and entered the gaping tunnel opening. Darkness soon engulfed the light. Further down, Ickletor heard the sound of rushing water. He knew it to be the river to the underworld. Stooped over, he shuffled along the rough footing until he heard water rippling over rocks just in front of him. He shoved the arm, still dripping blood, out into the darkness and the river.
A moment later, a splash out in the darkness sent the high priest scurrying back up the tunnel to the chamber of the dead at its mouth. There he waited. He’d settled back down against the chamber wall and had almost dozed off when he heard the unmistakable sound of chittering coming up out of the tunnel in front of him. He shook his head to clear it and gradually rose pressing back against the wall. He stood tall as three of the foul-smelling black minions of death crawled into the chamber, single file. Priest and creatures stared at each other a moment, and then the chittering began again. The lead creature raised up, turning this way and that seeming to search the air and room for something.
The foul things are sniffing for traces of death and decay, the priest thought. He pointed, “Over there! Your food is over there.”
The monstrous black things dashed to the corpse and began tearing and chewing the flesh — the sound nauseated Ickletor.
“Where is your maker?”
The feeding continued unabated.
Ickletor stepped to the lead thing and kicked it. The thing shot around still chewing bloody meat and stared up at his assailant. Undaunted, Ickletor repeated his question, “Where is your maker?”
The monster spat out the unchewed meat and scrambled back down the dark tunnel.
Ickletor waited, growing impatient. That thing wouldn’t have left the food for fear of me.
I hope it went to call its master, he thought.
He didn’t have to wait long. A black but translucent vapor began to waft out of the tunnel, and the stench of sulfur spread with it. When it hovered over the tunnel opening, the nasty black bug thing scurried through the opening and joined its two compatriots feasting on the remaining flesh.
When Ickletor looked back to the vapor, a finger of it stretched out. Unintentionally the priest breathed it in through his nostrils and coughed. The vapor drew back, but Ickletor felt a slight headache. He sensed someone laughed.
“It’s taken you much longer to come begging than I thought,” the voice in his head said. “I’d given you more credit than you’re due.” The laughter reverberated in Ickletor’s head. He cupped his ears and shook his head. The laughter stopped. “You came to beg my assistance.”
Ickletor sank to his knees. “We need rain; the crops have withered. The whole kingdom will starve. The people will rebel and overthrow the king and court if we don’t have rain right away.”
More laughter, “What would the god of the underworld have to do with the celestial regions? Fool, pray to your Yingnak. Oh… that’s right; he’s a block of stone.” The laughter seemed to rattle Ickletor’s
brain. “The more of you that die, the better my children will eat and the more souls I’ll harvest.”
“Please, I’m begging, you must save us!” A sharp pain shot through the priest’s head.
“You take me for a fool as well, High Priest? No, you are not here to beg for those poor people. You’re here to beg for yourself, for your benefit. You think the answers to your salvation lay within The Book of the Underworld and you’re here to plead for me to help you interpret it. You want to know how they benefit your worthless self.”
Ickletor fell forward groveling in the sand. His squirming exposed the hand bones he’d just covered. Disgusted, he shoved them away. His torso rose, but he remained on his knees.
“Yes! I want to know what is in The Book of the Underworld. I’m sure it has powerful spells that can save me. You can tell me what those incantations are and how to use them.”
The blackness in the vapor seemed to intensify consuming even the chamber’s torchlight.
“I want something in return for helping your miserable, greedy self.”
“And what do you want in return?”
“I want being!”
Ickletor sat back on his heels, concentrating on the vapor. “What does that mean, you want being?”
“Just what it says! I’m all-powerful but without substance. I cannot travel in the light of day aboveground. I want substance.”
Ickletor stood up, “I can’t give you substance. I have no such ability.”
“You have the being I will inhabit, false priest. I will give you the knowledge to utilize spells that will grant you power beyond your imagining if you do as I say and not question me or my motives.”
Ickletor bit his lip and turned away considering what Tingtwang had asked, demanded in exchange for the power to save him. Greed and lust for power swelled his twisted mind like bread dough rising. It spread through every cell of his body. He faced the vapor then hovering closer to him.
“I’ll pay your price; do your bidding without question.”
“Good! Good… now we are in agreement. You will demonstrate your devotion to me by sharing the flesh of that dead body with my children. Go and gnaw the bloody morsel on the exposed thigh bone. Eat all of it.”
Disgusted, Ickletor grimaced, “I can’t do that.”
The vapor wavered more vigorously shimmering in the torchlight. It drew back. Even Ickletor sensed the tension in the room, and his head began to ache.
“Do as you’re told, slave! Do it now! You’ve bartered your soul. Now seal the bargain and eat that rotting flesh or I’ll feed you to my children!” The sound of more chittering rose from the tunnel opening, and more of the glistening black things began entering the chamber watching the cowering priest.
Ickletor fell to his knees again, hesitated, and then crawled to the corpse now mostly bones. A chunk of muscle and tendon stood out on the femur bone nearest him. Nauseous at the thought, he grabbed the bone, snapped at the flesh whipping his head until he ripped the meat in his teeth from the bone. His scrunched face watched the vapor floating in front of him. He chewed while barely keeping down the vomit heaving in his gut, then swallowed. Without water, the tough meat seemed to cling to his throat; he choked.
“Swallow it! Complete your oath to do as I tell you without question.”
Ickletor gulped then fell forward. When he recovered from his faint, the chamber was empty except for the white bones of the sacrificial victim and himself. Drained, he struggled to stand but then fled up the stairs and back to his apartment higher up in the temple mound. He slammed the door shut and shuffled to his chair behind the desk. Ickletor grabbed a goblet of stale beer and chugged it down. Slamming the vessel back down on the desk, he wiped bitter foam from his lips with his sleeve.
I hope that was just a nightmare, he thought. Then he felt something stuck in his teeth. He picked out a small segment of dark red raw muscle with a speck of tendon attached. Dumbstruck, he grimaced at it then flicked it away as hard as he could.
Nebo, his pet iguana, dashed from under the desk to the wall and snapped up the piece of flesh gulping it down. His lips smacking, he looked back to Ickletor who stared in horror.
41: Encounter with Witch Cete
In a grim forest on the northern Tigmoorian border, a vile and ancient witch felt rumbling in the ground beneath her. When dark clouds subsequently thickened overhead, she’d sought shelter hobbling into her cave as the sun set. She shuffled to her visionary pool, waving her wrinkled, boney hand over the basin. She added a tea made from rare herbs to the water.
“Is someone there?”
The water became opaque, ripples spread across the surface, and a sudden fire danced on the water. The flame dissipated into black smoke that collected and hovered above the water. The witch caught the unmistakable scent of sulfur and backed away from the basin.
“Cete… I’ve not visited you in many ages,” the voice in her head said.
The witch cringed. “Tingtwang!”
“You remembered… how sweet.”
“Go away, I beg you, go away. I’m way too old to be dragged into your schemes now.”
“My dear Cete, I must insist you help me in but a small way. I need you to convince a young man to do as I’ve told him. It’s no challenge and won’t be any trouble for a witch of such a caliber as yourself.”
“I won’t be involved again in your plots,” Cete said. She turned from the vapor.
A spark shot from the Tingtwang. A wisp of foul-smelling smoke floated from the hole burned in Cete’s cheek. She screamed and clasped her hand to the throbbing side of her face, sank to her boney knees, and bowed her head before Tingtwang.
“What must I do?”
“Shift yourself to the road outside the village of Kako on the western road to Octar. You will encounter a prince named Malladar and a fool priest accompanying him. He’s on a mission for the high priest of Octar, but he’s wavering in his commitment to that obligation. You will engage them and win their confidence. Then see to it he falls ill so that he’ll have to return to Octar and shall we say, fulfill his duty. Do not kill him, just see to it he must seek medical attention. Do you understand?”
Cete hesitated; a searing headache throbbed. She fell prostrate in the dust.
“I’ll do as you demand. Stop the pain, I beg you.”
The pain ceased. She stood and sat rocking in her willow-stick chair. When she recovered and devised a plan, she gathered herbs, her shawl, and a wand, and then shifted to the road as told. She didn’t have long to wait.
*
Toda ran and wrapped his arms around the stele marking the Kingdom of Octar’s border. Malladar chuckled at the sight.
“Not glad to be back in familiar territory, are you, Toda?” Malladar turned, looking south.
Toda stood and frowned, “Don’t even think about it.”
The prince looked back at the priest, “Think about what?”
“You were thinking of turning south and taking The Eye of Dindak to your father in Tigmoor.”
Malladar looked down and chuckled, “Think you know me so well now, do you?” He looked up and grinned, “It’s not a bad idea now that you mention it.”
Toda ambled over and took the prince’s arm, “Come on; let’s go home. Octar’s been your home most of your life, Malladar. Kayla will be frantic you’ve been gone for so long. We can’t change the fate gods planned for us. Yingnak will protect us. The village of Kako is only a few miles up the road. We can rest there.”
As the travelers passed into a forest, trees grew taller into a canopy that dimmed the light. The road descended to a stream hemmed in by sides of woven roots. The cool air carried the scent of leaf mold above the dark, deep-flowing water. The current made no sound in passing beneath a low wooden bridge covered in moss.
As the men crossed over, they saw ahead a stooped and wrinkled older woman. Her dress frayed at the hem, and her back and head were wrapped in a faded shawl. She was struggling with a pale of water to get
up a steep hillside to a cave. She slipped on wet leaves and slid down the slick incline. Her bucket tumbled sloshing out all the water until empty; it rolled to rest by the bridge abutment.
Malladar rushed up, grabbing the pale before it could slide into the stream. He refilled it and carried it to the lady struggling to stand. Toda came up and taking her arm, helped her up.
“Oh!” she whimpered and lifted her leg, leaning on Toda for support. “I’ve twisted my ankle.”
Toda glanced at Malladar, who flicked his hand indicating Toda should help her to her shelter. With the help of the priest, the old lady hobbled up the hillside and into the cave. Malladar brought the bucket of water in right behind them, setting it by the fire.
The old lady lumbered over to a rickety chair and slumped into it. She wheezed, catching her breath and fanned herself for a moment. The men turned to go.
“No! You mustn’t leave me. Pray Yingnak, stay but a bit while I recover. Don’t abandon me alone just now. Stay and have a cup of tea before you go again on your journey. Allow me to share a refreshing cup of tea to repay your kindness.”
The two men glanced at each other. Toda rolled his eyes. They turned back to the woman then standing and ladling water into her kettle. She swung it over the coals. She limped over to a crude table and took down three cups and something from her a leather pouch. Back at the fire, she reached for her simple canister. Frugal or meticulous, she measured dark, dried leaves into the steaming kettle and set it on the table.
“I hate for you to go to so much trouble, ma’am,” Malladar said. He glanced at Toda and nodded. They stood. “We really should be on our way.”
The old woman rushed over and pressed Malladar’s shoulder, pushing him back down into a crude bench.
“It’s as good as done. You wouldn’t have me waste all this delicious tea, would you? And see here, I’ve just three of these tasty cakes to share.” She smiled. Her lone tooth stood pointed out from her mouth. As she turned away, Malladar noted her eyes were black as midnight.
The Grim Conspiracy Page 22