The Grim Conspiracy Read online

  The Grim Conspiracy

  A Dark Epic Fantasy

  By

  C. Craig Coleman

  The Grim Conspiracy

  Copyright ©2019 C. Craig Coleman

  All Rights Reserved

  All the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  All characters, character names and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by C. Craig Coleman.

  Cover art by Richard Sutton

  ISBN-13: 9781679421020

  ISBN-10: 1679421020

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to the late J. Herbert Joyner whose inspirational life stood for hard work, creativity, and the encouragement of others to do their best.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Richard Sutton for his encouragement and the cover, Grammerly Premium, and my editors.

  Table of Contents

  Contents

  Prologue:

  1: Damage Control

  2: Immortality

  3: Nightmare

  4: The Council Meeting

  5: Murder

  6: Malladar, Prince of Tigmoor

  7: The Slave Rasa

  8: Eva

  9: The Road to Octar

  10: Ickletor & Nokmay

  11: Nokmay & Eva

  12: A Journey Planned

  13: Unknown Creatures

  14: Eva’s Fresh Start

  15: Ickletor’s Test

  16: Dinner Too Hot

  17: Crossing the Void

  18: Ickletor’s Reassurance

  19: The Purple Mountains

  20: Eva Comes Home

  21: The Hatching of a Plot

  22: Malladar, The Seer & Bobo

  23: Nokmay Attends Court

  24: Ickletor

  25: The Eye of Dindak’s Shrine

  26: Nokmay’s Trip Home

  27: Ickletor’s New Pet

  28: Malladar

  29: Revolt

  30: Hatching a Plot

  31: The Eye of Dindak

  32: Eva & Tigmoor’s Palace

  33: A_Chat_with_Death

  34: Suspicion Falls on Malladar

  35: Bobo’s Return

  36: The Tremor

  37: Nokmay the Messenger

  38: Ready Set…

  39: Tumbling Tigmoor

  40: A Covenant with Death

  41: Encounter with Witch Cete

  42: Attempted Assassination

  43: Closer to Unknown Power

  44: Delivery

  45: Ickletor & Jornak Clash

  46: The Players Shift

  47: Turmoil in Octar

  48: On the Road to Tigmoor

  49: Reunion

  50: Escape

  51: Upheaval!

  52: Coming Together

  53: The Vile Plot!

  54: Upheaval!

  55: Peace!

  Reviews:

  About the Author:

  Prologue:

  The despondent people of Octar stood as a dusty, silent throng reverently staring up at the stone temple atop the great pyramid. They had come from miles around from their simple huts and homesteads to beseech their sky god Yingnak for rain. It had been the hottest and driest summer any could remember. Many of the crops had shriveled to spindly brown husks in the blistering heat that cracked the land. Without rain soon, there would be no corn stores for the dire conditions of winter.

  Previous offerings had failed to bring storms. As more and more of the crops withered under relentless heat, High Priest Ickletor had, at last, demanded the ultimate sacrifice. Only a dozen human lives would appease Yingnak. Desperate, the people had selected their most exceptional, most beautiful teenagers in their prime from among their lot. Their youth, beauty, and most of all, vitality would be the kingdom’s ultimate sacrifice. Ickletor had asserted this gift would ensure the god’s forgiveness. It would bring his blessings as rain.

  The young had bravely ascended the stairs to the temple. Silent to a man, the people had watched their future disappear into the temple. Yingnak was there in his shrine. The musty, humid air was heavy with exotic tendrils of incense smoke. Outside, swirling clouds formed, darkened, and hovered just above the temple. The rain was twelve deaths away.

  The first of the bodies torn asunder, hearts ripped from their chests, was suddenly hurled over the edge of the temple mount. Blood splashed from the gaping chest as it tumbled down and fell over the edge into the shadows at the foot of the grand stairs. A collective, muffled gasp rippled through the people who watched it descend, their grizzly hope against despair. A loud clang from the gilded gong by the temple entrance brought their attention back up to the shrine high above them. A steady flow of bodies cascaded down the staircase treads. Each body slid further down on the slick, bloody steps. The harsh iron smell of blood spread over and among the people like a dark vapor of ill wind.

  *

  High above in the dark recesses of the great temple, High Priest Ickletor stood magnificent in his splendid robes and massive headdress of feathers shooting from a bleached skull. The smell of gore was so strong the assistant priests’ faces grimaced from nausea. Ickletor and his primary assistant seemed not to notice. Seeing the others fidgeting around the floor wet with coagulating blood, he dismissed all but himself and Tulon who held the bowl of hearts, some still beating.

  Ickletor sauntered over the slimy floor to stand before the savage god Yingnak. The god’s skull face stared down at Ickletor with large, red jasper eyes. The vertical, obsidian pupils radiated reptilian malice. Yingnak was a fierce, unforgiving god, and the people had angered him. Ickletor bowed before Yingnak. The high priest was a large, well-muscled man whose deep voice thundered in the gloomy stone chamber.

  “On behalf of the repentant and obedient people of Octar, I, Ickletor implore your forgiveness for their transgressions. We offer these lives and their living hearts to placate your anger. Have mercy on your devoted supplicants and send the rains, oh great god Yingnak.”

  Slowly, reverently, Ickletor turned to Tulon behind him and nodded. The trembling old priest was on one knee, raising the bowl of hearts high to Yingnak. As he attempted to stand, his sandal caught on a crack between the floor’s stones. He stumbled. The bowl flew forward as if the god himself snatched it and smashed into the left pillar holding up the god’s enclosure. The squishy thuds of bleeding hearts plopping around the god’s dais followed the stark sound of the shattering bowl. The horrified priest gasped. Trembling, he stood speechless as blood trickled down the god dribbling off his throne.

  Ickletor’s mind raced. Never in the history of the people has such a disaster occurred, he thought. The rituals I learned from my father and grandfather before him never covered such a disaster. I’ve no idea how to proceed.

  He pressed his trembling hand against his body. Bile shot through him as he turned to his stunned assistant. Rage replaced fear’s nausea. He raised his staff to strike Tulon who had seen the fury swelling Ickletor’s eyes. The paled, old priest crumpled into the thickening blood professing apologies.

  The sickening sound of grinding stone and trickling gravel beside him made Ickletor spin around. The pillar holding up the god’s enclosure was crumbling. The dais began to lean forward. Yingnak’s throne shifted then slid slightly. Ickletor gasped as the moving throne edged frontward. Unimaginable terror shocked the priests. Time seemed to stand still; the priests dared to breathe. The ominous sound of crunching sa
nd added to the sickening groans of the crumbling stone. Then all movement seemed to stop. Ickletor breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, the stone pillar under the enclosure crumbled into rubble. The enclosure and the throne within it slid hitting the temple floor. Yingnak seemed to fly toppling from the enclosure and smashing into Tulon.

  Ickletor had a moment’s relief seeing Tulon’s quivering body break the god’s fall. But the deity rolled off the priest and up against the altar. A clacking sound seems so innocuous. Yingnak’s skull head rolled from his stone body. It stopped and rocked as if keeping time beside Tulon. Ickletor stared at the scene as it unfolded in his mind in slow motion. All that he had known in his life ended with a singular moment.

  The world has ended, Ickletor thought. Nothing moved at that moment after the skull ceased to rock.

  The mumbling of people down on the plaza below the temple grew louder, snatching him back to crisis reality. Undoubtedly, the world had not ceased, but then reality beyond the doors of the temple erupted with clamoring ripe with frustration and unfulfilled expectations. The crowd demanded Ickletor bring them the favorable acceptance of their precious offerings.

  I cannot delay, he thought.

  Tulon slowly raised his head. The whites of his eyes seemed to engulf the sockets. His stare locked on the god’s head. When it didn’t move, he looked up to Ickletor who saw the living embodiment of dread and fear.

  Ickletor’s rage supplanted his fear. He stepped by Yingnak’s stone body and jerked Tulon’s head back. His sharp obsidian knife’s blade slashed the trembling man’s throat. Blood pulsed out and melded with that of the other sacrifices on the floor. When the body stopped quivering, Ickletor dragged his assistant’s corpse to the temple door. He struggled to lug it across the platform and shoved it down the staircase.

  The people were instantly silent before staring up at Ickletor. The high priest raised his arms to the sky, turning this way and that so all the people could see his gesture.

  “Yingnak is pleased with your offerings and forgives you. He demanded this last sacrifice so that you would know even your priests must make the ultimate sacrifice. The rains will come!”

  There was a silent, tense moment. Will, the people, accept my assurances, he wondered.

  The devotees looked left and right, mumbled here and there and finally began to chant, “Praise be to Yingnak and his High Priest Ickletor!”

  As relief washed away uncertainty’s tension, Ickletor beamed smiles to his people. His mind was racing all the while. He looked up at the swirling, darkening clouds, and smiled. But then looked down again on his people and frowned. They must never know, he thought. The people must never know Yingnak is no god at all.

  1: Damage Control

  The people spanned the plaza at the foot of the great pyramid. They stared high up at Ickletor before the dark stone temple. Renewing his gleaming, reassuring smile, their high priest glared down at them. It morphed into a narrow-lipped scowl. His pinched features made his piercing dark eyes appear to glow scanning the crowd. His impatience was unmistakable. Uncertainty radiated from the supplicants’ glances at each other.

  They seek reassurance from their neighbors’ reactions, he thought.

  Ickletor’s arms spread wide fanning over the multitude. “Disburse! Go to your homes and fields. The rains will come.” He noted the nervous glimpses were replacing confidence on his people’s quizzical faces. “Do you question Yingnak’s will? Who among you questions the god’s decree? Go now; the rains will come.”

  Slowly at first, the people broke up into small groups, turned, and shuffled back away from the temple disseminating through the avenues and alleys to their homes.

  Ickletor turned back to fix his gaze on six of the lower-status priests cowering on the level just below the temple platform. He turned and looked down at the crumpled bodies splayed on the steps of the pyramid then back at the priests. “Go now and remove those remains. Take them below. Bury them in the gallery deep under the temple mound. Inter them in the floor of the offering chamber near the entrance to the tunnel to the underworld.” The jittery-eyed priests rose slowly. One began and led the rush down the steps to retrieve the bodies. One hesitated for a moment.

  “Toda,” Ickletor said, “Send me six strong, temple slaves here at once. I shall now evaluate you to become my most trusted new assistant. Do not question my commands. Prove your worthiness. Do not approach the temple yourself, Toda!”

  The short, scrawny Toda bowed low. “Thank you for this prodigious opportunity, Great Ickletor. I shall work hard to prove my worthiness for this honor.” Toda bowed repeatedly. He scrambled to pick up Tulon’s feathered headdress that had fallen over the temple platform. He looked at the status symbol held reverently in his hands then momentarily grinning, glanced up at Ickletor.

  The high priest narrowed his eyes as a warning. “Not yet, Toda. Return the headdress to Tulon’s quarters for now. You must earn the right to wear that powerful symbol. Now go and send me the slaves.”

  Toda bowed again, turned, and rushed down the internal stairs into the pyramid itself. The last thing Ickletor saw was the arching headdress feathers bobbing with the descent.

  My ambitious Toda has tried on the headdress despite my instructions not to do so, he thought. It seems he’s not quite so intimidated and obedient as I’d hoped.

  Within moments, six strapping slaves from a conquered city of Tigmoor to the south of Octar rushed up the internal stairs clad only in their loincloths. Bones threaded through their noses distinguished them as slaves. Hunched over, they huddled below the high priest. Ickletor snapped his fingers and turned back, walking confidently into the temple recess. The slaves rushed up and followed.

  Ickletor pointed to an obscure doorway, “You will find materials to clean up this mess there in that small room in the shadows.”

  The wide-eyed and cringing slaves were petrified staring at the fallen and broken statue of the god Yingnak. Ickletor clapped his hands: “Do as you’re told! Get the blood up now.”

  The gawking slaves snapped out of their frozen stares and rushed to get the buckets and mops. When they had cleaned up the gore and stone rubble, the bowl of fly-covered hearts sat on the altar above the broken god. None had dared to touch the deity.

  Ickletor approached the god’s head and cleaned the blood from his face. He reattached the jasper eye that had fallen out before raising the cream-colored skull now with a slight pink hue. Slowly, with care, the high priest set it on a pedestal before the altar. Ickletor bowed to the cranium and then poured the hearts into the altar’s sacred fire. The smell of burning flesh filled the temple with sweet but acrid smoke.

  The anxious slaves shuffled slightly looking to each other. Ickletor turned to the workers, “Raise the god’s enclosure and place it on the pedestal behind the cleansed altar. Place the god’s body and throne back in the structure.”

  Hesitant at first, Ickletor’s loud clap startled them. The slaves rushed forward and struggled to raise the wooden housing and return the stone body to its proper place within. They cleaned up where the former pillar supporting the dais had crumbled then shuffled back to cower in the corner.

  Ickletor replaced the skull on the god’s stone body. He tied a length of fabric around the neck that no sign of the breakage would show. Turning to the slaves, he ordered them to remain where they were while he consulted with his assistant. The trembling slaves nodded but dared not speak.

  Ickletor left the temple, descended the platform stairs into the lower level where the ingratiating Toda stood, his newfound conceit radiating from his chest-protruding stance.

  “Toda”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Go at once and take twenty-five of the temple guards fully armed to the burial chamber where you buried the noble sacrifices. Come to the temple and call me when they are in place. Do not mention them when you call. Just say all is ready.”

  Toda bowed and dashed again down the stairs into the mound. Ickletor returned
to the slaves and waited patiently.

  When Toda called to him from beyond the temple doors, Ickletor rose and addressed the slaves, “You will speak no word of what has happened here to anyone. Do you understand me?”

  The slaves nodded compliance. The priest led the trembling men down what seemed like endless stairs to the burial tomb deep under the mound. The uneven sand of the room’s floor revealed its recent disturbance; the air was laden with the fresh scent of death.

  The slaves filed in and stopped seeing armed guards lining the walls. They turned to each other and pressed close together as the guards moved to surround them closing off the exit.

  “Slash their throats!” Ickletor commanded. “Let not one speak.”

  The guards rushed the stunned victims. They were dead before they could recover from the initial shock. The sandy floor soaked up the blood.

  Ickletor sneered looking at the bodies. He looked up to Toda, “Bury them with the other sacrifices.” He turned and went up the stairs.

  The dead tell no tales, Toda thought. He puffed up, feeling the thrill of his new authority. Turning to the captain of the guards, he said, “Attend to it.”

  2: Immortality

  Ickletor sat in his private chambers, sipping a cup of beer. The honey-sweetened elixir gave him little pleasure. He set the cup down.

  What must I do, he wondered. I can’t hide the fact Yingnak is no god. He then backhanded the cup sending it flying across the room to smash against the far wall. Beer splashed on the floor and dribbled down the wall like the blood of the sacrifices. Life is so fickle, so arbitrary, and so brief. I’ve always believed I was assured eternal life at the right hand of my god. My father taught me that. His father taught him that. We are supposed to be eternal as the god’s high priests. Now I see this is all there is. We’ve prayed to and served a skull atop a block of stone. He slammed a fist into the other hand, “I will have immortality!”