Twilight’s End
By
Kaitlyn O’Connor
© copyright July 2005, Kaitlyn O’Connor
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright July 2005
New Concepts Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Prologue
“Legend has it that long, long ago the gods grew angry with the world because their chosen people had not cherished the gifts that they had given them. For many ages, the gods had smiled upon them for their cleverness and the people had flourished. The people had built great cities filled with wonders unimaginable, cities that reached up into the clows. They had built marvelous machines that flew across the hvens, carrying the people from one great city to another like the wind. As they flourished, the people learned many things to bring comfort to their lives. They had great healers to bring succor to the ill and even to give them life once more when the evil seeds came upon them and caused them to wither.
“But they had also built terrible wepons to kill, wepons that were so powerful that they could level whole cities of their enemies with great fire that turned all before its wrath into ash.
“In time the People grew lazy, weak, slothful. They had raped the life giver, the mother Eirt, and taken so much from her that she became weak and sickly. The strong preyed upon the frail, the clever upon the weak of mind, the young upon the old.
“A day came when those who called themselves god sayers, who worshiped in the temples of the gods, were overcome with a fever of the mind. They began to believe themselves to be the hands of the gods. Ignoring the teachings of their gods, they took vengeance and judgment upon themselves. They killed in the names of the gods, destroyed, did all that they could to deprive those they considered unlike themselves of the right to life and liberty, for they had come to believe that only they knew the true way, only they had the right to the gifts of the gods, only they had the right to prosper. All had to believe as they believed, or it was their duty as the hands of the gods to smite them down and destroy them.
“The gods grew angry and fearful of these tortured souls, fearful for their wandering children. For, like doting parents, they had felt joyful when their children had grown wise and strong and begun to make their own way, to walk alone. They had forgiven their follies, knowing that in time they would attain the wisdom to use the gifts they had given them wisely.
“When they saw that the blasphemers, those whose minds had been eaten with a sickness that made them believe that they were higher and more favored than the other children, would inherit the Eirt with the blood of their brothers, they looked for a way to protect the people. But they could find no way pluck them from the path of destruction of those who called themselves god sayers. They saw that the only hope for their children was to wreak their anger upon all, to cleanse mother Eirt and allow the people who survived the chance to learn from their mistakes and to begin again.
“For many days, they rained fire upon the land to cleanse it. And when the great cities of the children sank beneath the sea, they blew their breath upon the land to cool the fire, making of it a frozen land. In time, when they saw that only a few of the people remained and they were miserable with cold and hunger, they took pity upon their children and blew their breath upon the land again and brought warmth to mother Eirt.
“And they wept for what they had had to do to their children, bringing green growing things to the land so that the people were no longer hungry. It was then that the people discovered that the gods had left one gift to their children on mother Eirt to show them that they were forgiven and that they would be allowed to prosper again. They placed this gift upon the lifeless plane, where none could deny that it was a gift from them, and them alone, for it sprang from the withered, lifeless soil in that place where nothing else grew. And this is why, each year, we travel to that holy place and offer prayer and wait for the sign that we are smiled upon once more. Each year, at the time of the spring solstice, the gods lift their eye upon us to see if we have learned our lesson and are worthy of the gift they left us.”
The children around the fire were silent as the village Speaker ceased his sayings, their eyes wide as their imaginations ran rampant, scurrying to conjure the wonders the old man spoke of.
“What gift did the gods leave us?” one of the younger children asked in an awed voice.
Most of the older children tittered nervously at the child’s audacity, but others glared at the child for interrupting their favorite tale, fearing the Speaker would grow angry and refuse to finish the telling.
The village Speaker merely smiled at the child, however. “We do not know. There are many legends that surround the holy place, but we can not say which are true, or if any are true, for few have ever dared approach beyond the ridge that surrounds it.”
The child frowned. “Then how do we know that this is a gift of the gods?”
“We know,” the Speaker said with finality.
Rebuked, the child was silent for several moments. Finally, ignoring the elbow his older brother plowed into his ribs, he spoke again. “What is the gift?”
The speaker smiled as if he had been waiting for the question. “Renewal.”
The child looked awed at that for several moments, but then frowned. “What is renewal?”
The Elder chuckled. “You will not understand if I tell you.”
“Tell me!” the child demanded. “I can not understand what I am not told!”
The Speaker studied the child with a mixture of censure and approval in equal measure. “The gift of all that was lost.”
The child’s jaw dropped. He considered that for many moments and finally frowned as he discovered a flaw. “But--the holy place is quite small! It is hardly bigger than my father’s lodge. How could it hold so much?”
“You ask too many questions, Khan!” one of the older children said angrily. “We will not hear the rest of the legend if you make the Speaker angry with your silly chatter!”
Khan, stood abruptly, glaring at the older boy, silently daring him to take action beyond the use of his tongue.
The Speaker studied the child with both amusement and interest, for Khan was sturdily built for all his tender years, brave and wise beyond his years, and showed promise of being a great warrior some day, a leader of the people, possibly even greater than his father was.
Summoning Khan before his youthful determination could lead him to openly challenge the older boy, Notaku ‘growing bear’, who was easily twice his size, the Speaker bade the child to sit at his knee.
“The legends say,” the Speaker continued, “that one day a great warrior will be born unto the people, a leader with wisdom, and skill, and strength, and without fear. And this great warrior will pass unharmed beneath the watchful eye of the gods and pluck the gift that they have left for us and open it for the people. But the unworthy shall not pass.”
Khan digested that in silence before another question rose to his mind that demanded answers. “How will he know he is the chosen one?”
“The gods will not smite him down as they did others who tried, lackwit!” Notaku snarled angrily.
The Speaker placed a hand upon the thin shoulder of Khan before he could leap up to face the challenge.
Khan tamped his anger with an effort, but the Speaker was pleased to see that he could master his anger and find wisdom. “This is true, Speaker?”
The Speaker shrugged. “Yes. Some have grown bold in their prowess as warriors and come to think of themselves as the chosen and they have tried to open the gift of the gods and failed--because they were not worthy.
”
“I saw one!” Rikard, Khan’s elder brother volunteered excitedly. “He approached the dwelling of the gods and the box sang to him at his touch and then the red eye of the gods fell upon him and burned him to dust!”
The Speaker gave Rikard a chiding look. “Because he had strength and fearlessness, but not the wisdom! The chosen will be gifted with all three.
“Go now, young magpies, for it grows late and you will need rest if you are to grow into strong warriors.”
The children glared at Khan, certain his questions had ruined the mood and cut short the tales the Speaker wove for them, but they bowed respectfully to the elder and scurried toward the lodges of their fathers.
Khan watched them with a mixture of resentment and uneasiness. “They are angry with me for asking questions,” he said, looking up at the Speaker. “It was wrong?”
The Speaker smiled, patting his shoulder, and then guided the child toward the lodge of his father protectively. “It is never wrong to gather knowledge, for knowledge leads to wisdom, and one can not find that without questioning the world around them. You are not bound by what others believe. Seek the knowledge you desire, Khan. The gods will favor you.”
Chapter One
Khan stared up at the stars in the sky above that had slowly been moving into the alignment of the spring solstice, wondering what had possessed him to come to this place again. As a child, he had come with everyone else each year to gape in wonder at the ‘gift’ the gods had left them and to offer up prayers. As a youth, he had come because it was demanded of him. As a young man, he had come out of curiosity.
He had known thirty and four winters, however, and he had long ago ceased to believe in the legends, realizing that they were merely tales the Speakers passed on to each new generation to teach the young the folly of the people in the past so that they would not make the same mistakes their fathers had made.
In his time, he had seen many warriors, desperate to earn the respect of the people and the right to leadership, approach this thing that rested in the lifeless valley and vanish into dust when the baleful eye of the gods fell upon them.
In his time, he had lost his wonder of the tales told around the campfire and begun to believe that it was not meant as a gift to the people at all, but a warning.
Whatever it was, it could not be intended for the people, he reasoned, for all who had tried to open it had perished.
And yet, deep down, he knew why he had come.
He had come to collect the gift of the gods, or dispel the myths surrounding this place, to turn the people away from the old beliefs, because so long as they believed they had only to wait and they would be given all that they had lost, they simply waited. They would not seek the knowledge that had been lost that only awaited rediscovery. They would not work to lift themselves from the struggle to merely survive and begin to build something better for future generations.
Hope was all well and good, but not when it encouraged the people to simply wait like children for the gift to be presented to them. There was nothing good about their stubbornness to cling to the old ways and their refusal to learn and grow.
He had been camping on the ridge for days before the faithful began to gather to witness the event. In those days while he awaited the event, he had carefully and methodically delved his memories of each attempt that had been made before, those he had witnessed himself, and those that had joined the legends from generations past, trying to find the pattern of their failure so that he could find success.
The people of many tribes and from distant places had gathered upon the ridge before he found the key he had been seeking.
The singing box, he realized finally, dealt death because those who had tried to play it had not found the song that would open the gateway.
The magnitude of that epiphany sent a surge of triumph through him until he realized that he did not know the song that would, nor any way to discover it. No one was given a second chance. When they plucked the wrong notes, the gods, or whatever guarded the dome, smote them.
He considered that for a time and finally arrived at the realization that since it was the red eye of the watcher that smote them, he must find a way to keep the eye from seeing him if he was to gain the time he needed to find the right notes. When his thoughtful gaze at last fell upon his shield, excitement and purpose filled him, for he knew he had discovered the way.
He had found the shield in the forbidden land. It was smooth, and thin, hard like stone, but stronger than stone. The shield protected him in battle with its strength, but like water, it also reflected images, making him virtually invisible when he remained still.
Grimly, he rose at last when he saw the tentacle of the gods begin to rise above the dome to look about the land. Grasping his shield, he slung it across his back, hefted his long knife and made his way down the ridge, ignoring the murmurs of the worshipers as they saw his intent. When he had planted his feet firmly on the cool soil of the lifeless plane, he drew his shield from his back and positioned in along his forearm by way of the leather thongs he had attached to it.
All who had gone before him had approached the place of the gods as worshippers and supplicants. He strode across the plain as the warrior he was, boldly, guarding himself from the watchful eye with his battle shield. When he had reached the dome that rose from the sands, his heart was pounding with the same mixture of excitement and dread that he felt when he rode into battle astride the back of his nay beast.
Surprise flickered through him when he saw that the dome was stone much like the stone that the people found in the fields they cultivated. This was smooth and rounded, however. Thin lines that he realized were cracks formed a strangely regular pattern upon it. Sparing a wary eye toward the tentacle, he situated his shield to protect him and reached out to touch the stone with his hand. It was cool, but beginning to warm already from the sun as it breached the horizon and began its upward climb.
Gods had not created this, he thought derisively. It was much the same as the dwellings that he had found when he had explored the forbidden lands and discovered the remnants of those who had spawned the legends, the corrupters of Eirt. Satisfied that at least some of his guessing had proven to be truth, he moved around the dome until he found the gateway and the singing box. Ignoring both for the moment, he aligned his shield carefully, so that each time the eye passed his way the shield would reflect its gaze way from him.
When he was certain that he was protected from the death gaze, he stroked the nubs on the singing box. Each made a different sound and he matched them with those he had recalled, eliminating the songs that had spelled death for the others.
Time passed. He began to feel cramped and stiff from crouching in the same position as he stroked the singing box, calling forth notes in every order that came to mind, trying to use the sounds to evoke songs the people knew. Impatience and discomfort began to play upon him, but he persevered determinedly. Slowly, the sun climbed upward, until it burned him, and still he stroked the nubs. In time, the sun passed above him and ceased to singe his skin but his other discomforts only grew more pronounced.
The time came when Khan at last lost patience with the singing box. He began to pound on it with his fist and finally took his long knife and struck it, tearing it from its resting place. Abruptly, the gateway opened. Stunned, Khan merely stared at the gaping black mouth for several moments.
A voice called from inside.
“Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Activate bio-pods. Begin resuscitation.”
Frowning at the strange words, Khan threw one last glance at the death eye and stepped beyond its range, into the gaping cavern. He froze once he had entered. A bluish glow began to brighten the throat, until he could see the length and breadth of it. Dancing lights of different colors joined the bluish glow, among them the red eye of death.
As one reached out toward him, he moved his shield swiftly to block its touch. Heat blossomed on his shield, but began to dissipate almo
st at once. More careful now, for he hadn’t anticipated that the death eyes would be inside as well, he began to move slowly along the tunnel-like room, watching for the death eyes, using his shield to block them each time one reached for him.
The strange, detached voice continued to chatter, dogging his steps. “Intruder is in the upper corridor of the emergency exit route. Intruder is approaching the hatch.”
Khan frowned, wondering what would hatch. He had to move constantly, repositioning the shield because of the death eyes, but he had scanned all that he could see to search for threats, the walls, the strange ground beneath his feet, the roof of the cavern. He had not noticed any eggs of any kind.
He reached a second gateway and stared at it in consternation for many moments. Finally, he placed his back against it, holding his shield toward the tunnel where the death eyes stalked back and forth angrily, searching for him. He had just decided that he was as protected as he could manage when one of the eyes reached out and touched the ground near his feet, within a hair’s breadth of his toes. He jerked the digits back even as heat seared the tips, grinding his teeth against the bloom of pain. Sweat broke from his pores as the certainty grew upon him that there would be no returning the way he had come. The death eyes had discovered his ploy. Even now they were searching for a way to reach around the shield they could not penetrate.
As he twisted his head from side to side to examine what he could see of the gateway, he saw another of the singing boxes. For several moments frustration, fear, and anger threatened his composure. This one was smaller than the one outside with fewer nubs, but he had no idea if that would make it easier to find the song, or harder.
He was tempted to simply destroy it as he had the first, but the gateway had closed the moment he stepped through, trapping him inside. He had no idea what this one might do if he destroyed it, as well. It might open as the first had, allowing him to enter, or it might simply bare its teeth and crush him when he tried to jump through.
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