THE GIFT OF THE EONS

THE GIFT OF THE EONS, by Steve Dilks, artwork by Miguel Santos

 

For three days and nights they had hunted him, the great savage beast-men that haunted the inner forests of Nakawa. Through mighty trees thick with vines, under vast canopies of leafy darkness they loped, their hairy hands gripping war clubs and flint headed axes in anticipation of the kill to come.

For his part their quarry was as the leopard totem of his tribe; fleet and sure footed, as if his bare feet slapped not the treacherous terrain of the woodlands but the paved streets of some far off opulent city.

He wore nothing but a hide of leopard skin about his hips, upheld by a leather belt from which jutted the hilt of a long knife. In one hand he carried a spear and his long dark hair was bound up into a warrior’s top knot held back by a simple clasp of iron. Corded muscles worked under a frame supple and lean, burned dark by the light of harsh suns. No humour lit his jet black eyes, only a cold resolution that drove him ever on. For those that pursued him were Kanikeha; terrible cannibal killers—remnants of a forgotten age. Though their numbers were few evidence of them were known to his people by the discovery of grisly feasts under the light of many a full moon.

So Chaska of the leopard clan ran until the light slanting through the trees gave way to a dusky grey and, finally, to the pale reflections of the moon itself.

He came out of those trees suddenly and without warning. The cool night wind blew on his naked, panting chest. For a moment he stood, drinking in of the rich forest air. An overwhelming stillness hung over the land as if the world held its breath. He blinked, licking dry lips. Before him he saw the broken edifices and domes of a long vanquished civilization, the sort shunned by the tribes of the inner forest lands. He stared at them a moment, unsure of the vast crumbing blocks of stone that reared imposingly against the stars, the weather worn statues strangled by weed and vine.

Then, from behind, he heard the rending of thickets, a grunt of speech from a throat that should be long extinct. Cursing, he loped silently through the long grass and headed for the remnant of a shattered stairway that led nowhere but to the stars above. Seven men, shoulder to shoulder, could have walked up those steps and up them now Chaska fled with no more noise in his passing than the night wind. At the summit he crouched behind the stump of a column. Gripping his spear, his narrowed eyes watched the tree line below. Presently he saw a huge hairy hand parting the branches.

As it shambled into view, Chaska saw the emerging beast-man. It stood some seven feet tall. A mountain of primordial strength, it was covered in matted, shaggy hair. Small piggish eyes scanned the ruins now and, turning, it barked something into the trees behind. Two other figures emerged from the fronds, gripping crude heavy weapons.

Chaska hefted his spear. He held the high ground but had little doubt of the outcome.

They fanned out now, heads slunk between massive shoulders, searching the undergrowth for tracks. Suddenly one stiffened. Throwing up his head, he outflung an arm and pointed with a stone axe. His guttural cry brought the attention of the others. As one they spun and started up the shattered stairway. They came on in bounding strides and Chaska straightened, feet planted squarely to meet them.

The first gave an inhuman cry of rage as, halfway up the stair, he launched his axe. It spun in the starlight and the tribesman twisted to one side. It flew past, barely missing his shoulder. Then the Kanikeha had reached the landing, arms spread wide for the death grapple. Chaska snarled and leaped forward to meet him.

Man and half man came together. As those huge hairy arms clamped round him like a vice, the tribesman braced the whole strength of his iron body and drove his spear in deep. He yelled as he felt the power of those tree like limbs crushing out his life. Filed jagged teeth snapped inches from his face. Chaska felt the vileness of its breath even as he planted a foot on the monster’s knee. With a mighty surge, he pushed backward and catapulted out of that deathly embrace. Hitting the ground, he gasped for air.

The beast-man swayed over him an instant, the spear driven wholly through his body and dripping crimson from his back. Then he toppled, tumbling headlong down the stairs into the path of his companions.

Scrambling to his feet, Chaska whirled and, in a cat-like bound, leaped from the crumbling platform into the vine tangled street below. He came up running, heading down a broken paved avenue, hurdling fallen columns and blocks of stone. At length he emerged into a clearing. There, under the pale moon, squatted a huge basalt carved temple.

The beast-men were close on his heels now. As they swept from the mouth of the crumbled street behind him he sprinted for the structure, bounding up the last few remaining steps before the entrance. He turned as a club grazed his shoulder and, ripping out his knife, slashed back with a furious stroke. Even as he fell, the beast-man went down with him and together they rolled in the dust, grunting and straining with effort into the shadows.

It was Chaska who at last reeled bloody but victorious to his feet. He faced the remaining beast-man stood framed in the doorway and screamed his defiance. The challenge echoed defiantly throughout the great hall. But the Kanikeha, savage and wild as he was, hesitated before the dark mouth of that ebon temple. His nostrils flared and he growled at some instinctive dread of the unknown. He turned and fled, though not from fear of the bloodied tribesman—of that, Chaska was somehow certain.

Shivering coldly, he stepped back from the corpse at his feet. Blood was already pooling around the body. Shaking his head, he turned to examine his surroundings.

 

*

 

The hall was carved from obsidian and totally bare. Marching rows of columns were bathed in an uncanny crimson glow. Curious, he padded down their long line, knife trailing in one bloody fist.

As he approached, the glow grew more distinct and he became aware of a whispering tugging at the corners of his consciousness. At first he doubted his senses for he knew instinctively that he was alone in that strange building.

He saw that the glow emanated from a huge translucent orb. It was covered in strange runes and rested on an altar of some unknown ebon metal. As he neared, Chaska became aware that it was from this that the whisperings came. Dimly, he could make out words—calling, pleading and seducing in a maddening cacophony that was somehow more felt than heard. He craned his head and stared. Inside the orb the bloody glow evaporated, rolling back like fleecy clouds to reveal a strange scene.

He saw, as if through the eyes of an eagle soaring above, the outlines of a wondrous city. A sprawling metropolis, it stood amidst fertile plains. Below was a magnificent temple carved from black stone. He knew it as the temple in which he now found himself. Before it picturesque people clamoured and celebrated. At the top of the steps stood two figures dressed in rich finery. With a start he recognized one of those figures as himself. There was no mistaking that lean, hawkish countenance. But this face was cold, twisted and stamped with an indefinable aura of evil.

Chaska sucked in a breath. So drawn to the scene was he that the present world withdrew from around him like a cloak. Somehow he knew that he gazed on some dim vista of the past, far removed from the world today.

As the mists eddied, the scene changed and he saw that other self in a gold chariot drawn by white horses. He wore a wreath of laurels on oil scented hair and, as he threw back his head, he laughed into the wind, pulling his arm around a slim, beautiful woman with a face cold and cruel as his own. His chariot sped through the city and the populace knelt in the dust as his horses swept past them.

Again the scene shifted. This time he saw that other self standing in the temple.

Between tall fluted columns, flames flickered. He wore a white toga and high strapped sandals. A thin golden crown was on his head, a short golden sword at his side. Up to him glided the mysterious woman in a diaphanous shift through which her ample body was accentuated. Cradled in her arms, like a new born babe, was the red globe, its murky depths clouded beneath indecipherable runes. She held it out to him now with both hands.

“Parijja, my king,” she whispered, “From distant Thule, the power of all the ages is now ours to command. With it we are eternal! Though the oceans sweep us to oblivion our love can never die. We will be reunited forever down the eons. Born to rule, destined for immortality!”

Their lips met and locked in an unholy kiss born of lust and power. That other self known as King Parijja took the globe and, holding it aloft in one hand, laughed as it painted his face in a deathly mask of blood.

    Chaska tore back from the scene. He gasped as a drowning man gasps for air and staggered. It seemed somehow as if the globe had grown now. Its brightness made him throw up his arms and avert his gaze.

He heard soft, tinkling laughter. Turning, he thought to see the outline of a womanly figure standing in the shadows behind the altar. Just the pale face and shoulders were visible, framed against the outlying darkness.

“Parijja, my love,” she cried in a voice strangely distant as if separated by vast gulfs of time and space, “Come to me my chosen…  come to me and love me!”

She reached toward him with a shapely arm, eyes lambent in the gloom. When she smiled bloody lips curved to reveal needle fangs.

With a cry, Chaska lashed out with his knife and shattered the crimson globe with a desperate, wheeling stroke. There was a thunderous explosion and the earth shook to its foundations. He was hurled back by the fury of that blast into the welcoming arms of a deep oblivion …

He came to with a start, as a man awakens from a nightmare. Even as he came up onto one knee, he gripped the hilt of his long knife. He saw the shattered remnants of the globe on the dusty floor behind him and looked around. Except for the corpse by the doorway, the vast hall was silent and empty.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, he staggered to the entrance way and reeled out into the bright sunlight beyond. Then, without a backward glance, he was racing for the leafy depths of the forest and the long trail home.

 

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Steve Dilks lives in Hertfordshire, England. ‘The Gift of the Eons’ is his second published story for Heroic Fantasy Quarterly. You can visit the author’s amazon page here.

 

Miguel Santos is a freelance illustrator and maker of Comics living in Portugal.  His artwork has appeared in numerous issues of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, as well as in the Heroic Fantasy Quarterly Best-of Volume 2.  More of his work can be seen at his online portfolio and his instagram.