The Thrones of Eden 3 (Eden) (14 page)

Alyssa closed her eyes and laid a hand on her abdomen. Demir was right. Life has to go on, especially when there was a baby on board, John’s baby. “You’re right,” she stated simply.

“That’s all I ask.”

The corridor became wider, taller, the descent into the temple steeper, until they came to a trapezoidal-shaped archway with archaic script written above it:

ейшых
паэтаў
філёзафаў

палкаў, лёза
অবশ্যই
лёза
паэт хпаэтаўаводцлікіх аў
філёзафаў
ц
হেলে

ALL LIFE UNDER ONE

TO THE CHAMBER OF ANU, THE CHAMBER OF THE ONE

Alyssa translated out loud for Demir, who in turn translated to his team and to the two ministers. Immediately the ministers gathered their digital cameras and brought up the schematic, each trying to pinpoint their whereabouts.

Alyssa joined in. But because she didn’t understand the language, Demir was forced to interpret.  

According to the blueprint—barring the reconfigurations behind them and assuming that the floor plan in front of them had yet to be triggered and therefore remained consistent—they were at the central part of the pyramid. Adding to what was given in the architectural layout; they were two levels directly above the Chamber of the One. However, the schematic revealed a network of tunnels intertwining with one another, the schematic unclear, with one tunnel spiraling toward the image of flames, the other leading to a formation of clouds. But the lines overlapped one another in the drawing, making it impossible to decipher one tunnel from the next. 

A riddle even within the design,
she considered
.

Alyssa put her hands out to accept the camera and its monitor:
May I?

The minister with tufts of gray hair sticking out in wide tangles and wizened eyes that had long faded from blue to gray, offered her the screen but with reluctance, even when Demir nodded his reassurance to him.

She looked at the monitor and noted the bullet-shaped door. Behind it were two additional doors, the gateways to the tunnels below. And now it had become all too clear. The tunnels were purposely intertwined in the schematic to mask the answer to the next riddle, even though the design was true. The tunnels were side by side, but eventually branching off to two totally different sectors—one to darkness, the other to the Chamber of the One.  

“There are gateways beyond this doorway,” she said. “And another promised riddle.”

“Will they lead us out of here?”

“No,” she said. “Everything is leading us to the Chamber of the One.”

“But why?”

“Because there lays the face of God. And with Him, an answer to a question I am not certain of.”

Without looking at the minister, she handed the camera back and headed for the archway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The constant scaling of the incline, even at the slightest degrees, eventually caused wear on the aging legs of the two ministers and John Hillary, people who were not physically prepared for such rigors for a lengthy period of time.

Savage allowed his team a moment of rest which, in turn, allowed him to view the display monitor on one of the minister’s camera to determine their whereabouts according to the schematic. The tunnel continued to wind upward in a series of sharp bends, ultimately leading to a very large chamber.

He handed the camera back and re-shifted his backpack to a more comfortable position. “There’s a room ahead,” he said to Hillary. “A large chamber.”

“How far?”

“According to this schematic—I’d say another kilometer, given all the twists and turns.”

A half mile
, Hillary thought, and then he began to rub at the muscles of his legs.

After ten minutes Savage egged them on, issuing commands in a manner that sounded as if salvation was moments away.

They continued to take the winding bends and turns, always moving heavenward through darkness.

Finally, they reached the immense chamber.

The room was square, the ceiling high. And a doorway lay at the opposite side of a floor that was checkered like the surface of a chessboard, the squares interchanging from clear crystal to black silica.

At the fore of the checkerboard pattern were the skeletal remains of three
Megalania Priscas
impaled on crystal or black silica shafts, mere scarecrows.

Savage stepped forward with his weapon ready. This was not a good sign.

Hillary cowered behind him, using Savage as a shield, until they stood before the checkerboard floor. The doorway at the opposite end of the room, John knew, might as well have been a million miles away.

Hillary pointed to the impaled skeletons and noted that even though the links of their tail bones trailed across the floor, their remains were at least six feet in the air as an attachment to the impaling spikes. “And what, may I ask, are those?”

“They look like the bones of
Megalania Priscas.
”

“Like the one we came across when we first entered? These things are huge.”

“Believe it or not, some were even larger.” Savage measured the border of the checkerboard floor, and then examined the tiles. Every tile was perforated with nine holes, a pattern of three holes across and three holes down, with each hole an outlet for a pike or spearhead to eject from.
Another damn trap
, he told himself, gritting his teeth.
These Priscas had wandered across the floor to reach the opposite doorway and fell victim. They didn’t even get a quarter of the way across—never had a chance.

John Savage sighed. Mintaka had forced them to this point with nowhere else to go but through this ancient field of landmines. And as far as he could tell there were no clues and no riddles. Only the need of determination and devout caution was necessary to make it to the other side.

“It’s a mine field,” he said evenly. “And we need to get across it if we’re ever to get out of here.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Hillary.

“Translate to the others.”

“John, you can’t be—”

“I said translate.”

After a brief pause Hillary did so, the tremors in his voice obvious.

Even the Maroon Berets seemed unsettled by this.

Savage then removed his backpack, examined its heft by holding it outward, and then tossed the bag so that it skated several feet across the floor.

Nothing happened.

“Perhaps the impaling sticks no longer work,” offered Hillary. “It has been, after all, 14,000 years. You saw for yourself down below. The oil conduits fractured and no longer serve the purpose they were created for. Maybe the same happened here.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But the bones don’t appear to be that old.” He examined the situation further. Then: “The backpack wasn’t heavy enough,” he said.

“John—” Hillary cut himself short, his mind going blank, the man not knowing what to offer as a counter option.

 “We either go across,” said Savage, “or we wait here to die.”

Counter option solved. There was no counter option.

“And who’s to take the first step?” asked Hillary. “I know it’s not going to be me.”

“Yeah, well, I figured as much,” he returned. John Savage examined the nine perforations within each tile, a tic-tac-toe design, knowing that a ten-foot spike could spring forward from any one of them. And as much as he found himself in a bind, he couldn’t even begin to imagine the engineering behind them, of the masterfully crafted devices used to eject such lethal weapons forward, a true marvel in a sense of creation.

Who were these people?

Savage teased the edge of the checker pattern with the toe-end of his boot before falling back. There was no other choice. “I’ll go first,” he finally said. “Just make sure that you follow in my
exact
path.”

“And if you trigger off a spike?”

“Then you obviously take another direction.”

John hesitated, as if deliberating, and then took the most logical direction, which was the path already taken by the
Priscas
who had already set off the impaling rods. He stood next to the remains, his mind recalling the moment when these creatures were fleshed out and on the hunt, a predator with little or no weakness. Yet here they were, dry bones hanging in display, a testament to the temple’s raw power.

He took another step, this time to his right where another
Prisca
hung in macabre exhibit, the spear having penetrated beneath its jaw line through its skull, then lifting it airborne to where it now hung suspended at the tip of the silica spearhead.

“You’re doing fine, John.”

Savage didn’t need Hillary’s backing, so he rolled his eyes.
Shutup!

John moved to the tile where the third
Prisca
was hanging.

Its head was massive, its ribcage enormous, a male most likely. Then he noticed a pattern. The
Priscas
triggered a pike after moving in a diagonal direction. The first pike of black silica ejected from the first checker in the first row. The second spearhead ejected a black pike in the second row, but immediately diagonal from the first and northeast of its position. The third spear followed the same suit, the pike having been set off in the third row and immediately diagonal from the second trigger. So if the pattern held true, then the black-squared tile in the fourth row that was also northeast of the tile in the third row, would spring.

Stay away from the black tiles
.

John took a step to his left, onto a tile of clear crystal. The tile gave little beneath his weight, bending but not breaking. Then he took another step to his left, to another crystal tile.

This time a spike shot upward in lightning fashion, its point missing Savage by inches as the stalk of the weapon suddenly appeared by magic. It shot up that quickly.

John wobbled in his stance, threatening to fall onto another tile, perhaps a final and fatal performance before regaining his balance, his arms pin-wheeling a moment before steadying himself.

So much for the diagonal theory
, he thought.

“Are you all right, John?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

He checked his position. He was only a third of the way across. He then took a valiant step forward, onto a black tile, and waited.

Nothing happened.

“Just keep watching the tiles I step on,” he called over his shoulder.

Then he took another step forward, this time onto a crystal tile.

And luck appeared to be maintaining. Savage was now halfway across.

For a long moment he deliberated. There had to be a pattern. So he considered the diagonal route once again. If he stayed the path of taking tiles directly in front of him, then the odds, and his luck, would eventually expire.

So he decided to take a step to his right, onto a crystal tile.

It was a wrong decision.

A spearhead as keen as the point of an ice pick ejected and skimmed alongside John’s arm, the point ripping a gash in the fabric of his shirt and tearing a bloody groove along his forearm—not too deep, but enough to cause the nerve endings to grow white-hot.

“I’m fine,” he called back, anticipating a response from Hillary. “The ejected spikes mark a safe path. So follow them.” He grabbed his forearm. Blood began to seep through the cracks of his clenching fingers.

Another step forward, and then a step to his left, and then to his right, the man zigzagging across the tiles until he finally came to the opposite side of the room. Savage immediately fell to his knees, thanking God as he continued to clutch his wound with a tight grip.

After a self-celebratory moment, he stood and looked across the gap that divided them. “Stay to the tiles I took,” he told them. “It’ll be all right.”

For a long moment there was a debate between the ministers and Hillary as to who would be next. Still, no one had the courage to venture forward. So a Maroon Beret took the initiative, following in Savage’s footsteps tile by tile.

The soldier’s memory had served him well, the commando making it across without a problem. So his success, in turn, summarily brought a sense of bravado to the ministers.

A man of stereotypical academic countenance, who bore the personage of a stately professor and held a certain pomposity to his attitude amongst peers, undertook his first few steps. But the man appeared unbalanced as if walking a tightrope; almost uncertain in his abilities to follow through the further he stepped onto the floor.   

“Hillary, tell him to take it easy! Tell him to relax! It’ll be all right!”

But the man was without coordination, his sense of stability naturally uneven as his arms swung violently for balance, the chaos of the movement causing him to lose his poise and to alight on the tile next to him, a tile not on John’s route.

A wickedly keen spear projected from one of the square’s perforations, the point driving upward and through the minister’s body as easily as a hot knife cuts through a cake of butter, the spearhead raising the man off his feet and to a greater height. The minster had no time to cry out or to utter a feeble groan. His life had been snuffed out the moment the point pierced and ruptured his heart, the tip running up through his groin and through his backside to a spot next to the right scapula.