EóGAN XI

  There were too many undead to fight, far too many. Eógan’s adjustment to using the haft of his spear as a bludgeoning weapon was effective, but not against a swarm. After he had dispatched the first skeleton within reach, something awakened within his weapon and now it would not cease taunting him. “You can take them Pecht,” it whispered in a voice only Eógan seemed able to hear. “Or are you are you a coward?”

  “Who are you?” Eógan muttered under his breath while he fended off skeletal arms wielding rusted tools and backed towards the now open hallway.

  “What did you say?” Guillaume asked as he helped steady Liadan and offered her a shoulder to lean on. After her holy shield had dissipated, the Gaídel lass showed signs of exhaustion.

  “Nothing,” Eógan snapped as the mysterious voice laughed at him.

  Guillaume helped walk Liadan down the hallway while Esker aided Eógan in fending off the undead from the other side of the archway. The Tengu’s stone clad fist smashed the ribcage and spine of one skeleton into bone fragments.

  Eógan readied the shaft of Ronan’s spear for a blow, however, the corpses halted at the threshold of the hallway. “Keep an eye on them please, Esk,” he said as he turned to catch up with Liadan and Guillaume.

  Esker nodded and seemed fascinated by the slightly curved walls and ceiling of the tunnel, gazing upward, while running her hand along it. “Like those stalactites at the entrance, this is not made of stone,” she said in awe before returning her attention to the stationary undead.

  The hallway was dim, yet the molten glow at the far end winked like a distant sun, causing the temperature to steadily rise. Torches ensconced along the walls ignited with green flames as the four of them passed through the threshold of the gate. The hallway, now illuminated, gave Eógan an uneasy feeling.

  Liadan seemed to be regaining her strength, yet still appeared to be dazed. As Guillaume knelt and continued to use his slender shoulder to help support her, both of them stared down at large tiles covering the floor. Mounted on the ceiling above each tile were carvings shaped like gaping mouths, with snarling teeth and little in the way of lips.

  “Those are Tengu runes.” Guillaume said pointing to inscriptions on the rectangular stone tiles, each of which was roughly two feet wide and twice as deep. They were flush to the walls and extended in four rows down the dim hallway. Scorch marks dotted the hall in an indiscernible pattern.

  Liadan’s attention was abruptly drawn to an area of the floor before the first set of tiles. “There is something obscured here,” she said as she gingerly lowered herself to the floor. After wiping away soot and dust with the sleeve of her tunic, an inscription became visible. “The writing is in archaic Gaídel and it reads: last to welcome flames. Burn. Fire. Breath.” Liadan read, tracing the writing on the floor with her finger.

  “What does that fucking mean?” Eógan asked, now even more disconcerted by the heat in this tunnel and the grimacing mouths arrayed on the ceiling.

  Liadan shrugged. “Esker, we need your help with a translation,” she called out.

  “Let me trade places with you,” Eógan said as he returned to the gateway, keeping a close eye on the statuesque undead. Purple magics glowed in their hollowed eye sockets, amplifying the horror of their appearance; gratefully the skeletons no longer chattered their rotting teeth. Esker studied the corpses for a moment, nodded, and walked away to join the others.

  “They will leave you,” a voice within the spear whispered to Eógan. “Betray them first.”

  “What do you want from me?” Eógan replied under his breath.

  “You filthy Pecht, I want to take from you that which you took from me.”

  “Who are you?” Eógan asked, but heard only laughter in response. The skeletons stared at him with empty eye sockets.

  Esker’s deep voice was a welcome distraction from the weapon’s taunting, “These characters are once again quite ancient. The tiles read: wood, iron, gold, and cloth.” As Esker translated, Guillaume recreated the Gaídel inscription, before the row of tiles, on a piece of parchment.

  There was a rapid increase in temperature and despite facing away from the end of the tunnel, Eógan could see a glow flare. “Hurry up and figure it out!” he yelled at the others. His temper flared, he felt like they were running out of time.

  “Those words must relate to the inscription in front of them,” Guillaume said softly. “Last to welcome flames. Burn. Fire. Breath…” He paused for a moment, “It must be a clue, but how do we use it?”

  “What welcomes flames?” Liadan asked.

  “Perhaps that which burns easily,” Esker replied.

  “That is it!” Guillaume said excitably. “Between wood, iron, gold, and cloth, which of those requires the highest temperature to ignite?”

  “That is easy,” Esker answered. “Metals only melt at high temperatures, your over-world materials of cloth and wood are highly flammable.”

  “But gold and iron are both metals, how will we know which melts first?”

  Esker laughed heartily and there was an awkward pause. “Oh, you surface dwellers are serious. Even Tenglings know that gold melts at a low temperature for a metal, iron is the answer.”

  “I am grateful we can lean upon your expertise Esk,” Guillaume said as he rose. “In that case, is this the correct tile?” Eógan turned to watch Guillaume take a step forward. As his foot hovered in the air, Esker knocked him back with her large stone fist, the Jotling tumbled to the floor. “What was that for?!” he protested.

  “I told you the order was: wood, iron, gold, and cloth. Why would you choose gold?”

  “Wait…” Liadan cut in. “Esker are you saying the order from the left or from the right?”

  Esker cocked her brow as if stupefied, “Of course I listed it from the right, as one would read it.”

  Both Liadan and Guillaume’s eyes went wide as they looked at each other. “Esk…” Guillaume began. “We read from the left to right.”

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  “You surface dwellers do everything backwards,” Esker grumbled. “This is the tile that says iron.” She gestured with the stone fist to the tile second from right.

  “Here goes nothing…” Guillaume said apprehensively as he stepped upon the tile. There was a satisfying click as the tile sunk slightly into the floor and a painfully long moment when all eyes were upon the gaping maw on the ceiling above Guillaume’s head. Nothing else happened for a moment, then the torches closest to the gate extinguished and the undead surged forward.

  Eógan bounded backwards. “Hurry, onto the tile!” he yelled as they all scrambled backwards. It was a tight fit, but they all managed to find purchase. The second row of torches was in line with the inscription Liadan had translated and the skeletons stopped abruptly in front of the green flames. A narrow walkway separated the tile they stood upon from the next row.

  “Curious,” Guillaume began. “The flames must counteract some of t-“

  “We do not have time for that!” Eógan snapped. “What does the next row say Esker?”

  “In the wrong order it reads: ear, oil, money, and bridge.” Eógan could detect a bit of humor in Esker’s voice, sensing a smile in her eyes despite keeping his own fixed upon the undead clustered in front of him.

  “Are we still trying to determine which of those burns at the highest temperature?” Liadan asked.

  “Maybe…” Guillaume replied. “Oil burns easily, yet not all money is made of the same material, and some bridges are made of wood, while others are made of stone.”

  “Why would you burn an ear?” Esker asked.

  “I can think of some reasons,” Eógan interjected. “It is also a saying: ‘my ears are burning.’”

  “The same is true with burning money,” Liadan added.

  “Or burning the midnight oil!” Guillaume said enthusiastically.

  “You surface dwellers have strange idioms,” Esker complained.

  “Not everything has to be about rocks lass.” Eógan quipped and they all laughed, despite their predicament.

  “You can burn a bridge, yet perhaps in this moment, that is what we most want to prevent from burning,” Liadan murmured. “Should we choose the tile that has ‘bridge’ inscribed upon it?” No one voiced any dissent.

  There was a hissing rumble at the end of the hallway and the already uncomfortably warm temperature spiked. “I think that ‘bridge’ is our best guess,” Liadan’s voice crescendoed with urgency. Eógan turned as she stepped forward onto the tile. A mechanical clunk reverberated as the tile sunk into the floor and the rest of the party filed onto the rectangular stone.

  Eógan looked back at the stationary undead as sweat trickled down his temple, not only from the tension, but also from the nearly unbearable heat. His eyes were fixed upon the second row of green flame torches. Abruptly they extinguished and the skeletons surged forward once more. Since they lunged forward in a wave, not all of them funneled through the correct tile. Gouts of flame burst from fanged maws on the ceiling, incinerating bones into ash and leaving Eógan’s face flushed from the heat.

  As the fire ebbed, the undead adjusted and queued patiently behind the corpses standing on the correct tile, the closest of whom waited directly in line with the third row of torches ensconced upon the wall.

  “We do not have much time left,” Eógan said softly. The four of them were balanced precariously on the sunken tile marked ‘bridge’, with Liadan in the lead, Esker next in line, followed by Guillaume, and Eógan in the rear.

  “Esk, can you see the next row of tiles clearly?” Liadan asked. As she turned around to look at the Tengu, she had to crane her neck upwards and laughed as she recognized how unnecessary her concern was.

  “I can see fine.” Esker replied dryly, towering over Liadan. “This next row reads: ‘cease’, ‘catch’, ‘draw’, and ‘take’. I grow weary of these silly puzzles.”

  “Oh, they are not so bad,” Guillaume added cheerfully. “Perhaps there is another word that links all of these tiles and will give us a clue to the answer.”

  “What was written in that inscription before the first row?” Liadan asked.

  “Let me check my notes,” Guillaume said as he struggled to reach into his satchel. “Liadan, would you please lend me a hand.” It became clear there was no room to turn or maneuver. Liadan obliged and handed him a roll of parchments. “Thank you,” He said as he unfurled his notes. “The inscription reads ‘last to welcome flames. Burn. Fire. Breath.’ Liadan, you did it!” he said enthusiastically. “The second row used ‘burn’, the third row must connect with ‘fire.’”

  “More of your idioms,” Esker grumbled.

  Liadan laughed. “This one is easier: cease fire, catch fire, draw fire, and hold fire,” she listed. “But which one is safe to step upon? I certainly do not watch to catch or draw fire, but ceasing or holding fire sound like they could both mean a safe tile.”

  “That is a good point…” Guillaume mused.

  “PICK QUICKLY!” Eógan yelled out as the temperature once again rose abruptly. “I certainly do not want to hold any fire in my hands.”

  “I agree with Eógan,” Guillaume said, his voice quavering a bit. “Perhaps ‘cease’ is our best option.”

  “Here goes nothing…” Liadan replied hesitantly and stepped forward on the tile. Once more the tile sunk into the floor and mechanisms whirred to life.

  As the four of them filed forward carefully, Eógan kept his eyes on the undead. There was barely enough room to maneuver past each other, so they maintained the order they had on the prior tile: Liadan in front, followed by Esker, Guillaume, and finally Eógan. All of them were drenched in sweat, both from the tension of solving the riddles on the tiles and from the heat emanating from the end of the hallway.

  When the green flame torches sputtered and extinguished in line with the second set of tiles, the front row of skeletons filed forward. Gouts of flame burst from the ceiling as those who had not stepped on the tile marked ‘bridge’ were turned into ash. The rest of the undead lined up neatly on the correct path.

  Without prompting, Esker read the Tengu characters on the final row of tiles: “Waste, hold, catch, and take,” she said in her deep voice.

  “And based upon the inscription, these final words should all relate to the word ‘breath,’” Guillaume reminded them.

  “You can waste a breath,” Liadan added.

  “Or hold one,” Eógan chimed in.

  “Catching a breath does not sound like our immediate goal,” Guillaume mused.

  “I would like to take a breath, but not from those dragon mouths…” Eógan grumbled and he had an epiphany. “By the beast who sleeps, that is the key to this blasted crypt, we are in a dragon!”

  “First the mouth and now… the throat?” Guillaume surmised.

  “Aye, that tracks,” Eógan agreed.

  Guillaume’s eyes widened, “So it is reasonable to assume that a massive amount of fire might emit quite soon.” Eógan nodded and gesticulated rapidly with his hands, hoping to encourage his companion to solve the puzzle on the final tiles. “Oh right…” Guillaume said as he returned his attention to the runes on the floor. “Is it ‘hold’ or ‘waste’?” he asked no one in particular.

  “I trust your judgement,” Esker encouraged.

  “But decide now!” Eógan snapped, feeling like they were dancing on a knife’s edge.

  “You can do this Guillaume,” Liadan said supportively, “Which tile should I step on?”

  Eógan could feel Guillaume squirming behind him, so he nudged the Jotling firmly with an elbow. Guillaume stammered a bit before answering. “I do not want to be wasted by fire, so I assume ‘hold’ is our best choice.” As he began to waffle on his decision, Liadan stepped forward and everyone held their breath.

  As the tile sunk into the floor and the hidden mechanisms whirred to life, Eógan called out urgently. “Quickly now, cross the threshold before the torches extinguish!” He watched Liadan carefully cross the tile and step out towards the end of the hallway with Esker following closely behind. Guillaume took a long look at him before scrambling after them.

  “This is where they betray you,” the voice hissed in Eógan’s head.

  “Shut your bloody mouth… or whatever it is you speak from,” Eógan muttered as he carefully backed away from the swarm of undead.

  “There are two exits here, one leads to the left and the other to the right,” Liadan called from the end of the hallway. “Which should we choose?”

  “Left means loot!” Eógan called back with a silly grin on his face, which he dropped as the final row of torches winked out. The skeletons surged forward and the only light was from the pulsating glow at the end of the hallway. He turned and ran as fast as he could, the deer spirits in his legs aided his bounding strides. Eógan reached the others right after they scrambled through the threshold to the left, but not before a massive slab slid down, muffling their cries of shock.

  “I warned you,” the voice taunted, filling his head with laughter. Eógan could hear Esker pounding dully from the other side of the door. He was trapped alone, with dozens of undead closing in on him.

  Before Eógan could think, green flames flared and a gout of fire blasted down the hallway. Eógan moved without hesitation, twisting nimbly as he danced and tried to slide along his knees under the cone of green flame. Heat blistered his face and he felt his hair burning away.