I’d have to think about that: the four good javelin throwers and me—that would be the five.

  A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. We were taking our noon break.

  “Come in,” I said.

  Forkbeard escorted a younger rider into the room. “He brings a message from Suvorov.”

  “Is he well?” I asked the rider.

  “Lord Suvorov is busy, Sire. I’ve never seen anyone work so hard.”

  I took the cylinder from him, unscrewed it, and pulled out the tightly rolled paper inside. Suvorov’s handwriting filled the page:

  King Bayard—

  I reached Zangabal. The city council was initially resistant until I reminded them what would happen to an isolated city when the reptilian horde arrived. They’re gathering supplies. I should have thirty rickshaws ready in two days.

  Kovia is also cooperating. They promised me fifty rickshaws would depart at the same time as Zangabal’s.

  Theros is being the most difficult. Their new War Chief wants guarantees that Sky Island will protect them specifically if they contribute. I’m working on him. I estimate forty rickshaws will leave here once I convince him.

  That will give us 120 rickshaws with food and medical supplies. I’m arranging for three hundred men pulling them, with another hundred as guards. I plan to depart in 3-4 days, maybe 5, and arrive at Tsargol 8-10 days after that.

  Just make sure there’s a city left for us to resupply.

  —Suvorov

  I smiled grimly. Leave it to Suvorov to organize a massive supply train while dealing with nervous city councils and angry war leaders. The man was a logistical genius. He was moving fast, but he was being more realistic than I was. The supply train would take longer to reach Tsargol than my original estimate.

  It would be eight to ten days—after he left the cities—that the supplies would arrive. I had to break the siege before that and drive the reptilian host back, and then hold the area secure for the unwieldy supply train.

  I sighed, nodding. Here it was: the chance to redeem myself.

  I rolled up the message and tucked it away. The messenger and Forkbeard had quietly left as I read.

  Tomorrow would be the day. Suvorov hadn’t said if he’d return to Sky Island. Did I stay to move the floating island, or leave with my riders?

  I walked outside.

  I thought about Philip A-3, dying with a plasma blade through his chest, his five-year scheme ending in failure. I thought about the Institute, watching from their hidden observation spheres, collecting data on everyone’s struggles. I thought about Gorthak and Rhea and all the people of Tellus, victims of a genocide three centuries old.

  And I thought about the eleven thousand men who’d marched to Tsargol believing in me, believing we could win.

  Tomorrow, we’d start honoring their sacrifice.

  I stood there, feeling the weight of command, the weight of responsibility, and the weight of all those lives depending on my decisions.

  Should I use the Pareto Principle? I’d sleep on it, and see if I had the answer tomorrow.

  -49-

  Dawn came with clear skies and a steady wind from the south, perfect flying weather.

  I looked across the assembled force. Ten of us had saddlebags full of javelins. The others had saddlebags bulging with fire-sacks, the alcohol-filled leather spheres that had served us so well in the past.

  “Mount up!” I shouted.

  The riders swung into their saddles. Leather straps were cinched tight. Control wheels were tested. Weapons were secured. Within minutes, the massed pterodactyls stood ready, their riders waiting for my signal.

  I drew back on the control strap. My beast leaped from Sky Island’s edge, wings unfurling with that familiar crack as they caught air. For a heart-stopping moment we fell, the ground rushing up. Then the wings bit deep into Mu’s thick atmosphere and we soared, climbing on thermal currents that rose from below.

  Behind me, the other pterodactyls launched. The sound was like thunder: wings beating, riders shouting, and beasts screeching. It was the sound of hope taking flight.

  “On to Tsargol!” I shouted, banking northeast.

  We flew.

  In time, hours, the desert stretched below us. It was red sand and rock baking under the mid-morning sun.

  Hours later, Forkbeard pulled his mount alongside mine. He pointed ahead. “Sire, look!”

  I could see a dark smudge on the horizon that resolved into the desert city of Tsargol as we drew closer—the distinctive stone walls and the towers at many intervals.

  Surrounding the city like a noose was the great reptilian host.

  We rose higher and drew nearer.

  The Ophidians had dug trenches around the city, maybe three hundred yards from the walls. Behind the trenches were tents in organized rows. There were supply wagons and what looked like command tents larger than the others. This was a professional siege all right.

  The Saddoth advisors had taught them well.

  To the east, on the ridges where the dart riflemen had massacred my riders, I could see fortified positions. I bet that was where the dart riflemen were stationed, protected by earthworks and ready to stop any new aerial assault. It was interesting that they were perched above the rest of the horde and primarily on their own. Maybe those of Saddoth grew weary of the Mu barbarians. Maybe that was simply the best use for their limited number of dart riflemen.

  Would the earthworks and roofs ruin my surprise? I didn’t like them. That was for damn sure.

  The Draconian camps were more scattered, spread to the north and west. The majority of the raptor pens were empty. Riders must be using the beasts to raid for supplies. That made sense, anyway. Tsargol was a desert city with limited agriculture. The besiegers would have to make sure they didn’t starve as they tried to do that to those in the city.

  I had seen enough and signaled the others.

  We dove, dropping from a great height in a breathtaking descent that left my ears popping. The walls of Tsargol grew larger, the defenders hidden behind parapets now visible as individual figures.

  They saw us coming. I heard shouts and saw men pointing. Then the shouting turned to cheering.

  That sounded good.

  We dropped toward an open area in the city, the pterodactyl wings beating hard to kill our speed.

  My beast’s talons hit paving stones hard enough to send up sparks. Then he folded his wings and came to a stop. Around me, the other pterodactyls landed, their riders whooping as the defenders continued to cheer.

  I slid from my beast’s saddle, my legs steady despite the long flight. The open area was filling with people—soldiers rushing from the walls and civilians emerging from buildings.

  A group pushed through the crowd, led by a tall man wearing a bronze circlet: the mark of kingship in Tsargol. He was younger than I expected, maybe thirty, with a hard face and hungry eyes. He wasn’t the old king, the one whose son I’d slain my first time in Tsargol. A Zero Stone had controlled the son. I’d smashed the sentient stone back then.

  The King of Tsargol stopped before me and bowed. “Lord Bayard, King of Sky Island. Tsargol welcomes you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

  “And you are?”

  “King Embris, cousin to the King who fell eight days ago.”

  He didn’t say how the King had fallen. I wasn’t going to ask, either. The former King had been old, and not well loved. I wondered if it could have been a coup. Did it matter at this point?

  “I’ve come to break the siege,” I said.

  Embris looked at the assembled riders, a little less than forty of us. “Forgive my doubt, Lord Bayard, but we’ve seen what happens when Pterodactyl Riders face those cursed dart weapons. We’ve lost many on the walls the same way. I do not want to see more brave men fall for nothing.”

  The crowd had grown quiet. They looked frightened and hungry. They needed hope and confidence.

  I jumped onto a fountain’s edge so everyone could see me.

  “Tomorrow, we’re going to kill the cursed dart riflemen. Without them and without their dart rifles, the reptilian host will lose its key advantage. Then my riders will rain fire from above until the enemy breaks and flees.”

  “And if they don’t break?” someone shouted from the crowd.

  “Then we’ll keep hitting them until they do!” I shouted. “Once we’re free to operate without fear of those darts, there’s nothing that can stand against us in open terrain. Listen! Sky Island is coming here. I will be able to rain fire-sacks on them forever. And what is more, a supply train is already approaching from Zangabal, Kovia, and Theros. One hundred and twenty rickshaws are loaded with food and medicine. They’ll be here in eight days.”

  The crowd erupted with cheers.

  King Embris stepped forward, his hungry eyes now showing hope. “A supply train is really coming?”

  I nodded solemnly. “All you have to do is hold for eight more days. Can you do that?”

  “On half rations we could hold for twenty more,” Embris said.

  “Good. Because after tomorrow, we’ll have them quaking in their boots.” I jumped down from the fountain and clasped his arm. “Send me your best scout: someone who knows every detail of the siege works and the land around Tsargol. I want to know exactly where the Saddoth advisors are positioned and how.”

  Embris turned to the crowd. “You heard Lord Bayard! Sky Island is coming to our aid! Food is coming! The siege will be broken!” He raised his fist. “Tsargol will stand!”

  “Tsargol will stand!” the crowd roared back.

  Soon, they dispersed, clearly energized by the news.

  A little later, a young city commander approached, saluting. He wore leather garb and had short dark hair and keen eyes.

  “Lord Bayard? King Embris sent me. I’m Commander Zavor. I’ve been coordinating our scouts during the siege. I can tell you everything about the enemy positions you want to know.”

  “Good. I want you to show me.”

  He led me to a tower overlooking the eastern wall. From there, using a crude telescope, a leather tube with glass lenses, I could see the high ridge in detail.

  The positions were obvious once you knew what to look for. They were fortified earthworks on the highest points, with clear sightlines to the city and the surrounding terrain. I counted five distinct positions spread across maybe three-quarters of a mile of ridge. Each of those earthworks also had roofs.

  “The riflemen don’t move much,” Zavor said. “They stay in their fortifications, watching. Once, Tsargol raiders ran out to test them. Our men died within seconds of coming into range, slain by the darts.”

  “Do you know how many riflemen there are per position?” I asked.

  “I’d say five to eight,” he said.

  I spent the next hour with Zavor, going over maps, discussing the siege in detail, learning everything I could about the reptilian deployment.

  By far, the bulk of the Ophidian host rested below the ridge, shielded by the dart riflemen.

  There were also paths down from the ridge earthworks to the Ophidian tents on the lower plain.

  The more I thought about this, the more it seemed to me that a fast dive down and hurling of javelins wasn’t going to do much if the Saddoth advisors stayed under those roofs. It was one thing to hurl a javelin at a rifleman in the open. It was something else behind a window and roof.

  How were we going to do this now?

  -50-

  I’d spent most of last night considering the wisdom of the Pareto Principle. Use only the five best throwers, giving them two shield generators each. However, that simply seemed like too few fighters for tomorrow. We had to kill all the riflemen before they got smart. That would be too big a job for five riders.

  Now, from the air, I watched fire-sacks fall like meteors.

  This wasn’t a random bombing on the enemy camp. They struck the supply tents nearest the ridge.

  Not every fire-sack hit its target. Some burst harmlessly on open ground between tents. Others struck but their wax seals held against the impact. That seemed incredible given the height from which my riders dropped the sacks. I wanted to keep them well out of range of the dart rifles.

  Alcohol splashed across canvas and across the scaled bodies of serpent-men caught in the open.

  Then the torch-riders dropped their flames.

  Soon, fire raced across the ground where alcohol had pooled, igniting tents and the supplies inside in a growing conflagration. Serpent-men shrieked as flames caught their robes and scales.

  We’d hit at dawn, making our beasts work to fly in the cool morning air. I figured the surprise of the attack was worth it.

  Some Ophidians scattered. Others ran out and hissed orders or beat at the flames.

  More Pterodactyl Riders made passes, dropping additional fire-sacks. These were closer to Tsargol, and the riders flew lower. That was for a reason, a key one.

  The flames were spreading, jumping from tent to tent.

  Then I saw what I’d been trying to entice them to do.

  On the eastern ridge, figures emerged from the fortified positions. It looked as if some shouted orders to the panicking Ophidians far below. More than a few raised their rifles and fired long-range at the hard-climbing pterodactyls closer to the city.

  I had another group fly lower, ready to drop fire-sacks elsewhere on the camp. The riflemen were on the paths, working their way down so they could no doubt get closer to the pterodactyls.

  In other words, they’d abandoned the safety of their ridge fortifications.

  “There!” I shouted, pointing at the first group.

  The advisors were smaller than the Mu Ophidians. That was interesting. They also wore desert-colored clothing that blended with the rock, and they carried long air rifles with distinctive profiles.

  I drew back on the control straps, angling my beast into a steep dive.

  The other nine formed up behind me as we’d practiced many times. The wind screamed past, the ground rushed up—the ridge, the fortified positions, the Saddoth advisors turning to track us with their weapons.

  At three hundred feet, I saw the first muzzle flash.

  I flipped the switch on my shield generator, hoping the others would do likewise on theirs. The shimmer appeared around me and continued to expand as it enveloped my pterodactyl, that heat-distortion effect I’d tested on Tellus against Philip’s phasor fire. The generator vibrated against my belt, warm but not hot.

  More muzzle flashes erupted. I couldn’t hear the shots over the wind, but I felt the impacts: darts slamming into my shield, their kinetic energy dissipating across the energy field.

  Now, I dropped like a stone, with the wings tucked, falling at terminal velocity toward the westernmost position. Four Saddoth advisors were there on the path, firing rapidly, their rifles spitting darts at us in a steady stream.

  The darts hit our shields. Each impact against me or my beast made the generator vibrate harder and made the shimmer flicker. I could feel mine heating up against my belt, the power indicator in my peripheral vision dropping.

  At forty feet, give or take, I pulled a strap. My beast’s wings snapped open with a crack that rattled my teeth. The g-force crushed me into the saddle as we transitioned from dive to level flight, the horizon tilting wildly.

  I stood in my stirrups, pulled a javelin from my saddlebag, and threw with everything I had.

  The javelin flew true, punching through the chest of the nearest Saddoth advisor. He staggered backward, clawing at the wooden shaft protruding from his sternum, and then collapsed.

  Around me, my riders were throwing. A javelin took an advisor in the throat, nearly decapitating him. Forkbeard’s massive throw drove clean through an advisor’s torso and embedded in the ground behind him. Krom Sharp-Eye, with his one eye somehow keener than most men’s two, put his javelin through an advisor’s head.

  The fourth advisor was trying to reload, his hands fumbling with the rifle’s mechanism. A javelin caught him in the shoulder, spinning him. He dropped the rifle and reached for a sidearm, but a follow-up throw took him in the back.

  “Position one clear!” I shouted. “Let’s move to position two!”

  We climbed, gaining altitude for another dive. My shield was flickering now, the generator hot. The power indicator showed only a little charge remaining. These things were draining far faster than I’d anticipated.

  “Dive!” I shouted.

  We dropped on the second position like avenging angels. There were five advisors this time, already firing at us as we came in. Their discipline was impressive. They’d no doubt watched their comrades die moments ago but held their ground, shooting with professional calm even as death dove toward them.

  Rifle darts slammed into our shields. I felt like mine was weakening with each impact, the shimmer fading. The generator was scalding hot now against my belt.

  At forty feet, I threw, missing.

  Krom’s throw was more effective, his javelin punching through an advisor’s chest with so much force it lifted the Ophidian off his feet before slamming him into the rock.

  Then I heard a rider scream.

  I turned in time to see Daven’s shield fail, the shimmer vanishing like a popped soap bubble. One second the protection was there, the next it was gone.

  A dart caught him in the chest. Then another. Then three more in rapid succession struck him, the advisors clearly concentrating fire on the now-vulnerable target, hitting the beast as well.

  Daven slumped in his saddle, blood spreading across his leather armor. His pterodactyl screeched in pain and terror. Moments later, the pterodactyl crashed into the side of the ridge with a sickening crunch of breaking bones and tearing membrane. Dust exploded up from the impact. Neither rider nor mount moved afterward.

  The rest of us threw with renewed fury. Javelins rained down on the remaining advisors. The last one tried to flee back up the path to the fortification, but a javelin took him in the back.