My shield died with a pathetic whimper as the generator went silent and suddenly cool against my belt. I deactivated it to preserve whatever microscopic charge remained—maybe I could get one more activation if I desperately needed it.

  Around me, the others’ shields were failing too. We’d used up our protection too fast, as three of the positions yet remained.

  I pointed at the next group of advisors. Then I guided my beast in that direction as we zoomed toward them.

  We lacked shields this time and we were flying fifty feet above the ground instead of diving. My heart hammered. I felt we had to strike now while they were exposed. It wasn’t ideal, I know, but sometimes you just had to grab your balls and attack.

  The next four Saddoth advisors were scrambling back toward their earthworks when they saw us coming. Maybe that’s what gave us our edge.

  I stood in my stirrups and threw. My javelin struck the nearest advisor as he turned and toppled sideway.

  More javelins flew, and another went down.

  The last two knelt, raised their rifles, and coolly returned fire.

  A dart punched through Jarek’s thigh. He jerked in his saddle. His pterodactyl screamed as more darts hit it. The beast went down.

  Darts slammed into another beast. The pterodactyl shrieked and folded, tumbling from the sky.

  The rider tried to jump clear but his saddle straps held. Beast and rider hit the rocky slope together. They rolled once, twice, then went still.

  “Fall back!” I shouted, pulling hard on the control straps. “Get out of their range!”

  As some of us did that, others pressed the attack and planted their javelins in the shooters’ torsos, killing them.

  As I climbed, I could see movement at the remaining two fortified positions. The advisors who’d exposed themselves were scrambling back to cover, disappearing into their earthworks.

  I did a quick count as we regrouped. There were seven of us left from the original ten. Daven, Jarek, and Redclaw were dead on the ridge, along with their mounts.

  The remaining advisors, most likely ten of them between two fortified positions—were no longer exposing themselves.

  Forkbeard pulled his massive pterodactyl alongside mine. “Sire? What are your orders?”

  I looked at the ridge. We’d killed twenty-plus advisors. That was good as far as it went. But a possible ten remained, and they’d learned.

  I pulled a horn from my belt—a curved instrument made from some Mu beast’s horn—and blew three long blasts.

  “Back to Tsargol,” I shouted. “We’ve done what we could.”

  We flew back to the city in silence, leaving our dead behind on that cursed ridge.

  -51-

  I stood on Tsargol’s eastern wall as the sun sank toward the horizon, staring at the two remaining fortified positions. Commander Zavor stood beside me, his crude telescope trained on the ridge.

  “They’re staying down,” he said. “I haven’t seen movement there for hours.”

  “They’re being smart.” I leaned against the parapet, my mind churning through the problem.

  There were approximately ten riflemen in fortified positions. We had no shields left until I found new power sources to recharge them. We couldn’t dive on them. We couldn’t approach low without losing more riders. Every conventional solution ended with more dead pterodactyls and riders.

  Then it clicked. It was a memory from my readings about the Napoleonic Wars, specifically 1813: the Campaign of Germany. After years of losing to Napoleon’s genius, the Allied commanders had finally figured it out. Don’t fight Napoleon. Fight where he isn’t. Attack his marshals, his supply lines, and his isolated corps. But avoid the Emperor.

  “We’re fighting the wrong enemy,” I said.

  Zavor lowered his telescope. “Sire?”

  “The riflemen.” I pointed at the fortified positions. “We can’t dig them out, not without losing everyone. So we don’t try.”

  “Then what—”

  “We attack the Draconians.” I turned and pointed north, where the raptor rider camps sprawled across the desert. “Fifteen thousand of them with their beasts penned up nice and neat. Far from those cursed rifles.”

  There weren’t fifteen thousand at the moment. At least half were out foraging, but the idea was the same.

  Understanding dawned on Zavor’s face. “The riflemen can’t protect the camps miles away from them.”

  I felt the tactical solution solidify. “We burn the Draconian camps. Kill their raptors. Destroy their supplies. Force them to either flee or fight us on our terms.”

  I found Forkbeard in the plaza, playing the Game. The giant looked up as I approached.

  “We’re flying again tomorrow,” I said. “But not at the riflemen.”

  “Where then?” he asked.

  “We’re going to hit the Draconians and burn everything in sight.”

  Forkbeard grinned. “Now that sounds like proper Pterodactyl Rider work.”

  The next morning, thirty riders lifted off from inside Tsargol, including the strike team. We’d salvaged what javelins we could and redistributed them among the survivors.

  We flew north in a loose formation, climbing to five hundred feet. Below, the Draconian camps came into view—a sprawling collection of tents, raptor pens, and supply areas stretching across maybe two square miles of desert.

  I raised my horn and blew.

  In moments, fire-sacks fell like judgment.

  The first wave hit the raptor pens, crude corrals where the Draconians kept their mounts between raids. Alcohol splashed across wicker-and-thorn fencing and the packed dirt inside. Torch-riders followed, and the pens erupted in flames.

  Raptors shrieked and bolted, crashing through burning fences, trampling each other in their panic. Some escaped into the open desert, running wild. Others weren’t so lucky, trapped by flames or crushed by their pen-mates.

  We banked for another pass.

  More fire-sacks fell. Loaded wagons went up in flames. The small Draconians were scrambling now, trying to organize a defense, but what could they do? Throw spears at targets five hundred feet up?

  Some tried anyway, as a few spears arced toward us but fell far short, clattering uselessly on the ground below.

  We made pass after pass until our fire-sacks ran out. Tents burned, supplies were destroyed, and raptors fled. All the while, smoke rose in thick black columns.

  Then I saw the red-robed figures running through the chaos.

  Those were Ophidian priests moving between groups of Draconians, hissing orders, pointing south toward the ridge.

  “They’re organizing a withdrawal,” Forkbeard shouted.

  He was right. The Draconians weren’t breaking completely. The priests were rallying them, directing them to abandon the burning camps and move south toward the ridge. Toward the protection of those remaining riflemen.

  “Hit them while they’re moving!” I shouted. “Don’t let them form up!”

  The problem was we didn’t have any fire-sacks left.

  I watched in frustration as maybe half the Draconians went to the ridge, clustering under the eastern slope where the fortified rifle positions could provide covering fire from us. The red-robed tech priests had done their job—turned a rout into a tactical withdrawal.

  But two to three thousand Draconians fled into the desert, abandoning the siege for now. And those who remained under the ridge had lost much of their camps and supplies, and many of their raptors.

  “They’re pinned,” Krom said, circling beside me. “They can’t forage and raid from there.”

  “But they’re not broken,” I said, watching the mass of Draconians huddled under the long ridge. “Not yet.” And I didn’t really know how pinned they were, as we lacked fire-sacks. They didn’t know that, though.

  In any case, we’d hurt them, but the siege wasn’t over. Despite everything, it had become a standoff. The Draconians were under the long ridge, protected by a few dart riflemen. My riders would be unable to approach without losses. Both sides were stuck.

  I looked at my empty saddlebags. The other riders were the same. We’d expended every fire-sack in the assault.

  “Back to Tsargol,” I shouted. “We’ve done what we can for now.”

  King Embris met us in the plaza, his face showing cautious hope. “The Draconian camps are destroyed. I saw the smoke.”

  “They’re not routed,” I said, sliding from my saddle. “Maybe a third fled. The rest are under the eastern ridge, protected by the riflemen, while others were still foraging, not knowing what had happened here today.”

  “But they can’t sustain a siege from there,” Embris said. “No supplies, no base of operations—”

  “Which means they’ll figure out something desperate,” I said, rubbing my face, tired. “Either way, we can’t press them. We’re out of fire-sacks.”

  “I gave you all we had,” Embris said.

  I nodded. He meant alcohol and sacks. That was where we’d gotten the extra fire-sacks, by scrouging through all of Tsargol. “I’ll have Suvorov bring Sky Island. When it arrives, we’ll have unlimited fire-sacks. We can finish this properly then.”

  “How long will that be?”

  That was the rub. How long? I didn’t know for sure.

  “Another week or two,” I said.

  Embris shook his head. That was clearly too long in his estimation.

  I looked east. Smoke still rose from there.

  We’d won tactically. But we hadn’t won strategically, not yet.

  The siege was weakened but not broken. I’d played my greatest trumps. What could I do next?

  -52-

  The sun had set hours ago, and most of Tsargol slept. But I sat alone in a storage room off the plaza, surrounded by ten shield generators laid out on a wooden table like corpses awaiting burial.

  Nine were supposedly dead—their power indicators dark, their charges apparently exhausted. The tenth sat before me, connected to the charger unit I’d brought from Tellus. The charger itself was plugged into one of the “dead” generators, slowly, painfully draining whatever microscopic charge remained and transferring it to the active unit.

  I’d been at this for three hours.

  The process was tedious. Drain one “dead” generator completely—that took maybe twenty minutes and yielded perhaps two or three percent charge to the active unit. Disconnect. Connect the next “dead” generator. Wait another twenty minutes and get another three percent.

  The active generator’s indicator now showed seventeen percent. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.

  I disconnected the fourth “dead” generator and connected the fifth.

  The door opened behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was Forkbeard. His footsteps were unmistakable.

  “You should be sleeping,” the giant said.

  “I can’t.” I kept my eyes on the charger’s indicator light. “Not until this is done.”

  Forkbeard pulled up a chair that groaned under his weight. “How much charge do you have?”

  “Seventeen percent,” I said. “Maybe I can get it to thirty or thirty-five if I drain all nine “dead” ones.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I’m going to end this.”

  There was silence. I could feel his disapproval. Then: “You’re planning to do something stupid, aren’t you, Sire?”

  I looked at him. “I’m going to kill the last riflemen tonight. You’re going to fly me there and pick me up after.”

  “Sire—”

  “We’re out of options,” I said. “Tsargol is starving. The supply train can’t get through with the reptilian horde blocking the approach. Sky Island is still days away, even if Suvorov can get it started. Every day we wait, more people die.”

  “So your solution is to get yourself killed?”

  “My solution is to use the advantages I have.” I tapped the partially charged generator. “That’s this shield generator, the baan, and my close-quarters training. Those riflemen are deadly at range but useless in the dark at close quarters.”

  “There are thousands of Ophidians and Draconians camped out there.”

  “Then I’ll have to be quiet.” I disconnected the fifth generator and connected the sixth. “And fast. And lucky wouldn’t hurt.”

  Forkbeard leaned back, his chair creaking. “When do you plan to do this?”

  “Three hours before dawn would be about right. That’s when men are deepest asleep, when guards are the least alert.”

  “If you don’t come back—”

  “You’ll lead the riders,” I said. “You always have. You can keep them together, you can work with Embris, and you will hold until Sky Island arrives. Then you finish what we started.”

  “I’d rather you lived to finish it yourself.”

  “So would I.” The charger indicator flickered. “But if the choice is between me dying and Tsargol falling, along with everyone in it…” I shrugged. “That’s not really a choice. I’ve thought about this a lot.”

  We sat in silence for a while, watching the painfully slow charge transfer.

  By the time I’d exhausted all nine generators, the active one showed thirty-two percent.

  It would have to be enough.

  We flew in darkness, following a wide arc east around the siege lines. There was no moon tonight, just the stars providing barely enough light to see the ground below. Our pterodactyls flew low and quiet, their wing beats muffled by the cool night air.

  Forkbeard was on my left, a darker shadow against the dark sky. We’d stripped our mounts of everything that might rattle or shine. There were no saddlebags, no spare weapons, just the essentials.

  I had the baan on my belt, the partially charged shield generator, and the knife I’d taken from a dead Tog on Tellus. Forkbeard carried his pterodactyl lance and a long knife of his own.

  Below, I could see the faint glow of campfires under the eastern ridge. Thousands of Draconians huddled there with all the Ophidians, protected by the ten remaining riflemen in their fortifications high above on the ridge.

  We flew far around them, continuing east into the open desert, a mile past the ridge, then two.

  Finally, after I pulled a strap, my beast’s talons touched down on hard-packed sand. Forkbeard’s mount landed beside us a moment later.

  I slid from the saddle, my boots silent on the ground. The desert stretched in every direction, empty and dark.

  “Give me two hours,” I said quietly. “If I’m not back by then—”

  “You will be.” Forkbeard’s voice was hard and certain. “I’ll be watching from here. Any sign of trouble, I’m coming in.”

  “See you in two hours,” I said.

  Then I turned and started walking west, toward the ridge, toward the fortifications, toward Saddoth riflemen who had no idea I was coming.

  The approach took forty minutes of careful movement. The desert terrain was treacherous in the darkness: loose sand alternating with patches of sharp rock that could turn an ankle or make noise if I stepped wrong.

  I moved as I’d been taught in Marine training: low, slow and watching every step. I also stopped frequently to listen. I used available cover even when I thought no one was watching. I assumed that any sentries had better night vision than me.

  The ridge rose before me like a black wall against the slightly less black sky. I could see the two fortified positions, dark shapes on the ridge’s crest. The western-most position was my target.

  At the base of the ridge—opposite the great camp on the other side—I paused and listened. I heard drifting voices from the camps and heard the wind moving across stone. There was nothing from above.

  I started climbing.

  The slope was steep but not vertical. There were plenty of handholds, and plenty of places to brace my boots. I climbed slowly, testing each grip before committing my weight. One slip, one falling stone, and the whole plan collapsed.

  It took twenty minutes to reach the fortification. That was twenty minutes of controlled breathing, and burning muscles, and absolute focus on each movement.

  The earthwork was quiet. I crouched below the rim, listening.

  Someone was snoring.

  I drew the baan but didn’t activate it yet. The blue light would announce my presence. Better to slip inside first, get oriented and then strike.

  I pulled myself over the earthwork rim, moving with glacial slowness. The fortification’s interior was a shallow depression maybe ten feet across with firing positions carved into the forward wall. I saw crates of ammunition and a water barrel. And five sleeping forms wrapped in blankets.

  I activated the baan.

  The blue plasma blade hummed to life, throwing eerie light across the inner fortification. The nearest rifleman’s eyes snapped open. He saw me, saw the glowing blade, and opened his wide mouth to shout—

  The baan took his head.

  The others were scrambling up, reaching for weapons. There was no time for stealth now, just speed and violence.

  I spun and drove the blade through the second rifleman’s chest. He gasped once and died.

  The third got his rifle up. I slashed, the baan severing the barrel and continuing through his hands. He screamed. A follow-up thrust silenced him.

  The fourth and fifth were on their feet, backing toward the far wall. One had a knife. The other was fumbling with a pistol.

  I went low and came up fast. The baan carved through the knife-fighter’s torso, bisecting him. The one with the pistol fired—missed in his panic. I closed the distance and the blade took him through the neck.

  I deactivated the baan, breathing hard, and listening.

  There were shouts and hisses from below, growing louder with every second.

  I grabbed a rifle from the closest body. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship even in the dim starlight. Then I climbed to the firing position and looked out.

  Below, Ophidians were boiling out of their tents, armed and angry and looking for threats.