“What happened?” someone shouted. “Why did his beast fail?”

  Before anyone could answer, another pterodactyl began to drop. Then another. Silent, sudden, like someone had cut their strings. The beasts didn’t even have time to scream.

  “Evade! Evade!” I yanked my beast’s control straps. Around me, riders were scattering, but more kept falling. I saw Drax Black-Eyes clutch at something in his chest before his mount went into a death spiral. That was a dart. Someone was shooting heavy darts—but from where?

  Then I saw them—barely—on the rocky ridges flanking the battlefield. There were figures in mottled cloaks that blended with the stone, holding long, slender weapons. They tracked our flyers with their weapons. Soon, another pterodactyl began to tumble toward the ground.

  “Dart rifles!” I screamed, remembering them from Saddoth. “They have dart rifles! Climb! Climb!”

  But we were in a killing zone. The ridges provided perfect firing positions. I realized with a sick feeling that the enemy had lured us into optimal range. My riders tried to climb, but pterodactyls weren’t built for rapid flight up. They needed time to catch the thermals, time to gain altitude.

  We didn’t have that time.

  Tarl’s pterodactyl took three darts to the chest. The beast screeched with pain, rage, and possibly confusion. Young Tarl fought for control, but his mount was already dying, its wings folding.

  “Jump, you fool!” I shouted, though I knew he couldn’t hear me.

  Tarl stood in his stirrups as his beast plummeted, and for one impossible moment, I thought he might leap to another pterodactyl. Then they hit the ground in an explosion of dust and blood.

  Everywhere I looked, my riders were falling. The pride of humanity’s air cavalry, the force that had made us supreme was being systematically slaughtered by weapons we couldn’t fight, couldn’t even see properly.

  “To me!” I roared. “South! Break south!”

  Maybe fifty riders heard and obeyed, following as I led them away from the ridges. Behind us, pterodactyls rained from the sky like shot ducks.

  Below, our spearmen must have seen the disaster, but it was too late for them. They were committed, and the reptilian forces—those not burning—were reforming with shocking speed. The Ophidians’ crescent was advancing against the spearmen for a head-on clash.

  Someone had played me. This whole battle—the positioning—had been bait. Someone had known exactly how we’d attack, exactly how to counter our greatest advantage.

  The last wave of Pterodactyl Riders, our reserve, saw what was happening and fled without orders. I couldn’t blame them. In less than five minutes, we’d lost three quarters of our aerial force.

  “Lord King!” One of my surviving riders pulled alongside, blood streaming from a dart graze on his shoulder. “The spearmen are being surrounded!”

  I looked down to see our neat formations crumbling. Without our aerial support, about a third of the Draconians, the ones who had survived the firebombing, had regrouped. They were already hitting the flanks and racing for the rear, trying to encircle them. The Ophidian crescent pressed from the front, engaging in the push of pike between the two hosts. Those damned dart rifles on the ridges were now targeting our spear-armed officers, picking off the leaders.

  Strategos Valmic’s banner fell. Then Commander Thon’s. The spearmen were beginning to waver.

  The battle was ending. It was about to become a slaughter. And it was my fault. My brilliant plan, my united army, my great victory was crumbling into ash and blood on the Tsargol Plain.

  “Sound the retreat,” I said, though the words tasted like poison.

  “Sire?”

  “Sound the retreat!”

  The surviving riders raised their horns, blowing the three long notes that meant fall back. Some of our spearmen must have heard that. They began streaming back. Others on the ground were too pressed, too surrounded to do that.

  I watched Theros’s spearmen make a desperate last stand, forming a square that was soon surrounded by Ophidians. The spearmen fought well, but there were too many enemies, and no help was coming.

  The gates of Tsargol were opening, the city guard forming up, maybe to cover the retreat. But thousands wouldn’t make it that far. The reptilian forces were pressing hard, and those cursed dart rifles kept taking their toll, now targeting fleeing men.

  I wanted to dive down, to die with my soldiers, but my pterodactyl wouldn’t obey. The beast had more sense than I did—he knew death when he saw it. We flew away, leaving behind the screams of dying men and the death of my dream of united humanity on Mu.

  Behind us, the reptilian host raised their victory cries, a sound that would haunt me. This was the day that technology and treachery destroyed the flower of humanity’s strength on Mu.

  -7-

  I’ve seen plenty of death before. In Bhutan, I watched Marines die from friendly fire. On Saddoth, I saw Ophidians devour Neanderthals. But nothing prepared me for watching nearly eleven thousand men die because of my arrogance.

  The retreat from the Tsargol Plain became a rout. Our organized formations dissolved into desperate clumps of men trying to fight their way back, while Draconians on raptors tore into them from the flanks. The Ophidians pressed forward relentlessly, their spears finding the backs of men as they turned to run.

  From my saddle, I could see it all—and could do nothing to stop it.

  “Lord King!” One of my riders pointed toward Tsargol. “The gates!”

  The city was closing its doors. I understood the logic—if the reptilian host reached the gates while they were open, the city would fall. But it meant abandoning thousands of men still fighting on the plain.

  “No,” I said, sick at heart.

  Men were streaming toward the closing gates, throwing away weapons and shields in their desperation to run faster. Behind them came the Draconians, riding them down with lances, while raptors bit and clawed. The killing was mechanical, efficient. The reptile-men weren’t taking prisoners.

  The gates of Tsargol boomed shut with maybe three thousand men inside, the rest still outside.

  I flew in circles high in the sky, watching as several hundred climbed up ropes thrown down from the walls. Most, however, died before the city, slain by the reptilian barbarians.

  There was nothing left for me now. I was sick at heart, with my shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “What now, Sire?” Forkbeard shouted.

  I stared at him, knowing I had to say something. “Sky Island,” I said at last, my voice hollow. “We go to Sky Island.”

  What else could we do?

  We flew high and wide, avoiding the ridges, leaving the battlefield for good. But I kept looking back, seeing the small figures of reptilian warriors dancing in victory among our dead. Seeing the closed gates of Tsargol, the city that had shut out its would-be saviors.

  I couldn’t take any more and turned away.

  The flight to Sky Island took hours. Hours to think about every mistake I’d made. I’d been so sure of our superiority, so confident that Pterodactyl Riders and united numbers would carry the day. How had Ophidians with dart rifles arrived on Mu?

  The Ophidians of Saddoth used rifles like that. Could the red priests have found such rifles in the Dark Citadel? Then how had barbarian Ophidians become so proficient so quickly? Why had the reptilian forces become so disciplined as well?

  The answer seemed obvious once I thought about it long enough.

  Military advisors from Saddoth had come to Mu. I didn’t know how or where, but they must have. That was the only reasonable explanation for what I’d seen. The shooters on the ridge had acted like Marines, like modern soldiers.

  Could the Ophidian red priests have found something in the Dark Citadel to allow that?

  Maybe my greatest mistake had been in moving Sky Island from the Dark Citadel.

  In time, we landed on Sky Island, only a handful of us. Forkbeard and Suvorov had survived, so that was something. All the rest were dead. And the soldiers of three cities were gone—well, except for those who had made it into Tsargol.

  I slid from my saddle. My legs nearly buckled as my feet landed on pavement.

  Forkbeard rushed over and put a hand on my shoulder, but I pushed past him. I couldn’t accept comfort. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  The images wouldn’t stop. Tarl trying to jump from his dying pterodactyl. Valmic’s banner falling. The gates of Tsargol slamming shut on men still screaming for sanctuary. I made it three steps before I vomited, dropping to my knees on the stone of Sky Island.

  “Sire—” someone started.

  “Leave him,” Suvorov said quietly.

  I stayed on my hands and knees, watching my spit drip onto ancient stone. Eleven thousand men. I’d promised them victory, told them we were ushering in a new era for humanity on Mu. Instead, I’d led them into a meat grinder I hadn’t seen coming.

  You want to know the worst part? I could still hear myself from yesterday over the maps, so confident, so certain: “Today we show the Draconians and Ophidians why men rule this world!”

  Men didn’t rule anything. We were just prey that had gotten cocky.

  I pushed up, wiping my mouth. My hands were shaking. I’d gotten drunk on the idea that I was some kind of savior. Jake Bayard, the Traveler, the Marine who would unite humanity and drive back the darkness.

  What a joke.

  For a time, I paced back and forth, trying to think through the rage and self-loathing. Some of the men watched me, but most looked away. They’d lost brothers today. They didn’t need to watch their supposed king fall apart.

  The sun was setting, painting Sky Island in reds that looked too much like blood. I forced myself to stop pacing, to think like a Marine again instead of a failed king. Assess the situation. Identify resources. Develop a plan.

  We were facing weapons and tactics from off-world—that much was clear. The dart rifles, the disciplined formations, the trap itself. This wasn’t Mu warfare anymore. Someone had changed the game.

  Fine. I could change it too.

  At that point, Suvorov came forward, the Russian staring at me with those calculating eyes.

  “The alliance is dead,” I said, my voice raw. “I’ve brought disaster on Zangabal, Kovia, and Theros.”

  Suvorov was quiet for a moment. Then: “What will you do now?”

  I’d been thinking exactly that. In time, I always reached the same answer. There were nine Neanderthal warriors on Garm with transpar suits who’d helped me conquer before. With them, I could counter those dart rifles. The transpar suits were like flying power armor, nearly invulnerable to primitive projectiles. The Nine could turn this around for us.

  “The obelisk,” I said, looking up. “I’m going to Garm. I’ll bring back the Nine and use technology to match theirs.”

  “Will the system allow you to bring transpar suits to Mu?” Suvorov asked.

  “I don’t know. I brought one before from Atlantis. Yes, it should work.”

  “Is that the wisest course?” Suvorov asked.

  “What choice do I have?” I said. “The reptilian host will surely move on Zangabal, Kovia, and Theros within days. Without the Pterodactyl Riders, without their spearmen, each will fall alone.”

  “Can nine in such suits defeat the reptilians?”

  I stared at Suvorov. “You must hold Sky Island while I’m gone. I give the remaining riders to you. Hold while I get reinforcements.”

  “Holding the island should be easy enough,” Suvorov said.

  “Don’t count on it,” I said bitterly. “The red priests might have discovered more sky-rafts in the Dark Citadel. It could get ugly very soon even for Sky Island.”

  “I will hold it until you return,” Suvorov said.

  I shook his hand fiercely. Suvorov was a great man, a great friend. I’m sure he could do a much better job than I could.

  “But I think you should rest first and consider this carefully,” Suvorov said.

  I shook my head wildly. I had to get out of here.

  “Jake—”

  “I have to go now,” I said. “I can’t let their deaths mean nothing. The Nine can save us. I know they can.”

  “Rest a little first,” Suvorov said. “You’re exhausted, mentally and spiritually drained. You owe it to the dead to do this the best way possible.”

  I swallowed hard, knowing he was right. “A few hours,” I finally said. “Then I’ll go.”

  Three hours later, I stood before Sky Island’s obelisk. I wore a leather jacket and Earth pants and boots. The obelisk towered above me, the red pyramidion on top, the capstone, seeming to watch me. I had no idea what it was thinking, if anything.

  Through this ancient technology, Travelers like me could move between worlds. I’d used it before, always successfully. Last time, I’d gone to Earth and then Mars. Today, I’d return to Garm, the Neanderthal Planet.

  I’d eaten and drunk, and tried to rest. Every time I sat down, though, in my mind’s eye I could see thousands of spearmen. They were always dying to the reptilian horde.

  I had an automatic and some supplies. There could be sabertooths and dire wolves waiting to greet me on Garm. It was best to be ready.

  I approached the obelisk as the pyramidion began to glow red.

  I thought of the capstone as an AI, but I’d never been completely sure about that. Omilcar had said I could change the settings from this one, the central obelisk. I’d never done that, and I’d never known if Omilcar had been lying about that. He’d been a traitor in the end, killing my sweet wife and unborn son. I’d killed him in turn, but it had been a long process.

  “I’m here,” I said, sounding far too bleak even to me.

  You are Jake Bayard the Traveler, the pyramidion said into my mind.

  “I want to go to Garm.”

  I can do that.

  I nodded as I thought of Garm, of the ziggurat there, of my Neanderthal brothers waiting.

  Did you say Garm?

  “Yes,” I said.

  Omilcar suggested that I send you elsewhere if you asked to go to Garm.

  “What are you talking about? Omilcar is dead.”

  I did not know that. Yes. Then I must obey his last instruction in this.

  “Are you screwing with me?” I shouted.

  The pyramidion finished talking to me and beamed a red ray at me. I began to elongate, and then I felt myself stretching for miles, heading into space. Where would the damn pyramidion send me? I hoped it wasn’t to Tynar in the Canopus System. I couldn’t believe this was happening. How had Omilcar reached up a dead hand to screw with me like this?

  It was my last coherent thought on Mu.

  -8-

  Interlude One

  Philip hated the Dark Citadel. He truly, profoundly, and absolutely hated it.

  The place reeked of reptilian musk and primitive torch smoke, a combination that made his refined olfactory senses want to shut down in protest. Then the red-robed Ophidians slunk through the corridors with ridiculous importance and even pretensions of grandeur, never realizing they were nothing more than barbarian savages playing with technology they couldn’t begin to comprehend. It was like watching chimpanzees trying to operate a starship: amusing for about five seconds, then merely tedious.

  Philip stood in the deep chamber, the one the red-robed priests hadn’t even known existed because they were too stupid to understand the architectural plans they’d supposedly been studying for years. The ancient chamber housed advanced technology from the Harmony of Planets era, including a partially functional communication array that Philip had painstakingly repaired over the past weeks. Not that he could explain that to anyone here. The red-robed priests knew him as the intermediary to Saddoth, the world of their scaled cousins from the stars coming to help them reclaim their rightful place as the rulers of Mu.

  What simple-minded dupes they were, never understanding they were merely pawns in a much larger scheme.

  A priest rang a gong.

  The three Homo habilis looked up.

  “Check it out,” Philip said.

  One of the bodyguards got up, exiting the chamber. He returned with an Ophidian priest leading an obviously weary Draconian rider, a special messenger by his red sash. The dinosaurian creature prostrated itself, which Philip found both appropriate and annoying.

  “Speak,” Philip said, letting his translator device turn that into hisses and guttural sounds in the Ophidian tongue.

  The rider raised his head and began to hiss and make slithering sounds.

  The translator turned that into, “There is a great victory on the Plain of Tsargol. The sky-riders fell like rain. Then the spearmen broke, died, and fled in terror. Thousands lie dead upon the sand.”

  Philip felt a thrill of satisfaction run through him. So it had worked. The dart rifles and the military advisors from Saddoth had done their job. Jake Bayard, the supposedly invincible Traveler, had led his army into defeat and annihilation. That was so sweet.

  “When did this occur?” Philip asked, though he already suspected the answer would irritate him.

  “Four sun-cycles past, Great One. I rode without stopping.”

  Philip’s satisfaction curdled. Four days? That was an eternity in operational terms. Bayard could have already used the obelisk on Sky Island by now. The fool was probably on Tellus, stumbling around Ploor, possibly dying from radiation exposure without Philip there to observe and record, and to use the Traveler for the greater good of the Institute.

  The ride back from Tsargol was only supposed to take two days. Why had the rider taken so long? He could question the dinosaurian, but he’d probably only get self-serving lies.

  “Leave me,” Philip said.

  The red-robed Ophidian led the smaller Draconian away, and Philip began pacing.

  Both bodyguards were up and waiting for their next order.

  Philip pulled out a crumpled note from his inside pocket, the last communication from his asset among the Pterodactyl Riders. He’d read it dozens of times, but looked at it again:

  The challenge was made to Karn at the Bleached Peaks. The King gathers all the riders for his war. I estimate nine thousand spears will march on Tsargol. He speaks of certain victory. –T.