FORTY-EIGHT

KNIGHT READ THROUGH the pages, enraptured by the text as though it were a good novel. The story, interpreted and annotated by Weston as he put the puzzle pieces together, was gripping.

It was an unknown history of both Homo sapiens and Neanderthal. The pages chronicled the rise of the human race, thousands of years of peaceful coexistence and commingling bloodlines, until something changed. Whether it was a leap in evolution or the will of a single human leader the story didn’t say, but one thing was clear—humanity became violent. The Neanderthals had done their best to defend themselves, and despite their greater numbers and technological advances, they had little skill with war. Over generations, the Neanderthals were pushed north, out of Africa and into Asia, where they fled east.

They fled so fast, in fact, that the human race could not keep up. The Neanderthals chose to settle in the remote Annamite range because food and shelter were abundant, the terrain was easily defendable and . . . they found peace within the mountain. Mount Meru.

It spoke of giant crystals that healed the mind, of the construction of the necropolis from the bones of their dead, and of the building of a temple dedicated to the crystals and the god that provided them with this new home.

Three pages later, the story took on a new tone. Humans had been spotted. Scouts. Easily killed, but they knew more would come. The Neanderthals adopted a new form of leadership that Knight thought, despite their advanced civilization, was still quite primal . . . quite Neanderthal. The largest, most aggressive males would lead. Not the smartest. Not the most cunning. The warriors. They were preparing for war. The translation ended there. Knight read the last line.

To the largest and fiercest among us we bestow the rights of leadership that we might survive what is to come. It is to be taught, throughout the generations, so that we might become warriors, so that we become what the humans fear most.

This is it!!

Knight turned the page, but Weston had stopped writing. It was his final entry and Knight realized it was most likely made the day he left everything on the floor of the cave and . . . then what?

The answer struck Knight, causing him to laugh. “The devil.” Weston saw his chance to claim leadership. If his captors still lived by these rules, and Weston was a large man, he could assert his dominance and take control. But had he succeeded or was he dead? He hadn’t returned to this place, that was for sure, but why was a mystery.

He placed the notebook back on the floor and shuffled through the large pages of wall rubbings. As he looked at the symbols he marveled at the ancient knowledge on display here. So much potential. If not for Homo sapiens, how high might the Neanderthal race have soared? They appeared on Earth long before modern humans and apparently got off to a good head start. But they hadn’t developed a thirst for blood.

A folded piece of paper fell from the notebook. He picked up the page and opened it. Filling its surface was a detailed map of both the exterior and interior of Mount Meru. Knight longed for a YOU ARE HERE label, but even without one he was quickly able to locate the maze drawn on the map. An exit on the other side of the maze led up toward a chamber that didn’t look possible. The drawing showed a city, with a familiar-looking temple at its core, surrounded by what looked like giant crystals hanging from the ceiling.

The crystals.

Knight looked at the giant crystal lighting the maze and remembered the Neanderthal account of crystals that healed the mind. “No way,” he said, but it had to be true. Having seen the necropolis and read the Neanderthals’ history, he believed they were indeed capable of such a thing. But what made the decision to head toward the city easiest was that it led further away from the old mothers, Neanderthal 2.0. He wanted nothing to do with them. Had he been a large man, he might try to assert his dominance, but he was a plaything in the hands of the savage women.

He certainly couldn’t take charge, but Rook, or Bishop . . . they were just the men for the job.

Knight folded the map into a neat square and pocketed it. He limped his way through the second half of the maze and hobbled up the staircase that led to a tunnel opposite the one he had entered through. As he stepped into the tunnel, darkness surrounded him.

“Damnit.” He’d left the bandanna saturated with glowing algae on the other side of the room . . . all the way back through the maze.

Screw it, he thought, then headed up into the darkness.

He stopped after only a few feet.

He’d heard something.

A squeak.

Then another. He held his breath and listened. The sound of tiny claws on stone filled the tunnel ahead.

A rodent.

Knight felt the thing hit his foot. It squeaked again, and then ran past. He saw it run down the staircase and enter the maze without hesitation. It was either out for a jog or something was chasing it. His fears were confirmed when a deep growl accompanied by heavy footfalls approached from the darkness beyond. Whatever was chasing the rat would find him first.