First Rider's Call

Estora had been too young to remember much about Queen Isen, but she had heard stories about the strong-willed woman.

“I prefer things that do not remind me of war.” He fell silent, rubbing the dog more thoughtfully. “I guess I surround myself with things that remind me of why I continue in my role as king.”

She looked more closely at the room. Fine glass vases from Oldbury Province adorned the mantel. One was filled with seashells from the coast. A wall hanging depicted the hills that gave Hillander Province its name. As she looked more closely, she found examples of artistry from numerous provinces, or expressions of those provinces in one form or another. This was a man who truly took pride in his homeland.

Estora had known this about the king, of course. She had seen him ready to sacrifice his own life to preserve Sacoridia. She simply had not expected to see it manifest in such an artful way.

A knock preceded the entrance of a Weapon, who knelt before the king.

“Report,” Zachary said.

“Excellency, an intruder—some say two—slipped onto the castle grounds, slaying three soldiers to get in. The guard is mobilized here and in the city, searching. We’re also searching the castle.”

“This is terrible,” the king murmured. “You will give me word when the intruders are captured?”

“Yes, Excellency.” The Weapon hesitated before adding, “There’s more.”

King Zachary raised an eyebrow. “More?”

“Yes. Rider barracks is burning.”

The terrier jumped to the floor as Zachary stood, his expression incredulous. Estora stayed her seat as though turned to stone.

“It cannot be saved,” the Weapon said, “and at least one Rider burns within.”

SPURLOCK

Weldon Spurlock had worked very late this night, though not as long as some of his clerks to whom he gave extra files as he left. They were not permitted to retire for the night until they completed the tasks he had set for them.

When he stepped onto the castle grounds, instead of finding the usual sleepy, quiet atmosphere he was accustomed to, he found soldiers running this way and that shouting into the night, bearing torches or lanterns and weaponry. It was like watching hundreds of crazed, oversized fireflies darting about. Had invaders marched on the castle?

He heard words of a fire, and smelled smoke upon the air. Dodging soldiers, he drifted in the direction of the most frenzied shouting, and the smoke thickened noticeably. Before he was even upon Rider barracks, he could see the flames shooting out the windows and quickly consuming the aged wood.

He was surprised the thing hadn’t burned down years ago. After all, it would have taken only a careless moment with a candle, and there you were. He snorted in contempt.

Let the Green Riders burn.

Before he was coerced into joining the bucket brigade, he scuttled out of the way of all the activity, cursing that his clothing would be replete with the stench of smoke. He’d have to air it out best he could in his cramped room down in the city. More soldiers loaded down with buckets ran past as he grumbled about the inconvenience of smoky garments.

Then death stepped from shadow. It dropped the stabbed corpse of a guard. Its dead eyes seized on Spurlock, and advanced on him.

“I seek the Galadheon.”

Spurlock’s insides liquefied. His tongue became too big for his mouth. He thought he was probably going to faint, hopefully before the thing killed him.

“I seek the Galadheon.”

Spurlock’s scrambled mind processed the statement, but barely. It was looking for that Rider?

“M-m-message errand,” he said. “G-gone. Pl-please don’t kill me.”

The creature’s expression did not alter. It simply raised its knife for the death blow.

“No!” Spurlock cried. He raised his hands and averted his face from the blade. Where were all those soldiers when he needed them?

When the blow didn’t come, Spurlock peered back at the creature. It was gazing at the palm of his hand.

My tattoo?

“Lord Mornhavon’s sigil,” the creature said in its flat voice.

Spurlock looked at his tattoo as if seeing it for the first time. The wraith was looking for the Galadheon, not the G’ladheon. It occurred to him that this creature might have actually come from Blackveil.

Gathering his courage, he licked his lips and said in the imperial tongue, “Urn oren veritate?” Where do you come from?

“The north,” it replied.

Spurlock shook at its icy tone, but it had understood him. On impulse, he withdrew his ancestral medallion from beneath his collar.

“I—I support the empire. My ancestor—he was a general and—”

To his astonishment, the creature had gone to its knee with head bowed.

“Command me,” it grated.

Just like that? He thought of a few junior clerks he’d like to introduce to this creature, and—Then he recognized the crown on its head. He had seen sketches of it in the records he protected for Second Empire.

“You are, er, were, Varadgrim,” he said, “Lord of the North.”

“Command me.”

How extraordinary. This creature had been one of Emperor Mornhavon’s own lieutenants, one among the four Sacor Clan lords he had recruited to his side. And now it was bowing to him?

Spurlock’s head raised a little higher, and he smiled. It was as it should be. Yes, he was meant to be a leader, he was meant to usher in a new era where the empire reigned again.