First Rider's Call

Alessandros circles his prisoners like a lion examining prey, questioning them. These people refuse to answer his questions, so he had no choice but to force some answers, but the resistance of one ended his own life. Alessandros is upset, and so were the other two emissaries. One told Alessandros that his act was heinous to the Elt, because they hold life as so precious. Alessandros said it was the same for Arcosians.

“Do you Arcosians live eternal lives as we do?” one of the Elt asked, then realized he shouldn’t have. His companion was very angry with him, and Alessandros more eager than ever to continue with his questioning.

SPURLOCK

Weldon Spurlock stalked along the row of writing desks, his clerks working furiously to copy correspondence and documents. There was no other sound in the room except for the scritch-scratch of pens and his own footsteps.

He paused at Fenning’s desk. The young clerk was not doing anything wrong. On the contrary, he was making rapid progress on the letters he was copying, his hand neat and clean, but it pleased Spurlock to no end to see his mere presence intimidate the young man into working even more feverishly. Blotches of red formed on his cheeks. He became so nervous he spilled ink on his paper.

Spurlock rapped his wooden stick on Fenning’s desk. The clerk jumped, his eyes wide.

“Sloppy work, Fenning,” Spurlock said. “Start over.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the young man fumbled for a fresh sheet of paper, Spurlock continued along the row of desks with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He enjoyed keeping his clerks and secretaries on their toes, of reminding them who oversaw them. If he made them nervous, all the better. Fear was an excellent motivator.

Oh, he knew they talked about him behind his back, but in his presence he kept them on edge, and punished them with extra work if he caught wind of any talk. Often they had no idea of what they were being punished for, and that kept him unpredictable, and them even more on edge. They never knew what to expect next.

I am chief administrator, and this is my empire. It was a bitter thought, for didn’t the nobles look down upon him as some petty bureaucrat? Wasn’t he despised by his common subordinates? His immediate superior, Castellan Sperren, was a doddering old fool who left all the work to him, but berated him soundly if something was late or the slightest bit imperfect. Certainly the king took him for granted.

It was a paltry office for one destined for much greater things. One day he’d give these clerks something to truly fear. In fact, all of Sacoridia would be shaking at his feet, especially its king. He’d—

Irell was staring dreamily out the window, as if willing the noon hour bell to ring. Spurlock grinned maliciously and tapped his stick on the floor. Irell came to at the sound, and gulped when he noticed Spurlock’s gaze upon him.

“Hungry, are you, Irell?” Spurlock asked very softly.

Flustered, the clerk shuffled his papers and blushed. “No, sir.” As if to betray him, his generously sized gut rumbled. His blush deepened in humiliation. The other clerks snatched glances at Irell, and someone snickered.

“Dreaming of those pasties fresh out of the oven down in the dining hall, hmm?”

Irell stared at the surface of his desk.

On cue, the noon bell began tolling. His clerks looked eagerly to him for dismissal. Even after the twelfth note faded, he did not release them. He held them there, stretching their anticipation to the brink. But Spurlock couldn’t waste his time here playing games—he had other things to attend to. Important things.

“You are dismissed for the midday meal,” he said, “except for you, Irell. You shall remain here and continue your work.”

Chairs scraped back and the clerks raced out of the room to be relieved of his presence. All except Irell who continued to gaze at his desk, his expression morose.

“If I do not see your work satisfactorily completed upon my return,” Spurlock said, “I shall keep you here until after five hour. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Spurlock knew he’d remain here, working diligently. Irell could not risk permanent dismissal, for he had a burgeoning family to feed. How many brats did he have now? Ten? And with an eleventh on its way.

Spurlock left the chamber, seeking the spiral stairs that would take him to the lowest level of the administrative wing. His destination, however, was not the records room for a visit with that ridiculous recordskeeper, Dakrias Brown, the superstitious lout. No, he had a different sort of meeting to attend.

When he reached the lower level, he took a lamp from the wall, and ensuring no one was nearby to see him, he darted down an abandoned corridor.

These corridors were useful. His group ought to have used them to begin with, rather than taking chances in more well traversed areas, like the central courtyard gardens. He still couldn’t believe how close they’d come to having that Galadheon girl stumble upon one of their meetings. What a disaster that could have been.

She was a problem. While he was pretty sure where he stood on the Galadheon issue, it was not a simple matter. No doubt the group would have to address it eventually. The greatest irony to Spurlock’s mind was that she had become a Green Rider.

THE FUTURE FROM THE PAST

Karigan followed Lil Ambrioth and King Jonaeus into a sunlit chamber. It was a startling contrast to the darkness she’d been immersed in, and the stormy day she had left somewhere far behind, ages into the future.

A guard closed the door behind them and Karigan took in a low-ceilinged and plain chamber. There was nothing to ornament it except more battle banners and shields. The thick leaded windows were thrown wide open, and sweet summer air lilted in, dissipating the gloom of her time spent in the corridors. Outside came the sounds of marching feet and the shouts of a drill sergeant. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">