Three had left; only two were coming home.
Raz Algar knew that the loss of one had been almost inevitable, but it was always hard to take, always hard to endure the removal of even a single individual from the community. There were so few of them left.
Three mothers and three fathers rushed to the dirt road, each hoping to see their son come out of the swirling dawn mist, each praying that theirs had not been the one that had been chosen by the Runners.
The two forms drew closer, and from his post at the edge of the road, Raz could see they were of roughly the same height. That made it easy; Turr was gone.
It was no surprise. The taller boy had been trim and well-fed, a perfect candidate for the runners. Periodically, the group would choose others who were less ideal, likely to keep the order from becoming to uniform, but those of Turr’s build were the mostly commonly taken.
Raz turned away before the screaming started. He had no interest in listening to the sobs of yet another childless couple.
***
In his small office, Raz recorded the name and date of the loss. One every six months did not seem like much at first glance, but the removal of a healthy male from the population after each half a year had passed meant that the city of Pell was slowly dying, and despite his position at its head, there was precious little Raz could do about it.
He’d been elected mayor of the city six terms in a row, in large part because no one else wanted the job. Along with a fine home and a respectable salary collected from those who made their home in Pell, the mayor’s job came with the unfortunate fringe “benefit” of having to deal with the Elders at least once a year. It was they who specified that a young male must be given to the Runners each six months, and it was they who would ensure that the citizens of the city would be punished if they began to provide specimens that did not meet the standards required.
No one would blame Raz for such punishments, but he would hate to see any in the city suffer needlessly. The last several years had been difficult on both the crops and the men who grew them, and the last thing that any of his friends and fellow citizens needed was interference from the Elders or their tamed league of assassins.
The Elders were not so bad, so long as he kept his head down when he met with them and made no attempt to look any of them in the eyes. Aside from being arrogant and poor etiquette, it was difficult to gaze at any of the bearded men for long thanks to their glowing red eyes, hunched forms, and generally ferocious disposition. They were men, or had been once, but had left the common traits of humanity far behind.
There had been whispers from other mayors in the area that the Elders were to begin demanding more of them in the coming months, but Raz had heard nothing for sure. He did not care to speculate on the motives or possible actions of the Elders – they would tell him what he needed to know, when he needed to know it. Until then, it was best to wait, watch and obey.
Closing his ledger, Raz leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his chest. Turr’s parents would need his comfort – what little his presence would provide – but he would give them a day to mourn alone.
For now, he would rest as best he could.
***
Raz was awakened by a sharp poke to the side. Crying out, he felt himself slip forward and then off the edge of the chair to the ground.
“Don’t move.”
Raz had no intention of doing so; the crackling remnants of a pain-stick across his side told him a Runner had come to see him.
“Sit up.” The voice was that of a young woman; Raz had thought the group only recruited men.
Pushing himself into a sitting position on the floor, he kept his eyes on the ground and his legs straight out in front of him. He posed no threat to the Runner in any case, but wanted to make sure that she had no reason to use her pain-stick again.
“Look at me,” she commanded, and he raised his eyes. It always surprised him how young the Runners were. Even the eldest of their sect were no more than twenty-five years, and he had never seen one over thirty. He had no idea if they were simply taken out of service, or if a more sinister fate awaited them.
The young woman in front of him could not have been more than eighteen years old, and had dark hair tied in a tight bun to the back of her head. She was thin and lithe, and clad in a black sleeveless shirt and flowing trousers. One hand held her pain-stick loosely, and the other was in a fist; the sticks injured whoever touched them, including the bearer.
“You have been chosen, Raz Algar,” she said simply, “and you will come with me.”
“Chosen?” He threw the word back at her. “Runner, I don’t understand – I am far too old to be one of you.”
She laughed, a silvery thing that rang in his small office. “We have no intention of recruiting you, Algar. You will serve a different purpose. Rise, before I decide you are resisting my words.” There was a brash confidence in the young woman, but Raz could detect a hint of youthful fear, a seed of adolescent doubt.
He rose, and spoke as he did so. Perhaps some information could be gleaned before he was forced to leave the city, perhaps forever. “What is your name, Runner?”
“Rose,” she said quietly. “Call me Rose.”
- D
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