The Heart & The Heir

Chapter 1

The boy watched the barman die.

He didn't know the barman well, hadn't exchanged more than five words with the man, but he had been kind and didn't deserve to die like that. A soldier's sword firmly lodged in his belly.

Holding his breath, the boy crouched back, retreating further into the shadows, balanced on the beams of the tavern's rafters. After the Elven soldiers descended on the bar, the boy knew the night would only end with blood.

Holding his breath, he prayed the soldiers would leave.

The Elven commander tugged his sword free from the body, wiping the blood from the blade on the dead man's clothes.

"Oarith." He said to the elf to his left. "Search the outbuildings, the heart is close, find it."

"Sir," the man said, snapping to attention. He clenched his hand in a fist over his heart, turning on his heel, barking orders the moment he stepped out into the night. His voice fading as the door fell shut behind him.

The commander sheathed his sword. The rasp of steel on steel stung the air. His elegant hand reached up, removing his helm. Blond locks tumbled to his shoulders, his sharp pointed ears peeking out between the strands. Cold, calculating, gold eyes scanned the room. Letting out a frustrated sigh, the commander stalked across the wooden floor, his steps echoing off the rafters, and stepped behind the bar.

Seizing a bottle from beneath the counter, he poured a generous amount into a mug. He proceeded to raise the cup to his lips. The boy shifted his weight, his foot, ever so slightly, rubbing against the beam. The boy froze, his gaze locked on the Elven commander, his hand holding the cup, frozen mid-motion, suspended in the air.

Gold eyes darted up to the rafters, searching the dark, passing over the boy. Setting the mug down on the bar, the commander's gaze crept along the rafters, inching their way closer to the boy, Azkin.

The commander drew his sword, arcing the blade upward in one fluid motion, striking the beam not five feet from Azkin's toes. With a hiss and a flurry of fur, a barn cat leapt from its hiding place, landing lightly on its feet. The commander's shoulders sagged. Laughing to himself, he sheathed his blade and returned to his forgotten mug on the bar.

The back door of the bar slammed open. Oarith marched across the tavern room, trailing fresh mud behind him. "Commander Scilari, there's no sign of the heart or the fugitive," Oraith said, with a curt bow of his head.

"Mount up. Torch the place. We ride east."

"Yes, Commander," Oriath uttered, clasping his fist to his heart again. Once the other man had departed, Scilari drained his mug. His hand flexed, gripping the mug, knuckles paling under the pressure. With an explosive growl, the composed elf erupted in fury, hurling the clay mug into the fire. Once the shards had settled, Scilari reclaimed his mask of indifference, marched for the door. The Elven commander didn't bother to shut it behind him. No need if he's going to burn the place down.

"Light it up," Oarith's voice called through the night. Azkin felt, rather than heard, the impact of the torches. The dry thatch caught seconds later, the rafters quickly filling with smoke. Azkin dropped to the floor, pressing himself against the wall. Inched his way toward the door. He could hear the army horses stamping their hooves as the building went up in flames. Smoke assaulted Azkin's nose, burning his eyes and throat.

Smoldering timbers crashed to the floor, setting the tables and bar itself alight. Azkin tucked his nose into his shirt, ducking behind the bar, silently praying to the mother that the soldiers would leave.

Once their commander was satisfied, the small contingent of Elven warriors tore from the gate yard at a gallop. Azkin bolted for the back door, bursting into the night, coughing and choking as he gasped for air.