Birthright

Prologue

The man was running. He wasn't very fast, it had never been an issue before. Now it was. Now, for the first time in his existence, his life depended on it. He almost laughed at the thought of it, if he had had any breath to spare he would have. Now, though, he didn't have anything to spare. His time was running out, and he knew it.

"He's up there! He's getting away!" One of the soldier's shouted, his words barely audible above the immense sounds of an army crashing through a forest. A swath of destruction lay behind the men, all fifty of them having not bothered to weave through the underbrush. Instead, the chose to go tramping over it, thorns embedding themselves in the thick boots issued to every member of the King's Army.

"We're gaining! He's slowing down!" A different soldier this time. The man could hear them clearly now. He could feel the forest floor shaking under their boots. He did not risk a glance over his shoulder, did not bother seeing his pursuers. He only reached up to his neck, reached to where a necklace should be sitting, had been sitting for the hundred years prior, had been sitting until four hours ago. He took comfort in it's absence. He could only hope the soldiers hadn't found the woman, hadn't found the child. He could only hope.

"Archers! Fire!" The man heard the order, heard it barely, before the first arrow caught him in his shoulder. The second caught the back of his thigh, the third his back. He fell to the ground, pain running up his entire body. It was a new feeling, pain. He had heard of it, had wondered about it, had even wanted it at times.

He did not like it.

He also did not like when one of the soldiers kicked him. It caused more pain, more of this new and undesirable feeling.

"All this fuss, over you? Really?" The soldier who had kicked the man spoke. "But you are so small and weak. You're truly the greatest threat to the kingdom?"

The man tried to stand, started to stand, but was pulled up gracelessly by the soldier, and shoved against the nearest tree. A small corner of the man's brain noted the tree was red oak, and that he'd been looking for a red oak for weeks to make the cradle for the child, and here it was! The rest of his mind screamed in pain as the arrows embedded in his flesh twisted and pulled, tearing through muscles and ligaments and scratching bones.

"I have him!" The soldier shouted. "He's here!" His voice lowered so just the man could hear it again. "Now, they say you're nearly invincible, that the only thing that can kill you is to cut your heart out. I intend to find out."

A small circle of other soldiers had gathered around the man and the soldier holding him against the red oak tree. Others were filling in the empty spaces, all forty-nine as they found their way to the fiftieth, the one who would get the kill.

"So," the soldier laughed. "Here goes nothing." His knife flashed through the moonlight, plunging into the man's chest, through his ribs, straight into his heart. A cold feeling made it's way through the man, replacing the pain with a welcome numbness. His vision started to go dark, his senses leaving him slowly. The soldier sawed the knife up and down, trying to gouge out the man's heart.

With his last thought, the man smiled and winked. Only the soldier holding him saw. None of the other forty-nine people saw the wink. Only the killer with the knife saw it. It made his stomach twist, but he dismissed it as a twitch of a dead man.

He finished cutting the heart out, and held it up high, high enough for everyone to see, and he shouted. It was a shout full of delight, full of power, full of pride. The rest of the troops took up the shout, turning it into a cry that penetrated the woods, a cry that rode the air all the way to the nearest village, almost two leagues away.

A half mile away from the dead man, a woman sat in front of a hearth. A fire blazed, warming her. She heard the noise, the shout of the soldiers, knew what it meant, and started to cry. He was dead, the man she loved. He had been killed and she knew it. Her tears splashed into her lap, onto the little bundle resting in her lap.

The little infant, startled awake by tears falling on her forehead, began to cry. Little pudgy fists waved in the air, before getting caught on a leather cord loosely resting around the baby's neck. The woman pulled her in tighter and cooed over her and shushed her. Trying to quiet her daughter, she began to sing a lullaby.

Swing low, sweet chariot

Coming for to carry me home

Swing low, sweet chariot,

Coming for to carry me home