I need a distraction.

  I gently toss the weapon I have commandeered to the soft ground at my side. The elf’s eyes go to it - just for a moment - but a moment is all I need. I launch myself at the creature, slamming my right hand over its thumb, whilst my left finds its throat. My weight knocks it onto its back. I land with my knee on its chest, already squeezing the fingers of my left hand deep into the muscular flesh of its neck.

  Shock makes its body slack. But not for long. Its back arches beneath me. I slide my leg across its chest, until I pin its upper arm beneath my knee. Its desperate yellow eyes go to the device in its hand. I feel its thumb push against my fingers, but I only squeeze more tightly.

  Our eyes lock together. I have been fighting these creatures all my young life, but I am still shocked by the hatred I find there. It bucks underneath me but cannot free its hand.

  ‘Not today.’ I hiss through clenched teeth.

  My fingers are screaming as they constrict its throat, blocking the air from its lungs. Why won’t it die?

  I curse you, false heir.

  The words are in my mind, not in its throat. I don’t need to know the modern elvish tongue to know that they have come from the creature beneath me. It has placed its words inside my thoughts. I recoil from the intrusion but keep my hand on its throat until its eyes bulge and its body convulses.

  The fight goes out of it. And shortly after, the life.

  I only remove my left hand from its throat after I am certain it is dead, careful not to relax my right which prevents the device from igniting. Following my training, I gently loosen the small yellow cylinders from the vest. Its material so densely woven that I can’t envision the loom that made it. The cylinders themselves are held in place by black straps, which come away from the vest with a soft tearing sound. When I look closely, I see that the straps are not stitched in place but are attached by hundreds of tiny hooks, which catch on tiny loops. They are made of a material whose origin I cannot guess. Only after I am sure that I have freed all the cylinders and they are safely nestled in the earth, do I finally release the dead elf’s thumb on the device. I slump on my back. Adrenalin dissipates; the nerves of my left hand begin to scream, fingers trembling with pain. There is blood under my nails where I dug into the creature’s neck. I try to straighten my fingers but yelp in pain. At least one is broken.

  False heir?

  I am the eldest of my siblings - a full two years older than my sister. I am the undisputed heir to my father’s kingdom. There is no rival on any of the continents of the world. What the hell did it mean? I stagger to my feet and make a pile of the enemies’ weapons with my good hand. I hold one of them for a moment, testing its weight. Our armourers have spent years trying to unlock their secrets without success. The harsh, geometric angles of its stock and barrel are formed by no blacksmith I have ever known. I trace the unfamiliar symbols carved in its side. Some numerals and a small image. I am familiar with the image. A thick vertical cross imposed over a thinner diagonal one.

  The enemy’s flag.

  I return to the citadel carrying the elf in my arms. Its dead weight makes my muscles ache. In death, its long limbs hang down almost to the ground. There is, I admit, something theatrical about my decision to parade my kill through the walled gates and into the town. My father is the ultimate showman, using his powers not only to destroy the enemy, but to inspire our people, knowing that for all our power, the family rules with the consent of the crowd. This morning, as the population of the citadel rises early to prepare for my twenty-first birthday celebrations, it will do no harm for them to see what they are getting for their fealty and tithe. The sight of a dead elf, its suicide vest deactivated, will make them look more favourably on the ruling family, and, to be frank, more favourably on me. All kings have stories told in song; I could do worse this this be opening verse of mine.

  A family are setting up a food stall in the marketplace. The flame in their fire pit translucent in the icy sunlight. The woody smell of charcoal in the crisp air. The parents are rotund, wrapped up in scarves and woollen gloves. The father’s whiskers bushy under his fur hat. Their child, no more than six, munches on a piece of bread. His mouth drops open, revealing his breakfast as he catches sight of the dead monster in my arms. By the time, I reach the steps of the house, my march has become a parade.

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  My parents are waiting for me at the front entrance of the house. They are dressed in the simple grey uniforms of warfare. My mother’s face is impassive; I have long since given up attempting to win her approval. I could lay the bodies a hundred enemies at her feet, and she would barely raise an eyebrow. My father, the Warlock King is a different story. There is a burgeoning pride in his eyes as I carry my trophy up the steps to his side. Like his parents before him, my father has been fighting the enemy since he claimed his inheritance and has the scars to prove it. One runs from the puckered socket where his left eye should be, to his mouth, curling his lip and giving the impression that he is permanently scowling. His disfigurement is from an act of heroism when as a child. He saved his older brother from a buried mine. The story has already been put to melody. The first verse of a song which is epic and long, and yet unfinished. My father’s body is muscled, his head bald, save for the stubble which he rarely has time to shave. He takes the dead enemy from me and lifts the corpse high above our heads. Below us, the crowd go wild, cheering and chanting my name.

  Aradrath! Aradrath!

  For the first time in my life, I sense how it will feel to be king.

  The tree stands in the middle of the town square. It is one of the oldest in the province and, to our shame, one of the last alive. Its trunk is wide and its branches hang low above the square, providing shade in the summer months and protection from rain in the winter. Its roots have pushed up the paving stones around it, giving the impression that it has erupted out of the ground, rather than grown. Most of the time its true purpose is forgotten. Merely something for the citadel kids to climb. Today, it is the centre of the attention for the whole town. Stands have been erected in the square, facing the tree. Those who could not get a seat watch from the rooftops and windows of the surrounding buildings. It feels as if the carnival has come to town.

  And if today is a carnival, I am the entertainment.

  My father, uncle and sister sit on the lowest bench of the royal stand. My father does not believe in thrones or ostentatious displays of wealth or status. Like his parents before him, he has vowed to wear the simple uniform of a soldier until the war is won. The family has always believed that we don’t need crowns to show our status, we prove it every day through our utility and power. I try not to react when I notice that my mother is not in attendance. Such a public display of disapproval is surprising, even by her standards. My sister is not here either. Perhaps my mother is keeping her away. Around my father are cousins and in laws. Further up the stand, I glimpse Tamarla next to her mother. Above them are the royal bastards, those who have the inheritance in their blood, but no marital connection to the family. Respected, loved even, but unplaced in the family’s official genealogy. They have touched the tree, quietly and in private. Receiving their gift at night. No ceremonial robes for them. But they have left their mark, both in the battle against the elves and on the tree itself.

  The family’s handprints are scorched into the bark, where for generations my ancestors have placed their palm against the tree and transformed its life into power, leaving the bark beneath their hand withered and dry. In the early decades of the war, my family hungrily drained the forests around the house, leaving the trees dead and the soil barren. Now we wait until we are behind enemy lines before we use our inheritance, and our supplies of food and firewood must be imported from neighbouring provinces.

  I am alone in the shade of the tree. Away from the morning sunlight, I feel a chill, but my robes are thick and I’m sweating. In a moment, when I touch the tree, my fate will be decided: Warrior? Strategist? Healer? The inheritance defines our lives. I place my palm an inch from the tree, between the handprints of my father and his brother. Papa told me that when he touched the tree, he could feel the intention of the wind and the promise of a storm. All ready to obey him. What will I receive? There is only one way to answer to that question.

  I touch the tree.

  I hear an audible gasp from the crowd around me. And then…

  Nothing.

  I wait. Seconds pass. But there is no gift, no energy beneath my hand. All I feel is the rough bark beneath my fingers and the cold morning breeze on the back of my neck, where my sweat has run cold. I want to remove my hand to try again, but I know I must not. The population of the citadel, not to mention my entire family are watching me.

  I will receive my inheritance. I must. The idea that I, the son of the Warlock King, heir to Albion will not is unthinkable. That any member of the family could be rejected has never been entertained. It is in our blood. It is what we are.

  The crowd is silent. Only the birds can be heard, oblivious to the weight of the moment. How much time has passed since I touched the tree? It feels like minutes, but it might only be seconds. Perhaps my gift is taking its time to find me?

  I cannot stop myself from taking my hand from the trunk and trying again.

  Please, I beg my ancestors, do not forsake me.