Didrik Magnus-Andresen
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New short story. The Herald
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 16:09:19 +0000 UTCNew short story. This time i will just post the text down below.
The Herald
His clothes were rich, but his feet were cold. The poncho, keeping the worst of the snow and wind at bay, was finely embroidered with the motif of a great serpent with a severed head—black, but with gold thread for the eye and silver for its teeth. The coiling beast rested on a purple background, and the proud wearer of this garment was sure to point out to anyone he could that it was dyed in real serpent's blood, just like the prized robes so greatly sought after by the elven princes. But as he was the herald of one such noble demigod himself, it was only fitting that he should be blessed to bear the heraldry of his most noble of noble princes.
The honor and privilege of this position were beyond compare, and all the other villagers were immensely envious—he was sure of it. For he lived in the tower of his prince, while the rest were forced to live in squalid and decrepit shacks. But though he had been born and raised in one such shack himself, now he was above it all. Literally above it all, as he used to look down on them from one of the tower’s many windows. Just as he right now looked down on the angry lemming blocking the mountain trail they were traversing.
His comrades had trampled its nest, where it had been sleeping the winter away, and now it angrily attacked him as if he were the one to blame. Though trained in diplomacy and etiquette, he also knew when violence should be applied, and this was one such occasion. With a kick and a laugh, he sent the tiny critter flying. It wasn’t as if it could stay where it was anyway. Mercy was asked and given by the weak, he thought. That was at least what his prince would say—and he was his mouthpiece, after all.
The snow had subsided, and the worst of the cloud cover had disappeared, leaving the mountainsides as looming sentinels above them. He felt himself despising them for how small and insignificant they made him feel.
Their guide had slowly led them up the mountains, toward a pass that would take them into the principality of Huttukulpu, one of the oldest elven princes in this vast region. Rumors had it that he had just begotten a daughter, and it was now the herald’s mission to try and secure her hand in marriage for his lord. A task that should prove easy, he thought, as few were of such an esteemed bloodline as his lord’s. It was only the journey itself that daunted him, for he was not accustomed to long and arduous treks like these.
Thankfully, they had procured a guide—a silent and rough-looking fellow, dressed in skins and a straw cape. That anyone could survive outside the village walls was beyond him, but it surely meant the man was right for the task. All in all, the party consisted of no more than six people. The herald had wished to have at least two more soldiers with him as a show of power, but also, he had to admit, to increase their chances out here in the wilderness. But four men were all that could be spared, and it would have to suffice. He hoped the heraldry he carried would serve as a deterrent in itself—for who, in their right mind, would dare attack the men of such a powerful lord?
He was jolted out of his thoughts by one of his escorts pointing to the overhanging cliff face ahead.
"There, below the large snowdrift, a little to the left—three figures!"
He scoured the mountainside, trying to follow the directions. Then he saw them. Three figures standing perfectly still on a narrow ledge. Their shapes were strange, almost like rounded beakers. They were dressed in tattered and worn fur. Their heads, upon closer inspection, seemed to be made of clay, with strange and frightful visages painted upon them. They had clearly been standing there, exposed to the elements, for a long time—as guardians of the mountain pass.
"Those are tombs of the warriors of the mountain folk," the guide said, his voice filled with awe and fear.
"Each one contains the mummified remains of one of their honored kin—tasked with guarding this pass and their village even in death."
"Your voice carries too much reverence for speaking of such savages." The herald scoffed. "They chose barbarism instead of being uplifted into civilization by the divine race of elves. They deserve nothing but contempt and scorn, and I expect you to treat them thusly—especially in my presence. For here, I am the direct representative of our great prince, he of the Thousand Victories, rightful ruler of these mountains, and I expect to be shown due dignity, even by one as wild as you."
At that, he briskly walked on, not wanting to gloat in the expressions of his men nor the look from their guide. But his spurs sounded braver than he felt. The sight of those three watchers had unnerved him.
For even before they had set out on this mission, there had been strange sights and rumors.
It had started small—a two-headed frog caught by a village boy who then fell deathly ill. A milkmaid claimed to have overheard the goats whispering quietly to each other at night, stopping when they saw her listening. She could not hear what they had said, but the look they had given her had filled her with such dread that she had never dared approach those animals again.
All of this could have been dismissed as mere superstition—until the night the sky changed. The fixed positions in the firmament had always been consulted as guides, yet the stars had begun to drift. Zodiacs known for untold eons suddenly vanished—now warped and changed into new forms. Bright stars known by name disappeared, some seen again as blazing comets across the night sky.
Was this why their prince sought a marriage alliance? For he was known to consult the stars—yet now, even he seemed unsure. And nothing had filled this young herald with more fear than the look of unease in his demigod lord’s eye.
Again, his train of thought was interrupted by the cry of one of his men. He turned, expecting to see them pointing at more grave markers, but instead, to his horror, he saw a group of monsters barreling toward them down the mountain slope to the west.
Their guide had already bolted, leaving the party even more terrified and unsure.
The attackers came straight at them—fur-clad figures with tall fur hats covering their faces, stone maces held aloft, intricately painted shields gleaming in the dim light. They moved faster than should have been possible in the snow.
Even before they had fallen upon them, his men had started to run. But it was too late. They were struck down from behind, the stone maces shattering the backs of their heads, their helmets offering little protection. Those who tried to fight stood no chance against such a fierce foe, as their spears could not find their mark against the twirling forms of fur that were their assailants. And once the attackers had passed beyond the tip of their spears, their clubs struck with such brutal force that even their shields could not hold.
The attack was over as quickly as it had begun. His men lay dead in the snow or screaming for mercy—but none was given.
The attackers procured flint knives from somewhere within their fur-covered bodies and began scalping the dead and dying. The shrieks of their victims and the horrified gasps of onlookers seemed to bring them great glee as they went about their grim task.
The herald had stood there, frozen, not fully comprehending what had unfolded. One of the terrible figures came toward him. Unlike the others, he did not wear a tall fur hat but a frightful veil over his face. Bright blue eyes—cold as the sky above—peered through the slots.
He knew there was no mercy to be found in them. And yet, he could not help himself.
Falling to his knees in the snow, snot and tears streaming down his face, he pleaded.
"Please! Spare me! Take me hostage—my prince will pay a great ransom! Or let me serve you! I am trained in the ways of etiquette—I can be your herald, just as I was for my elven prince! Please! Let me negotiate on your behalf!"
The cold eyes stared down at him from behind the veil.
“You, who are fit for no other role than the one you were bred for—to be slaves for your elven masters.”
The contempt in his voice was clear.
“This is not mercy, for you and your kin deserve none. But even we, the freeborn of the mountains, cannot stand alone against what is coming. Surely, even one as low as you has seen it—the shifting in the night sky, like the turning of the tide. Go now, and tell your ilk to gird themselves, for the time of twisting darkness is fast approaching.”
And with that, they left him.
Alone in the mountains. Among the scalped and looted bodies of his men.
The wind howled once more as their blood soaked into the snow.
His mission, it seemed, had changed.
How his elven prince would react to this news, he did not know.
