SHORT STORY: "An Heir for the Vale" by Keith Alerec
- L. D. Whitney
- Apr 7
- 15 min read
Sword & Sorcery has always reveled in the weird. From Conan tackling tentacle monsters, Jirel's trans-dimensional jaunts, and the jewel-brains of a living fortress robbed by Fafhrd and Mouse, there is no shortage of strangeness to be found in the genre. Many of these concepts borrow heavily from Lovecraftian imagery and rely on a lack of explanation to evoke a sense of otherworldliness. In stark contrast to the concept of weird horror, we have what I like to refer to as "classic monsters". These are your vampires, your Frankenstein's creations, your mummies, ghosts and werewolves. The lore and usage of such things is well tread, even ingrained in popular consciousness. Yet there is a certain allure - a timelessness - to their existence that is undeniable. In Keith Alerec's story "An Heir for the Vale", he makes distinctive use of one such monster, relying on the Sword & Sorcery tradtition of darksome hints, vague-ish description, and fear of the unknown to return something familiar to the realm of strange and horrifying. Amidst the drama of Noble politics in a fallen kingdom, the forest hides darker secrets still...
Keith Alerec is an aspiring author who recently started penning tales of barbarians, sorcery and lost empires after reading again a collection of Robert E. Howard's Conan stories. Searching for more yarns of this kind, he discovered the world of contemporary Sword and Sorcery and has written Athaulf’s chronicles since then. He hopes to publish a collection of these adventures soon.
"An Heir for the Vale" by Keith Alerec
Ahead, he could hear Cegan thrashing through the brush, the feverish crackling of foliage reaching him despite the deluge of rain. The older soldier had lost his sword in the chaos and fled into the trees only moments before him.
In a better world, one less mired in grim truths, Elher knew he would have stood his ground, hurling invectives at his comrade, facing the threat with a resolve worthy of minstrels' songs.
But the night had shattered the fragile illusions such foolish verses had woven into his untested mind. And so, he’d followed... his hand still clutching the hilt of his sword. He doubted its utility now.
His foot caught on something, and he plunged face-first into the earth, the muck filling his mouth. Spitting the filth, he twisted and peered into the darkness between the trunks. The only sound was the wailing of the storm through the forest, but he knew death stalked him all the same—silent and inevitable, it was after him, as it had come for the three companions whose bodies now lay along the muddy trail he’d left behind.
He fought against the tangled roots, hauling himself to his feet. Too slow. He could feel the cold prickle at the nape of his neck. Something was close, ready to pounce before he could fully rise. Yet nothing came, and he found himself crashing through the trees once more. Bramble thorns clawed at his flesh, scoring fresh lines of pain as he pressed deeper into the woods.
He marveled, almost absently, that he could still feel the sting of such inconsequential wounds when he slammed against Cegan’s back. The two tumbled into a clearing, their momentum arrested only inches from the precipice of a cliff. Below, the thunderous roar of a waterfall crashing into a hidden pool drowned out the drumming of the rain.
Elher straightened, his mouth opening to unleash a tirade upon the craven fool who’d led him this far, but his words died when his gaze met the eyes of the young woman.
He glanced about, searching for any sign of her sister, but found none. These damned girls were the cause of all of it. Had they been left to perish in the cold beyond the walls, his friend wouldn’t have met this end, torn apart by an animal—no, a man, he corrected himself with a new surge of shame. A man, merely... but one whose savagery defied understanding.
No hope against the fury unleashed upon that trail. A shudder crept along his spine as the memory surged back. The man had carved through their ranks. The memory of his cold face, the precision of his strikes—each one part of a calculated, lethal dance—replayed itself in his mind. Barely older than himself perhaps, but a force of nature, an inflexible killer, forged for battle, his skill and primal violence beyond anything a simple man from these forgotten lands could muster.
He felt the fire of hatred wane as he met the pale green eyes again. They had been no threat; they’d simply sought to slip away when the first thaw had melted the snow of the mountain’s pass. And yet, if the men’s whispers were true... a chill gripped him, one that had little to do with the cold rain. Such things were the substance of legend; tales spun to keep men from venturing into the vale.
She was barely out of adolescence, the youngest of the pair but, by all accounts, the one most responsible for their presence here.
And she had succeeded in her endeavor. She carried the blood of the House Aerithid within her now—the eldest heir’s, no less. What grew within her womb would cast a shadow over the already beleaguered realm that clung stubbornly to the rugged slopes of the Dimaiirid peaks. A place shunned by the wider kingdom, a realm considered little more than a forlorn bastion of misfortune and decay.
It would stain the bloodline, or so his lord believed. Enough, at least, to send good men to their deaths in these forsaken woods.
Elher cursed; Lord Aerithid must have had his reasons, and now he would die here.
"Stay here, girl. You are safe," the deep voice intoned, laden with a calm assurance that made his skin crawl.
There he was, striding out from the trees, his tangled black hair still slick with the blood of men Elher had known for years. A hulking mass of muscle, the man seemed almost unthreatening now. He appeared serene, as if the violence that had stained the night with blood and screams was a thing of no consequence. As placid and distant as he had been during the two months he had dwelled among them, passing like a phantom through the campfires and conversations.
The woman’s eyes flickered to something beyond Elher, and without a word, she darted back into the shelter of the trees, vanishing beneath the dripping leaves.
The giant didn’t so much as flinch as Cegan stood before him, panting, fist clenched. His chest rose and fell with the steady breath of a man who might’ve been strolling through some fabled woodland glade. He couldn’t help but sneer at the thought—did this fool believe they had been sent into some enchanted forest?
Elher’s gaze roamed the shadowed edges of the clearing, unease gnawing at him. For all the terror the brute stirred in his heart, it was the unnatural silence of the forest that truly unnerved him now. Even the wind had stilled. He felt an icy dread coil in his gut; something worse than this barbarian prowled these woods, something drawing closer.
“Dog! We welcomed you among us!” Cegan roared, rage twisting his features. “A full season you hid behind our ramparts, sheltered by the hospitality of Lord Aerithid. You would be a frozen corpse underneath a mound of snow if not for his generosity, and this—this is how you repay us? You butcher our comrades when your master demands the payment of your debt?"
He spat into the rain, body trembling. Elher watched, uncertain if the tremor was born of anger or fear.
"Dog?" the man echoed. "I am the dog when your lord sends us hunting two girls like beasts on the prowl?"
His gray eyes narrowed and his words dripped with contempt. "I have no master, Cegan. I’ve seen the games rulers play with the lives of men too often. I’ll not help drag these women back in chains to your so-called lord for him to use in whatever devious manner he desires. I tried to stay your hands peacefully."
“They are not women, fool!” Cegan retorted, his voice rising with conviction. “And we are no band of marauders, free to cast aside our duties to roam the wilds as you do. We will hunt down those wretches and see them dealt with as their kind deserves!”
The man stood unmoved, his expression unchanging, as if Cegan's words were but the distant murmur of a brook. His hand moved almost absently and his broadsword caught the moon's light.
He advanced, slow and steady, and Elher knew the only answer would come with steel.
He straightened as he saw that Cegan had found the strength within to stand his ground. Elher wished he could say the same for himself. The young savage before them was a fearsome sight, gore still clinging to his tunic despite the rain. His stern visage, the cold fire burning in his eyes, almost made him forget what else was undoubtedly lurking around them.
Gritting his teeth, he moved to stand beside his comrade. A mere peasant’s son he had been, until fortune offered him a place among Lord Aerithid’s guards in a land so barren that few men were willing to remain. This patch of land was impoverished, cursed, and forsaken, but it was his. He would not flee further. If his friend would make a final stand here, then so be it; he would stand with him, regardless of the towering brute before them.
A flash of lightning split the sky. He saw the indifference in the gray eyes. Those had been friendly enough during the season he’d spent among them, but Elher had never trusted them. Despite their similar age among the older guardsmen of Lord Aerithid’s keep, he had never felt at ease with the man. Those were eyes that had stared into death too many times—no doubt often enough dealt by his own hands.
No, they could never have bonded. He was a wanderer, a wolf passing through, destined to depart once the snow melted and the path opened again.
He gripped his sword tightly and hurled himself forward. This was merely a man before him. Flesh and bone, as vulnerable to steel as any other. He would bring him down. He had never taken a life, but he charged with the fury of one who had nothing left but pride.
His blow, however, never struck true. His sword met the one of his foe, but in the next instant a hardened fist crashed into his jaw. Pain exploded in his skull, and he crumpled to the ground, tears welling in his eyes as the world spun. Elher teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, but shame and despair kept him anchored.
The tears spilled freely as his vision cleared and he witnessed the length of steel emerging from Cegan’s back.
The older guard had followed him, launching himself unarmed into the fight. In that instant, Elher could not escape the thought—had his own feeble display of bravery been their undoing? Did his reckless charge seal the fate of the man? The pang of guilt stuck in his mouth.
He knew little of tactics or the combat maneuvers the older guards boasted of around the hearth fire. The grizzled men had tried to pass their knowledge to the young recruits, but in truth, they were barely warriors themselves. Mere remnants of a once-proud garrison amid peasants bearing steel in the service of a house whose grandeur had long since crumbled into dust. The Aerithid line could only scrape together a few farmboys and the last dregs of its veterans to fill its ranks.
Cegan’s body slid off the blade, landing into the mud, his lifeless eyes staring up into the storming sky. Dazed and broken, Elher met that empty gaze through the sheets of rain.
"You don’t have to die. Go back to your lord or flee this land." The words came from above, spoken with a calm, dispassionate tone that only deepened his sense of insignificance.
The brute loomed over him, his muscular form shifting beneath the rain-soaked leather tunic, each breath steady and untroubled as if the encounter had been nothing more than a slight inconvenience.
His gaze lifted to the full moon that hung behind his foe, pale and cold. He forced himself back to his feet, leaning heavily on his sword. No thought of caution crossed his mind; he knew the man wouldn’t strike him down now—not out of any sense of honor, but from sheer indifference.
Raising his blade once more, he felt a strange numbness in his heart. Somehow, the clarity of this moment, the futility of it, brought him to a state of acceptance that he imagined many warriors had reached before him on a distant battlefield.
As he drew a ragged breath, readying himself for a final assault, Elher felt a terrible force seize his skull.
Crimson droplets spilled before his eyes, quickly turning into a torrent as a red veil blurred his vision. Through the blood and rain, he saw something he hadn’t expected to witness in his final moments—his adversary’s eyes, wide with incredulity. For an instant, he’d seen it. Something he had not dared hope to see before his life’s end.
Fear.
He could have laughed despite the pain. But the only sound that reached his ears before darkness swallowed him was the hollow, echoing crack of bones shattering, a sound that resonated in the depths of his skull.
***
Incredulity was, indeed, the only word to describe Athaulf’s state of mind at that moment. As the mangled body of his inexperienced adversary landed on the forest floor, he had to force himself to tear his eyes away from the shattered skull.
Towering above, the thing bared yellowed fangs at him. From the shroud of shadows, the beast that had clamped its impossibly large jaws around the boy’s skull emerged into the clearing. Black as the night, its form seemed to meld with the dark trunks as if it were a living extension of the ancient woods. The massive teeth seemed almost benign compared to the malevolent, sulfurous eyes fixed upon him.
It walked on legs unlike those of any animal or human he had ever seen; they were sinewy and long, bending sharply in the middle as if broken and reformed the wrong way.
The joints jutted backward, lifting the massive frame off the ground in a predatory stance, giving it an unnervingly fluid gait. It occurred in his racing mind that they were not built for stability but for swift, relentless pursuit through moonlit forests.
Muscles rippled beneath the coarse fur, its claws scraping the earth as it lumbered closer. The claws gouged deep into the wet soil, leaving gashes that filled quickly with rainwater as the downpour continued to pierce through the canopy above.
There was no outrunning such a thing. There would be no long-drawn battle either. His sword would have one, perhaps two chances to strike true before whatever aberration of nature now standing before him would assert its dominance.
A subtle shift in the beast’s stance warned him of the coming attack. For all its obvious might, it was still bound to the instincts of the wild—its movements reminiscent of a great wolf.
It lunged at him in a blur of dark fur and glistening fangs, its speed nearly overwhelming his senses.
A fetid stench reached his nostrils. The jaws descended, snapping shut mere inches from his shoulder. He pivoted, moving with a practiced precision that brought him closer. In that tight space, the great limbs would have little room to maneuver, giving him the slightest edge
He drove his blade upward, aiming for the thick neck, but his thrust missed. The terrible eyes whipped back to meet his. Time seemed to slow as he stared into those yellow orbs. Hatred, a deep loathing assaulted his senses. For an instant, man and monster stood locked. Then, his sword sliced downward, tearing a crimson gash across the fur-covered torso.
It staggered back and Athaulf surged forward. His blade crashed down on a gore-soaked jaw. He felt the bone give way, splintering with a crunch as the snout twisted in a grimace. But he knew, even as the blow landed that he had failed. The beast’s quick, instinctive jerk had spared its throat a second time.
Before he could ready another strike, black fur enveloped him. Pain blossomed as claws raked and fangs snapped. The crushing weight brought him down.
His back met nothing but air, however. The sensation of the void sent a dizzying rush through his body, and the water crashing below filled his ears. The combat had carried them to the very edge of the clearing, and the yawning chasm opened below.
Instinctively, his left hand closed around the hilt of the large-bladed knife at his side. Against all odds, a grin twisted his lips. Holding on to the monstrous shape, Athaulf’s fingers dug into the black neck while his other hand drove the steel deep into the beast’s guts. The blade sank, and he pulled upward, slicing toward the heart.
He would drag this abomination into the depths with him.
The hate in the eyes above disappeared, replaced by a dawning panic. The creature thrashed, its claws digging into the mud, scraping against the stones of the cliffside, but the rain-slick rock offered no purchase.
Its most frightful weapon struck then. Massive fangs sank into his shoulder. and excruciating pain shot through him as his grip faltered. The monstrous jaws lifted him briefly into the air before flinging him aside, releasing its hold and retreating to the safety of solid ground.
Athaulf plummeted alone into the chasm, the world a blur of rain and lightning. His numbed mind accepted the sight of his enemy above with detachment.
The bone-jarring impact drove the last breath from his lungs. The current seized him, and he drifted for a few moments, his body helpless and limp as he felt himself pulled deeper into the dark embrace of the river.
The light above dimmed, growing ever fainter as he sank. A sense of peace settled over him. But a searing pain shot through his uninjured shoulder, jolting him back to his senses. In its cruelty, the world refused to let him slip quietly into the void without one final torment. A bitter sense of injustice built within him as he realized something dragged him upward.
Athaulf's head broke the surface, and instinct flared, forcing his lips open. He gulped in the frigid air, the cold slicing through his throat. Icy wind filled his lungs, and for a moment, he hung there between life and death, clinging to the edge of consciousness.
The world reeled around while something hauled him onto the riverbank. Pebbles and gravel scraped against his back, a cruel and indifferent welcome from the earth as it met his battered flesh. As he lay sprawled, an enormous shadow appeared over him. Through the haze, he saw a maw open wide, revealing a row of white fangs.
Athaulf braced himself for the final strike but instead the furred head pulled back; the shadow retreated from his vision and a heavy paw came down upon his chest.
A last surge of rebellion flared within him. He twisted, digging his heels but his body was spent and broken and the force pulled him deeper into the forest as the trees whipped past with dizzying speed.
For a brief moment, he saw the moonlit canopy above him and then the darkness closed in. His mind surrendered, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
***
He awoke to the distant drip of water in some vast, unseen cavern and the unsettling sensation of something rough and wet sliding against his neck. It grated upward, trailing along the jugular and onto his cheek before pulling away.
A moment later, it returned, pressing against his chest, then slowly moving upward again. Athaulf’s muddled mind registered that the familiar protection of his tunic was absent, skin bare, vulnerable to whatever new madness was violating his body in this way.
With great effort, he forced his eyes open, and a dark green stare met his gaze. The eyes belonged to an elongated, fur-covered face, its features feral yet strangely intelligent.
he giant paw pinned him to the ground as he tried to recoil. Panic surged, but before he could struggle further a long, red tongue emerged and resumed its work.
It licked methodically at the gash torn across his chest and Athaulf realized he was entirely naked. The rough tongue moved over the wound, the initial tickle replaced by a light pain. He watched as the ragged edges of the wound slowly knit together, the creature’s ministrations closing it with each careful stroke. Soon, only a pink scar remained where the grievous injury had been.
He lay there, breathless and bewildered, as the green eyes held his gaze. Slowly, in the dim moonlight filtering through a narrow opening above, its features began to change. The elongated jawbones shrank, retreating into the skull, while the thick fur receded, vanishing as if melting away. The grind of bones shifting and rearranging filled the air, mingling with groans of pain.
Gradually, the weight pressing down on him lightened, and soon, a young woman was straddling him. Her pale skin, luminous in the silvery light was a stark and welcome contrast to the rough pelt she had worn moments before.
She was equally naked, studying him with an intensity that sent a shiver through his body. Then, with a slow, sinuous motion, she bent down, her lips parting as a warm, decidedly more pleasant tongue flicked against his ear.
For a short moment, caution tugged at the edges of his mind. The predatory gleam in her eyes reminded him all too clearly of the beast that had stood over him only minutes before.
But Athaulf was a young man, and the feel of her soft body pressing against his was intoxicating. Her grip on him, though no longer overtly aggressive, remained firm, unrelenting in its insistence.
With a grunt, he cast aside the remnants of resistance. Tiredness in his muscles momentarily forgotten, he set to what was visibly demanded of him.
As he emerged from the woods, Athaulf paused and turned one last time. Dark shapes moved among the ancient trunks. They had never strayed far from him during the long day it had taken to reach the vale.
The elder of the two sisters had assured him of safe passage that morning, her voice quiet as she gazed over the horizon. She had spoken of the vales, of a time when they would be united once more.
No sons would come for the House Aerithid this generation, she had said, save for one. And this one would play his destined part, allowing the cursed tribe to cross the mountain pass once more. This forgotten patch of land would not remain silent on the broader world’s affairs for long. But the prophesied heir would need a protector—a guardian born of the same bloodline, united with an outlander.
Athaulf’s chest tightened for a moment at the thought of what he had truly left behind to secure his passage.
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