His name was Daëmor. His parents, his sire and dam, did not matter, and so were not remembered. Maybe they were like the silver-white companions known and admired and held in awe by so many. Or maybe they were like him.
What was 'him'? He knew not that, either. He was a companion, and yet not one. He was evil, and yet good. He had no morals, and yet fought for the ethics he himself believed not in. He was known by hardly any, and yet was a dark whisper in the minds of all. A dark whisper… of doom and death and destruction.
His eyes, a mere slit of glowing, smoldering embers, scanned the dark forage with an intensity beyond mere alertness. Beyond mere wariness. He was still, but not relaxed; he was never relaxed. Coiled muscles bunched in colossal proportions down his hindquarters. Colossal, yet compact. He had the look of one emaciated, and he was emaciated. But not of lack of food; of lack of joy, lack of passion, lack of emotion. Of lack of sentiment. Thin, wiry legs with hooves like sharpened stakes and shoes of tempered steel, and silent steel, matched an undersized head with massive jaws and merciless, razor teeth: made not for survival, made not for convenience of movement or feeding or such, but made to bring death. For that was what he had been created for: to bring death.
Daëmor snorted, a low, chilling sound, and flicked his tail in annoyance. The waterfall of darkness spread a premonition of doom through the forest, through the village. He wished to be back in his forest, to be away from the noise of the village, the dappled light pushing through the tangle of leaves and branches overhead. He had stayed for the night, to wait for the girl. Now, with the crisp morning breeze and the lush grass sparkled with dew, his temper was short. The birds had escaped from the area marked with some unexplained coldness, and were now perched elsewhere, chirping their cheery morning tunes. Daëmor ignored them, ears flicking back a bit in irritation before blocking out their noise. It was dawn. The first light of sunrise had poured into the window of the cabin. Where was she?
The queen knew about this, of course, but no one else. It was one secret she must keep, as those in line before her had to keep as well. To bring a fate worse than death upon an innocent was hard on her, but it was necessary. For in combat, in assassination, in espionage, there was none who could match, who could protect Valdemar as well as, the dark herald.
Daëmor tossed his head in impatience, flame released in the embers of his eyes. His neck was thin and snakelike, his mane tangled from wind and rain and caked with mud. It had been months since his last herald had been killed, and so it had been months since he was last groomed. It mattered not to him. Just as the death of his herald mattered not to him.
That one had not been his only one to have died. There had been many. Yet he could not remember any of them. They were dead, and so mattered no longer. And so were not worth remembering.
He merely chose, and trained, and reformed. And when they died, they died, and he chose again.
As he was doing now.
Faint footsteps sounded from the cabin. The young girl strode down the stairs, combing out ebony hair with her fingers. Daëmor glided through the forest, eyes smoldering satisfaction.
It was time.
