Beneath the Hunter’s Shadow (The Realm of War & Whispers #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Caerith Castle

Kingdom of Scotara

Home of the King

The storm had prowled the castle walls all night. Wind pressed at the shutters, whispering down the chimneys, carrying the scent of rain and something older, earth, ash, the faint tang of iron.

The Hunter waited in the war room, knees stiff from the cold and age, eyes fixed on the flicker of torches that refused to burn steadily.

Water dripped from his cloak silently as though fearful of making a sound and disturbing the man who lingered in the shadows, not saying a word since the Hunter’s arrival, but keeping intent eyes on him.

So intense that it felt like his gaze was stabbing him in the back.

When the door finally opened, the hunter straightened, tall and proud, but the man in the shadows didn’t move.

King Dravic entered without a word. His regal bearing and taut expression cautioned a grim mood. He was displeased and any sensible man would avoid him, but the Hunter had no choice. He’d been summoned and no one in the Kingdom of Scotara would dare deny the king when summoned.

He crossed to the table where maps lay strewn, ink on the older ones smudged like old blood. He studied them for a long moment, the silence stretching thin. The only sound was the storm’s restless breath pressing against the shutters.

Without looking up, he said, firmly, “You fail me, Hunter. Why?”

The Hunter kept his head high. “We have searched relentlessly, my king. No one knows such a woman, though they have heard of her… a tale, a myth or so they claim.”

“Or they hide her,” the king said, lifting his head, his eyes locking on the Hunter. “Keep her extraordinary abilities for themselves.”

Hunters were known for their remarkable skills, their ruthlessness, and their allegiance to the king.

Drums often announced their arrival, causing people to run, hide, or escape.

But there was no escaping the Hunters. They always got their prey.

Even the bravest men locked their doors at the sound of distant drums. They were feared by all and feared none… except the king.

He had an iron, unyielding presence about him that demanded obedience and the skill and strength to see it done. He had led his warriors into many battles, the sight of him alone charging at his enemy with a beastly roar, was enough to cause his enemies to flee.

“A healer who can battle death itself is probably nothing more than many have claimed, a myth, a tale to entertain,” the Hunter said.

The king glared at him. “Unless she hails from Driochmor.”

The Hunter gripped the stone talisman that hung from a leather strip around his neck and spoke in almost a whisper as if fearful of the words. “The forbidden land where dark magic dwells.”

“How else would the healer be able to vanquish death itself if not by magic,” the king contended.

The Hunter shook his head. “The healer couldn’t possibly be from the forbidden land. None leave that area and those who foolishly enter it are never seen again. To have such exceptional healing skills, the healer must hail from one of the villages in Leighfeld, home of the healers.”

“Have you scoured all of Leighfeld?”

“Aye, my king.”

“I have never known Hunters to fail at a given task. Your kind have served me well and those before me.”

The Hunter’s voice held steady. “And we will continue to do so, my king. Failure is not an option for a Hunter. We always get our prey.”

“And yet… the healer has not been found.”

A log in the hearth cracked, scattering sparks across the stone floor.

“My men gather healers of note now,” the Hunter said.

“Those who might work wonders. As you ordered, they will be brought here to Caerith, to you. Hunters hunt and capture, kill, if necessary, but drawing truth from the unwilling is best left to one with your… persuasion. Among them, I am certain, one will confess what the others hide.”

The king studied him for a long moment. “And persuade them I will. When can I expect their arrival?”

“Hunters already swarm on the villages, so a day at most for the first ones captured to arrive.”

The king gave a brief nod. “I look forward to their arrival. Tell me, Cadmus, have you had any trouble with the regional chieftains? Some fail to remember the regions they rule belong to me, not them.”

“A reminder of that usually has them cooperating when necessary.”

“You will leave names of those who attempted to thwart your efforts in any way with Tavish,” the king ordered.

The Hunter dipped his head and waited for permission to take his leave.

“One more thing, Cadmus,” the king said. “News has reached me that a spy from Drogath has landed on our shores. I need not remind you that whispers of war with Drogath have started.”

“Aye, my king, and the whispers spread rapidly,” Cadmus confirmed, relieved the king was finally addressing him by his given name, a sign that his anger had abated.

Urgency sparked in the king’s eyes. “Find him, Cadmus, and bring him to me.”

“With pleasure, my king.”

“Go,” the king commanded with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Cadmus bobbed his head and eagerly took his leave.

The king waited until the echo of footfalls faded beyond the closed door before he spoke to the other man in the room.

“You held your tongue the whole time, Tavish. It is unusual that my advisor has nothing to say.”

Tavish stepped forward, the firelight highlighting his auburn hair and touching on a face cut with intelligence and command.

He was a few years older than the king, though it showed only in his composure, the calm of a man who weighed every word before speaking it.

His build was lean, his movements deliberate, his dark eyes sharp with thought rather than caution.

He wore a dark green, well-fitted tunic, the mark of a man who found authority in presence, not adornment.

“You handled it well enough. Besides, I’m more interested in the gossip that runs rampant among the castle servants about the debauchery that took place in your bedchamber last night.”

“Jealous that I can enjoy myself while you are saddled with a wife?”

“You will join me soon enough,” Tavish said with a gleeful smile. “Three fathers are vying for their daughter to be your wife. Naturally, I am doing due diligence in deciding what clan would most benefit the kingdom.”

“With possible war on the horizon this is not a time for marriage.”

“I disagree. Marriage will keep you focused. Debauchery clouds the mind. And alliances, if chosen well, bring more loyal swords should the whispers of war prove true.” Tavish’s grin faded. “You truly think Warlord Tharne of Drogath would risk war with Scotara?”

“You said it yourself… rumors grow. I prefer to know which carry truth.”

“They have no cause,” Tavish said. “We’ve traded with them for years, grain, timber, steel. There’s been no quarrel, no insult. Yet they strengthen their forces. Why now?”

The king paced the length of the table, his steps measured. “Perhaps they see weakness where there is none. Or they wish to claim what they have long envied.”

“And what would that be?”

“Our fertile soil that keeps us fed well. Our iron that produces such exceptional weapons. Our fine wool and the skilled women who weave it.” He stopped. “Or perhaps they fear what I seek.”

Tavish studied him for a moment. “The healer?”

The king faced the hearth, the firelight carving his intense expression into harsh planes of shadow and gold.

“A woman who can be victorious against death. If she is found, Scotara’s armies will not fall as Drogath’s will. Our men will not be buried in mud while theirs rot beside them.”

“And if she is only a tale?”

“Then let the tale end by my hand.”

Tavish sighed. “You chase ghosts, my king. Even if she were real, such power would unnerve every realm that hears of it. Warlord Tharne may not be building armies for conquest, he may be building them out of fear of what you might command.”

The king’s gaze darkened. “Fear is the first sign of defeat.”

“Sometimes… fear is also wisdom.”

The king’s voice cooled. “You would have me do nothing while they gather strength across the sea?”

“I would have you think what makes Warlord Tharne prepare for war. He was never rash. Something stirs across the sea in Drogath, and I doubt it’s the gossip of a healer. You taught me long ago that wars seldom begin over what men claim.”

“Then what do you think stirs them, Tavish?”

“A death, perhaps. A crown passed too soon. A secret no one dares speak aloud.”

The king was silent for a long while. The fire popped, the storm moaned in the flue, and for the first time that night, the king’s shoulders seemed to carry the weight of more than his armor.

“She can change that,” the king said quietly. “No more men buried. No more blood in the fields. If she can keep death itself at bay, then Scotara will never kneel.”

Tavish’s reply came softly. “Or never rest.”

The king turned a sharp glare on Tavish.

“Scotara rests because I don’t. I do more than is necessary to protect the kingdom even if it isn’t always well accepted or appreciated, or if all do not feel the benefits.

Scotara isn’t a dreamland where all things are perfect.

Life is harsh and a ruler often needs to make harsh decisions for the betterment and safety of the kingdom.

Some suffer from it. Some benefit. But in the end, it is the kingdom that counts, for if it doesn’t survive then all will suffer. ”

Tavish understood the wisdom of the king’s words.

There was a time the Kingdom of Scotara suffered a great war.

If it hadn’t been for the ruling king at the time, the present king’s grandfather, the kingdom would not be free.

They would be an oppressed people with little freedom.

Scotara’s kings since then have sworn never to allow such dark times to take hold again.

“Enough counsel for one night,” the king ordered.

“Have the men double the watch. Tharne’s spy will not cross my gates unseen.

And, Tavish, I have yet to hear from the spies we have in Drogath these many months.

Make contact with them and see what can be learned.

Promise them a hefty sum for remaining faithful and remind them what fate awaits if they choose otherwise… their heads on a spike.”

Tavish knew it was no false warning. He had seen such orders carried out, heads left on spikes until nothing was left of them, no more than memory and the fear those images left behind.

Tavish inclined his head. “As you wish, my king.”

The king’s expression hardened as he looked at the rain-smeared window, to the darkness beyond. “If the gods grant me no protection, then I will make my own.”

Tavish said nothing. He knew that look in his king’s eyes, a glint not of faith but of obsession, the kind that built kingdoms… and destroyed them.