Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Village of Birkfell
Leighfeld Region
Home of the Healers
Elara woke with a start.
For a moment she lay still, her breath shallow, the wool blanket twisted around her legs.
The room was dim, the hearth low, its embers pulsing a dull orange glow, painting the walls in uneven light.
She listened, her heart quickening, her senses sharp, but heard nothing except the faint hiss of cooling ash.
Then, as she began to think she’d dreamt it, the sound came again.
Distant. Faint. A rhythmic pounding that might have been thunder, except it was too steady, too deliberate.
Drums.
She sat up, her pulse matching the beat as she murmured, “Nay, please. It cannot be.”
Then, as quickly as it came, the sound was gone, swallowed by silence so complete, it made the hairs at the back of her neck rise.
She drew a breath, steadying herself. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard, or dreamt, something that wasn’t there.
And each time, what she’d heard had come to pass.
A fever spreading through the village. A storm that flattened the western fields.
A traveler found dead along the road. She’d spoken of it to no one.
To be different was one thing but to be thought marked by the sins of Driochmor was another.
She pushed the thought aside and swung her legs from the bed, her feet touching the cold stone floor. The chill sent a shudder through her, though it helped clear her head.
She hurried on her boots and into her brown wool skirt and pale green, linen blouse, and fastened her leather belt around her waist, though not before attaching her collection pouch to it.
“Like a healer with her healing pouch, an herb-scribe never goes anywhere without her collection pouch.”
Elara smiled softly, recalling her words to the elderly Maelis when she first arrived at Birkfell.
Maelis had long been a healer in the village and bore the wealth of knowledge to prove it. Her hands, though gnarled with age, were still deft. Her eyes were as smooth and polished as river stone and her shoulders showed no sign of hunching.
She had been excited to meet Elara, an herb-scribe, a scholar of the natural world, trained to study plants, trees, roots, and foliage, record their appearance, properties, and seasonal changes, test new herbs for usefulness, or danger, compare findings across villages, and advise healers on the proper use and preparation of local flora.
Though not healers themselves, herb-scribes’ work formed the foundation upon which healing knowledge grew.
Elara and Maelis had formed a fast friendship since her arrival there almost eight months ago, and she cherished it.
She crossed to the small hearth, adding more wood to wake the fire and set a pot of water to boil. She threw in a few curls of dried draemroot and a pinch of yarrow, habit more than need.
As the flames caught, she watched them dance across the hearth stones and thought of how the people of Birkfell had welcomed her with smiles and appreciation and an undercurrent of suspicion.
She couldn’t blame them. She was different from them, having silver hair and amethyst-colored eyes.
A rarity in the kingdom. Some whispered it was an omen, of what, no one dared speculate, but as weeks passed into months the whispers faded until they were heard no more.
She lifted her hand and absently wound a strand of her silver hair around her finger, the color stark against her pale skin. Different. Always different.
She hurried a comb through it, and plaited it, the long strands soft and pliant in her hands.
Steam rising in soft curls and the gurgle of bubbling water alerted her that her brew was ready. She reached with a padded cloth to lift it from the fire, then froze.
There it was again.
Drums. Distant but distinct.
Her heart felt as if it stilled. She dropped the padded cloth on the table and crossed the room to the door, unlatching it with an apprehensive touch. The hinges gave a soft groan as she slipped quietly outside.
Chilled air rushed against her and the sharp scent of pine.
The village stretched silent before her; the outdoor fires had yet to be lit, strong smoke had yet to curl from the chimneys, pathways were empty, the fields beyond were washed in mist as well as the rolling hills crowned with purple heather. The village had yet to stir.
She strained to hear.
Nothing.
Then, faint as a heartbeat beneath the earth, the drums sounded once more.
She froze, one word falling with whispered terror from her lips. “Hunters.”
They hailed from Venngraith, a bleak and storm-lashed corner of the Highlands where trees twist from unending winds and no bird dared to nest or so she heard.
It was whispered that once, long ago, they were men like any other—trackers, soldiers, thieves—but through blood and oath they bound themselves to a darker purpose.
Over generations, they honed their craft into something more than skill and less than conscience.
The Hunters do not torture, nor do they question.
Their cruelty lies in forced strength. Sometimes they arrive with the warning of a steady drumbeat, giving people a chance to run, hide, escape, though it is false hope they give them.
Other times they arrive without warning, take those they seek, and vanish again into the mists.
Those who are taken never return, no word, nor trace.
Villagers whisper that they serve the will of the king, but others say their true loyalty lies elsewhere—older, deeper, born from a vow that predates the throne itself.
When the deep pounding of drums rolls through the valleys, fear takes hold.
The ominous rhythm announces their approach, the sound carrying for miles through forest and glen before the first black cloaks appear.
Doors are barred, lamps extinguished, and prayers whispered in trembling voices.
Mothers gather their children close, knowing that once the drums sound, no plea can turn the Hunters aside.
They leave no mark, no trace of blood or struggle, only the haunting certainty that someone would go missing. The stories always end the same… when the drums sound, it is already too late.
“Maelis,” she whispered.
She hurried inside, grabbed her wool cloak to toss around her shoulders and started down the path.
The old healer’s cottage sat a short walk away, smoke rising thinly from its chimney. Elara reached it quickly, knocking once before pushing open the door.
Maelis stood near her hearth, a shawl pulled tight around her. “Lass, what is it? You look full of fright.”
“Drums,” Elara said. “I heard drums.”
Maelis’s brows drew together in concern. “Drums?”
“You didn’t hear them?”
The old woman shook her head. “Nay. The air has been quiet since dawn.”
Elara was about to question her sanity when the sound came again, low, rolling through the valley like the echo of something vast and heavy moving beneath the earth.
Maelis’s eyes widened. “By the gods…”
The next beat was closer.
She grabbed Elara’s arm, her voice filled with alarm. “Wake the village.”
Elara didn’t hesitate. She ran into the cold morning, calling names, pounding on doors. The first few she roused blinked sleepily, confused, until the sound reached them too, a deep, steady drum that seemed to come from the woods beyond the fields.
People threw open their shutters to listen as if they did not believe the threat or did not want it to be true. Dogs barked, sensing danger, and somewhere a child began to cry.
Elara turned toward the hills, her heart hammering with the rhythm of that frightening, never-ending pounding of drums that drew closer.
The villagers gathered quickly, drawn by the sound that no one wished to hear. Faces pale, eyes wide, they crowded into the village square. The drums suddenly stopped, yet the silence they left behind was worse.
Elders murmured to one another, their words carried on sharp gusts of wind.
“No good ever comes when the drums sound,” one said.
Another shook his head. “Say it for what it is… Hunters.”
A low, frightened murmur rippled through the crowd.
Elara stood beside Maelis, the older woman’s hand gripping her arm with surprising strength. The warmth of that touch could not chase away the cold that crept into Elara’s chest.
“We all know what their arrival portents,” someone whispered.
“Some in the village will vanish,” another said, fear trembling his words.
“That can mean only one thing,” a fellow said. “Their quest to find the powerful healer, the one who can conquer death itself, has yet to be successful.”
“The Hunters never fail, especially if tasked by the king,” said another.
The words spread like a chill wind, sending shivers through the crowd. The murmurs died into fearful silence. Even the children, sensing the shift in the air, clung to their mothers’ skirts.
All eyes turned toward the hills where the road vanished into the trees. The mist had begun to lift, revealing the faint line of the forest’s edge, quiet and waiting.
“Hide the young ones,” someone called out, and people began running.
Maelis’s grip on Elara’s arm tightened. “You must hide.”
Elara looked at her, startled. “Hide?”
“Into the woods. Now.”
Elara shook her head. “I am not a healer—”
“They won’t believe you,” Maelis snapped, her voice sharp though low. “Your hair, your eyes… they’ll see you as the one they seek before you draw breath to deny it.”
“They won’t find me guilty of a gift I don’t possess.”
“You think that will matter?” Maelis hissed. “Hunters have no need of truth. They take what they’re told to take. You’re marked whether you wish it or not.”
The drums began again.
This time closer.
The sound rolled over the hills, deep and relentless, setting the very air to trembling.