Chapter 2 #2
Maelis shoved Elara toward the forest path. “Go, lass, and stay off the main roads, take the old trails less traveled and be wary of strangers. Go now. Go and warn the other villages that the Hunters’ drums sound strong. They come for the healers.”
Elara turned, her cloak flaring in the wind. “What about you?”
Maelis’s gaze softened, though her voice did not. “I’m too old for their chains to matter. But you? You still have roads before you. Run, Elara.”
The beat of the drums quickened, echoing through the valley.
Elara hesitated only a heartbeat more before gathering her skirts and running, the drums’ steady, powerful beat growing stronger.
The mist closed around her, cool and damp against her skin, the drums chasing her frantic heartbeat into the trees.
Brambles tore at her skirt, and the scent of moss and rain-wet bark filled her lungs.
She didn’t stop until the sounds of the village faded to a distant murmur, replaced by the drip of water from the leaves and the whisper of wind through the pines.
She pressed herself against the trunk of an old oak, breath ragged.
Calm.
She needed to calm herself or she would not be able to hear the forest alive around her, listening, waiting to help her.
The drums’ intense pounding rolled through the trees like distant thunder and though she would have preferred to press her hands against her ears and silence it, she didn’t. She had to listen. Had to hear. She crouched low among the ferns, pressing herself into the shadow of the oak.
Through the trees she could see the edge of the village, blurred some by distance. Figures moved there now, dark shapes on horseback, cloaks trailing like wings, the glint of steel catching the weak morning light.
The Hunters had arrived.
The drums ceased.
For a heartbeat, all was still. The villagers held their breath, their eyes fixed on the narrow road that cut around the fields. Even the wind seemed to wait. Then came the thud of hooves.
Out of the thinning mist rode a line of black-cloaked figures, the Hunters of Venngraith. There were twelve in all, their mounts broad-chested and restless, the sound of their approach heavy as storm surf against rock. Armor gleamed beneath their cloaks, silver worked into dark leather.
No one moved to greet them.
The lead rider dismounted, his face shadowed beneath his hood. When he pushed it back, the villagers saw a man whose expression was carved of stone; cold eyes, a scar down his cheek, a firm mouth made for orders, not mercy.
“We seek the healer,” he said. His voice carried easily, calm and unhurried. “The one who conquers death.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. No one answered.
The Hunter’s gaze swept the gathering, slow and searching. “The king commands her brought to Caerith, home of the king. Those who aid us will be rewarded. Those who hinder us…” His eyes settled on a young man near the front. “Step forward.”
The man hesitated, then obeyed.
“Your name?”
“Donnel, sir.”
“Your wife?”
Donnel’s eyes darted to where a woman clutched his arm. “Lysa.”
The Hunter studied her plump and pale face, then turned away as if dismissing her entirely. “We will begin with the healers. Bring them.”
Another Hunter urged his horse forward. Two villagers, both older women, were dragged from the edge of the crowd, their protests swallowed by the sound of hoofbeats and muffled cries. One dropped her bundle of herbs, the scent of crushed rosemary spilling into the cold air.
Maelis stepped forward before anyone could stop her. “No healer with such power exists,” she said, her voice firm despite the tremor beneath it. “She is nothing more than a myth. You waste your time.”
The lead Hunter looked at her for a long moment. “Your name.”
“Maelis.”
“You will come with us.”
A soldier swung down from his horse and grabbed her arm roughly. She struggled, striking him with surprising strength for her years, but another caught her from behind.
“Stop!” someone cried, the Hunters ignoring the plea.
“You’ll find nothing in this village!” Maelis shouted as they pulled her toward the road. “Only fear and honest folk!”
“Fear is what serves us best,” the Hunter said.
More women were taken, two young, one middle-aged, each seized from the crowd as the Hunters moved through like a dark tide. The sound of weeping rose, and the scent of churned earth and sweat hung thick in the air.
When at last they turned their horses back toward the road, six captives tethered with rope followed behind them.
The villagers stood frozen long after the drums began again, echoing faintly as the riders vanished into the mist.
From her hiding place among the ferns, Elara watched the village fall still. The last echoes of the drums faded into the mist, leaving only the broken sound of weeping.
Through the tangle of branches, she saw them, dark figures moving, the Hunters driving a line of captives ahead of them. Six women walked, their wrists bound, their steps heavy in the churned earth. Among them—
“Maelis,” she breathed.
The old healer’s shawl trailed behind her, the gray fringe caught in the wind. She stumbled once, caught herself, and kept walking. One of the Hunters turned his horse sharply, barking an order Elara could not hear.
Elara pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle a cry. Helpless, she watched until the last of them disappeared down the road and the fog closed over their path.
Silence returned, deep and cold.
She sank back against the oak, shaking, tears spilling freely until they left her feeling hollow. For a long while she could do nothing but stare at the path where Maelis had gone, her mind refusing to accept what her eyes had seen.
Then she felt it, light fluttering near her cheek like the wings of a bird flitting close. She experienced the sensation often when in the woods. It came with a sense of calm, and she was glad to feel it now. Though it did not make her feel any better.
Elara shook her head. Guilt rose up and took hold of her. She should have stayed. The Hunters would have taken her and not Maelis.
The branches overhead swayed from the autumn breeze, rustling the leaves and making it sound like a gentle whisper. She listened; the trees whispered to her many times, advising her, warning her, guiding her. She could hear their tender voices in her head.
Warn the other villages in Leighfeld.
Elara wiped at her wet cheeks and forced her racing heart to slow and her breathing to steady. The forest echoed Maelis’s words. She would warn what villages she could, but then what?
Survive.
She gasped at the commanding voice in her head.
Thornleigh, go there.
Elara stayed crouched a while longer, listening to the woods settle quietly around her. Slowly she pushed to her feet, brushing damp earth from her cloak. She drew a deep breath, willing her hands to stop shaking.
She would do as Maelis said and the forest commanded. She would go warn Thornleigh, but she would not abandon Maelis. She would find a way to help her.
She turned toward the old northern trail but thought better than to take it.
The open trail held potential danger, endless people traveling it from mercenaries, to seekers, to wanderers.
She had to travel through the forest, the place she knew, the place that offered help and protection. And she hadn’t a moment to waste.
She hurried into the thick woods seeking direction from the trees, the foliage, and the animals. She had learned since she was young that they were steeped in knowledge and to gain their wisdom one had to watch and listen.
Elara kept a steady pace, determined to reach Thornleigh by midday. The turning leaves rustled softly, not yet ready to fall, and the branches swayed lightly. No danger was close.
It wasn’t long before Birkfell was a distance behind her and she tried to focus on her task ahead and not on the suffering of those who had been captured and loved ones left behind.
The squawk of a raven and the chitter of squirrels frantically racing around a nearby tree trunk alerted her to possible danger. She halted her steps and glanced around to see what had upset the calm of the forest.
Seeing nothing, she took cautious steps forward, not sure what was amiss. She barely took two steps when a few paces ahead a man stepped from behind a tree.
For a moment neither spoke, then he stepped toward her.