Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
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.