The Witch of Thornvale Chapter 18: The First Drill
The Witch of Thornvale is a literary portal fantasy featuring two distinct characters. It allegorizes Ludwig von Mises’ Six Lessons.
If you’re just joining the misadventure and you missed Acts 1, II, and Chapters 16 and 17, catch them below:
They may take some time, but they’re worth the read so you can see how Drake Ridgeback and Eirwyn Starweaver ended up as borderline outcasts in Cinderglen. Once you’re caught up, read Chapter 18.
The Witch of Thornvale: Chapter 18
Drake expected screaming, finger-pointing, and people dragging their children into houses while the blacksmith barked half-formed threats at the tree line. Maybe one or two villagers sprinting for the road like they’d outrun an army through wet woods with no plan, no supplies, and the survival instincts of a drunk rabbit.
Instead, mothers pulled children close. Men and women glanced toward sheds, wagons, doorways, and paths leading into the forest. The blacksmith tightened his grip around the strip of torn castor cloth as though he could crush Malcor’s entire empire in one fist. The innkeeper’s son stared at the quartz circle.
The crystals kept pulsing. One beat from the center. Six answers from the outer beacons, then nothing, then another six answers.
Drake watched the rhythm for another few seconds before his eyes landed on Eirwyn. “That normal?”
“No.” Her voice stayed quiet.
“Of course.”
The blacksmith stepped close enough that the glowing line between two beacons painted blue light across his boots. “What’s it doing?”
“Reacting to the cloth,” Eirwyn said.
The hunter still held his hands on his knees, trying to breathe like a person who hadn’t just sprinted terror into the village. “It didn’t come near those crystals until now.”
“It didn’t have to.” Eirwyn’s bare feet shifted against the stones. “Whatever magic touched that cloth is close enough for the circle to taste it.”
A woman near the well crossed herself in a way Drake didn’t recognize. Two kids backed behind their father. Someone muttered something about curses.
Drake lifted one hand. “No. Stop that right now.”
The muttering died.
“This is how people get stupid. Something weird happens, everyone calls it cursed, and then nobody asks the useful question.”
The elder near the well frowned. “Which is?”
“How far away?”
Eirwyn’s expression sharpened, and Drake saw the moment she locked onto the practical instead of the terrifying. Good. Terror had a place. So did usefulness. Usefulness got better results.
She stepped into the circle.
The nearest villagers recoiled, but Eirwyn moved toward the central quartz, cloak brushing above her knees in front, the fabric catching both morning light and the blue glow running under it. She looked fragile for half a second, then placed one foot beside the main crystal and closed her eyes.
Drake moved with her. “Don’t overdo it.”
“I’m concentrating.”
“I still don’t like it. You’re not one hundred percent.”
Her mouth curved faintly. “You don’t like many things.”
“I like plenty of things. I just don’t like it when someone I care about pushes themselves like this.”
The central quartz pulsed harder, and Eirwyn’s smile vanished.
Drake opened his mouth to say something else, but thought better of it when the six outer crystals answered in a staggered rhythm. They were like knocks from different rooms.
Eirwyn opened her eyes and pointed toward the north road. “Not at the village edge.”
The hunter lifted his head. “Further?”
“Maybe half a mile beyond it.”
A murmur rolled through the square.
The blacksmith turned toward the hunters gathered near the cooper’s shed. “How many can scout?”
“No,” Drake said.
The blacksmith rounded on him. “No?”
“Not yet.”
“We have tracks half a mile past the shrine.”
“Evidence of tracks. We don’t know if they’re still there, or if they left watchers behind. We don’t even know if someone dropped that cloth by accident or planted it because Malcor’s people know fear makes villagers do predictable things.”
The blacksmith stepped closer. “And you know soldiers?”
The corner of Drake’s mouth turned upward. “I know bait.”
That shut him up for the half second Drake needed.
The innkeeper crossed her arms. “Then what do we do?”
Drake looked over the square and pointed toward the north road. “If Malcor’s people are watching, let them see a village that reacts by organizing instead of scattering. If they’re not watching, even better. We learn without arrows flying.”
The innkeeper’s son clutched his tablet, and Drake pointed at him. “You’re records. Names, roles, problems, delays, who forgot what, who didn’t show, which path clogged, which family needed help. I’ll pay you.”
He still had his money from that round of beacon sales.
The boy nodded fast and scratched chalk across slate.
Drake turned to the innkeeper. “How many rooms can take families if the north side gets hit?”
“Eight if people don’t complain.”
“They’ll complain.”
“Then six.”
“Write nine,” Eirwyn said. “They can complain after they survive, and me and Drake will give up our room.”
The innkeeper’s mouth twitched. “Nine. If I can find more who can offer board, I’ll do it.”
Drake looked to the blacksmith. “You said stone sockets, iron collars, and clay packing. Pick two people you trust and start with the central beacon.”
“Three,” the blacksmith said. “My apprentice and his younger brothers.”
“Fine.”
“And I’ll need more boys to haul stone.”
“Get as many as you need.”
Drake pointed toward the hunter. “Give me four observation points. Not deep scouting. Just enough to watch the roads and get back fast.”
The hunter straightened despite the blood on his cheek. “North ridge, creek bend, shrine path, east hollow.”
“Good. Pair up. Nobody goes alone.”
Eirwyn moved beside the nearest outer crystal. “I can give it two signals.”
Everyone looked at her.
She lifted one hand before anyone could drown her in questions. “Two pulses for warning. Three for breach. I just need to let it know.”
The blacksmith frowned. “Breach?”
“Someone crossing the village boundary with hostile magic.”
Drake nodded. “Good. We make it simple. Two also means to stay alert. Three means children and anyone who can’t fight go indoors or to the inn immediately.”
The elder near the well raised his cane. “Who decides whether someone can fight?”
“Reality.”
The elder stared.
“If you can carry, reinforce, scout, cook, treat wounds, move messages, or keep small children from wandering off, congratulations, you’re useful. Fighting is one job. Not the whole damn system.”
A few older women nodded, one man with a limp stood a little straighter, and the innkeeper’s son wrote harder.
Good. People needed to know they mattered before fear convinced them they didn’t.
Eirwyn crouched by the crystal and touched the ground beside it. Blue light crawled from the beacon into the moss between stones. The line stretched toward the next crystal and brightened.
The first pulse rolled through the square in one clean thrum, and every crystal answered, causing the blacksmith’s apprentice to trip over a bucket near the forge path.
The blacksmith smacked the back of the apprentice’s head. “Move the bucket.”
Eirwyn sent the second pulse to relay the two hard warning beats.
Hunters started toward the north road, then stopped because none of them agreed who was paired with who. The tanner grabbed a bundle of straps and dropped half of them into mud. Someone’s goat bolted between the beacons, dragging a rope and making three grown adults chase it like the animal insulted their bloodline.
Drake watched the chaos and rubbed a hand down his face. “Good news.”
The blacksmith glared over the goat’s head. “There’s good news?”
“Nobody’s dead.”
The innkeeper gave him a look from across the square. “That’s the standard?”
“Absolutely.”
Eirwyn covered her mouth, but not fast enough. He saw the smile.
Then the third pulse came without warning and she went pale. “That wasn’t me.”
The north road answered with a horn.
For one terrible second, every lesson they just shouted dissolved into instinct. People looked at each other, waiting for someone bigger, older, stronger, or louder to make fear disappear.
Drake’s voice cut through the square. “Move.”
The innkeeper grabbed her son by the shoulder, and pointed to the inn. “Records inside. Now.”
“But I’m supposed to—”
“Inside while writing.”
He obeyed, scribbling as he went.
The blacksmith barked names, and three men ran to the central beacon with tools. Hunters paired off and vanished toward the watch paths. Mothers pulled children toward the inn and lower storerooms situated away from the north road. The tanner recovered his straps, this time with help from the limping man Drake noticed earlier. Two older women hauled water buckets toward the central square.
Drake stepped beside Eirwyn. “How close?”
She had one hand over her brand, the other hovering near the crystal. “Not inside the village.”
“That’s becoming my favorite sentence.”
“But near enough that the crystal sensed intent.”
“Intent?”
“Hostile magic has a pressure to it. It’s almost like it read my mind and acted on its own.”
“Right. Because none of that’s creepy.”
Her eyes stayed on the north road. “There are at least two.”
“Castors?”
“I think so.”
The blacksmith strode over, hammer in one hand. “Then we meet them before they get here.”
“No,” Drake and Eirwyn said together.
The blacksmith stopped.
Drake glanced at her. “Nice.”
“You’re rubbing off on me.”
“Could be worse.”
The blacksmith looked ready to explode. “Stop your little flirting. They’re near our road.”
“And if you run out there, you leave the circle, the kids, the inn, and every defense behind.” Drake pointed at the glowing beacons. “This is what they want. Draw out the strong ones, find out who protects the system, and count who runs where.”
The blacksmith’s nostrils flared.
A boy near the inn’s door shouted, “The road!”
Drake turned.
A figure stumbled from the north path. They were thin and bent, with one arm hanging wrong. His coat was torn. Mud covered him from knees to chest, and one side of his face looked bruised dark enough to swallow the morning light.
He staggered three steps into the square and collapsed. The hunters heading toward the road drew back their bows.
“Hold,” Drake shouted.
Eirwyn moved first, but Drake caught her wrist.
The collapsed man lifted his head. His eyes found Eirwyn, and terror ripped across his face. “No,” he rasped. “Please. I’m not with them.”
The blacksmith approached with his hammer raised. “Who are you?”
The man tried to crawl backward and failed. “Please. They took my son.” The man’s lips shook. “Malcor’s men. They took my son. Took others too. Said they needed guides through the north woods. Said every village hiding witches or rebels would pay.”
Eirwyn’s hand tightened around Drake’s.
The man looked toward the road like he expected shadows to emerge from it, and Drake’s stomach went cold.
So that was the game. Not invasion yet. Pressure, maps, human shields, and forced guides. Malcor was learning all he could about the roads before he charged into Cinderglen.
The man reached into his torn coat with shaking fingers, and he pulled out a small wooden token.
The innkeeper gasped. She stepped forward, face draining. “That’s from Millcross.”
The man nodded. “Gone.”
“Burned?” the blacksmith said.
The man swallowed. “Not burned. Emptied.”
That was worse. A burned village left ruins. An emptied one left questions.
Eirwyn whispered, “How many?”
“I don’t know. Soldiers. Conscripts. Black-cloaked castors. Wagons. Cages.” His voice cracked on the last word. “They’re taking anyone who can read roads, read marks, mend wheels, carry supplies. Anyone useful.”
Drake looked around Cinderglen. A minute ago, he’d told them they were all useful. Now Malcor proved the same thing from the other side.
The central crystal pulsed again. One slow glow that spread outward into each beacon, then into the damp channels Eirwyn suggested they carve but hadn’t yet touched.
The blacksmith lowered his hammer.
“What do we do with him?” an elder said.
There were at least three bad answers. Shelter him and risk bringing Malcor’s scouts closer. Turn him away and admit Cinderglen’s new system was only brave when bravery cost nothing. Or interrogate him until fear made everyone cruel and called it security.
Drake hated all three. Especially those last two.
Eirwyn stepped forward. “We help him.”
The elder’s mouth tightened. “And if he’s a trap?”
“Then we prove we can help someone without being stupid about it.” Drake pointed to the innkeeper. “Can you take him to your lobby?”
The innkeeper nodded once.
“Hunters, watch the road, but don’t chase anything past the shrine. If you see soldiers or hear that horn getting close, you signal and return. Everyone else.” Drake turned toward the square. “Don’t stop because fear got more specific.”
The blacksmith looked at the central beacon. “Stone sockets first.”
“Stone sockets first.”
Eirwyn crouched beside the injured man. He flinched before she could touch him. “What’s your son’s name?”
The man’s face broke. “Lerrit.”
Eirwyn nodded, and something hard entered her eyes. “We will remember him.”
The man started crying like he didn’t have enough strength left for anything louder.
Drake looked toward the north road. Somewhere beyond the burned shrine, Malcor’s people moved through the woods with stolen guides and loaded wagons, mapping fear one village at a time.
A few people stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
The blacksmith looked toward the injured man two people now carried to the inn, then toward the north road, then at the central crystal, which pulsed twice.
The square moved. Faster and cleaner this time.
Eirwyn stood beside Drake as the blue-white lines brightened around them, her cloak moving in the wind. “You still think we can do this?”
Drake watched Cinderglen stumble, correct, and move again. “We don’t have a choice.”
Far north, beyond the trees, another horn pierced the air.
>>>> Catch Chapter 19 to see where this one goes
