The Witch of Thornvale Chapter 19: The Wounded Man’s Tale
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, plus Chapters 16, 17 and 18, catch them below:
They’ll 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 19 below that awesome banner.
The Witch of Thornvale Chapter 19
People flinched, a few children cried, and one woman pulled her son so close that his feet nearly left the ground. The blacksmith’s apprentice dropped a strip of iron, and the clang bounced through the square like the village needed one more ugly sound.
The wounded man from Millcross disappeared into the inn with two villagers helping him walk. Mud streaked the threshold behind him, and the innkeeper followed with that sharp, practical look people got when fear had to wait its turn.
Drake watched the north road, where the horn’s echo died in the trees.
Wind blew through the pines and an entire village waited for the next noise to tell them it was going to be one of those days. If Cinderglen even had one of those days.
Eirwyn walked back to the central quartz, one hand near the blue-white glow and the other hovering close to the brand beneath her cloak. Her face looked steadier than her breathing. “At least two castors.”
Drake stepped closer. “Near?”
“Close enough for the circle to feel them.”
“That’s a wonderfully useless distance.”
“It means they’re testing the edge.”
“Of course they are. Couldn’t just be stupid and walk into a trap like decent enemies.”
A flicker of a smile crossed her face.
“How’s your brand?”
“Manageable.”
The blacksmith strode over, hammer still in hand. “If they’re testing us, we should test them back.”
Drake motioned toward the road. “With what? Your temper?”
“With strength.”
“You run out there, they learn who charges. You stay here, they’re gonna learn less.”
“They already know where we are.”
“They don’t know what we’ll do.”
The blacksmith looked ready to argue, then glanced toward the crystals, the children by the inn, and the villagers still finding their places.
The innkeeper’s son appeared in the doorway, chalk tablet tucked against his chest. “The man from Millcross says the horn might not belong to the soldiers.”
Drake shifted. “What does that mean?”
“He says the king’s soldiers use bells and whistles on the road. Bands of nomadic traders coming in north of Millcross use horns. They’ve been trickling down from the North.”
The blacksmith frowned. “Bands of nomadic traders?”
The boy nodded. “Wagons, guides, and families that move between villages. Some settle. Others stay nomadic.”
Drake looked back toward the road. He knew the village had about ten seconds before people who overheard the boy argued themselves into being useless again.
The elder near the well lifted his cane. “Why would the nomads sound a horn near us?”
“Warning?” Eirwyn said.
Everyone looked at her.
“Or bait,” the blacksmith said.
“Maybe both.” Drake looked from the road to the square. “But if not everyone north of here belongs to the king, we need to know that.”
The elder frowned. “So you want to send more people out.”
“I want to pay for information.”
That drew more confused looks than the magic had.
Drake reached into his pocket and pulled out the coins he still had from the beacon sales. He hated how few there’d be after today. Then again, if money solved every crisis, politicians would’ve already taxed courage.
“I’ll pay two people to go past the hunters in that sound’s direction and no farther unless they decide it’s worth the risk. Half now. Half when they return. If they see traders, they listen. If they see soldiers, they come back. If they see castors, they really come back. Even if Eirwyn would probably feel them getting closer before that.”
The elder stared. “You’re paying people to walk into danger?”
“I’m paying people to decide whether the danger’s worth walking toward.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
Drake held up one coin. “Same thing is when some lord points at three men and says, ‘Go die because I own your labor.’ This is an offer. They can refuse, ask for more, or call me an idiot and stay here.”
One of the hunters who aimed his weapon at the injured man earlier stepped forward. The same one who brought the torn cloth. His cheek still carried dried blood from the woods.
“I can go.”
Drake smiled before he could stop himself. “Done.”
A second hunter stepped forward. A lean woman with a bow and no patience in her expression. The same woman who warned Drake on his first night here. “I’ll go with him. But only if I’m paid the same rate.”
Drake handed them the first coins.
The elder shook his head. “You’re making fear profitable.”
“No,” Drake said. “I know what profiting on fear looks like and this ain’t it. I’m making risk honest.”
Eirwyn looked at him in a way that almost made the entire village disappear for half a second.
Get a grip on yourself, Drake, he told himself. It’s not the time. Definitely not the time.
Drake turned back to the hunters. “Go, but don’t bring anyone here. If those nomads want to talk, tell them the creek bend. Just make sure you understand what game they’re playing.”
The woman tucked the coin away. “And if the king’s men are already there?”
“Then the price of information just went up, and you come back alive enough to collect the rest.”
“Good answer.” She gave Drake a thin smile and waved the other hunter over.
Then the blacksmith clapped once. “Stone sockets.”
A few men hauled stone toward the central beacon. The blacksmith’s apprentice moved another bucket before Drake could even look at it. Two older women carried water toward the inn. The tanner argued over straps with that limping man who knew knots better than he knew patience. The innkeeper spoke to three families near the door and pointed toward the lower rooms.
Eirwyn swayed, and Drake caught her elbow. “Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that like it scares reality into obeying.”
Her lips twitched. “Does it work?”
“Not once. You’re strong, but you can’t bewitch reality.”
“I need to hear what the man from Millcross knows.”
“Good. You can hear it sitting down.”
Eirwyn pursed her lips, but motioned for him to walk with her to the inn.
Inside, the wounded man sat near the hearth with one arm bound tight against his chest. Someone cleaned enough mud from his face to reveal bruises blooming along his jaw. He looked younger than Drake expected, though fear and stress aged people faster than any calendar.
The innkeeper set broth into his good hand.
He tried to lift it and failed.
Eirwyn crouched in front of him, keeping enough distance that he wouldn’t flinch. “I’m not one of them.”
The wounded man stared at her bare feet, then her cloak. “They had women like you.”
Eirwyn went still.
Drake leaned against the table. “Castors?”
The man nodded. “Black cloaks mostly. But one wore blue. Darker than yours. Soldiers stepped away when she passed.”
Eirwyn’s face lost color. “An Air and Earth Witch — Castor.”
Drake felt his stomach tighten. “You know who that is?”
“I know what she is.” Eirwyn’s voice dropped. “Someone taken young enough that the king had time to make obedience feel like survival.”
The wounded man looked down. “She walked near the cages.”
Eirwyn closed her eyes.
Drake looked toward the window, where blue pulses from the quartz circle flashed over the glass. “They have any wagons?”
The wounded man swallowed. “Six. Maybe seven. Two with cages. Three with supplies. One covered. No one went near that one except the castors.”
Eirwyn opened her eyes. “Binding stones.”
Drake looked at her. “That bad? I don’t remember you mentioning them.”
“Worse. Brands, focus crystals, anything that lets the king tighten control from a distance. Binding stones are the next step.”
“How bad are they?”
“I just don’t want to be subjected to one. And I will be if I’m caught this time.”
“If we break them?”
“Some of his control weakens.”
Drake turned back to the wounded man. “Where would they slow down?”
“If they head this way, they avoid the marsh road. Too soft for wagons and cages.”
Drake rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There is way too much geography here.”
Eirwyn stood, steadier now.
Before she could answer, the quartz circle pulsed outside.
Two beats.
Then one.
Then two again.
Eirwyn moved before Drake could stop her. He followed, because apparently his new role in this world was chasing barefoot witches away from bad decisions.
A blue line stretched toward the north road, bright as frost under moonlight.
The woman scout emerged from the trees alone. Mud streaked her legs. One sleeve hung torn from shoulder to wrist. She ran low and fast, bow gripped in one hand.
The blacksmith stepped forward. “Where’s the other?”
The woman reached the nearest beacon and bent over, gasping.
Drake already knew he wouldn’t like the answer.
She lifted her head. “Taken. It was soldiers. They ambushed us. I just barely got away.”
The word cracked through the square, and Eirwyn’s hand found Drake’s.
The woman swallowed air. “The nomads were there. So were the king’s men. They had them surrounded. He shoved me off the path before they saw me but he was too late. Two of them came for me. That’s when I fought them off and retreated.”
The blacksmith went red.
“They didn’t kill him. They took him with the others. And I heard one of them shouting a message at me before I got out of there.”
Drake felt the village square tighten around him. It was almost like Malcor’s men planned it this way. “What’d they say?”
Her eyes traveled from Eirwyn to Drake. “Sunset tomorrow. Bring the witch, or they start sending the captives back in pieces.”
The wounded man’s cry tore from inside the inn, raw enough to split wood.
Eirwyn’s fingers tightened around Drake’s. The blacksmith’s hammer shook in his fist. Drake looked toward the north road, as though expecting to see a few of those castors spying on the village.
There it was. The trap before those final fights Drake was so used to reading about during his school days.
This was an ultimatum. A psychological tactic. One that said, “We won’t fight you and will leave you alone if you give us what we want.”
Eirwyn stepped forward, but Drake caught her wrist. “No.”
She threw him a side-eye. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
The square watched them.
Eirwyn’s eyes stayed on the road. “They want me.”
“They want us to fight each other. It’s divide and conquer. Something I’d seen in my own world. Heck, before I got sucked into this world, I was recording it.” He ripped out his phone. “If I could turn this thing on somehow, I could show you.”
The words hit hard enough that even the blacksmith looked over.
Drake lowered his voice, but not enough to hide it. “If you walk out that way because they named you, it wouldn’t stop this village from fighting. Some will cheer that you left, and others will be pissed that you didn’t stand your ground.”
Eirwyn’s jaw tightened. “And if I stay, they’ll still fight.”
Drake looked at the crystals, the road, the villagers, the inn, the blacksmith, the wounded man’s shadow in the window, then he looked back at Eirwyn.
“Drake, say something.”
“We make the price higher than they can pay.”
>>>> Catch Chapter 20 and find out if Eirwyn sacrifices herself
