The Witch of Thornvale Chapter 2: The Witch in Blue
The Witch of Thornvale is an allegory of Ludwig von Mises’ lesson on capitalism, one of the Six Lessons. Here is Chapter 2: The Witch in Blue.
If you haven’t yet dived into Chapter 1, Streets of Steel and Fire, make sure you catch it before going any further. Starting with Chapter 3, you’ll catch the previous chapters listed in the intro in short bullet points.
Anyway, if you’re all caught up, keep reading!
Chapter 2: The Witch in Blue
Drake came to, his face pressed against cold stone.
His cheek stuck to it, slick with moisture. The air pressed down, thick and damp, heavy with an earthly scent. He sucked in a breath and gagged, tasting metal. Blood. A film of sweat stuck to his back, soaked through his Sabres shirt and into his Penguins pullover.
A single drop of water dripped somewhere in the dark. To Drake, it echoed like a gunshot.
He rolled onto his back, gritting his teeth as his elbow scraped something jagged. His body protested with every movement. Throbbing at his side told him his hips bruised. Searing pain at his knees stated he’d rubbed them raw. The ground beneath him was uneven, carved by time.
Another drop. Then another.
He blinked, but his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the pitch black. The kind of dark that swallowed up shapes. He didn’t know what it felt like to fall into a black hole, but the void in this place gave him an idea.
He sat up, teeth clenched. Muscles stiff, a deep ache pulsed behind his eyes like a migraine rolling in.
“Where the hell—?” His voice cracked halfway out, swallowed before it reached the cave walls.
He rubbed his eyes, wiped the wet grit off his face, then looked up.
Light of some sort glimmered overhead. A faint pulse, blue and steady, throbbed.
He squinted.
A vein of crystal arched across the stone ceiling. It looked like a frozen lightning bolt, glowing just enough to paint the floor in dull cobalt. The glow shifted with every flicker of water that slid across it.
Drake pulled himself to his feet. The soles of his trainers scraped grit across rock as his legs wobbled. His breath fogged in the cold, though this type of cold was more manageable than the streets of Pittsburgh.
He turned in a slow circle. The walls, if he had to describe them, looked grown. Smooth in some places, jagged in others, like nature hadn’t decided what this place was supposed to be. Crystals jutted out at odd angles from the corners. Some glimmered, others dead and gray. Knife-like stalactites hung above.
He strained his ears, desperate to hear at least one familiar sound. But only that slow drip came, and a shuffle of gravel somewhere deeper in the dark.
Drake ran a hand through his curls, soaked with sweat and cave damp. His fingers trembled.
That mirror took him somewhere, just like that wardrobe in Chronicles of Narnia took those kids into another world. The thing swallowed Drake whole and spit him out into a place with no exit signs, rioters, traffic, or anything of the modern world. No signs of anything human period.
Whatever this place was, it sure as hell wasn’t Pittsburgh.
Then something made Drake’s breath hitch.
There it was. A sound.
Not dripping water this time. Something deliberate. A scuff. The whisper of movement against stone.
He crouched, every muscle tensing.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t rushing him, but it knew he was here. It wasn’t in a hurry, if Drake’s ears read it right. But that made it worse. Like it saw him as prey.
His hand dropped to his pocket for his phone. Nothing but a blank screen stared back. Of course, it wouldn’t have survived that fall through the mirror.
Drake shoved it back in and scanned the floor. He picked up a rock about the size of a baseball, jagged on one end. Not a weapon or even a prison shank, but it felt better than a dead phone.
Drake tightened his grip around it and he backed up, pressing his shoulder blades to the nearest wall. The cold seeped into his spine, even as perspiration still coated it.
More movement met his ears, and it drew nearer. Soft feet skimming gravel. Almost graceful, methodic even.
His throat went dry as a silhouette stepped into view.
At first, he couldn’t tell if it was human. The body was slight, short, and cloaked in deep blue that shimmered with each flicker of dim crystal light. The figure moved like smoke, almost drifting.
Then he saw the feet. Bare, pale, and smooth, toes curled slightly against the cold stone, like they belonged here.
And the hands—
They glowed. Pale blue light spiraled across the figure’s palms, coiling like mist, then flaring brighter at the fingertips. And the glow? It hummed. A vibration in the air made the hairs on Drake’s arms rise.
That had to be where the crystal light came from.
Drake pulled his lips in and held his breath, not knowing if they’d be an ally or an enemy.
The figure raised both hands, slow and steady, until they looked ready to strike.
Drake froze. The rock still clenched in his fist.
Then a voice, sharp and female, cut through the darkness. “Drop it.”
The rock hit the ground before Drake even realized he’d let go.
Her fingers flexed, and the light in her palms pulsed, casting her face into full view.
Young. Maybe eighteen. Blue eyes glowing brighter than the crystals. Skin pale like the cave had never let the sun near her. Dark brown hair hung damp over her shoulders in straight sheets. No makeup, but her sharp features gave her a natural kind of charm. And she looked like she could rip the cave in half if she wanted to, given her fierce gaze.
Chest tightening, Drake raised both hands. “I’m not here to fight.”
She locked her eyes on him. “Don’t lie to me. No one comes here by accident.” Her voice was a dangerous kind of calm, and icy to the core.
“I didn’t come here. I was thrown.”
“You’re a liar.” The energy in her hands flared hotter.
“I came through a mirror. It lit up. Pulled me in. Next thing I knew, I’m face-down on cave rock. That’s all I’ve got.”
Her gaze narrowed and she stepped closer.
The glow from her hands washed over his face, casting shadows under his cheekbones, glinting off the sweat on his skin.
Light spiraled faster across her palms, bright enough now that Drake had to squint. The hum in the air deepened, and took on a pressure that crawled inside his ears and clamped around his skull.
She took another step toward him. Her cloak, tied behind her so that her defined calves and thighs showed, dragged against the stone with the whisper of silk across glass.
The glow pulsed harder and her jaw tightened as she studied him. “You’re a Huntsman.”
“What?”
“You work for the regime. You came to conscript me.”
“Cons—what are you talking about?”
Her glower intensified, and her left hand flared with sudden intensity. Blue light arced from her palm, lighting up the cave walls in a flash of electric fire.
“Okay! Hey! No—” He took a step sideways, hands raised. “I’m not with anybody. I swear.”
“You wear their colors.” Her eyes flicked back to his pullover, still damp and clinging to his arm as the Sabres shirt under it was beyond drenched.
“Penguins?” He glanced down, then back up. “It’s a hockey team.”
“A what?”
His mouth opened. Then shut.
This was pointless.
He took a cautious step forward. “Look, I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what kind of war you think I’m part of, but I’m not a soldier. I’m just trying to figure out where the hell I—”
Her hand snapped upward, and a beam of energy cracked the air like a whip.
It sliced past his head, close enough that the heat scorched his cheek and the pressure made his ears ring. The stone wall behind him exploded in a blast of steam and sparks. The glow stuck to the rock for a moment, molten red fading to a smoking black scar.
Drake wheeled around and took off. His feet pounded off the cave floor, causing his chest to burn as his heart hammered in his throat.
Catch Chapter 3 and see if Drake survives Eirwyn’s wrath
This chapter initially appeared on The Rogue Scribe.
