The Witch of Thornvale Chapter 20: Price Higher Than Fear

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 I, II, plus Chapters 16, 17 18, and 19, 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 20 below that awesome banner and get yourself a 50% discount while you’re at it if you’re into anti-Woke fiction by using the promo code VAULTVIP50 at the checkout.

The Witch of Thornvale: Chapter 20

The square split.

A mother near the inn pulled her daughter behind her and whispered that no one had the right to risk every child in Cinderglen for one witch. An old man near the well snapped back that handing Eirwyn over would only teach Malcor where to send the next demand. A younger villager said the captives were already dead if the king’s men had them. Someone else called him a coward, and another called that person a fool.

The blacksmith stood between the glowing crystals, hammer shaking in his fist, looking like he wanted the north road to grow a face so he could cave it in.

Eirwyn stood beside Drake, her lighter blue cloak tugging in the wind. She kept her eyes locked on the north road, where the woman hunter returned alone with Malcor’s message.

A woman near the inn pointed at Eirwyn. “They asked for her. They didn’t ask for the village.”

The blacksmith rounded on her. “You think they’ll stop there?”

“I think my son’s sleeping in that inn tonight.”

“And I think you’ll be saying the same thing tomorrow when they ask for mine.”

“They didn’t ask for yours.”

“Yet.”

That one landed hard enough to shut half the square.

The elder near the well lifted his cane. “Everyone breathe before we turn into the trap for them.”

The corner of Drake’s mouth turned upward. The old man had a knack for sounding reasonable after waiting until everyone else lost patience.

A villager near the tannery shook his head.

The wounded man’s cry had died inside the inn, but the sound still sat under every voice. His son was out there somewhere. So was the captured hunter, the nomads, the people useful enough for Malcor to steal instead of kill.

Useful.

That word kept circling Drake’s mind like a buzzard.

A minute ago, it meant value.

In Malcor’s mouth, it was ownership.

Eirwyn stepped forward, but Drake again caught her wrist.

She spun around and looked daggers at him. “Let go.”

“No.”

Eirwyn’s voice stayed low. “You heard what she said.”

“I did.”

“Then you know what happens if I stay.”

“I know what Malcor says happens if you stay.”

Her jaw tightened. “That difference won’t matter to those captives.”

“It matters to everyone.”

She tried to pull her wrist free, but without much force. That made it worse. “They want me, Drake.”

“They want obedience.”

“They named me.”

“That’s how bait works.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Don’t talk to me like I don’t understand traps. I lived in one.”

The line hit harder than he expected. But he didn’t care. Let it hurt. Hurt meant the conversation still held water.

Drake loosened his grip but didn’t let go. “Then don’t carry his guilt for him.”

Eirwyn blinked.

“Malcor’s men took those captives. They ambushed the hunters, surrounded the nomads, dragged people into cages, and are threatening to cut them apart. That blood’s on them, not you.”

“If I can stop it by going—”

“You can’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Her eyes flashed. “Because you read it in your world?”

“Because monsters don’t stop eating when you hand them the first bite.”

Eirwyn’s lips curled.

Drake let go of her wrist, but stepped closer so she couldn’t turn away without choosing to.

“This isn’t a trade. They’re not offering something they own. They stole people, then named you as the price for not hurting them. That’s coercion with better staging.”

The elder near the well frowned. “Coercion?”

“Force.” Drake looked around the square. “A trade means two sides exchange what belongs to them. This? This is a thief breaking into your house, grabbing your child, then telling you he’ll sell the kid back if you also hand him your daughter.”

The mother near the inn looked away.

Drake hated that he had to say it that way, but he also knew she understood it now.

“If we pay that price once, he owns the next one. Today Eirwyn, tomorrow your blacksmith, next week every boy old enough to carry a crate, then the inn, the food, crystals, the road, and every demand comes with someone bleeding.”

The elder tapped his cane against the stone. “And if we refuse?”

“Then he learns we don’t sell people back to their kidnappers.”

“That sounds brave.”

Drake turned to the woman who wanted Eirwyn gone. “You’re scared for your son, and you should be. I’m not asking you to pretend otherwise.”

Her eyes were wet, but she locked her gaze into his.

“I’m saying if Malcor can make you trade someone else today, he’ll make someone else trade your son tomorrow.”

She hugged the boy closer.

Eirwyn looked at Drake, then the road. “And if I choose to go?”

“Then I follow you and drag you back.”

Her mouth tightened. “That isn’t your choice.”

“No. It is mine.”

For the first time since the hunter returned, something like life sparked in Eirwyn’s expression.

“Your choice is to make yourself bait. Mine’s to ruin the trap.”

The blacksmith grunted. “Finally, something sensible.”

“Don’t get excited. Your temper still isn’t a plan.”

The blacksmith’s glare returned, which meant the world regained a little balance.

The innkeeper stepped from the doorway. She’d rolled her sleeves up, and the front of her apron carried mud, broth, and somebody’s blood. “The man from Millcross is okay to talk again. Not long.”

Drake looked at Eirwyn. “You should go in.”

“I’m coming.”

“Wasn’t asking.”

She walked past him toward the inn. “I know.”

Drake followed because apparently every bad decision in this world needed him nearby with commentary.

Inside, the wounded man sat near the hearth, wrapped in blankets. His face had gone gray around the mouth. The innkeeper’s son sat at the corner table with the chalk tablet, looking like he aged three years since morning.

The wounded man lifted his head when Eirwyn entered. He still flinched, but less than before. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Eirwyn crouched in front of him. “For what?”

“They said to bring you. If I hadn’t come—”

“If you hadn’t come, we wouldn’t know.” Her voice softened, but the steel stayed underneath.

Drake leaned against the wall. “Tell us about the covered wagon again.”

The man swallowed. “Six or seven. Two cages, three with supplies, and one covered. The castors stayed close to that one.”

“Yes, the one with binding stones,” Eirwyn said.

The innkeeper’s son wrote the words.

The blacksmith, who followed them in, frowned.

Eirwyn stood and paced once toward the window. Blue light from the quartz circle flashed across her cloak. “A complete brand ties a castor to Malcor’s system. A binding stone makes it worse. It can hold several bindings at once, like a knot pulled tight around many throats.”

The wounded man closed his eyes.

Drake felt cold settle at the base of his neck. “Captives too?”

“If they carry marks. Or if Malcor’s castors mark them before transport.” She turned back. “But even without full brands like mine, binding stones can weaken resistance. Fear does some work. Magic does the rest.”

The blacksmith’s grip tightened around his hammer. “Can anything break them?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Eirwyn twisted her lips.

Drake noticed. “Bad answer?”

“Dangerous answer. Quartz energy can fracture them if it strikes the binding pattern unevenly. Too little, nothing happens. Too much, and the released force can tear through anyone bound to them.”

“Of course it can.”

“The safer way is to disrupt the wagon, separate the stones from the castors, then crack the pattern before they can stabilize it again.”

The blacksmith looked toward the square. “So we hit the wagon.”

“No,” Drake said. “We make the wagon stop.”

The room turned to him.

“I’m not interested in a heroic charge against soldiers, castors, cages, and whatever else Malcor dragged down the road. We find where the wagon slows down by itself. Then the people who know how to break wheels, jam axles, block paths, and move captives do what they already know how to do.”

The blacksmith’s brow lowered. “That sounds like hitting the wagon.”

“It’s making the wagon hit the world.”

The innkeeper made a noise that might have been a laugh if she slept in the last week.

The wounded man opened his eyes. “The marsh road is too soft. They won’t take it. If the covered wagon is heavy, it slows where the road dips.”

The innkeeper’s son drew something on the tablet. A rough road, a bend, the stream, and several ugly boxes pretending to be wagons.

Drake moved closer. “Where does it slow the most?”

The boy looked at the wounded man, who nodded weakly.

“There,” the boy said, tapping near the curve. “If it comes from the north road.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then it still has to avoid the marsh,” the wounded man said. “Unless they unload the cages and drag people through mud.”

The innkeeper’s face hardened. “They might.”

“Then they slow even more,” Drake said.

The blacksmith looked at the map. “I can make a wedge.”

“Can you make one that looks like road trash?”

The blacksmith stared at him.

Drake shrugged. “What? If it looks like sabotage, they’ll watch for sabotage. If it looks like broken junk, maybe they blame the road before they blame us.”

The blacksmith’s mouth twitched. “I can make broken junk.”

“Finally found your craft.”

The innkeeper’s son coughed into his sleeve.

The blacksmith pointed the hammer at Drake. “Keep talking and I’ll make you into road trash.”

“There he is.”

Eirwyn stepped to the table and studied the crude map. “If the wagon stops here, I can use a quartz shard from the village circle.”

Drake’s humor died. “Use it how?”

“To reach the binding stones.”

“You said too much force can hurt the people bound to them.”

“That’s why I have to be close.”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do. Again.”

She looked up at him. “I won’t walk into their hands. But if those stones are there, and if captives are tied to them, I’m the only person here who can feel the pattern.”

The blacksmith set his hammer head against the floor. “What would you need?”

Eirwyn glanced at Drake.

He hated that she knew he hated this.

“A shard from the central quartz, and someone who can keep soldiers from noticing the moment I start working.”

Drake rubbed both hands down his face. “Fantastic. We’ve reached the part where the plan involves you standing close to mind-control rocks while hostile castors are nearby.”

“They’re not mind-control rocks.”

“Forgive me. Throat-knot rocks.”

The innkeeper’s son looked up from the tablet. “That’s probably not what we should call them in the records.”

“Write binding stones,” the innkeeper said.

“Thank you,” Eirwyn added.

Drake muttered, “Everyone’s a critic.”

Outside, the square settled into motion again.

The blacksmith’s apprentice hauled iron strips. Two women brought spare blankets to the inn. A hunter offered to watch the creek path if someone watched his younger brothers. The tanner stepped in with straps. A farmer offered a cart if someone repaired one wheel. The innkeeper wrote down who ordered food, who handled food, and who expected payment later.

Drake walked back outside with Eirwyn beside him.

The mother near the inn doorway stopped them. Her son clung to her skirt. For one ugly second, Drake expected her to tell Eirwyn to leave.

Instead, she held out a folded blanket. “For you.”

Eirwyn stared, before she took it with both hands. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded and retreated before gratitude could become conversation.

Eirwyn held the blanket against her chest. “She wanted me gone.”

“Maybe she still does.”

“Then why give this?”

“Because people are complicated when nobody forces them to be simple.”

The blacksmith approached the central beacon and crouched near the base. “I’ll need iron from the broken plows.”

A farmer cursed from across the square. “Those plows aren’t broken.”

“They’re scrap.”

Drake stepped between them before Cinderglen collapsed over farm equipment. “How much for the iron?”

The farmer blinked. “What?”

“How much?”

The blacksmith scowled. “We don’t have time to haggle.”

“We have time to avoid theft.”

The farmer looked at the plows, then toward the road, then back at the blacksmith. “Repair my cart axle after this.”

“Done,” the blacksmith said.

“And two nails per strip.”

“Robbery.”

“Risk is honest, right?”

The blacksmith slowly turned toward Drake.

Drake held up both hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m proud of him.”

The farmer smiled.

The blacksmith grumbled something that would have offended every goat in the village, then waved for an apprentice to collect the plow iron.

Eirwyn leaned closer to Drake. “Is this what you wanted?”

“This? No. I wanted to cover sports. Instead, I needed to complain about politicians and host podcasts back home.”

“You know what I mean.”

He watched the farmer and blacksmith argue over nail quality while a child carried water too carefully behind them.

“Yes,” he said. “This part.”

The central crystal pulsed once.

Eirwyn turned toward it. “It’s settling.”

“Good settling or bad?”

“Good.” She walked to the beacon and placed one hand near the light. “The circle understands the shard now.”

Drake went still. “You already took one?”

She opened her palm.

A small quartz shard rested there, glowing faintly blue-white.

“When?”

“About a minute ago when you were threatening the blacksmith with broken junk.”

“I was building morale.”

“You were being Drake.”

“Same thing.”

Her smile faded as she looked toward the north road.

Drake looked over Cinderglen. At the inn, the beacons, the dew-strewn road, people arguing, offering, and working because they understood Malcor demanded too much too openly.

Drake shifted his gaze to Eirwyn, then at the blacksmith crouched near the central beacon, then toward the road that would lead to the creek bend. “We don’t need to beat his whole force tomorrow. We need to make his most important wagon stop where he can’t afford for it to stop. Now let me go tell the blacksmith you already snatched a shard since it doesn’t look like he noticed.”

>>>> Catch Chapter 21 here and catch Eirwyn and Drake’s final preparations