The Witch of Thornvale Chapter 21: The Creek Bend Offer

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 the first five chapters of Act III, 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 21 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 21

Cinderglen worked through the night, and nobody looked noble doing it.

That was probably why Drake trusted it.

Heroic villages in stories always found a rhythm when the danger got close. Hammers struck in perfect time. Lanterns glowed like the town hired a lighting crew, and everyone discovered courage at the exact moment the music swelled.

But Cinderglen had no music.

It had mud, bad tempers, cold fingers, tired backs, and one goat that escaped twice because apparently the animal thought wartime preparation violated its personal freedom.

The blacksmith cursed under his breath while shaping iron collars near the forge. Sparks jumped into the wet dark and died fast. His apprentice held a lantern too low, got yelled at, held it too high, got yelled at again, then settled for standing where the blacksmith could glare at him without needing to waste words.

The tanner cut straps by lantern light, arguing with two villagers over whether a load sling should favor speed or strength. One insisted captives would need to move fast. The other said a fast sling that snapped was just an expensive way to drop a wounded person into mud.

The innkeeper moved through her building like a storm with elbows. She cleared rooms, counted blankets, bullied three families into offering space, and told a man complaining about floor room that he could sleep outside with the philosophical satisfaction of being technically correct.

The boy kept records at the corner table, chalk dust streaked across his fingers and one cheek. Names weren’t written like royal assignments. They were offers: Who gave food. Who expected repayment. Who lent tools. Who wanted a repair later. Who took coin now. Who wanted nothing except their children kept away from the north road, the list never stopped.

Drake spent the last of his beacon money before midnight. After that, the real trading started.

The farmer with the “resting” plows gave iron for hooks and wedges in exchange for a repaired cart axle and two bags of grain credit once the next trade run moved through the village, and the tanner offered straps in exchange for first use of the quartz circle for three market days.

No one pretended generosity erased cost.

That would’ve made the whole thing feel fake.

People were generous because they chose to be, and others haggled because they still had lives to live after tomorrow. Drake respected both.

Near the quartz circle, Eirwyn crouched on the wet stone, one hand hovering above the small shard she’d taken from the main crystal. Blue-white light pulsed inside it like a captured heartbeat.

Drake stood close enough to catch her if she swayed.

She tossed him another one of those side-eyes. “You keep hovering.”

“You keep almost falling over.”

“I haven’t fallen.”

“That’s a low standard.”

“It’s a standard I’m currently meeting.”

He wanted to argue. Then he saw how her fingers trembled near the quartz shard, and the argument died before it reached his mouth.

The shard brightened, the six outer beacons answered with a faint glow, and Eirwyn exhaled. “It’s tuned.”

“Meaning?”

“If I carry this beyond Cinderglen, the circle may still answer. Not strongly. But if I’m close enough to the binding stones, I can pull a pulse through it.”

“Close enough’s doing a lot of work in that sentence.”

“It has to.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

A hammer rang behind them. Someone shouted about a missing chisel. Someone else shouted back that they borrowed it, which was apparently a sacred distinction when everyone was exhausted.

Drake looked toward the north road. The forest was black beyond the last lanterns. Somewhere out that way, Malcor’s people had captives, wagons, castors, and enough arrogance to think fear would do most of the fighting for them.

Worse, they might be right.

The trembling in Eirwyn’s fingers wrapping around the shard grew more apparent. “I’m afraid of them.”

“The castors?”

“No.”

“The soldiers?”

“No.”

Drake looked at her.

She kept her eyes on the shard. “The binding stones.”

The words came out small enough that the village noise nearly swallowed them.

Eirwyn turned the shard in her palm. “When the wounded man said there was a blue-cloaked castor near the cages, I could see her. Not her face. Just what she is. What Malcor can make someone into if he gets enough time.”

“You said she was taken young.”

“Maybe. Or she chose survival so many times that one day she forgot choice had ever been involved.” Eirwyn’s fingers tightened around the quartz. “If they get me under a binding stone, Drake, I don’t know what happens after that. But I won’t come back as myself.”

Drake looked at her face, at the fear she hated showing despite Eirwyn’s offer to sacrifice herself earlier, and at the blue light caught between her fingers.

“I won’t promise they won’t get close.”

She blinked like that wasn’t the answer she expected.

Good. Empty promises deserved to be buried beside campaign slogans and royal decrees.

“I won’t promise this works clean, or that we’ll get everyone back.”

Her eyes lifted to his.

“But I won’t let you become someone else’s weapon without making the bastard regret every step that got him there.”

Eirwyn stared at him, looking as though she wanted to say something deeper than any shallow facade she was good at showing. Then she gave one sharp nod, like anything softer would break something inside her. “Good.”

“Good?”

“I’d rather have that than a lie.”

“See? You’re learning my charm.”

“I said one nice thing. Don’t build a religion around it.”

“Too late. I’ve already appointed the goat as high priest.”

That drew a real smile. It lasted only a few seconds, but Drake took it.

The elder near the well approached with two villagers behind him. Both looked like they lost an argument with sleep and common sense.

“We need to settle something,” the elder said.

Drake sighed. “That sentence never improved my life.”

“Some still think the village should vote.”

“Vote on what?”

The elder’s face tightened. “Whether to send her.”

The words hit the square like another horn.

Several nearby villagers stopped working. The tanner lowered a strap. The blacksmith looked up from the forge, and the glow lit his expression in a way that promised the next sentence could get someone punched.

Eirwyn’s shoulders stiffened.

Drake stepped in front of her without thinking. “No.”

The elder’s eyes narrowed. “No?”

“No.”

“This village still has the right to decide what risks it accepts.”

“This village has the right to decide what it does with its own homes, tools, food, labor, roads, and skin. It doesn’t get to vote on whether another person belongs to it. They can keep Eirwyn from entering their properties, but only she can decide to leave.”

The elder’s jaw worked.

Drake stepped closer. “Rights don’t disappear because terrified people count hands. A majority can be scared and a crowd can be wrong. But fear doesn’t turn theft into trade or sacrifice into justice.”

Drake pointed toward the north road. “Malcor wants that vote. He wants all of you to think his ultimatum’s moral because you held a village meeting before obeying it.”

The elder’s eyes shifted toward Eirwyn.

She stepped out from behind Drake. “And I am not being sent. I will go tomorrow. But not because Malcor named me.” She looked at Drake, then at the glowing shard. “I’ll walk there because I choose to. And because those stones need to break.”

The elder looked as if it wasn’t good enough for him, but he also looked smart enough to understand that saying so would cost more than it bought.

He left without another word, and the night crawled on.

Hunters came and went in pairs, returning with damp cloaks and whispered reports. The old mill path gave clear sight lines from the ridge. The creek bend had two exits if someone knew the shallow crossing. The north bank was slick enough to slow a wagon but not a runner. Lanterns would be visible too early, so no lanterns past the last bend. One hunter saw faint movement near the shrine, but nobody confirmed anything beyond that.

The blacksmith finished six small hooks that looked useless by design. Bent scraps, broken junk, and road trash. Each could catch in a wheel or axle if placed right and ignored long enough.

The tanner’s straps were stronger than they looked, the innkeeper didn’t have enough rooms, but she found more anyway with people in nearby houses offering space.

Before dawn, the boy presented his tablet to Drake with the solemn exhaustion of a clerk who discovered civilization depended on legible handwriting.

Drake studied the marks. He understood about half of them. “Is this good?”

The boy looked offended. “It’s exact.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It shows who offered what, who was paid, who expects repayment, and what’s still missing.”

“Then it’s good.”

The boy tried not to smile and failed.

***

By the following afternoon, the sky turned gray.

No rain yet, but it threatened.

Drake stood outside the inn while Eirwyn changed the wrapping around the quartz shard. She tied it to a strip of cloth so she could hold it without dropping it if the magic surged.

Her cloak moved around her legs in the wind. Clean. Lighter blue. Cut above the knees in front. Her bare feet pressed into wet earth where the stone gave way beside the steps.

Drake looked at her feet. “You know, where I’m from, people would call this a terrible footwear decision.”

“Where you’re from, people trap their feet in dead animal skins and pretend the ground isn’t real.”

“Shoes. The word is shoes.”

“I don’t like the word either.”

“You haven’t worn them.”

“I’ve heard enough.”

The corner of his mouth turned upward, then he saw the doomsday prophecy in his mind of this thing going haywire and stopped.

Eirwyn noticed. “Still time to tell me to stay.”

“Still time for you to ignore me.”

“I would.”

“I know.”

The blacksmith came over carrying a sack that clinked softly. “Hooks. Wedges. Two collars, if the wagon stops long enough for anyone to use them.”

Drake took the sack. “Payment?”

“Cart axle and nail credit.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“I know. That’s why I’m reminding you.”

The innkeeper stepped out next. “Rooms are ready if captives make it back.”

“If?”

She met his eyes. “I don’t waste words when I’m tired.”

The hunters waited near the road. Not a formation or an army. Just people who chose risk and named their terms.

The boy stood beside the innkeeper, tablet tucked under one arm. “I wrote down everything.”

Drake nodded. “Good. If we don’t come back, charge someone for the record.”

The boy’s face paled.

“Bad joke,” Drake said.

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

Eirwyn slipped her hand into Drake’s.

The square quieted, but no one cheered. Thank whatever gods this world had for that. Cheers would’ve made it feel final.

This wasn’t final. Not yet, anyway.

Drake and Eirwyn walked toward the north road as sunset bled orange behind the trees. Hunters melted into the forest on either side. The blacksmith and two others took the lower path with the sack of iron. The tanner’s straps disappeared under cloaks and inside packs. Somewhere behind them, the central quartz pulsed.

Eirwyn squeezed the shard with her free hand, and it answered.

The road to the north smelled like wet leaves, mud, and old smoke. Drake listened for horns, bells, whistles, wheels, anything that told him the trap shifted.

At the final rise, Eirwyn stopped.

Through the trees below, the creek bend opened under a bruised sky.

Malcor’s force was already there.

Cages lined the far bank. Wagons stood behind them. Soldiers held the road. Black-cloaked castors waited near the covered cart, and beside that cart stood a woman in blue darker than Eirwyn’s, still as a blade.

Captives stared through wooden bars.

The covered wagon sat near the bend.

Eirwyn’s fingers tightened around the shard.

Then a man stepped forward from the road and lifted one hand, smiling like he mistook theft for etiquette. “The witch first.”

Drake looked at the cages, the wagon, the castors, and the creek bending around all of it like the world quietly chose sides. Then he looked back at the man. “Show us what you’re actually selling.”

>>>> Catch Chapter 22 for the epic and unforgettable climax