The Witch of Thornvale Chapter 3: The Chase
The Witch of Thornvale is an allegory of Ludwig von Mises’ lesson on capitalism, one of the Six Lessons. Here is Chapter 3: The Chase.
In case you missed them, make sure you check out Chapters 1 and 2 of The Witch of Thornvale. Catch them below, and then dive in to Chapter 3.
Chapter 3: The Chase
Stone whipped past in flashes of cobalt and shadow as Drake sprinted down the narrow tunnel, lungs burning, sweat mixing with cave dust in his eyes. His shoes slipped on slick patches of moss and runoff. Every footfall echoed like a gunshot in the tight corridor.
A burst of blue light surged behind him and hot air chased it. He ducked under a low ceiling beam, and scraped his shoulder, but he quickened his pace despite the searing pain. Another tunnel split left and he took it, praying it would throw her off.
The air grew stale, tighter. The walls closed in, and the passage grew more narrow as wet rock brushed his arms. He turned another corner and caught himself against the stone just before slamming into it full-speed. His chest heaved, heart pounding against the inside of his ribs like it wanted out.
Then came her light footsteps. Fast. Too fast. Her bare feet skimmed across gravel like wind over glass.
He pushed off the wall and ran again. Legs burning and vision blurring, Drake knew it wouldn’t be long until he collapsed from exhaustion. He hadn’t eaten or drank in hours, and this entire ordeal already sucked a lot out of him. The tunnel sloped downward, and his momentum carried him faster than he wanted.
Crystals embedded in the walls flashed as he passed. Brief sparks of blue, tiny flares that pulsed then faded. Each glow painted shadows across the tunnel in fast staccato bursts.
Drake glanced over his shoulder.
The girl gained ground, a perpetual glare etched on her face. Her cloak whipped behind her, palms alive with coiling strands of light. The air bent to her will as she approached. Every movement clean, sharp, and controlled.
Drake would be surprised if she hadn’t chased anyone down like this before. Doomsday scenario after doomsday scenario filled his mind as he hit a patch of wet stone and slipped. His knee smashed the rock and pain shot up his thigh, hands scraped raw as he caught himself. He slid across a shallow shelf and came to rest against a jagged column of crystal.
He gritted his teeth, rolled onto his back, and pulled his legs under him.
She stepped into view.
One hand raised, the glow seared the cave walls in pulses. Her chest rose and fell with steady breaths. No sweat. Not a single sign she’d just sprinted through a labyrinth.
The light from her palms reflected off the moisture on the stone, dancing across the walls.
She stopped a few paces away, one arm locked, fingers spread. The energy spiraled tighter, ready to fire.
As the light bathed his face, Drake raised both hands, knees still throbbing from the fall.
“Okay,” he said, panting. “You win.”
Drake stayed crouched, arms raised, fingers shaking from more than adrenaline.
The blue glow poured over him like stage light. Every twitch in her palm coiled energy tighter. A wrong move, and he’d be steam on the cave wall.
“I don’t know who you are,” he said, voice steady but raw. “I don’t know where the hell I am. I’m not here to fight.”
His breath fogged as he spoke. The cave pressed in around them, silent and waiting.
She stepped closer. The crystals along the walls pulsed brighter in her presence. She moved like someone trained to kill but conditioned to wait.
Her gaze dropped.
She took in the soaked Penguins shirt clinging to his chest, the shorts smeared with dirt and blood, the athletic shoes scuffed from the sprint. Her eyes flicked back up and rested on his face before flickering to his hands that he still raised in surrender.
Still crouched over, Drake knew he looked like human prey. Wounded and lost.
The light in her hands flickered, and lost some of its edge.
She paced with measured steps in front of him, her cloak trailing like a shadow stitched to her heels. The blue glow faded from a flare to a pulse, soft and steady, casting her features in low light. Her mouth pressed into a tight line and her brow held tension, but it wasn’t aggression.
“If you were one of the others, you would have fought back. Or at least tried to have lured me into a trap.”
“I’m not one of the others.” Drake lowered his arms an inch. Sweat dripped down the side of his temple. “I’m not even from this world.”
She tilted her head and the glow faded even more. Her hands slowly lowered.
One breath. Then another.
“Even if you’re not one of them,” she said, “how do I know you’re not going to tell them where you last saw me?”
Drake stared at her. “What do you want? A passport?”
The corner of her mouth twitched—half amusement, half warning. “What’s a passport?”
Drake twisted his lips and shook his head.
“Start talking,” she said. “Or I’ll start conjuring again.”
The fading glow extinguished from her palms, but she kept her fingers flexed. Shadows returned to her face, sharper now without the wash of energy to soften them.
She stepped back once. Just enough space for Drake to breathe, but not enough to relax.
She kept her eyes fixed on him. “Well?”
“Haven’t I said enough? I already mentioned hockey and passports. Here, c-can I reach into my pocket?”
She aimed an open palm at his chest. “Go. But if you do anything stupid, you’re going to be in a lot of pain.”
Drake pulled out his phone and handed it to her. “Does anybody from here have one of these?”
She studied the phone and a ran a hand over the blank screen. “What is it?”
“It’s called a phone. You use it for just about anything. Talking to people. Texting them. Going on the internet. Has anybody ever once mentioned that here?”
She bit her bottom lip then shoved the phone back into his hand. “I don’t know what kind of witchcraft you’re talking about, but nobody, neither the Huntsmen nor his soldiers, carry one of those.”
“So you believe me?”
“For now. I’m Eirwyn Starweaver.”
She said it like the name held weight in this world.
Drake straightened, and wiped the grit and lingering blood off his palms onto his shirt. “Drake Ridgeback.”
She echoed it softly. “Drake.” Then again, slower, tasting it. “Strange name.”
He shrugged. “Stranger place.”
She again studied his posture, the dried blood at his temple, and the dirt clinging to his clothes.
Then she turned, cloak flaring as she pivoted. “If I find out you’re lying, I’ll kill you.”
“If I’m lying, I deserve it.”
She paused and threw him a half-glance. One laced with suspicion. “Follow me.”
Eirwyn moved into the darkness ahead without looking back. The crystals lit as she passed, flickering alive one by one.
Drake drew a breath, thanked the universe that she was at least keeping him alive for the moment, then followed.
The cave swallowed their footsteps, and the light of the surface world—whatever world this was—waited somewhere ahead.
Catch Chapter 4 now that it’s clear Eirwyn’s not going to kill Drake
This article initially appeared on The Rogue Scribe.
