The Maiden of Moonfane Forge

Moonfane Forge began life as a tent settlement for the silver miners working the mines of Mt. Moonfane, the steep, stony mountain which rose above the town to its north. The mountain’s foothills held an abundance of the ore, and so Moonfane Forge had thrived and grown beneath the mountain slopes around its silversmithing trade, eventually becoming a small but prosperous town, and attracting new peoples of many different trades. Aside from silver, the other thing the mountains had in abundance was yaks, hearty mountain beasts that could be caught and tamed and kept for their hair and milk and meat. Over time, the textiles and cheeses produced by these great creatures became renowned the kingdom over, regarded as vastly superior to those produced by the cattle of the kingdom’s lowland regions, and commanding prices to match. Eventually, the yak textile and dairy trades had surpassed the profitability of even the still-flourishing silversmithing trade. Outside of Moonfane Forge’s town limits, and its magical Barrier, were many fenced pastures and farms and dairies long dedicated to the keeping of these unique Moonfane yaks. The beasts themselves were even more prized than their products, and they were only rarely sold, but when they were, the purchase of even a single one of them could cost a small fortune.

Vetch, Ennric, and new recruit Wenzl stood on the old worn cobblestones of a narrow and sloping road that led up into the hilly northwestern section of town, where older houses and buildings of stone and rough timber perched on graded little roads and cross-streets. They had eaten and drunk well in one of the alehouses near the barracks and then come to this place, the oldest district in Moonfane Forge, which looked down over the rest of town.

“This is the Silversmith’s District,” explained Vetch. “Not much of interest to be found in this area unless you’re working silver or buying it.”

“Or wanting to steal it,” added Ennric.

Vetch crossed his arms and nodded. “Which is why travelers who are only passing through town don’t need to be in this district. For the most part, the town guardsmen—see one of them there, in the jerkins with brown and yellow trim—they see to that. We don’t get footpads sneaking in at night because of the Barrier. But just know the silversmiths don’t like anyone skulking around here who doesn’t have legitimate business here.”

Wenzl nodded thoughtfully. The boy had shed his King’s City surcoat in favor of the plain riding clothes he’d brought on his journey. He looked even more a boy without it, Vetch thought. He hoped the youth was as good a swordsman as he claimed, to make up for what he lacked in muscle.

“That includes us, most of the time,” said Ennric. “The town guards take care of things around here, but if they ever did call for some more muscle in the Silversmith’s District, well, this is where you’d run to.”

Vetch began walking back down the cobbled way to rejoin the newer street they’d arrived by. Ennric and Wenzl followed.

“See over on that hill, there’s more Trades District—textiles, dyers, and the like,” Vetch said, pointing. “In the center part of town down there is where most people live. The markets are down there, too. And you saw the inns and taverns closer to the South Gate by our barracks. The two other gates are the East and West—”

Ennric clapped Vetch on his shoulders. “You pups continue on without me. It’s getting dark. I’m going home.”

“Tour’s not over yet, old man.”

“I’ve seen my home town before. And I’ve got a wife waiting at home. Wenzl?” Ennric punched the youth on the shoulder. “A pleasure, kid. We’ll test those sword skills with some practice sparring soon, huh?”

“Yes sir!” said Wenzl.

“Good lad. ‘Night, Vetch.”

“‘Night, old man.”

Ennric strolled off, but stopped after a few paces and turned back.

“Before I go.” He slipped the dull knife from his belt and held it out to Wenzl. “First assignment, boy. Take this knife back to the weapons locker in the barracks for me.”

“Yessir,” said Wenzl, and slipped the knife into his own belt. Ennric, with a wink of his blind eye, took his leave then.

Vetch rested his hands with one on his sword pommel, the other on his waist, and observed the darkening air around them. The night was cold and clear, with a breeze coming off the mountain slopes to tousle his hair. He returned his attention to Wenzl to find the wide-eyed boy scanning the town’s rooftops.

“You’ll learn your way around before you know it,” Vetch told him. “‘S’not a big town.” The young soldier nodded in a distracted fashion, so Vetch went on, “We’ll show you where the stables are outside town in the morning, so you can look in on your horse. Would do it now, but you won’t be able to get through the Barrier now the sun’s setting. Consider it a probationary curfew until Marigold casts the next one. Then, you’ll be included as a resident and will be able to walk through at any time. That’ll be ... oh I’d say another couple months.” Vetch chuckled. “So don’t get caught outside town after sunset until then. You’ll find yourself sleeping out in the pastures.” The youth again didn’t answer, prompting Vetch to quiz him the same way Ennric would always do to Vetch back when he was brand new to the garrison. “You get it all, then? How things work around here? What our job is? Explain it to me. Repeat back what Ennric taught you in the alehouse.”

Wenzl finally looked at him. If Vetch was expecting to catch the new recruit off his guard, he was pleased to find that wasn’t the case. Wenzl spoke promptly.

“Most town garrisons are there to fend off raids,” he began. “But since Moonfane Forge has the magical Barrier, raids on the town are nearly impossible. The town’s mage, Marigold, protects the place from outside attacks with that magic. But then ...” The young man looked a bit confused at this point. “All of us soldiers are here to protect her. Why?”

“You heard of Caster’s Slumber?” Vetch asked. Wenzl shook his head. Vetch made a motion with his hand to start them strolling toward the town’s center once more. “Mages like Marigold pay a price for their magic. After every spell they cast, they fall into a kind of magical sleep they call Caster’s Slumber. It looks like sleep, but it’s not really. It’s some magical state. Bigger the spell, longer the Slumber. They can’t be woken up from it, and they’re completely vulnerable until it wears off. Now,” Vetch explained as they threaded their way between houses and through an empty courtyard with a washing fountain where Vetch paused to splash his face before continuing on. “Imagine how many kingdoms would not scruple to do anything to capture and keep a mage of Marigold’s caliber—a mage who can cast a Barrier around an entire town. Wars have been fought over such mages.”

“You can’t just make a mage do what they don’t want, though,” said Wenzl. “Right? If she’s that powerful.”

“She’s not a battle mage. Barrier-Casters can’t cast walls of fire onto a cavalry unit, or call a lightning bolt down onto a field commander. Marigold is an old woman. She’s vulnerable to attack or capture just like anyone else, and more are the people who’d want to do so because of what she’s capable of. And when she’s in a weeks-long Slumber after a large Barrier-Casting, she’s completely helpless. And that,” said Vetch. “Is why a town that wouldn’t normally be big enough to have a garrison at all, has a well-trained and decently sized one like ours. She protects us with her Barriers, then we protect her when she sleeps. There’s not a lot of action here, admittedly, but the idea is to stay ready. Oh, and that’s another thing; the yaks.”

“The ... yaks?” queried Wenzl. Vetch almost had to stop himself from chuckling. It was a lot to take in for the boy’s first day in town. The duties of Moonfane Forge’s garrison were different than most, thanks to its relationship with the town mage. But there were some duties that a soldier would know well, no matter where he came from, such as protecting the farmsteads outside of a town or city. Vetch was confident they’d have this recruit whipped into shape, on duties of that nature at least, in no time.

“I assume you saw the yaks as you neared town? You’d have to be blind not to.”

Wenzl bobbed a nod and grinned. “Oh, yes, of course I saw them. When I saw the first herd in the distance from the road, I thought I had arrived, but then I passed another herd, and another, and another, and it was a while still before I even sighted the town.”

Vetch laughed easily. “There’s farms and pastures and pens all around Moonfane for miles, almost all of them devoted to our yaks, and those are some very valuable animals. They’re most of Moonfane Forge’s livelihood. Of course, because animals cannot pass through the Barrier, they’re all outside the town proper. And as valuable as those yaks are, it never fails we get at least a few thieves or even bands of rustlers attempting to steal some of them every year. Riding out and protecting those herds is our other main job. All the farmers and herdsmen out there have warning bells they can ring. We hear those, we drop what we’re doing and ride out there.”

“Now, that sounds exciting!”

“It can be,” agreed Vetch, seeing a very familiar enthusiasm for action mirrored on the recruit’s face in the fading light. “Breaks up the drilling and gate watch monotony.”

Night came on quickly in the mountains and full dark was soon upon them. The shops and workhouses of the Trades District behind them closed down and became dark themselves. Elsewhere, the windows of houses all over the Residential District glowed with candle and lamplight. Brightest of all were the streets they were returning to, down nearer the South Gate, where most of the inns and restaurants and taverns were. The noise and music and general easygoing boisterousness of such establishments reached their ears upon their turning out of the alley they’d cut through and onto one of the main thoroughfares. Townsfolk who’d just finished their workdays hurried out of the late season’s cold to meet up with friends or sweethearts in quiet eateries, or to crowd around fire hearths and lift mugs of ale in noisy taverns.

Wenzl was quiet for a time as the two soldiers walked. Then, as if he’d been thinking over whether the question was an appropriate one to ask or not, spoke haltingly.

“Uh, I know I’m brand new here and all,” he began. “But could I meet Marigold one of these days? To say I’d met The Maiden of Moonfane Forge? Would she agree to see a normal soldier like me?”

Vetch looked down at the young man for the measure of a few strides.

Wenzl gained confidence, adding, “Because Ennric said you were courting her apprentice and all ...”

Vetch made a snrking sound in the back of his throat. “Never you mind what Ennric said.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

Vetch turned a serious glare on the young man beside him, just long enough to make him squirm. Then Vetch laughed and backhanded the boy in the shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about mages. Marigold isn’t some reclusive hermit casting spells up on the mountain, man. We went right by the street she lives on not a few minutes back. You’ll meet her sooner or later. Go to the markets on the right day and you can beg her help with picking out the ripest persimmons. Now, enough of the tour and talk of mages, eh? How about we stop back in at the alehouse, I’ll treat us both to one last round before we head to our beds in the barracks.”

As they came around the corner to the patchily lit street fronting the alehouse, curses and sounds of a struggle met their ears. Beneath a street lantern, three men were fighting. Two town guardsmen in their brown and yellow uniforms just about had their hands full with a scruffy looking drunk who was keeping them both at bay with wild swings of his fists. One guard looked for an opening by which he could bring his truncheon down, while the other had dropped his to clutch at his face.

“He bloodied my nose, the little pisser!” he moaned to no one in particular.

“Get the hell away from me!” the drunk man bellowed, and aimed a punch that nearly carried him around in a circle.

“What the hell is this?” Vetch said, striding forward with Wenzl quick on his heels.

Seeing the two soldiers, the guardsman who still remained in the fight took a step back, knowing that reinforcements meant they could swarm the man all at once.

“You two, lend a hand,” he said. “He’s a scrawny sot, but damn can he fight, and he’s had too much drink to know when to stop.”

Vetch and Wenzl spread out to hem the drunk man in between themselves and the guardsman. Nearby, onlookers crowded around the flung-open door of the alehouse to watch the entertainment. One of the establishment’s front windows was shattered. The chair that had evidently caused the damage lay in the street.

“Enough now!” Vetch commanded. “That’s enough!”

The drunk man wheeled around as if noticing the soldiers for the first time. He took one glassy-eyed look at Vetch, then rolled his gaze to Wenzl. Behind him, the remaining guardsman lifted his truncheon, but not quickly enough. The moment the drunkard fixed his eyes on Wenzl, he bellowed angrily and charged at the young man, swinging wildly, perhaps judging the smaller youth the easiest target. He judged wrong. Wenzl weaved back with the grace of a trained fist-fighter, causing the drunk man to stumble forward, his blows pawing harmlessly at Wenzl’s belt. In the same motion, the young recruit brought his fist down heavily in a targeted punch across the drunk man’s jaw. The man gasped out an almost comical yelp and dropped straight onto his face on the cobblestones.

To the man’s credit, he remained remarkably still conscious, but it was clear the hard blow had knocked all the fight out of him at last. He languished on the ground for a few moments, running his hands over the cobbles as if searching for his equilibrium, then finally dragged himself up into a sitting position. He rubbed at his rapidly swelling face.

“Why’d y’go an’ do that?” he asked pathetically.

The guardsman nudged the drunk man none-too-softly with the toe of his boot. “Take one guess, man!” Looking up, he added to Wenzl, “Nice punch, boy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What the hell happened here?” Vetch asked. He glanced through the alehouse’s busted window to see the interior hadn’t come out much better. Tables were overturned, puddles of ale and a few shattered mugs littered the floor, and it appeared the one guardsman wasn’t the only one who’d ended up with a bloodied nose. Some of the patrons inside were in like condition.

“Nothing much to tell,” the first guardsman said as he kept a wary eye on their prisoner. “He drank through all his coin, started running his mouth off at a townsman who didn’t take kindly to it. Next thing you know, he’s brawling over tables and into the street with anyone in reach. We were right off duty and just sitting down in there ourselves when it all got started.”

The tavernkeeper pushed her way through the onlookers and pressed a clean kerchief to the other guard’s bleeding nose, as he attempted to recover some of his pride by asking, “What d’ya want us to do wid ib?”

“I want him to pay for all this damage,” she stated angrily.

“I ain’t got no more coin,” the drunkard mumbled.

“What a surprise,” returned Vetch.

The first guardsman leaned down and grabbed the man by the elbows to heft him roughly onto his feet.

“Then you’ll pay for it with time in a cell.”

“I-I can’t!” the man slurred. “I have to be somewhere!” He began to struggle again, but a cuff from the guard across his swollen face made him docile again.

“Wait ...” Vetch stepped in closer and peered at the drunkard. “I know this man. He arrived by the south road only this afternoon. Said he was passing through on his way across the mountains. Hey, look at me,” Vetch ordered him. “We told you to stay out of trouble. This is the thanks we get for letting you into our town?”

The man only shrugged, head hanging, sweaty hair lank over his eyes.

The guardsman scoffed and gave him a prod in the back. “Should’ve listened to the soldiers, man. Could’a saved yourself a lot of trouble. Let’s go. Move your feet.”

“C-can’t,” the man continued to mumble as he was led off by both guardsmen, the one still pressing the offered kerchief to his nose. They both nodded their thanks to the garrison soldiers on the way by.

The tavernkeeper whistled at the retreating guardsman. “You two, after you’ve tossed that sot in jail, come back here. There’ll be a round of ales on the house waiting for you. You two, as well,” she said to Vetch and Wenzl.

Vetch looked at the state of the alehouse, then shared a glance with the youth beside him. “Another time,” he said. “I’ve lost my taste for it tonight. C’mon, Wenzl, let’s get back to the barracks.”

“Another time,” the tavernkeeper echoed and favored the two soldiers with a smile before turning around to assess the damage to her window.

Vetch and his garrison’s new recruit left the scene behind for the relative peace and quiet of the barracks. Vetch’s reservations about the young soldier’s capability dispersed like the onlookers back at the alehouse.

*

“In you go.” The guardsman gave the drunkard a shove into one of the small cells in the guardhouse’s jail. He ignored the man’s slurred pleadings of “can’t, I can’t” and “let me go, please” as he shut the stout wood door and locked it. “Shut up,” he added, and hung his keys back on his belt. “Shut up and get some sleep.”

Exiting the jail, he clapped the shoulder of the guardswoman sitting on watch duty inside the door. She exchanged a nod with him, then yawned, and crossed one of her boots over the other. Inside the cell, the man was still mumbling and pleading. She ignored him for a time, but after a while, when he still hadn’t stopped, she tapped her truncheon on the wall to get his attention.

“Hey! Didn’t you hear what you were told? Shut up and go to sleep,” she ordered, and this time the man finally got the picture and became quiet. She slid her truncheon back into her belt and leaned back in her chair, speaking to herself. “Prolly won’t even remember why he’s in there come morning, can smell the booze from here.”

The drunk man stood clutching at the door’s barred window for a time, red-eyed and looking around at what he could see of the little jailhouse he was in. His cell was the only one occupied. It was small, but positively luxurious compared to those of some other small towns. There was old but still clean straw on the stone floor, a couple buckets in one corner—one with water in it, another for waste—and the bed was up off the floor. That was rare. It was little more than a cot with a single blanket and thin straw mattress and pillow on it, but he’d slept on much worse.

He gave up standing at the bars at last and sat down on the bed, where he delicately put his head in his hands. His face, swollen and starting to become discolored from the punch he’d absorbed, stung. He sat there in that fashion for the better part of an hour, looking down at the drink-doubled view of his shoddy shoes.

At length, he peeked blearily up at his guard to see that she was dozing. Only then did he pull out his knife from where he’d hidden it in his shirt. What luck he’d spotted it, and managed to grab it from the young soldier’s belt and quickly palm it in the scuffle.

Slouk turned the blade over in his fingers a few times, then quietly hid it inside the straw pillow. He lay down facing the stone wall of his cell then and let the room spin around him until he passed out.