The Maiden of Moonfane Forge

Leaving the other soldiers beside the road in the manner he had felt strange, and Vetch could not shake the feeling that he should turn around and go do something more—apologize, or say better words, or rearrange the branches that covered them with more care. He knew it was stupid and pointless. They were gone and he’d done what he could. Still, the feeling assailed him.

Hours had passed since he’d departed the site of the battle. Over his shoulder, he carried a bag with what essential supplies he could salvage, along with his bow and a bundle of arrows. His sword felt heavier at his hip than it ever had before. His destination was the stream they had camped beside a couple night’s prior. For a healthy man, it wouldn’t have been a difficult walk, but Vetch was far from healthy. His fever had been getting steadily worse and the flesh around his sword wounds was red and angry. He had left behind his padded garrison uniform in favor of a spare regular shirt he’d found in his one accessible saddlebag, but now he was coming to regret it. The fever was playing havoc with his body temperature. For bouts he would feel too chilled in the light shirt, then he would become overheated to the point of stripping it off. His head was throbbing, as well. It was agony. Yet, he knew that if he stopped walking, it would be even worse, so he pushed himself onward, shambling like a dead man walking.

He began alternating between walking in the sun on the road when he felt chilled and moving beneath the shade of the trees when the direct sunlight became overbearing. It was as he was trudging through the woodland’s underbrush in this way that he first caught a sense of the stream up ahead. He had not expected to reach it until nightfall or later. Had his fever muddled his sense of time? No, it was still midday. Yet, up ahead, he could hear the burble of the water clearly. Confused, Vetch looked around him and then understood what had happened. His fever had not muddled his sense of time, but it had confused his path. In his weary trudging under the trees, he’d not been keeping track of where the road was and had wandered far enough into the forest that he could no longer see it. He had no idea where the road was anymore in relation to where he had found himself. But he could hear the stream. Very likely, it was the same one they had stopped at before, and he had stumbled upon an upstream section of it. Cool water was near, to drink and to clean his wounds with. Hope kindled and he made the snap decision to forget about the road and follow the merry sound. It seemed to call to him and to give him life and a faint optimism that if he could only make it to the water, and refresh himself, he could have a much better chance at survival and, from there, make it home.

Deeper into the wood, he went. It again became a tangle of thicker growth, with vines and hanging mosses and thorny bushes clotting the forest floor between the stout trees. It was arduous simply to forge a path forward. There were not even game trails, no direct and obvious route to take. Despite the fact that the stream sounded as if it were just up ahead, he never seemed to come any closer to it, repeatedly forced as he was to alter his course every time the choking woodland undergrowth barred his path.

Somewhere in the back of Vetch’s mind, he knew he was making a mistake. Bannerman’s Wood had a reputation for being both strange and dangerous; being alone away from the road was unwise. But he didn’t know where the road was anymore, and the siren song of the stream was too tempting. He could rest there, refresh himself, survive. His only option was to press forward now.

As his frustration with the constraining undergrowth was mounting to a boiling point, fortune favored Vetch, for he stumbled upon a trail. Not a game trail, for this appeared to be man-made. Stones lined the sides of a little footpath that wound its way through a cleared track into the forest’s shadows. The moment Vetch stepped onto the path, he could hear the stream more clearly. He even felt as if his fever was easing. Without a thought, he took to the path and followed it. It led a winding course between odd, squat trees, and then began to go uphill. As Vetch walked, the woodland surrounding him became darker. Evening was falling, and soon it would be cold out, but he felt hopeful again, almost glad. He needed only to reach the stream, and get a fire started, and everything would be all right.

The stream came into view just before the encroaching dusk made it too dark out to see. The path led Vetch onto a little wooden bridge that spanned it. What met his aching, fevered vision across the bridge made him forget all about the stream. Here, at the footpath’s end, was a squat stone cottage with a red roof and red door, little square windows, and a chimney spouting thin but aromatic smoke. Vetch almost laughed. He would live. He could rest and he would live. He hardly had the strength to take another step, yet his feet carried him across the bridge to the house, where he summoned the last of his dwindling energy to lift his hand and rap on the door.

Inside, someone lit a candle. The windows glowed with a welcoming yellow light.