The Maiden of Moonfane Forge

*

Fever dreams had suffused Vetch’s reality, until he was unsure of how much time had transpired between when he had stumbled upon the little forest cottage and the present moment. He knew he had met the dwelling’s occupant, had done his best to convey his situation, and then been conducted inside. By the time he had been shown to a chair and given something hot to drink, he had been so tired that he had fallen asleep directly after. He couldn’t remember what he had said or what words had been said to him. He had simply left his fate in the hands of a stranger and promptly passed out.

Now, he blinked filmy eyes to find he was lying abed with white sheets pulled up over him. His sword wounds stung fiercely when he sat upright. For a time, he sat gritting his teeth against the pain, his hair hanging over his eyes irritatingly. The sheets fell away and he was surprised to discover that the puncture in his chest was no longer bandaged, yet the flesh around it was not as red as it had been. It had been cleaned and then left as it was. It was the same for the cut where his shoulder met his neck, and for the smaller wound in his back where the point of his foe’s blade had punched clear through him.

Looking around, Vetch saw that he was in a modest little bedroom. Strange knickknacks hung from the ceiling, or were pinned up on the walls, little designs made from birds’s bones and sticks and colorful stones. The bed quilt lay on the floor, telling Vetch he’d likely thrown it off in his sleep. Draped over a chair were his trousers, newly washed and dried.

Swinging his feet to the floor in order to stand up woke every possible pain and agony throughout his body, but now that he was awake and lucid, he had to find out where he was. Unable to find his shirt, he pulled on his trousers and walked bare-chested and barefoot into the main room of the cottage. Another fire burned in a larger hearth there. There were well-trod but soft rugs on the wood floor, a couple chairs before the fire, and a table near that bearing a basket of dark brown bread rolls. A melodious twittering drew Vetch’s attention to a large wicker cage in the corner of the room. Inside the cage was a large bird with long tailfeathers and plumage of such vivid red that it made the bird look like a precious jewel. As Vetch stared at the bird it opened its hooked, obsidian beak and sang another stanza of notes. He had never seen a bird like this before, not even in illustration. It regarded him with its equally obsidian eyes, which appeared to hold an intelligence behind them that was unnerving.

Another song met his ears when the bird ceased its melody, and Vetch realized it was coming from outside. Upon stepping out the front door, he came upon his benefactor. Her back was turned to him as she bent over the stream, washing his tattered shirt in the chill water. She wore only a long red skirt around generous hips. Her upper body was bare, honey-hued hair falling about her shoulders. While Vetch stood frozen on the threshold, she stood up, turning toward him as she lifted his shirt dripping out of the water. She remained unaware that he stared as she wrung and then shook out the garment, the motion causing her heavy breasts, capped with large brown nipples, to jiggle enticingly. It was only when he moved to avert his attention that the woman became aware of him, and then she made a surprised little sound followed by a giggle.

“I certainly didn’t expect you to wake so soon,” she said.

“My apologies,” said Vetch, keeping his eyes averted. When she made no response, he glanced up again by habit. A blush had come over her plump cheeks, but she smiled. Once she had his eyes again, she shook her head as if to dismiss any need for apology. Making no effort whatsoever to cover herself, she walked to where a clothesline was strung up and pinned Vetch’s shirt up on it. She then took down a dry white blouse and put it on.

“You’re looking much better,” she said, buttoning her blouse and striding back to the house. She brushed unceremoniously past him through the door and he followed her back inside.

“I’m certain I owe that to you, uh ... if you’ve told me your name already ...” he faltered.

Again, the woman shook her head. “I did, but considering your state when you arrived at my door, I was surprised you even remembered your own: Vetch. Such pretty little plants, those. You’re more handsome than pretty, I’d say, though.”

“My thanks,” said Vetch distractedly. “... and your name?”

“Oh. Of course,” she said. “Then I shall give it to you again. It’s Hayleigh.” She turned and smiled cheerily at him, her dark eyes nearly swallowed up by her cheeks. “And you were injured in some kind of battle, I gathered. I saw the aftermath. Horrific. You have been here for a day, but have been asleep for most of it. And, somehow, the blade that went through you missed everything vital.” She touched his chest, just below the sword wound. Her fingers, fresh out of the stream water, were cold on his warm flesh. The touch made him shiver. “Regardless, infection would have killed you outright, had you not found me here.”

Vetch peered down at where her cool fingers still rested on his skin. The sight of the wound still disturbed him, but it appeared much improved since he’d last looked at it. The edges of the puncture were no longer angry and red with infection, but a less alarming pink, less swollen, less painful. It seemed impossible that it had healed so quickly in only a day. His fever, too, while not gone entirely, was only a softer ache at the edges of his awareness.

“Whatever you did ...” he began. “And you’re certain the blade went clean through? How can you know?”

In answer to this, Hayleigh swept away from him, speaking while she went to stoke up the fire, the smile never leaving her face as she bustled about. “I can see it, silly. Didn’t nick a thing. You are a very lucky man.”

“See it? What do you mean see it?”

With the fire burning well again, the woman began laying silverware out on the table. At Vetch’s question, she turned back to cant her head at him. “Like this, of course.” Moving close, she again set her fingers to his skin. “I’m a mage. Of the healing sort.” She traced a precise line around the wound in Vetch’s chest. As she did, he felt a tingling sting, a sensation not unlike when one’s skin brushes against stinging nettle. Yet, it was also cooling, and not unpleasant. Vetch held his breath. The woman lifted her fingers from his skin and looked up at him, the blank expression on her face breaking into the omnipresent smile again. “But I shan’t do more of that until tonight, when I can sleep it off properly. Fear not, handsome warrior. You will not die and you will suffer no infection. I will make sure of that. Given enough time, I might even be able to lessen the scarring. Now, have a seat.” She pulled out a chair at the table. “Even wounds healed by magic still benefit from rest. Sit down while I see what I can whip us up to eat. If you don’t mind the bread being a bit old, help yourself until I’ve made us something more substantial.”

Vetch sat. Even though he’d only just gotten out of bed, it already felt good to be off his feet again. He took up one of the rolls and tore off a piece. After days of soldiers’s travel fare, even stale bread was sumptuous to his palate.

“How is it you live alone in Bannerman’s Wood?” he asked between bites. “Pardon. If you do in fact live alone.”

“That, I do,” she said. She slipped out the cottage’s back door and returned with a duck that had been hanging from the eaves. She set it on the kitchen board and went to work plucking it. “Years ago, I lived in a farming town south of these woods. Pasanhal, it’s called. Still visit from time to time for supplies. I had been married then, but my husband got eyes for another woman and left.” Upon these words, her feather plucking became more vigorous. “Staying there meant seeing him around with her every day, like he was flaunting it in my face. So, I moved.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Vetch said. “I imagine that had to be hard.”

She chuckled softly. “It was. But more so for my husband. Died by drowning the very next year. I shed no tears for him. I suppose I could have moved back after that, but by then I’d grown fond of this place.”

“Of Bannerman’s Wood? Is it not a dangerous place for one woman alone? The reputation of this forest is not a good one.”

Hayleigh shrugged her shoulders. She reached for a knife and began preparing the plucked fowl for the spit. “Nothing’s ever bothered me.”

“Perhaps they’re all stories then.”

“Perhaps. Though, danger did find you here. Albeit, danger not of the forest, but come to it. It’s usually quiet, but not lately.”

Vetch made a sound in his throat. “Yes.” He was going to leave it at that, loathe to speak about the ambush that had taken the rest of his companions from him and doomed their mission to failure. But, doomed as it might be, he still could not leave the problem of Moonfane Forge’s attackers alone. The scant information he had bubbled back to the surface. “Pasanhal, you said? South of here?”

“Mhm.” Hayleigh thrust the duck onto the spit and hoisted it into place over the fire. She sat down in the chair beside the crank and turned it as she spoke. “South and ... a smidge east.”

“And you say it’s a farming town? Do they grow wheat there?”

“Plenty of wheat and other things beside.”

Vetch felt his pulse quicken as he asked, “Then, do you know of a black-stoned castle there?”

The healing mage stopped turning the spit while she considered. Slowly, she shook her head. “I’m not sure. Not that I know of. But it’s a spread-out kind of town. And Pasanhal is only the largest of the towns in all those flat farmlands. There are lots of smaller villages out past it that I’ve never been to.”

Vetch sat back in his chair and stared at the rough tabletop.

“Is something the matter?” Hayleigh asked.

“No,” Vetch answered. “It’s not like I can do anything about it now anyway.”

“As well you shouldn’t. You nearly died. Like your friends did. Horrific what happened to them. Worry yourself not; it’s bad for healing. Stay here and rest and don’t bother yourself with whatever was happening before.” Vetch nodded slowly, feeling more relaxed as the wafting smell of roasting duck meat and fat reached him. He forgot about everything but his desire to eat and rest. “Could you take over turning this for me for a bit?” Hayleigh asked. “I do have to give in to Slumber for a short while. I should wake about when the duck is done.”

Nodding again, Vetch stood and wordlessly took over the healing mage’s place at the fire, while she retired to the bedroom. The fire’s warmth felt good, and the little cottage, and the aroma of cooking food, was comforting. Outside, the light slowly dimmed. Tree branches swayed as the wind picked up. Vetch was glad not to be out in that chill wind tonight.

Thoughtlessly, and somehow contentedly, he turned the spit.