The Witch Cometh

The mention of witches invariably sends a chill through the air. Many have accepted the folk knowledge that the existence of witches casts a nefarious shadow over the magical arts.

Yet, very few people have actually met a witch, and even fewer have seen beyond the shroud of mystery surrounding the nature of these idiosyncratic sorceresses. Only witches hold the keys to the mysteries of their culture, and witches seldom travel outside their isolated covens.

That was until the sudden appearance of a lone witch named Atrina, whose power far eclipsed that of any living being. Her presence could change the very foundation of reality, and her story began on an autumn day filled with smoke and flame.

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Chaos and destruction were foreign to the people of the idyllic hamlet Brooksill. 

For many generations, Brooksill enjoyed peace and tranquility due to its unremarkable nature. Inhabited by only eighty people, young and old, plus a few domestic animals, the hamlet was large enough to house its minuscule population and nothing more. 

The river nearby had a name as plain as the town itself, hardly worth mentioning. Virtually no outsiders visited Brooksill.

Even bandits did not deign to raid the village as there was ostensibly nothing of value to plunder. The calm days of Brooksill never seemed to end, but all that changed with the arrival of three men in black, hooded cloaks during the middle of fall, when the cool air crispened the leaves into warm shades of brown, black, and red.

The men came to Brooksill on foot, and the residents were going home for dinner. The villagers were quick to notice the foreigners glowering at the town’s entrance, which was usually empty by suppertime. The leader of the mysterious trio exclaimed, “Worms of this pathetic place, give us your treasure, now!”

The villagers had never faced such disrespect or hostility from outsiders, so they froze, hesitating to answer out of caution and fear. Once more, the leader shouted, “This is your last chance! Give us your treasure, and we might leave your miserable town in one piece.”

Rather than shrinking away from the strangers, more villagers left their homes to witness the commotion, both terrified of and intrigued by the scene. Slowly, a crowd formed, and out of the crowd came Brooksill’s elder.

A small, hunched man of many years and wrinkles, he never ventured outside the hamlet, but he knew trouble when he saw it. “As you can see, our humble little town offers nothing in the way of ‘treasure’. We are but farmers and fisherfolk. Forgive us for the inconvenience, but you boys will have to look elsewhere.”

The leader took less than five steps towards the village elder before reaching down and snatching up the old man by his collar, snarling, “We’re not ‘boys’, you old coot. We know you’re hiding it. How about this: since you’re not willing to cooperate, my ‘boys’ and I will just torture the information out of you, in front of all these people. I do have a kind side, so I’ll give you two choices: slow and drawn out, or fast and vicious. I prefer slow, but since we are on a tight schedule, fast would be more convenient.”

“And I’ll give you boys one choice: leave these people alone, and get the hell out.”

Everyone in the hamlet spun their heads to the new voice. At the source of the voice stood a comely woman of dark complexion. 

From her shoulders blew an olive green cape in the autumn wind, and on her head of long, voluminous, but messy, jet-black hair, sat a wide-brimmed hat with a pointed tip. The orange glow of the sunset at the woman’s back made her shine all the brighter to the villagers and the cloaked men.

One of the strangers in black, a shifty-eyed man, asked in a mocking voice, “What’s with the stupid hat, lady?”

At that moment, a villager wailed, “It’s a witch!”

“That’s right,” the sorceress Atrina announced, “and I believe you three were on your way out.”

The cloaked leader tossed the village elder aside and extended his hand towards Atrina. “We’re going nowhere, but you are going straight into the dirt!”

The leader furled five fingers into the palm of his hand, a gesture that would have been harmless if he had also not said, “Briar-bind.”

Thorny vines erupted from the ground and ensnared Atrina. The spellcaster then turned his fist to the ground and swatted downwards. At that instant, the witch was pulled into the ground, leaving a gaping hole in the earth.

The villagers gasped, and the cloaked men began to laugh, jeering about the ease with which the leader had dispatched the meddler.

“That was way too easy! Why did that idiot try to protect these maggots? Speaking of which, we have a torture session to resu—”

Before the leader could finish talking, a blur of green and black exploded from the ground in front of him. A fist connected with his jaw, and the overwhelming magnitude of the blow sent him flying through the air. The thatched roof of a small house broke the man’s fall as well as his spine.

“He should’ve used a stronger spell. You’re both screwed,” Atrina proudly proclaimed.

The two remaining men in black stared in awe at the witch who landed beside the hole she flew out from. Their survival instants kicked in after a moment’s hesitation, and they sprang away from her, with the shifty sorcerer casting, “Windspear!”

Wisps of air concentrated to a sharp point and dashed towards Atrina. The attack did not even make it halfway before she calmly chanted, “Squall-slash.” A blade of gusting air sliced through the spear of wind and hacked the caster’s arm off at the shoulder. He screeched as he fell to the ground, clutching the bleeding remains of what used to be his arm.

The last hooded man felt the sting of tears in his eyes, not from mourning for his fallen comrades, but from feeling a way he had never felt before: powerless. “You bitch! You-you’re not powerful! You won’t kill me!”

He rotated his hands and placed them on top of each other at a distance. Drawing deeply from his magical reserves, the final man in black suffused his incantation with a potent mix of fury and dread, yelling “Fireball!”

The man threw his arms out towards Atrina and sent a burning, yellow sphere of flames hurtling towards her. The villagers began to panic, but the witch did not budge. She stood perfectly still, waiting for the ball of fire to come closer and closer.

She closed her eyes, an act that sent the crowd into a greater frenzy. A townsperson wondered aloud, “Is she crazy? She’ll get herself killed!”

The bright sphere grew bigger with distance, and as it reached an arm’s distance away from Atrina, its size dwarfed her taller-than-average frame. Atrina felt the heat of the fire on her face. She lifted her right hand to her left shoulder and said, “Deflector.”

The witch smacked the ball away with the back of her hand as if she were slapping a gnat. Unfortunately for the villagers, the deflected sphere collided with a granary several feet away in a fiery explosion, sending a few villagers near the structure running for their lives.

“No! Our season’s harvest!” one of the villagers cried.

Atrina hissed, “Shit, and here I was trying to be all careful.”

The last cloaked man recognized the futility of his efforts and sank to his knees. “I yield. No more.”

“Well, that saves me trouble of kicking your teeth in,” Atrina taunted.

The battle had ended, and the hamlet was safe, but the villagers felt otherwise. They stared at Atrina in complete silence, eyes wide. There were no cheers or any expressions of gratitude. The silence ate away at Atrina, and she snapped, “What the hell is wrong with you people? I just saved you!”

“But you scorched our granary!” a villager accused.

“What else do you expect from a witch? All they do is cause trouble,” said another.

One by one, the villagers broke their silence by hurling insults and condemnations at Atrina, spiting their savior.

Anger surged through Atrina, and she clenched her fists. How dare they? I saved their asses, and this is the thanks I get? I should have just left them to die, Atrina thought to herself. She did not know what to do, and anger began to cloud her reasoning. With her piercing glare, she shot daggers at the villagers who began to arm themselves with pitchforks, sickles, and kitchen knives.

The villagers and Atrina were heading towards a disastrous confrontation before a command rang through the air. “You there, halt!”

At the village entrance was an imposing figure who bestrode a robust white mare. A heavy set of lustrous, silver armor protected her entire body, except for her head of striking scarlet hair that had been plaited. The stranger gazed determinedly at Atrina with eyes of deep gold.

“It’s a Holy Knight. We’re saved!”