The echoes of defeat

There was a sound in the darkness and it announced war.

"Witches!" it howled. "We are taking back our sons, our daughters!"

Swords drummed on shields to hammer in agreement, and to drive their foe out of their homes. The women heeded the call. They gathered, tattered-robed and grey-haired or beautiful and lush. It didn't matter. They were witches all.

"We will suffer you no more. You die this day!" the commander bellowed once his enemies stood before him, lined up neatly at the edge of their village.

The army charged. A thousand voices roared as one to the beat of hooves racing down the hillsides that surrounded the enclave. The witches did not run. Instead, they knelt on the ground, and from pockets and pouches came small figurines. Each one carved from bone. Some yellow and brown with age, some fresh as winter snow.

The witches chanted through the din. Their words of old lighting up the night sky in an eery glow. The air seemed to release specks of light as if the stars had fallen from above to join in battle. The soldiers stopped and watched the spectacle in confusion.

"As you wish," a woman cackled.

Spirits erupted from the lights as they were driven from beyond the veil to protect their mistresses. They struck, slaughtering with ferocious determination. One by one, fathers fell to the hands of their children. Begging, forgiving, pleading, cursing, and screaming. The wraiths did not care about their father's words, they simply murdered -- anything to please their mothers. And so the roar of the living became the wail of the dead.

More bones for the witches' protection. More figurines to be carved. They would be ready when the next army came.

There was silence in the darkness and it announced defeat.

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WC: 299