She felt their presence, sensed their thoughts and fears and knew they were riding through the mist, searching for her and her kind. It was the way. They were the prey while the warriors were the hunters – slaughtering witch-folk under new skies.

Yes, the warriors were out there in that frigid white land hunting for witches, claiming to protect the small villages but in reality, to force the frightened peasants into the bosom of the new kingdom. Swear allegiance to our lord and we will protect you from evil, protect you from the witch-folk!

People bred faster than animals and were everywhere now. Although the humans did not live long, they bore children quickly and claimed land, cutting down forests, building their pitiful villages while witches lived in and watched from the shadows.

It was the way of life for the people of the craft; living alone and shadowing humans while careful not to draw attention to themselves. If revealed, the witch hunters would arrive, riding with a blood red dawn to find them, to slaughter them. Warriors hunted witches for sport and for gold, hard earned gold extorted from frightened peasants to rid them of the presence of the craft.

Will it ever be different someday in the future?

Through the chimney hole of the small hut, she desolately watched the vague shapes of birds flying across the clouds and envied their freedom. This is my time, I have no choice. My life has been good but the lives of my children’s children will be better!

The small stream that wandered beside the village was beginning to run freely, the pale sun reflected off the floating chunks of ice that floated in the centre, jewels in a blue rush, speeding past and flowing away.

The soil was heavily covered by snow and the bare branches of trees were outstretched with small hints of greening buds, the first sign of the welcome warmer weather. It was wintry and the villagers were wrapped in bearskins to protect themselves from the biting morning cold, working feverishly to gather their belongings. Every now and again, they would raise their heads and stare worriedly across the stream towards the edge of the forest. The hunters – witch hunters – were coming!

Staring into the red-hot coals of the small fire in the hut, she wondered if there would ever come a time when men did not hunt her kind. Instead of being feared, they should be welcomed as sisters, even partners, on this earth. However, that, she knew, was not meant to be – ever. Not in this time or the next. The humans feared the unknown, thought they could control everything and ignored the spirits of the earth. They had already turned their backs on the animals, slaughtering them for sport as well as need, their connection with the earth, the elements and the waiting place for souls seemingly forgotten.

The wind lifted the skin that hung over the opening of the small rough shelter. Through the sudden gap, she saw the villagers had almost finished loading their meagre possessions onto the small sleds, all the while uneasily glancing at her hut and then back to the white horizon where the grey sky met the relentless line of fir trees. The villagers were as frightened of the coming warriors as they were of witches.

They come, I can feel it, she said in her mind’s voice to her daughter.

Mother, we must run then, flee while we can!

No, they will come for me; they will hunt until they have me. But they do not know of you. You must run.

The chieftain pushed into the small tent and stood with hands on hips, staring down at the woman wrapped in a hooded black cloak crouched next to the fire. The witches’ eyes appeared to be far away but they quickly focused on him and he shivered at the look.

‘We leave, witch,’ he said, voice booming with false bravado. But he could not hide the fear flickering in his eyes or the slight quiver in his voice.

‘Be gone,’ she said disdainfully and he flinched when she rummaged in her skin bag. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she laughed bitterly, blue eyes flashing. ‘I am not as powerful as you fear.’

Muttering, he pushed out of the hut and signalled to the watching clan. Then he strode out and, leading his villagers, they trudged alongside their sleds as they escaped over the snow. The chieftain had sent for the warriors, his fear had driven him to it, and now the fear of the warriors was making the clan run to hide in the forest. They knew that once the warriors had killed the witch, their eyes would turn to the women and the food of the clan.

A young woman slipped into the hut, also wrapped in a black cloak, pale blue eyes flickering in the firelight and she calmly sat cross-legged next to the fire. ‘They have gone, Mama,’ she announced and her mother nodded.

‘I have seen. You must leave now. Go south towards the warmer lands; keep to yourself until you are safe. Do not reveal our craft until there are others, and walk or run, but do not fly unless you are in peril.’

‘I cannot! I cannot leave you!’

'We do not have enough for two, only one can flee, we are still learning to harness this gift.'

‘No!’

‘You must,’ she said firmly. ‘You are our hope, Dobryna, the future.’

‘But, Mama…’

‘Hush! Do as I say, you know this is the only way.’ A hunting horn sounded in the distance, dark and foreboding in the icy air, and the women glanced anxiously at each other. ‘Hurry!’

They embraced, tears flowing strongly until the young woman wrapped her cloak around her and stood silently, the fingers of one hand pressed against the fingers of the other in their ancient sign of the circle, the power of life.

'I will never forget you, Mama.’

‘Nor I, you.’

‘I’ll tell your story, I promise.’

‘I know, and I will be close all your long days. I’ll be the wind in your hair, look for me there.’

A moment, eyes locked and then Dobryna turned, was gone, scurrying across the snow until she vanished into the trees. Gone.

Her mother sighed, stood silently, clasped her hands and concentrated, her eyes firmly closed as she willed a small wind to breathe over the tracks of her daughter until the snow was clean, no sign remaining of her escape.
And so you vanish into the future, my daughter. Run!
I will not forget you, Mother! I will avenge you!
Another sound of the horn and, without turning, she knew they were upon her.

A line of men sat on their horses next to the stream, vapour on the air from the horses’ breathing. Their lances were raised, swords gripped firmly as they searched the empty village with their eyes. ‘She has gone,’ one said to the leader, a big bear of a man in a leather breastplate and bearskin. ‘We have wasted our time, the witch has vanished with her evil magic,’ the man said nervously to the leader and the others, eager to leave, to be far away from the witch’s lair, back to his fire and the comfort of his new woman.

‘The villagers have gone,’ another said, disgusted at the loss of fresh women and food to plunder, ‘and the witch has gone with them.’

‘No,’ the leader said, his voice nasal through a nose that had been broken long ago and never healed, ‘there is a witch here, I feel it.’

One of the young men, a man the chieftain knew would challenge him soon for the leadership leaned forward and pointed at a hut across the river. ‘There is smoke there; it is the only hut with a fire.’

‘I saw it,’ the chieftain said angrily. Will they challenge me in the open, he wondered, glancing at the young men of his troop, or stab me in my sleep? He honestly didn’t know which he preferred and wondered if that was a sign from the Gods that he was losing his courage.

A sudden gasp rippled through the hunters as a woman stepped from the hut, her black hair flowing freely as her hood fell back. Her arms outstretched and the men cowered back in fear, muttering down the line, the horses snorting, tramping in the snow.

‘Hold!’ the leader screamed to his men and, fighting his own fear, unsheathed his sword. ‘Hold, I say!’ The young men were white faced as they watched the woman twirl around and around in the snow, black hair fluttering like a flag as she moved in a rhythm known only to her.

‘She dances the devil’s dance,’ a man muttered and many made the sign of their own chosen god for protection, others kissed talismans around their throats.

‘Witches die like any other woman,’ a dark man on the left of the leader said calmly and the leader glanced at him. He was a mercenary, a hunter from the east who had joined the warriors and the leader had grown to admire his skills. He also showed no interest in the leadership, and the leader had asked the mercenary to kill the young man once he had become leader, once he had killed the current leader. I won’t see it, the leader thought, but it gave him satisfaction, to reach out from beyond the funeral pyre.

The young man who had first seen the smoke, the one who had openly told everybody that he would challenge for the leadership of the tribe, broke from the line and cantered towards the woman, hooves splashing through the icy water, sword held high.

‘Young fool,’ the leader cursed and again commanded his men to stay. ‘Hold the line,’ he roared. ‘It is but a woman!’

They watched as the young warrior galloped his horse towards the woman, bending low over the horse’s mane, sword arm wheeling, and the blade glinted in the weak sun. The woman stood her ground, her head back, black hair waving in the wind against the snow, arms outstretched as if imploring the sky to help.

‘Her head will soon roll,’ one of the men said and chuckles mixed with fear ran through the watching hunters.

Suddenly an explosive crack rang through the air, echoing against the cliffs and the trees, ringing in the ears of the watching warriors. The horse stopped and reared as the rider seemingly burst into white flame, vanishing from the earth as the woman slowly sank to her knees in the snow.

The watching men called in fear, cursing and screaming. Some turned their horses and raced away to the tree line, others stood uncertainly, their horses nervously moving stiff legged in the snow as the riders stared across the stream at the riderless horse and the woman kneeling exhausted on the ground.

The mercenary turned his slanted eyes to the leader and said calmly, ‘it seems the witch has fulfilled my task.’ The leader nodded, his face a little pale as he watched the empty horse cantering towards the forest.

Sadly, the leader saw it all clearly and knew he had no choice. It was then he knew he would prefer to die in bed next to his woman rather then explode in witches’ fire. But someone had to lead and this was the life he had chosen when he had challenged the old man so long ago.

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ the old man had said wisely when he was challenged. ‘It is not as it seems.’ He didn’t know then what the old man had meant but now he understood.

The leader spurred his horse into the water, sword held high. ‘Witch! Die, witch!’ His scream echoed through the land and the woman smiled grimly to herself as she saw him coming. She was too exhausted to muster any further force, too tired to live.

‘There is always one who fights their fear,’ she murmured and muttering her final prayer, she bent forward, the running breeze lifting her black hair speckled with grey to bare her neck for the sword, ready to send her spirit on the wind.