Witch Clan: Warriors! by John Stormm (best fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

In a multiverse so amazingly diverse is a story of a modern America, not so different from the one you are currently inhabiting. In this version of the universe there is an ancient wyrding witch clan that has managed to survive a purge of all magi other than the luciferian warlock elite, who control all the world's religions and commerce for the past 1600 years. Through centuries of demonization via corrupt Church edicts and Church inspired sectarian violence of all suspected witches, this clan of Irish, Danaan witches survived by living at the fringes of society. In the wilds, where superstitious men feared to tread, they lived off the land and kept their medicinal larders well stocked for the variety of herbs available to them. Later; they moved to the cities where they adapted their own language to blend in with the masses who lived around them. This witch clan passed on its craft in a matriarchal succession that counts its generations all the way back to ancient Tara of the Sixth Century A.D., from mother to daughter.

Words like “witch,” or “coven” were never used in this household, even though it was the enlightened Twentieth Century, the persecution was sure to follow. Christian terms were used instead. A witch was a herbalist, a healer, or a midwife, and in place of a coven was the women’s circle. Every parish had one of those for bake sales and ladies’ auxiliaries and such. Outsiders never had a clue, though close kin and friends might have suspected these women were a bit too knowledgeable to be rank amateurs. In fact, husbands rarely suspected their spouses, and were content to leave women things to the women. Dinner was good, the children were well cared for, and the house was clean. What more could a man want to know? And so an ancient craft survived to modern times.

The ruling warlock elite kept their handiwork hidden in their carefully crafted shadows of their masquerade of being "pillars of the communities". This modern America of the 1960s lived in the constant threat of nuclear annihilation and yet had no clue that most of what they believed to be true of their government, was but a very thin facade of deceit and treachery. Had they been fearful of the Russians, they had far more to fear of their own hidden leadership. Levels within levels of evil, posing as national security and wealthy wyrding kindred printing talismans to rule peoples' lives with as if it were valuable currency. The more money acquired; the more control they had over those lives so touched, to their minutest abominable whims. Even this is but a single string on a quantum fret set with parallel strings above and below it. As the adage says: "As Above, So Below." It is but a sympathetic vibration of a quantum note struck on another parallel superstring.

Emma stood alone and barefoot in the circle of tall standing stones. The night was cold and the full moon directly above her illuminating her single silver lock in the center of her fine, high brow. On the northernmost dolmen, a large raven cawed raucously in the moonlight. Before her eyes a bonfire ignited to light and warm the confines of the holy place. Shadows of inky blackness detached from the menhir forming themselves into black robed women in tall crowned, broad brimmed hats who circled the stones clockwise while chanting. The raven flew to a space in front of the altar stone and transformed into a tall, ebon haired, black robed woman. She had been known for centuries beyond counting as the Morrigan, the Battle Raven.

"Sisters, summon our guests," the Morrigan cried. "It is time for our council to commence." She stepped forward and cast twine bound bundles of sage into the bonfire sweetening its smoke. Fireflies gathered to the outer circle of stones and winked in their obscure patterns of dance. The flutter of tiny wings announced the coming of a four inch tall, brown haired, bare foot man with sparrows wings wearing a white linen tunic with a miniature steel broadsword tucked in its sash.

"Sir Gregory of the Shining Sword," Emma announced the diminutive piskie hero.

The piskie bowed to her and the Morrigan and took his place, perched on a smaller stone before the fire. From the eastern gate of the stones came a tall, white winged man in silvery armor. Planting his lance bearing his personal banner outside of the circle, he entered the space solemnly. The strong moonlight gleaming about his silver armor and snowy wings bathed him in ethereal beauty and brilliance.

"Our dear Brother George," she called out, "the dragon slayer."

The angelic man touched the hilt of his brilliant sword to his heart and bowed at the shoulders, holding out the flat of the blade to all present, and took his place by the bonfire. From the western gate of the circle, came a spectral woman, who drew back her cowl from her head, revealing a silver crescent headpiece that circled her dark hair.

"The dark adept witch of the Formors, Sister Elvyra," she announced, beaming proudly at her old friend.

"Blessed be, sisters and gentle folk," Elvyra said, nodding to all present and took her place near the fire next to the piskie hero of her father's world.

Two tall, crimson robed figures strode silently through the southern gate of the standing stones, and removed their cowls to reveal their long, pale hair and sharp elongated facial features. The first of the two, who was fully seven feet tall had stopped before her at the fire, bowing slightly and smiling, revealing an even row of white teeth with sharply pointed canines. The other of the pair of Sidhe males, was about six inches shorter and maintained a space, one step behind and to his left and glared silently at Elvyra and the piskie, who pretended not to notice.

"I'm afraid I do not know you, sirs," Emma said, looking to the Morrigan.

"Before you stand Master Shabriri and Elder Shan of the Sidhe (Shee)," the Raven explained, "The Sidhe Master will be the boy's mentor in days yet to come. The Elder Shan is his assistant. Where the Shamblynn has failed in preserving the lad's Sidhe heritage, these will attend to it." The crimson robed males took their place by the fire, nearer to the altar stone. Luminous yellow eyes appeared out of the shadows of the menhir on the east side of the henge, and the familiar form of a large coyote loped forward to be recognized. A wiry looking, Indian brave, his head shaved at the sides with the hair in its center standing in a stiff cockscomb and a feathered roach attached, came up quietly behind him and waited.

"Brother, Coyote, the Trickster," she announced formally, as his baleful yellow eyes hooded momentarily in recognition. "I do not know this other who is with you, sir."

"This is the warrior I have chosen to train your brave in the ways of the Good Red Road, as we had agreed. He is of the Mohawk people, who guard the gateway to the east, and the great grandson of Sky Woman. We call him Little Fox." The brave stepped forward into the firelight.

Though shorter than Emma, his fierce hawk nosed visage, and hard sculpted body dressed in buckskin leggings were the picture of quiet confidence and pride, punctuated by the most startling blue eyes she had ever seen on a man, much less an Indian. He said not a word as he took his place next to Coyote around the fire. His sharp eyes taking in all the guests present in silent assessment of his surroundings.

Three crones had separated themselves from the circling, chanting witches to stand behind the Morrigan and the altar stone. As the firelight illuminated the shadowy recesses below their broad brimmed hats, she recognized the face of her mother among the three. It was time for the council to begin deliberations and all became silent as the Morrigan spoke.

“Is the council of allies here complete?” Raven asked the assembled group.

“Iktome, the Spider is not present,” Coyote responded. “He has taken a new wife, and under even the best of circumstances, this is a mortal danger. He has asked the counsel’s understanding and indulgence in this.”

“So, mote it be,” the Morrigan said smiling. “May our handsome friend consummate his marriage in safety. We wish him well. Now, to business...” The interminable meeting of this mixed cultural and racial multitude went on for hours, discussing future engagements, proper training and at one point an argument over who held the better part of their people’s interest over the absent unicorn.

“Enough of this bickering,” Shabriri asserted. “This boy is not to be divided into parts. Even so, what claim or interest can the Formor witch or Annwn (Ahn-noon) fae make on our lad?”

“Our only claim is friendship,” Elvyra said calmly, “No small matter, Sidhe. It was our lives we were ready to pay on behalf of those, not of our own blood when the proud Sidhe were no where near to protect their own. Have a care.”

“No small matter, indeed,” the Master admitted. “May we humbly extend our gratitude to you both. But to the rest of you, know this...” The Sidhe Master raised his hands to the night sky and traced a Celtic cross of light in the heavens.