That day, on that battlefield, they did not see Madrea dea Reinberth. The one that set her feet on those bloody grounds was Madrea as the wild witch.
She stood with her back turned to them, gasping with an eye closed. She could barely speak with her arms loosely dropping to her side. Every iota of strength she had remaining, she used to breath.
It was a scene of massacre. A sea of dead bodies. Many lives were lost that day. Over two thousand warriors of the enemy's forces were singlehandedly slain by Madrea and her magic. The warriors that were favoured by her actions needed not lift even a finger anymore. They simply watched, not able to speak or even understand the power that was just displayed by the wild witch. They did not need to.
Her breathing slowed. With the little strength she gathered, she turned to the victors of this war, victory that would not have been possible without her. Her seeing eye was bloodshot and her face blank. The warriors started to step away from her, fidgeting. They would not dare point their spears nor their arrows nor their swords at her even in her weakened state.
They recognised that her power was beyond what they can handle.
A warrior mustered the courage to turn this building tension around. "All hail the great sorceress!" he shouted, punching up in the air.
"All hail the great sorceress!" he repeated, punching the air once again. Warriors around him started to do the same and it did not take long before the rest joined in chanting glory to Madrea's name.
"All hail the sorceress!" they sang in a chorus.
"Glory to the great elf!" some of them chanted.
Her face relaxed and her lips arched into a warm smile. The anger of the witch was quelled and she did like them and lifted her fist. A sign of victory. The noise from the warriors when Madrea punched the air to mark their triumph was deafening.
Like several accounts of war, Madrea was that character that stood out in this account. Days after their victory, her actions in the war reached the ears of the four kings who joined forces. It was not just her magic that tingled their ears.
-
"An elf!" King Plov yelled, slamming the table. His voice rose to the peak of the tent as he interrupted the report that was being read.
"Calm down, Plov" another crowned individual said, "Let him finish". He was the king of the wild tribe of cannibals that first started this war, Yatzi the Unruly.
Madrea's interference crippled the alliance of the four kings. Manpower and the strength of over two thousand men were lost in less than a day, along with maddening amount of fortune.
"We are powerless against her sorcery," King Plov pointed out.
Yatzi hissed at the words that came out of Plov's mouth, "And what does it matter?" he asked.
Yatzi rose from his seat with so much enthusiasm that it slid backwards. He drew the short blade sheathed on the side of his belt, and like a crazed man, King Yatzi cut his forearm.
"You see!" he yelled, showing off his arm as it bled, "I am a mortal!"
"You are mortals!" he continued, pointing fingers at other kings that sat with him, "she is no different from the rest of us."
Yatzi beat his chest many times, "As long as she bleeds...I, Yatzi the Unruly, will sla-"
The unruly's blood splurted on to their table, turning it red from its fine brown colour. A wooden branch pierced through his torso, cutting short his pompous braggadocio.
Tree branches erupted into the tent where the kings met, and many other tents met the same fate.
Madrea brought the war to their doorstep.
"Enemies!" the guard shouted, slamming the heavy wood he carried on the giant bell.
"Enemi-"
Blood started to gush from his mouth as he fell from the height of their camp wall with the arrow that pierced his throat.
One of the commanding officers rode to the tent of the kings to receive their orders.
"K-King P-Plov!" he stuttered, falling of his horse and dragging himself towards the tent.
His eyes widened as he stood, still and stiff and overwhelmed by the shock of what he saw. The bodies of the four kings shot out of the tent, hanging like trophies on the wooden skewers that impaled through their guts.
King Yatzi the Unruly. King Plov. King Ulter the Wild, and King Mehe. All four kings that sat at the zenith of this alliance were dead, killed by the sorceress, Madrea.
"Your highnesses?" the officer breathed before turning his horse around and climb back on it, he rode in another direction to save his life.
"Retreat!" he yelled as he rode through the camp.
"Retreat!"
Madrea who had sworn to not be part of the schemes of man found herself playing as a vital piece in this war. She stood at a distance and watched the slaughter that happened. Under her command, the humans on her side began the crusade to recover their lost lands.
The war that lasted many seasons eventually came to an end.
-
Smoke rose to the sky from the brightly burning woods. The sound of crickets chirping was overshadowed by the sound of many drums that were struck at the same time in a melodious tone.
The maidens sang in their angelic voices, and those who could, danced to their hearts' content. Joy and laughter filled the air. Men gathered and told the tales of their youth in turns with their ale doing most of the talking. Children ran around the campfire. It was a night they never believed they would see again.
Sluggish steps approached Madrea where she sat alone in her comfort watching the celebration. "Here," the voice said. He offered her a mug of ale with quivering hands.
Madrea glanced up. "It is you. Even after days, you still remain the only one who has the courage to come before me".
The old man laughed as he found a seat by her side. "You have our thanks, sorceress. Many of these ones may not have been here if not for you. Even I may not have been".
"I did not do it for you," she replied, slurping her ale down her throat.
"Even so, I thank you all the same," the elder persisted.
"Because of your intervention, great sorceress..." the old man said, "these people may be able to see another day without worry of impending danger."