Witch Hunter Trilogy Box Set

by K. S. Marsden

  “You are an anti-witch that chooses to hunt witches. I am a Donili that chooses to be a monk. Do you not think that witches choose their own paths also?”

  “No.” Hunter replied quickly and honestly. “They are inherently evil and think nothing of killing and torturing and destroying anything that displeases them. They are addicted to power, whether it is power over populace, or the power they gain internally by draining the life of a sacrifice.”

  The Abate nodded, considering this. “So, you have never met a witch that was good?”

  “No.” Hunter replied again, too quickly this time. Unbidden, his mind dredged up one figure, a witch named Beverley who had risked everything to save Hunter and James from the Shadow Witch and her followers. Even more amazing was the fact that Beverley was Sophie’s mother. But dear old mum had her reasons - she feared the torment it would cause Sophie if she had to kill the man she loved.

  “Witches have their reasons for everything they do - even mercy.”

  “Well, I think I will let you think over all we have said.” The Abate said, almost affably. “I think we should have more of these debates, it is most invigorating.”

  Hunter, taking this as a dismissal, rose and after a courteous nod of his head he left swiftly. He did not look forward to another tête-à-tête with the Abate, he was disturbed by the awakening of old memories, and of the harsh contradictions against everything he knew in this world.

  Chapter Six

  Over the following week, Hunter did his best to learn the new role he had been set. Getting up before dawn every morning for an exercise regime that required utter control of the body and precision, Hunter had not thought that such practices were carried out this far into the western world. This was followed by breakfast and morning prayer, led by the Abate or another senior monk. The rest of the day would be devoted to understanding their skills, both theoretically and physically, only to be broken by meals and prayers. In the evenings they were free to meditate but were encouraged to read history and foreign languages.

  Hunter was still irked by the fact that he trained alongside boys and girls that were ten years his junior. But soon he relaxed, comforted by having a regulated day. Also, after being put in his place by one or two of the ‘juniors’ that obviously possessed more skill than he did, made Hunter re-evaluate himself.

  It was true that the young Donili had been training all their lives, but Hunter still felt wounded by the fact that he was the dunce of the class. He listened to the droning voices of his teachers with the same enthusiasm he’d had in those dreary Oxford lecture halls. The monks placed so much importance on theory, on the background and morals attached to every detail. And Hunter sat, impatient to test himself and improve, to get on with the whole damned reason he was here.

  As the Abate had promised, he sought out Hunter again, insisting that the Englishman accompany him on a walk.

  Hunter was somewhat relieved to have the excuse to get outside, the old abbazia soaked up the sun, and the air was stifling with the first heat wave of the year. The monk and the witch-hunter walked along the top of the wide walls that encased the Abbazia di Donili.

  “How are you settling in, Signor Astley?” The Abate asked.

  “You tell me, padre. You have your monks making reports on me.” Hunter replied in a dull tone.

  The Abate gave Hunter a shrewd look. “My fellow monks can tell me of your progress. They cannot tell me how you feel, George. I am guessing that you are still less than happy.”

  Hunter opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it.

  “Correct me if I am wrong, but is this not where you want to be?” The Abate asked. “Why so unhappy?”

  Hunter felt a flush of guilt. “No, it is padre. I am honoured that the Donili have accepted to teach me. It is just the frustration of being so inadequate compared to the others.”

  The Abate stopped and leaned against the parapet, looking down over his abbazia. The older man stood quietly for some time, until Hunter began to wonder whether this meeting was over.

  “Naturally the Donili have tried to teach you the basics. But by all reports, you struggle with the simplest tasks.”

  Hunter grit his teeth, reminding himself of his previous promise of humility.

  The Abate looked up to read the expression Hunter could not entirely hide. On another occasion, it might have amused the Abate; but now he was only concerned.

  “You misunderstand my concern, Signor Astley. Tell me, how are you able to shield against magic?”

  “I don’t know, it just happens. It’s a reaction that becomes an extension of me.” Hunter said, thinking of how many times he had explained it to James, to the MMC, to the wiccans… he still didn’t understand it, hence seeking the monks for answers.

  Hunter sighed and leaned against the wall next to the Abate. “Why does that matter? Surely the Donili know both the theory and practice of such a thing. I saw Maurizio and Marcus use a shield when I first met them.”

  “Si, certamente. It is a useful defence we teach to all of our monks.” The Abate replied. “But you never learned. And unless you were grossly exaggerating the part you played – you stopped a Shadow Witch.”

  Hunter shrugged, no he had never learned, per se. He had simply opened his mind to the possibilities, and there it was. After that, it was just like any muscle: the more he practised, the better his control.

  “Do not shrug your shoulders at me, George. Your Shadow Witch is magic without limits, perhaps the Donili monks together could repel her.”

  Hunter glanced over at the Abate. Now that sounded impressive. “So, you’re saying that I am powerful, even by Donili standards?” Hunter asked, both thrilled and disappointed. It was always nice for his ego to have his skills praised. But at the same time, Hunter couldn’t help thinking that he had come to the Donili seeking an ally stronger than himself – one that would succeed where he had failed.

  “You are as weak as a child born yesterday.” The Abate replied curtly. “Except for your gift with shields and transporting yourself and others.”

  Hunter gazed out without taking in any of the scene. So, he was a freak here too? “Have you any theories as to why?” He asked reluctantly, not sure he wanted the answer.

  “It may be a simple matter of genetic diversity.” The Abate answered, his voice betraying how he was not sold on the idea of his brothers. “Your family evolved in a different country with different pressures. It is perfectly possible.”

  Hunter accepted this easily enough but waited to hear the rest of what the Abate had to say.

  “The more fanciful of us think that your powers are linked to the Shadow Witch. She has chosen – probably unconsciously – to connect with you.”

  Hunter jerked straight, as though stung. “Why should what happened between Sophie and I – I mean, the Shadow Witch and myself – have any bearing on my abilities?”

  The Abate smiled at the younger man’s reaction. “Think, signore, you can protect yourself against magic and bullets; when you are incapacitated by loss you unlock a very destructive, but very defensive power; you can transport yourself anywhere – which is a unique ability of the Shadow, no? And Signor Astley, we must accept that you only came into your powers after you became close to Sophie.”

  “Yes, because she was the one who opened my mind to such an idea!” Hunter argued. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the headache that suddenly kicked in. “So, I’m basically the Shadow Witch’s toy? Are you telling me that I’m nothing like the Donili?”

  “I cannot imagine you being anybody’s toy, Signor Astley.” The Abate replied with dry humour. The old man sighed. “I believe that as a 7th generation witch-hunter you are capable of using anti-magic, although not as naturally skilled as the modern Donili. Perhaps you are more like the Benandanti were four hundred years ago. It is just your fate to be linked with the Shadow Witch.”

  “Fate?” Hunter echoed.

  “You do not believe in fate? That th
ere is a bigger picture in which the threads of our lives entwine?”

  “Not really, padre.” Hunter answered honestly. “I like to believe that I am in charge of my own life.”

  “Good!” The Abate replied, surprising Hunter. “God has enough to do; we should not just sit back and let the tide of time carry us.”

  Chapter Seven

  After his meeting with the Abate, Hunter did his best to appear humble and accepting. Outwardly he strove to be open-minded, and as he became more adept at controlling his powers, it became easier to maintain a relaxed persona. But on the inside, he kept his stubborn streak that he was right. Perhaps if this had been a time of peace, he could have considered the possibility that witches could be forgiven. But this was a time of war, and Hunter had seen every person he’d ever been close to killed by witches, he’d seen hundreds of brave men fall, and he wasn’t about to stop fighting for their cause - otherwise their deaths would have been in vain.

  The Abate and his monks could be as forgiving and pacifist as they liked, it was easy for them, repelling the odd threat from their beloved Friuli home. They didn’t know about the wider world in ruins - and sometimes Hunter thought they didn’t care.

  It was frustrating to stay in this environment, watching the days and even weeks speed by, while the world struggled on. Hunter felt guilty, in this safe haven. But it was necessary, he told himself repeatedly.

  Today had been bearable, after struggling for a month, Hunter had finally succeeded in breaking through the barriers into another man’s mind. After a month of straining nothingness, Hunter got a thrill from the sudden web of colour and images that brushed his own consciousness and begged him to look closer. But the Donili monks were forbidden from viewing the private thoughts of others and trained strictly to avoid such temptation. The use of the exercise was used instead to remove memories or plant ideas. Hunter had already seen both uses, without knowing it at the time. During that brief confrontation with witches in the Italian forests, Maurizio had delved into their minds and removed every trace and memory of the Donili monks, of Hunter, of the intended victim and his family; all in the space of a second before transporting them beyond the borders of the Friuli. After his own struggles, Hunter marvelled at the speed and precision of the old monk.

  The second time, Hunter had been the victim. The Abate, impatient with his arguments, had invaded his mind and planted the idea that it desperately needed sleep. Hunter yawned at the mere memory of that induced slumber.

  Hunter wondered, guiltily, what else could be done with such control. He knew that his teachers, the older monks, wouldn’t encourage such questions. Hunter could already see the patronising smile, and the sorry shake of the head whenever he stepped out of line. But just because today’s monks were spotlessly clean, unquestioning lambs, didn’t mean that previous generations hadn’t had such thoughts and had investigated and experimented - even if to only understand the limits better. Their writings were stored alongside many scrolls and heavy books written by the Donili over the last nine hundred years.

  And Hunter had access to them. In fact, he told himself, the monks encouraged extensive reading during free time. Of course, that didn’t stop him taking the precaution of reading in the privacy of his room.

  He sat in front of the fire, the books and papers scattered around him. Hunter wrapped the blanket tighter around him, trying to block out the biting winter that invaded the draughty old abbazia.

  Suddenly his door was flung open, the fire stuttered in the cold wash of air, and a figure stood in the doorway. Hunter started, one hand darting to the metal dog tags that hung around his neck, the other to his side, instinctively reaching for the gun he no longer wore.

  “You are nervous, Hunter.” The man said, unravelling the scarf from his face.

  “Bloody hell, Marcus, you made me jump.” Hunter gasped, looking up at his friend. “Close the damn door, it’s freezing.”

  Marcus pushed the heavy door shut, then turned back to Hunter with an air of suspicion. “What are you doing?”

  “Just reading.” Hunter replied calmly, gathering a few errant sheets. “The Abate encourages us to read.”

  Hunter drew the open books to him with feigned innocence, but Marcus moved quickly and picked up a thin volume. His eyes darted along the written word, picking up the topic and frowning.

  “I do not think he would approve of this.” Marcus muttered, closing the book gently.

  Hunter shrugged, gazing into the fire rather than face his friend.

  “I stand by my promise not to share my unrighteous views, but I cannot change who I am or why I am here.” Hunter said honestly, one hand idly tracing the heretical page. “But perhaps it would be best if you told the Abate nothing of this.”

  Hunter looked up at Marcus. He was sure the Abate had his monks spying on him and reporting any signs of dissent. The only question was, how far could Hunter trust Marcus. The young monk looked innocent enough.

  “You really believe you are doing the right thing?” Marcus asked with a sigh. He frowned and slumped into a chair near the fire.

  “Yes.” Hunter replied. “If you had seen what I have seen… there would be no question. The witches are more dangerous now than they have ever been. I couldn’t stop them from taking over, but I will do anything and everything I can to correct that.”

  Marcus sat quietly, contemplating this and more.

  “How was guard duty?” Hunter asked casually, wanting to change the subject.

  Although he was proving a fast learner and naturally gifted, Hunter had yet to go on a patrol with the Donili monks into the Friuli region. It was obvious that the Abate didn’t trust him, that he feared Hunter would revert to his violent methods when finally confronted with his old foe.

  Part of Hunter regretted this bitterly, for he longed to test his new skills for real. But deep down he knew that he could not promise to control himself.

  “Quiet, no sign of witches today.” Marcus replied, quite bored with a long cold day’s patrol for nothing. “We think that winter has driven the witches back to the comfort of the cities, it is not likely they will roam these sparse hills and valleys.”

  The two men fell into silence, the only noise the cracking of the fire in the grate.

  “You know, there have been so many more confrontations with witches the last few years, compared to earlier times. I was talking to my grandfather about it. I think you are right; they are stronger and more dangerous than ever.”

  Hunter looked up, surprised. This was the closest any Donili had come to admitting that Hunter’s vision of witches had any truth. “You do? Does this… does this mean you’re on my side? That you’d be willing to fight?”

  Hunter’s voice dropped to a whisper over these conspiratorial words. The idea of not being alone when he left the Abbazia di Donili; that he might be joined with both a friend and an ally excited him. And if Marcus were brought on side, others might follow, might open their narrow minds and take up arms. The only niggling thought was Hunter’s promise to the Abate, to not try persuading his monks.

  Marcus gazed down at Hunter with that familiar, condescending smile that ignored the fact that Hunter was nearly a decade older than him. “I said that I think you are right about the witch threat. That is a very big concession for me. But I will not abandon my home, my responsibilities, and my morals.”

  Marcus looked past Hunter to the untidy stack of scripture. “I think I should leave you this evening, before the Abate suspects me as a sympathiser to your rebellion.”

  The young monk stood up, grabbing his scarf from the back of the chair and left with a sorry smile. Another cold gust came through as the door opened briefly, leaving Hunter very much alone.

  Chapter Eight

  After this honest exchange, Hunter and Marcus never spoke openly again on their truce. But throughout winter, when guard duty was typically quieter, Marcus began to travel further into towns with the task of meeting and blessing the citizens in his ro
le as a Donili monk. Then he would return to the abbazia and casually tell Hunter about his day, including sharing all the news and rumours he had heard regarding witches.

  It gave Hunter a safe link to the outside world, although it was sometimes hard to hear about. It seemed that now they were no longer hampered by the witch-hunters and their allies, the witches were consolidating their position, creating new laws that placed them firmly above the human populace. Each big town and city had been gifted to a particularly strong, or high-standing witch, and they were charged with controlling their borough. Hunter found out that this included providing regular sacrifices from their subjects. The witches had always performed sacrifices, boosting their powers via the draining of life from innocent victims. But now they could act without fear of discovery and persecution.

  The worst part of Marcus’ news was the sway in public opinion. Now the Malleus Maleficarum Council no longer existed to resist the witches, it was harder for the average person to rally against them. Hunter couldn’t blame the normal people that kept their heads down, trying to salvage what they could from their new life, the survival of their families much more important than playing the hero. But it transpired that there were a few ambitious characters that did more than merely survive. They sold their souls to the devil and worked for the witches. It sickened Hunter to learn about this, he longed to be out there, stopping such weasels and unsettling the reign of the Shadow Witch. Each new story hardened Hunter’s resolve. He filed them all away and gradually his anger cooled into something stronger and harder.

  It became easier to appear unaffected during the day, when surrounded by the other monks, following the same patterns of learning and training. Hunter spent a lot of his time in the company of Marcus and the artistic Biagio. He was aware of the wary glances the older monks sent their way, as though the trio were rebellious youths, about to graffiti or vandalise as soon as none were looking.

  Although they followed the rules and said nothing that could be remotely rebellious, there were occasional questions that came up. Biagio in particular was curious about Hunter’s culture, what life was like back in England. He would ask constant questions over the towns and cities, the buildings and the lifestyle - which was alien and hard to understand for the innocent monk. Only when they came close to the subject of witches would Biagio’s questions falter, his curiosity tempered by the forbidden topic of Hunter’s previous career.