His eyes travelled up, to see Sophie standing over him. She looked blood-stained and exhausted, much like how he felt. She sighed, seeing him regaining consciousness, and knelt beside him. Her lip curled at his weak struggles.
“You just can’t admit defeat, can you?”
Sophie looked up, beyond him, to where Hunter could detect weak flashes of light.
“It’s over.” Sophie stated, gazing firmly back down at him.
Hunter felt the blackness at the edge of his senses sweep up and overwhelm him.
Twenty-nine
Hunter awoke – which in itself seemed like a major achievement. Sophie had not killed him, even when she had the perfect chance to. Hunter’s head hurt to process any reason behind it, instead he focused on the simpler things.
It was light. With the low-hanging sun and cool air, Hunter sluggishly surmised that it was early morning.
He raised his head just enough to confirm that he was still on the Salisbury Plains. He could make out the deserted village that they had used, and the copse of trees their reinforcements had hidden within.
Hunter felt a stab of uneasiness. It was far too quiet.
He steeled himself to get to his feet. Hunter did not trust his ability to blink to the battleground, so made the slow and steady march to cover the distance.
There was no sign of life, only bodies laid strewn across the Plains. Hunter choked down the bile that threatened to rise.
Hunter gave the fleetest glances to each noting those he recognised. With each familiar face, his heart hardened. Now was not the time for grief. Instead he had to… to…
Hunter stopped in his tracks as he saw General Hayworth, such a steady source of leadership over the past couple of years. Now he lay with vicious burns on one side. But he had not gone down alone, the bodies of half a dozen witches were testament to his fight.
Hunter waited for the overwhelming power and blackout that had accompanied James’ death, but he only felt numb.
Eventually he moved on again, further into the battlefield. There were less witch-hunters and soldiers here – proof of how far his team had successfully pushed through the witch ranks.
He saw three bodies ahead, and despite his nausea that begged for attention, his feet carried him mercilessly forward.
Hunter dropped to his knees as he struggled to breathe. The blast from the broken amulet had lifted them all off their feet. His friends had been killed in that moment. Sweet young Alannah; the dependable Ian; and Maria, who had never recovered from losing James. He had failed them all. They could never have guessed that trying to bind Sophie’s powers could have such a result, in fact he remembered Sophie’s look of surprise at the glowing, burning amulet. But Hunter could not forget that he had been the one to suggest this plan.
Hunter had no idea how he had survived the blast, he wished he had not.
Hunter lost track of how long he knelt there, the hot sun burning the back of his neck. His thoughts were struggling to connect, and his emotions had completely abandoned him.
They had been defeated.
Had anyone else survived? Surrounded by the dead, Hunter found it impossible to be optimistic.
What did he do now? What allies did he have left? He couldn’t stay here, he was an easy target if the witches returned.
Hunter closed his eyes, letting his subconscious direct him as he blinked away from the battleground.
*****
Despite it being the middle of summer, the air in the Manor was still cool.
Hunter looked down about the sitting room in which he had appeared, there were little signs everywhere of Mrs Astley and Charles’ occupation of the house. Hunter thought about making his presence known, but dismissed the idea. He moved into the hallway and made his way to towards the study, mindful of making as little noise as possible.
The Manor was quiet now. The last time he had been here his allies had filled the rooms. Their absence was painfully clear.
Once he entered the study, Hunter looked around. For all his books and records, it had all come to nothing. There had to be some answer – but not here.
He rummaged through his desk and pulled out paper and a pen.
‘We are in dark days. I write this hurriedly at my desk, not knowing to whom I write, but wanting my story to be known. I hope it is found by one of my kind, and in turn gives hope…
My name is George Astley VII, known to my friends as Hunter…
… I am going to find the Benandanti.’
Hunter continued to scratch away, filling the paper with text, then folded the page when he finished. He had no idea who, if anyone, would read it; nor what help it might give, but it eased his anxiety and settled his course.
Taking one last look around, committing the room to memory, Hunter vanished.
Other books by K.S. Marsden:
Witch-Hunter
The Shadow Rises (Witch-Hunter #1)
The Shadow Reigns (Witch-Hunter #2)
The Shadow Falls (Witch-Hunter #3)
Kristen: Witch-Hunter (#2.5) ~ avail only through #Awethors
James: Witch-Hunter (#0.5) ~ coming 2017
Sophie: Witch-Hunter (#0.5) ~ coming soon
Enchena
The Lost Soul: Book 1 of Enchena
The Oracle: Book 2 of Enchena
Northern Witch
Winter Trials (Northern Witch #1)
Sequel coming 2017
Read on for a preview of the exciting finale:
The Shadow Falls
A letter from our hero…
We are in dark days. I write this hurriedly at my desk, not knowing to whom I write, but wanting my story to be known. I hope it is found by one of my kind, and in turn gives hope…
My name is George Astley VII, known to my friends as Hunter. If it matters to you, I am 28 years old, English; and in a time of peace I would be the lord of Astley Manor, near the village of Little Hanting.
But this is not a time of peace, we have been fighting the losing side of a war for the past two years. Fighting against the witches. It all started when the legendary Shadow Witch arose - a witch whose magic was without limit, a witch raised to nurse a thousand years of insult and hatred. She plunged the world into darkness so that she and the other witch kind could claw above the stricken and powerless humans, preferably with as many casualties as possible to assuage their anger.
Where do I fit in with all this? In the very centre, shouldering both the blame and the hope.
I am a witch-hunter. As was my father, and his father and so on. I am the 7th generation of witch-hunters belonging to the organisation called the Malleus Maleficarum Council, which has successfully policed and hidden magic and witches for hundreds of years. Until now.
The Shadow Witch approached me in the guise of Sophie Murphy, a beautiful, intelligent woman that I thought was an innocent that I saved and sheltered from witches. With a grating stubbornness, Sophie demanded to join the MMC and train as a witch-hunter. I was the one that allowed her into our Council. I was the one that would let her learn all our secrets. I was the one that would later fall in love with her.
She finally revealed herself as the Shadow Witch, and the first of many battles between the witches and witch-hunters was fought, in which our side was nearly decimated.
What remained of the MMC regrouped, driven by desperation against this new and unbelievable force. We had only one advantage: the Shadow Witch revealed too much about the hidden talent born into witch-hunters - into me in particular. I don’t know how I do it, I cannot explain it. Some liken my talents to magic, all I know is that I am strong enough to repel witches and protect those around me, amongst other useful skills. With my new skills, we initially managed to repel the Shadow Witch and destroy her followers. She seemed to vanish for the best part of a year and, as terrible and fierce as they were, we began to beat back the witches.
Then the Shadow Witch returned, stronger than ever, and even I was helpless in her path. She systematically dest
royed the witch-hunters and their allies, returning power and victory to the witches in a devastating way. Those fateful days of battle will haunt me forever, as I watched brave men and women fall at my side.
There might be witch-hunters in hiding somewhere out there, but as far as I am aware, I am the only one left.
Friendless, alone, and the most wanted man alive, I’ve decided it’s time to learn all I can about this mysterious power I have. I am going to find the Benandanti.
One
The small town was near deserted. Half the people had fled, or just plain vanished. The other half sat behind their locked doors, no one ventured out once the sun set. So no one saw the sudden appearance of a man in the rough piazza.
One moment the square was empty, the next there he stood. He was tall, well-built and had perhaps been handsome, but now his clothes were creased, his face rugged, worn and wary, and half hidden by the short, dark beard and straggly black hair.
It was a very different image than the old, relatively carefree Hunter Astley. He’d been rich, good-looking and popular.
He’d been on the run for nearly eight months, ever since the last big battle in which the witch-hunters and their allies had finally been decimated. He hadn’t dared stop anywhere for long, empty villages where no eyes could see him, or in the few dense cities that still existed where he could get lost in the crowd. He made his locations erratic and illogical, to throw off his hunters for a few peaceful hours.
Hunter had tried coming to Italy last summer, but found that wherever he went, the witches were close behind. Hunter didn’t doubt that the Shadow Witch had a few spies permanently placed around here, for she knew how strongly Friuli would pull Hunter. For here was the region which had been the home to the Benandanti, centuries ago, the original anti-witches.
He eventually admitted defeat and fled to America, tracking down one lead in the library at Georgetown University; followed by Cornell, Glasgow and Ulster. All he found were teasers and hints to what he truly wished to know.
As winter came round, Hunter kept his movements in the southern hemisphere. It was easier and safer than trying to find warmth and shelter – he could put no one in such danger.
But finally spring came again, and Hunter was drawn back to Friuli. If the modern equivalent of the Benandanti existed anywhere, it would be here. It was dangerous, but Hunter had to find them, he was out of options. He’d started at the northernmost edge of Friuli and searched each town and village for hope. This one was close to the Lago di Sauris, a large landmark that allowed Hunter to gain his bearings in his speedy method of travel.
Hunter strode up to the nearest house and banged sharply on the wooden door. Dogs started to bark, but there was no sound of people.
“Per favore. Please, I need help.” Hunter called out, his voice rough from disuse.
He heard the soft pad of feet and the creak of shutters. Hunter stepped back and looked at the surrounding houses.
“Please.” He repeated to the dark, empty street. “I’m not a witch, I just need help. I’m looking for some people. They used to live here, many years ago. They did magic, good magic. Please.”
Hunter’s voice trailed off, he was used to the suspicion and wariness that now ruled every person’s life. It was the way of the world under the rule of the witches. If this town couldn’t help him, he’d travel to the next, and the next, persisting in his search.
“We want no magic here, signor.” A warning voice came from behind a crack in a shutter.
Hunter turned in the voice’s direction. “No, I ‘m not here to harm you, and I’m not staying. But if you could help me by telling me anything, anything about the Benandanti…”
“I’ve never heard of them, they don’t live here.” The voice replied curtly.
Hunter frowned, it was a negative response, but at least someone was answering him - albeit through a blocked window.
“No, they might not live anywhere now. But they were in this region four hundred years ago.”
“Four hundred years?” The voice spluttered. “Nobody here can help you, signor. It is too long ago. Now leave us in peace.”
Hunter called out again, but got no response. He even banged on the reinforced shutters but only set the dogs off again. It had been briefly promising, but turned out to be less than helpful. Oh well, next village.
Hunter turned to leave the way he came when he suddenly stopped, seeing a pair of brown eyes peering around a crack in a door.
“Signor.” A quiet woman’s voice came. “It is true we know nothing, but try the Donili monks. They have a small monastery a few kilometres south-west of here.”
The door clicked shut.
“Thank you. Grazie.” Hunter said quietly to the still night air.
He hadn’t gotten any answers - hell, he’d hardly managed to get any questions out, but this was a start, a thread to follow. Not bad, he reflected as he left the village. Even a place as small and unimportant as this was dangerous - this close to the Benandanti rumours, it was best to travel unmarked paths and camp alone and unknown. Which meant hunkering down in the lonely forest that rose to the hills. Not a comfortable prospect, but at least the weather was mild.
At dawn Hunter was on his feet once more, set resolutely south-west, detouring only for the most stubborn natural barriers. The woman had said a few kilometres. A few. What an ill-defined description. She could mean three kilometres, while he considered it seven, or vice versa. And did she mean precisely south-west, or bearing more to the left or right? He might walk right past the home of the Donili monks, or not walk far enough. The dismal beat of his thoughts matched his steady footsteps.
He thought of the steps that had brought him here. He had thought of nothing but the Benandanti for months. The focus allowed him to block out the nightmare of last year; investigating every dusty book, every story and myth was preferable than facing the death and violence that was behind him.
The minutes seemed to drag by, and a mere hour pushing on exhausted him but Hunter didn’t stop, the distance passed slowly but steadily. He kept a keen eye for any sign of a monastery, anything to show he was on track, but so far there had been nothing man-made, there had been no sight nor sou--
A scream pierced the peaceful countryside. Shouts followed and worse, laughter.
Hunter stopped. The sensible part of him warned caution, those screams could only mean trouble and he shouldn’t endanger himself. Unfortunately he’d already set off in pursuit of the noise, self-preservation at the back of his mind.
Drawing closer, the trees thinned to reveal a lonely little cottage. In front of the humble building a woman stood before two young children, arms held wide to shield them with her own body. The three cried and begged while a man held onto an older child, seemingly playing a tug-o-war with the boy being pulled on the other side by a laughing duo.
“Please, no.” The man begged.
“You know the law.” The female aggravator said with a scornful laugh. “Sacrifices must be provided.”
“No, please, not my son. Take me instead.”
The heartless woman shook her head smiling, finding his distress highly amusing. They all cried and begged, and some even swore and fought back, but the result was always the same, when a witch demanded a sacrifice that demand had to be met.
Hunter had seen enough.
“Release him.” He shouted with all the authority he once possessed.
The two aggressors turned, unimpressed by this scruffy stranger that dared to intercede.
“Move on.” The male warned. “This does not concern you.”
“Release him.” Hunter repeated. “Or I will be forced to take action.”
The crying father looked between the two witches and this unknown hero, his troubled mind slow to catch up.
“No signor, you mustn’t, they… they will come, they will protect us.” His strange mumblings faded into a whisper and he closed his eyes briefly in a silent prayer.
The man and his
comments were ignored as the witches turned to the one individual willing to stand up against them, willing to fight even.
Hunter felt that familiar spark in his mind that sensed magic. Indeed the build up from the two witches was almost tangible. He frowned, his hand clasping the metal amulet at his throat, his whole body reaching instinctively for protection. It had been years since Hunter had first used the natural shield that he was equipped with, and now it slipped over him with an invisible, but comfortable weight.
The first wave of spells hit, designed to blind and unbalance, a typical opening move. The magic distilled uselessly in the air, leaving Hunter unaffected and the witches disturbed and confused.
Hunter sighed, soon he’d draw his gun, he’d fight to destroy these ungodly creatures. But first he needed to protect the others in case things got ugly. With a simple thought he extended the shield to protect the cowering family.
Hunter snapped to attention, his shield was blocked, he pushed again but it felt like it had come up against a solid wall. This was unsettling, in the last two years, in the endless fights and battles his shield had been battered and weakened, but never blocked.
The spells came in from all sides, Hunter felt the shield buckle under the sheer pressure, he was half-aware of the witch-hunters at the very edge, no longer safe as his strength failed. Soon they began to fall, no longer protected from the lethal magic…
Hunter shook his head, determined to stay in the present. Another spell dissolved against the shield. Hunter frowned, he hated blood and death and had seen enough of both to last ten lifetimes, but he duly drew his gun and steadily fired at both witches.
Hunter heard a feral snarl rip from one of the witches, but neither of them fell. Hunter froze - his aim was infallible, yet they weren’t hit. Even more disturbing was the expression of confusion that was mirrored in the witches’ faces. The bullets had been stopped and it was not their doing.
Beyond the sound of his own thudding pulse Hunter became aware of a low hum of noise coming from the forest. He turned, automatically strengthening the shield about him. Out of the trees stepped two men, one grey-haired and wrinkled, the other younger than Hunter. Their eyes were closed in concentration and both chanted in low tones, the sound akin to a hum.
The Shadow Reigns (Witch-Hunter #2) Page 14