Mind the Threefold Law you should, three times bad and three times good.
When misfortune is enow, wear the blue star on thy brow.
True in love ever be, lest thy lover's false to thee.
Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill: An ye harm none, do what ye will.
THE SHADOW REIGNS
Witch-Hunter #2
By K. S. Marsden
Printed by Smashwords
Copyright © K.S. Marsden 2013
Cover art: Sylermedia
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted be any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
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An insight from our villain
For hundreds of years witches have been persecuted; forced to keep their heads down and conform to laws that we never agreed to. To be a witch is to live a hunted life; to suffer the stupidity and ignorance of those around you, even though you could outclass them with the simplest spell.
I was born to free the witches from oppression. I am the Shadow Witch. I have freed my kin from the so-called justice of the witch-hunters and their Malleus Maleficarum Council. In one night, the world was thrown into chaos, and for once it was the witch-hunters that were forced back.
We followed our victory with a second. We pitched the world into darkness, and removed the advantage technology gave our enemies. The new world has already begun, and in this spiralling darkness, those with magic will finally be able to rise above all others.
Then why do I feel guilt? Why do I feel doubt?
Ever since the witches told me of my destiny, when I was thirteen and powerless, I have never felt any doubt in my path. When my powers were awakened seven years later – the witches conducting sacrifices on Hallowe’en to break the ancient spell holding them back – I was even more sure of what lay ahead.
But it is shallow of me to even pretend I do not know the reason that I finally question everything. Him. For years I hated the very name Astley, knowing that they were the witch-hunters that killed Sara Murray, the last Shadow Witch; and all its consequences. I would not be the same if she lived; I would not have to take up this brutal destiny.
I had not planned to fall in love with the current bearer of the name: George “Hunter” Astley. I ignored the attraction at first; whenever he was around I told myself it was the excitement of playing him for a fool that thrilled me so, not his presence itself. But after months of secretly savouring each glance, each touch, I wanted more. I knew from the beginning that our relationship was doomed; I could not stay with him and soon we would be on the opposite sides of a war. Is it wrong I tried to find a way to keep him with me? If not for my sake, then for our child’s?
Not that it mattered. In the end he chose his side, and I chose mine.
I knew that I was expected to kill him when we met again, and I was prepared to do so. I came so close and failed. As my knife got past his guard and cut deep into him, I felt a shock of pain stab through me. It was all I could do to evade his witch-hunters and return home, where I collapsed at my mother’s feet.
I have been recovering slowly for a month now. I cannot explain it, there is no physical wound; I can only guess that what was inflicted on him rebounded to me. None of the witches can explain why, but some theorise that the child links us – we can only guess what powers he or she shall inherit. In which case, if this is true; I shall withdraw as much as possible until it is born, and hope the spell breaks.
One
Little Hanting was a picturesque village in the English countryside. Quaint bungalows and farmhouses fanned out from the church hall, with its perfectly manicured green in front of it. Not that the grass could be seen; fresh snow had again fallen the previous night, coating everything with a perfect whiteness. All it needed was children with mittens having a snowball fight, and the scene would be idyllic.
But Little Hanting silently suffered. The inhabitants had all been evacuated when the village had been the setting for a decisive battle. Now all the homes lay eerily quiet, save for the ones that had been temporarily taken over by soldiers. They sheltered from the cold and waited – waited for answers and for their next move. They would huddle around the fireplaces, casting glances in the direction of the local manor house.
*****
Hunter drifted in a haze of painkillers and nightmares. He saw the flash of the knife a hundred times, Sophie’s hazel eyes, and the pain that tore through them both.
The scene would change, and it was Hunter’s first day at University, and Brian was coming to tell him that his father was dead. Charlotte should be here to comfort him. Where was Charlotte?
When Hunter was awake… lucid was hardly applicable. He lay in his bed, staring at the high ceiling, with all its familiar cracks. Or he would turn his head to observe the dark drapes that someone opened and closed with the passing of day and night. Huh, probably the same someone that fed the fire in his bedroom to stop it being too cold.
Not that Hunter cared, the cold was numbing, and combined with the morphine, opium – whatever drug they managed to dredge up, it was a good haze. It stopped him having to think as much. Or at least, it kept his thoughts strangely disconnected from himself.
So this was what it was like to wallow. Hunter had never been much of a wallower: not when the witches had killed his father; Brian; Charlotte… Hunter was a witch-hunter, as they all had been. It was accepted as fact that you would lose friends and family, that you yourself would be a target. To be a part of the Malleus Maleficarum Council, to protect the people from the violence of witches was to invite that violence onto oneself.
But the pain of the past was nothing compared to what he was putting off feeling now. It wasn’t as if Sophie had died – although Hunter wished she had. No, it had been worse. The woman he loved had turned out to be the Shadow Witch. It sickened him to think of the nights spent together, the caresses, the half-asleep conversations. And the days when he had never doubted his trust in her as a colleague and a friend. How could she have acted so innocently and seemed so honest when she had just killed his old mentor and closest friend?
Before, grief had only driven him harder to fight back against witches. Now Hunter felt confusion over his life’s work in eradicating witches. He had fallen in love with one, and now she carried his child; and Hunter had recently discovered his own magic-like abilities.
Hunter had thought Sophie mad, and looking for a loophole when she had sworn that he was different from his fellow witch-hunters.
It was something that Hunter, and every MMC worldwide took for granted that, in a family of witch-hunters, each generation would become more adept. By the 3rd gen they could perceive spells being cast, and were immune to some magic; as well as being stronger and faster. As an unheard of 7th gen, Hunter Astley had been revered by the MMC. How little everyone (including himself) knew that he would evolve into a magic-wielder.
Which left him with the question: should he use his new talents in this war; or should he copy the fabled Benandanti and kill himself for being a witch?
He had no answers, and the thoughts just swirled incessantly in his head while he tried to numb them.
The only thing that broke the cycle of monotonous thought was mealtimes. Usually someone left a coffee on his bedside table in a morning, although chances were that it would still be sitting there, stone-cold, by midday. And then someone would bring him some lunch.
This irritating someone came in the form of Hunter’s best friend, James Bennett. He was a pretty average guy – average height, average brown hair and eyes. He was a little more intelligent
than most. But this 1st gen witch-hunter was the truest and bravest person that Hunter knew. Oh, and James also had an invaluable knack for putting up with Hunter on a daily basis. Hunter couldn’t remember a time when James hadn’t been there for him.
Which included bringing him meals while Hunter was injured, it seemed. Hunter was never very hungry, and would have left the unappetising food if James hadn’t stayed. Not that James was watching and making sure his friend actually ate something. No, it just so happened that mealtimes coincided with James having found something interesting in the Astley library, and brought up one old book or another to get Hunter’s opinion.
Twice a day. Every day.
Today was a little different. James sat with the typical book on his lap, and the non-typical red pointy hat on his head.
Hunter shot him a few looks, but today James was staying quiet. Hunter dutifully finished his soup and the last of the bread, pointedly putting the bowl aside to state it was empty.
“Why?” Hunter asked simply.
“Why what?” James returned innocently, looking up from his book.
Hunter sighed. “The hat?”
“Oh, that. I thought it’d annoy your mum.” James replied with a shrug. “And it’s my birthday. One of the soldiers found this and thought it wa’ funny.”
That made Hunter sit up and pay attention. “What? It’s the end of January already? Oh shit, I’m sorry James, I forgot. It’s just… it’s been a blur, I lost track.”
James shrugged again, but Hunter noticed the mischievous glint in his eye. “Hey, it’s fine. We’ve all been preoccupied with somethin’ a bit bigger than my birthday. Besides, I distinctly remember you saying that if you forgot my birthday, I could have that bottle of ’82 Chateau Gruard Larose that’s in your cellar.”
“Oh, I said that, did I?” Hunter tried to keep a straight face.
“Yep, absolutely.” James replied sincerely, pushing the reading glasses back up his nose.
“Ok, so I get the hat. What’s with the glasses?”
James looked a little surprised at the question. “Dunno, I just find it easier reading with them. Maybe the witches did some damage when they beat the crap out of me. Or maybe I should just admit I’m getting old.”
Hunter snorted. “Twenty-five is not old. Oh, sorry, twenty-six now. Happy Birthday.”
“I thought they made me look more intelligent.” James continued.
“Well you couldn’t look any less so.” Hunter returned quickly.
James looked ready to throw his book at him, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he got to his feet.
“Well, you seem back on form, Hunter. So perhaps you’ll think about getting your arse out of bed. We’ve a war to plan. And we could do with your help in keeping Mrs Astley in check.”
Hunter groaned, more at the mention of his mother than impending war.
“And you might want to shave.” James added, eyeing the scruffy attempt of a beard his face was sporting. “Or not. I could be the handsome one, as well as the smart one.”
With a chuckle, James turned and finally left.
Two
Hunter finally made it downstairs that afternoon, cleaned up, dressed, and looking much more his old self. The beard was gone, and his black hair combed into something resembling control. He’d managed to find a clean jumper and jeans, and looked presentable.
He was greeted by a warm chorus from a crowd of people in what used to be the dining room. Astley Manor had been in his family for nearly two hundred years; the image of extravagant Georgian architecture, it was comfort and luxury for the line of Astley witch-hunters. And the house had its own secrets, no witch could enter the Manor without their powers being stripped; no magic could be used in the extensive estate. The only exception being Hunter’s anti-magic talents.
Which made it the perfect emergency home for the Malleus Maleficarum Council after the witches had destroyed their base. After their initial defeat, witch-hunters had trickled into Astley Manor, seeking safety, and planning their next attack.
Hunter was more than happy to open his home to his allies, but even the vast Astley Manor was not big enough to house them all, especially after the additional influx of soldiers for the last battle. Those that could not be made comfortable in the Manor stayed in the village, and travelled in every day to learn of any progress made.
The over-crowding of the Manor was not universally welcomed. One in particular loathed it - Mrs Astley. Hunter’s mother had always had very strict rules over protocol and etiquette, and this flooding of the Manor with allsorts insulted her deeply. The last straw was the dining room. After the witch-hunter hooligans converted that into a war room, Mrs Astley resigned to her rooms and refused to come out unless absolutely necessary.
At this very moment, about a dozen people sat around the large table, most of them nursing a fresh mug of tea. The two most senior stood up at Hunter’s appearance.
“Mr Astley, it’s good to see you up and about.” General Hayworth smiled as he looked over Hunter, a touch of concern in his blue eyes.
“Thank you, General.” Hunter replied, trying to hide how breathless he was from just coming downstairs. “My nurse has cleared me for duty again.”
“Huh. Well, sit down before you fall down, Astley.” 5th gen Anthony Marks said with a shake of his head.
Hunter smiled bitterly, embarrassed at how weak his body had become. He obediently took an empty seat and looked expectantly towards the two older men. “So, can you bring me up-to-date?”
General Hayworth returned to his chair and started first. “It’s been three weeks since the battle, the witches must know about it by now and are giving us a wide berth. Communications are still down, so it’s hard to get any real idea of what they’re doing at this time. They are probably doing the same as us – assessing the situation and strengthening their forces.”
“And how are our forces?”
Anthony Marks sighed. “Again, with no way of getting in touch quickly, we can only guess. Aside from the forty-seven witch-hunters that were in the battle, we’ve had others making their way here over the weeks. There’s nearly a hundred now. We’ve housed them in Little Hanting alongside the soldiers. We have been sending out patrols to try and find more, but it’s a slow process.”
“This lack of technology is a pain in the arse.” Hayworth interjected.
“That would be why they did it.” Hunter muttered. He remembered Sophie gloating over the blanket of magic that disrupted most technology. Hunter and his colleagues had been thrown back into the dark ages, while Sophie and her witches had their magic to get by and make faster progress.
Marks frowned at Hunter’s comment, but brushed over it. “We’ve started sourcing generators, most of them are in working condition, we’ve just got to keep an eye on fuel usage. Luckily the Manor was built before our dependency on technology, so no problems here. As for the MMC… the Council is destroyed. As the most senior member, I have officially assumed control. Until someone more senior steps up, of course.”
Hunter grew uncomfortable under Marks’ steady gaze. It was crazy – Anthony Marks was twice Hunter’s age; Hunter had grown up hearing nothing but positive accounts of this witch-hunter from both his father and his trainer, Brian Lloyd. But because Hunter had been born an unheard of 7th gen, that automatically gave him superiority. All he had to do was claim it.
“I’m not going to do that, Mr Marks. I never wanted to lead.”
General Hayworth chuckled at his comment. “Who the hell does want to take responsibility and lead? Especially now the world’s screwed up.” He looked over at Marks. “Looks like you’re stuck with the gig, Anthony. Now, pay up.”
Sighing, Anthony shifted in his seat and pulled a crumpled note out of his pocket, handing it reluctantly to Hayworth. Around the table there were a few more subtle exchanges.
“We had a little wager going on. Had to amuse ourselves somehow, waiting for you to pop up again.” Hayworth grinned as
he explained to Hunter.
Hunter wasn’t sure how he felt about this amusement at his expense, but he let it slide. “I wouldn’t trust myself to make the right decisions. I’m too close to this.”
The room fell silent, and Hunter wondered how much these men knew. James knew everything, having gone right through it all with Hunter. The General knew an edited version that Hunter had shared with him before the battle, but how much more had he learnt? And how much did the others know, or guess?
“Fine.” Marks finally said. “Well as your Head of Council, I need to know how soon you can start that travelling in a blink again. It would be a monumental advantage to have you cover so much ground. It’d also mean we can save our fuel rations for something more important.”
Hunter stared down at the table, his ‘blinking’ still felt like a dirty secret. But at least these guys weren’t preparing to burn him at the stake. Yet. “I need to build my strength again. I will keep you informed on my progress, sir.”
“Good. You go do that. And, ah…” Marks pulled a face, which told Hunter exactly what he was going to bring up next. “Perhaps you should go see if you can placate your mother. She doesn’t seem too chuffed to have us here.”
Hunter nodded and, finding no reasonable excuse for putting it off until later, he promptly made his way to his mother’s rooms.
Mrs Astley had a whole wing to herself, with a bedroom, office, drawing room and a large bathroom all for her private use. She liked having the space to herself, especially when her son insisted on bringing all sorts of waifs and strays to stay. Her space was even more important to her now that her home had been invaded and militarised.
Hunter rarely came to this part of the house. His mother was not his favourite person, he’d had very few reasons over the years to seek out her company. Especially as Mrs Astley would often pop up and interfere, whether she was welcome, or not.
Hunter turned the handle to her main room, pushing the door open and giving it a couple of sharp knocks to announce his presence. He walked into the expensively-furnished drawing room, looking for his mad ol- dear, loving mother.
The Shadow Reigns (Witch-Hunter #2) Page 1
