The older man suddenly fell silent and opened his eyes, facing the two witches. With a move of his hand there was a deep rumble and a bright flash of light. Hunter heard a scream rip from the witches, and he stumbled back, unbalanced and blinded.
It was over in a flash, Hunter felt his heart falter, then double its beat. The witches were nowhere to be seen. The father and son scrambled back to their family’s embrace.
The two mysterious men turned to face Hunter, the old man locked his pale blue gaze onto Hunter and raised his hand… then faltered. His wrinkled brow creased further in a frown. He spoke quickly, but Hunter failed to follow his words, they were an Italian dialect he’d never heard before.
“Wh-what? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” He stuttered breathlessly, unable to find his usual manners in this confusion.
The younger man looked at him with surprise. “Inglese.” He said with some amazement, throwing a meaningful look to the elder.
“English? He says ‘you are not a witch’.” The young man explained in broken English, the words flavoured with accent, while he gazed curiously at Hunter.
Hunter wavered beneath those bright blue eyes. “No… I mean, yes I’m English. But I’m not a witch.”
The older man whispered something to the young one, who nodded seriously.
“But you are using magic.” He insisted, his eyes drifting along Hunter’s aura, as though physically seeing the shield.
“Oh.” Hunter turned his attention to his shield, reluctantly letting it drop. He was far from trusting these strangers, but felt he needed to show faith if he were to get answers. “That’s not magic, it’s something… different. I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“I am Marcus.” The young man replied readily, a hand placed on his chest. “And my friend is Maurizio, we are Donili. And you?”
“Donili?” Hunter jumped at the word. “Of the Donili monks? But I came this way looking for you.”
Marcus frowned, and relayed this to the older Maurizio, then turned back to Hunter. “And your name?” He insisted.
“Hunter Astley, a 7th gen witch-hunter with the British Malleus Maleficarum Council.” Hunter replied.
Marcus hesitated at this stream of information, then repeated it to Maurizio. Hunter waited impatiently as they exchanged comments in that incomprehensible Italian, his nerves still sparking at every slight sound or movement.
“You will come with us, signor? Our council will have many questions. You have many questions also?” Marcus’ voice rose, but Hunter couldn’t tell whether in query or anticipation.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Hunter replied immediately, feeling truly hopeful for the first time in three months.
Maurizio, pleased with the outcome of this laboured conversation, turned to the family. The old man quickly exchanged words with the mother and father, and less quickly stood smiling as he accepted their thanks and blessings.
Marcus smiled indulgently, then hurried the older man along. They set off into the forest, trudging over the undulating ground. Hunter, used to his above average stamina and physical ability, was surprised by Marcus, and especially the older Maurizio, who paced along swiftly and untiring. Hunter came up with mental excuses, that he was wearied from being on the run for so long, that he was further tired by the brief fight with the witches - but the truth was it was embarrassing that his breathing grew heavier and he felt sweat run down his face and neck.
Hunter stopped to take a much needed drink from his old water bottle. He coughed and spat, feeling guiltily unlike a gentleman.
“How much further is it?” He asked his travelling companions, not quite sure what ‘it’ was. He took the opportunity to take a few deep breaths and kept his voice strong at least.
“Not far. One kilometre, no more than two.” Marcus replied, patiently waiting for his English guest. He hesitated, obviously taking in Hunter’s sweaty appearance and strained eyes.
Marcus turned and quickly fell into conversation with Maurizio. Hunter didn’t even try to follow the flow of words, but he gathered from the stress in Marcus’ voice that the younger man was trying to persuade the older.
Eventually Maurizio shrugged noncommittally and Marcus turned back to Hunter with a smile.
“We go the fast way - this is how we travel. Hold my arm. Trust me.” Marcus said, holding out his hand invitingly, but an almost mischievous look in his eye.
Warily Hunter raised his hand. As soon as he touched the young man’s forearm the world went black and Hunter felt a familiar shift.
Two
In no time at all, the world returned and Hunter saw an array of stone and brick buildings and heard the small crowd of people that turned to gaze calmly at the sudden appearance of three men. Hunter, so suspicious and tense himself, noticed that people looked at him with only a vague curiosity before moving on, as though their appearance were a common thing.
Next to Hunter, Marcus turned with an expectant look.
“Do you want to sit? It is disorie- dees… disorientante for new people.” He said, but his smile faltered as he saw Hunter show no sign of distress from this almost magical form of transport.
“No, I’m fine thank you. Where are we?” Hunter asked, brushing aside the unnecessary concern and gazing about the settlement. The buildings were strong and sturdy and defied the forest which turned the horizon green in every direction. The land sloped gently downhill in front of him and Hunter could see the shimmer of a river where the houses gave way, and further the land rose again to the next sunlit hill. “Are we still in Friuli?”
“Yes.” Marcus answered, still eyeing Hunter warily. “This is the village of Donili. Come, you must meet our Abate. He is at the abbazia.”
Marcus led back up the hill towards a long, low stone building that looked down on the village like a guardian. Marcus glanced again at Hunter. “You sure you ok? Most people panico after their first travel.”
“It wasn’t my first time.” Hunter said carefully, thinking this was enough honesty. There was no need to. He didn’t know how much he could trust Marcus and decided that the less he revealed about himself the better.
Hunter ignored the quizzical look from his young companion, and kept his eyes trained on the path, the last thing he wanted was to trip, fall, and look a prat. At one point, Hunter finally noticed the absence of Maurizio. But they had just reached the doors and he had no time to give the old man any further thought. Marcus rapped on the wooden doors and they were pulled open from the inside by a monk who nodded them through.
They stepped into a large courtyard. Hunter was struck by the simple beauty of the place; the sun warmed the soft brown stone, and along each side of the courtyard shadowed walkways were marked out with pillars.
Hunter heard the pad of soft shoes across the stone quad. He turned to see another monk approach them, the man looked young and strong, and he greeted them both with quiet confidence.
“Welcome to the Abbazia di Donili, Signor Astley. My name is Biagio, if you come with me I shall show you to the padre.”
Hunter was briefly taken aback by his fluent, yet accented English and could only nod in reply, before finally coughing out a thank you.
Biagio smiled indulgently, then bowed briefly to Marcus before turning and walking away.
Hunter hesitated, not sure if he were meant to follow. He glanced at Marcus, somehow trusting this Donili monk that he met first.
Marcus tried an encouraging smile. “Perhaps I see you later, signore.” The young man bowed and backed away.
Hunter frowned, he’d been deprived of company for so long, it was tempting to latch onto the first friendly face he saw. He had to remind himself that, until he had answers and his life had gained some aspect of sense again, he should remain wary and taciturn, there would be time for friendships later, if there were time at all.
Hunter gripped the straps of his rucksack and stumbled along behind Biagio, looking like any other weary traveller behind the quiet, composed monk.
> Biagio led indoors and down a narrow stone corridor. He opened the last door and invited Hunter in.
Hunter didn’t know what to expect, he’d been so preoccupied with the finding of a link to the Benandanti that his mind hadn’t considered any further.
The room was cosy, with an upholstered bench and several soft chairs. There was a grand fireplace, that was yet unlit, and the walls were lined with shelves of books. The atmosphere of the room reminded Hunter of his own private study or drawing room at home.
There were three men sitting in the room, all were grey-haired and bore signs of age. They were in quiet conversation, but broke off at Hunter’s arrival, they looked in his direction and Hunter could see that age had not dulled those sharp, shining eyes that pierced him curiously.
Next to him, Biagio made an introduction in that bizarre dialect.
One of the monks rose from their seat and replied, his gaze flitting between Hunter and Biagio the translator.
“The Abbot welcomes you, Hunter Astley. Please be seated, you must have many questions. And after Maurizio’s account of your meeting, we too have questions.” Biagio relayed eloquently, a slight air of smugness over his own fluency.
But Hunter paid him little attention, he glanced again at the two seated monks and realised that one of them was Maurizio. So this was where the old man had disappeared to - coming to forewarn the boss while Hunter toiled with Marcus.
Ever since he had found out about his abilities, Hunter had steadily gained more questions and no answers. But right now he was speechless. In the awkwardness of his silence, he acted upon the invitation to sit down, sinking into one of the heavenly comfortable chairs.
The Abate sat also and spoke again.
“The Abbot would like to know what brings an English gentleman to the hidden valleys of Italy?” Biagio voiced eagerly.
“I… I came looking for the Benandanti.” Hunter replied, getting straight to the point.
Hunter waited impatiently for this to be relayed.
“Benandanti? It has been a long time since any sought them. They were a branch of our family that were wiped out hundreds of years ago.” The Abate said via Biagio.
Hunter sat up straighter, his pulse quickening as his hopes were realised. “The Benandanti were part of the Donili?”
“Yes, they were one of the largest families. They were discovered by Europeans and were killed by their narrow-mindedness. The Europeans saw the skills that were inborn and strictly trained to protect others, but instead of seeing it as natural they accused the Benandanti of devil worship and magic and punished them.
“Thankfully, the rest of the Donili remained undiscovered, and by the grace of God, have been able to keep protecting those that ask for our help.”
Hunter sat there, absorbing this new version of history. He had hoped that perhaps some of the Benandanti had survived, he could never have dreamed that the Benandanti were only a small part of something bigger, older and perhaps stronger.
“Now, I have given you an answer, it is your turn.”
The Abate frowned, equally displeased with the circuitous nature of speaking through a translator. He looked directly at Hunter, “Te parle italiano?”
“Si, fluente.” Hunter replied, feeling those blue eyes pierce him.
The Abate quickly dismissed Biagio, who looked disappointed at no longer being needed.
“This is easier, no?” The Abate asked in steady Italian. “I dislike using a translator, but like many of my kin, I only speak the language of our fathers, and occasionally Italian.”
“Si, padre.” Hunter said, then couldn’t help but lean forward. “But I have many things to ask.”
The Abate raised a hand to stop him. “Of course you do, but it is my turn. How else am I to ascertain if we should answer your questions, unless you answer mine?”
Behind the gentle words, Hunter saw the unyielding stubbornness of the Abate on this point, and he sat back reluctantly.
“Good. Now first, our friend Maurizio tells me you used a defensive shield similar to the Donili’s. How?”
“It’s a long story.” Hunter sighed. “I’m a witch-hunter with the English Malleus Maleficarum Council. We discovered a long time ago that the sons and daughters of witch-hunters were born with certain advantages against witches and magic. Just small things really, they are faster, stronger, can perceive the use of magic and are immune to some spells - improving with each generation.
“I’m a seventh generation and a few years ago I was - ah - awoken to the fact that I could do more. I could travel anywhere in a blink, I can shield and block magic…”
Hunter broke off, there was more to it than a few tricks, his ability to shield himself and others had been a major factor in every battle. But Hunter was sure he was capable of more, there were times that things - inexplicable things - happened; what else could it be but an unconscious use of his power. He had a sudden image of a crumbling church, dead witches half-buried under the rubble. It was a dark and terrifying scene, but if he could harness that particular power, it would surely shift the balance of power away from the witchkind.
“Are there many like you?” The Abate asked, breaking into Hunter’s thoughts.
“No.” Hunter replied. “I’m the only one. That’s why I came to find - well, you. There’s so much I need to learn. And… and for your help.”
The Abate brought his hands together and looked over his steepled fingers at Hunter, his bright blue eyes very serious.
“Certamente! We dedicate our lives to helping others. But the help they receive depends on the path they are willing to take.” The Abate said cryptically. The old man then frowned, an edge of suspicion in his voice when he spoke again. “Surely the help and learning you seek are the same thing?”
Hunter dropped his gaze, suddenly inspecting the dirt on his hands, before remembering he was an English gent and witch-hunter and should not fear being assertive with anyone.
“Padre, I come to you as a representative of the Malleus Maleficarum Council. It cannot have escaped your notice that we are at war against the witches. I come to ask you to help us in any way you can. Become our ally and help us drive away the shadows.”
The Abate sighed, as though Hunter had confirmed his low expectations.
“No.”
The single word surprised Hunter. One word, with no deliberation or uncertainty.
“No?” Hunter repeated, as though the meaning of the word eluded him. “Can’t you… will you at least consider it?”
“Signor Astley, we are not fighters, we are monks, we protect life. Oh, I am sure you have what you consider valid points to argue, but on this point I will not be moved.”
“You say you protect life - then protect those worldwide that are threatened by witches. Give your protection to those that will fight for a better world.” Hunter leant forward, his speech impassioned.
But the Abate looked unimpressed, and did not respond to this request. Instead he turned quite calmly to the other two old men in the room.
“Forgive my selfishness brothers, in hogging all the words. Perhaps you could voice your opinions to Signor Astley’s request.”
Hunter blinked, looking to the other aged monks that he had near forgotten.
The unknown monk spoke first. “Whether we are the shield or the sword, we shall not enter this bloody battle. Our prayers would be ignored and our souls scarred if we stood by and watched you and your kin killing, knowing that we were the ones that enabled such murder and massacre.”
Hunter could give no reply to such an answer; how could he, he’d just been labelled a murderer. He was surprised at how forgiving the Donili sounded about witches - surely they couldn’t turn a blind eye to such an evil force. Surely they had been fighting witches even longer than the MMC.
“How can we help those that would turn on us?” Maurizio finally spoke, “It happened once before, when your people discovered a power they did not understand in the Benandanti. The Donili have l
ong memories.”
Hunter looked with surprise at the old monk, for some reason feeling betrayed by Maurizio’s harsh and unfair prejudice. How could they hold a grudge over something that happened 500 years ago? Back when the MMC was a very different entity, its witch-hunters narrow-minded and devout on a religious scale. The modern MMC were much more controlled, fairly ruled by strict codes and laws. But… there came a seed of doubt. Hunter flashed back to when he had discovered his own unnatural powers, he’d been torn with fear that he would be condemned, even by those he called friends, so much so that he nearly kept this huge defensive bonus a secret as he and the other witch-hunters prepared for a suicidal battle against the Shadow Witch.
“That’s ridiculous.” Hunter retorted with a shake of his head, arguing against his own thoughts as much as the monks’ words. He took a deep breath, frustrated, and ran a hand through his straggly hair. “It’s not like it was, things have changed; the whole world has changed. I’ve travelled so far and seen so much, if you would just listen and-”
“We believe you, Signor Astley.” The Abate interrupted curtly. “Indeed, you look so tired from your travels and troubles. Perhaps you would like to rest and gather your thoughts before we speak again.”
At his words, Hunter felt a wave of tiredness wash over him, and was immediately suspicious of the three monks that sat with him. Hunter frowned and fought the fatigue.
“No, I don’t need to rest, I need to keep moving.” He stumbled over the words, concentrating on keeping his Italian fluent. “I must keep moving… they cannot be allowed to find me. I must move on to find those that will help.”
“No, Signor Astley, I think you need to sleep.” The Abate said with quiet confidence.
And Hunter felt the darkness of unconsciousness sweep him away.
…..
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The Shadow Reigns (Witch-Hunter #2) Page 15
