The Shadow Rises

by K.S. Marsden

  *****

  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 insult
ed 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.

  “Mother?” He called out.

  “George, how many times must I tell you that it is common decency to wait for permission to enter.” The familiar sharp tones snapped.

  Hunter turned to see his mother, and their butler Charles, sitting by the window, playing chess.

  “One of these days you will walk in while I am indisposed, and I daresay the embarrassment will be punishment enough.” Mrs Astley added, her fingers hovering over a black rook, then finally making her move.

  “I’m sorry, mother. I won’t do it again.” Hunter replied, wincing slightly at the image she provided.

  “Of course you’ll do it again, you never learn from your mistakes – just like your father.”

  Ah yes, there it was. Hunter wondered if they could make it through a single conversation without his mother bringing up George “Young” Astley. Hunter worshipped the memory of his late father. His mother still blamed Young for ruining her life. She often wished he had left her to be sacrificed by witches, rather than give her this life. How many times had Hunter heard that over the years?

  “I haven’t seen you for a month, why have you been avoiding me this time?” Mrs Astley cut through her son’s train of thought.

  Hunter stared at her, wondering if she was really so ignorant to everything going on around her. “Mother, I’ve been an invalid. Laid up in bed for three weeks, recovering after Sophie tried to kill me.”

  “Oh.” Mrs Astley finally looked away from her chess game to see her son. Her eyes ran quickly from head to toe, but seeing no real problem, she finally met his gaze. “Sophie, that common girl you were dating? Well, I did tell you not to bother with her.”

  Hunter clenched his fists and tried not to show how much his mother was winding him up right now. She told him not to bother with Sophie? Oh, so somehow Mrs Astley could tell that Sophie was evil, and the biggest threat this century? No, more likely the stuck-up Mrs Astley was offended by her son’s interest in a “common” girl.

  Mrs Astley sighed, reading her son’s reaction. One that did not need an audience. “Charles, more tea.”

  The ever-dutiful Charles nodded, and stood up from the chess game, more than happy to leave the Astleys to yet another family interlude.

  Once the butler had gone, Hunter drifted over to the table and chessboard that were set by the window, to get the most of the winter sun. He could see that Charles�
�� white pieces could checkmate his mother in three moves. It wouldn’t happen of course, Charles always let Mrs Astley win.

  “Don’t look at the board pretending you know how to play chess, George.” Mrs Astley snapped.

  “I do know how to play chess, mother. James taught me years ago.” Hunter replied calmly.

  “Oh, don’t mention that odious boy!” Mrs Astley fumed, something about the Yorkshireman always seemed to rile her up. “He is still staying here, I presume? You should start charging him rent.”

  “Mother… things have changed. Witch-hunters need somewhere safe to stay.” Hunter said, trying to change her way of looking at it.

  “And that Marks fellow – running around like he owns this place! I imagine he always had his beady eye on the Manor, when he used to come visit Young. Now he goes and fills it with all sorts!”

  Hunter waited impatiently for his mother’s rant to end. “No mother, I own this place. And as lord of Astley Manor, I turned it into a centre of control for the MMC, I have encouraged witch-hunters to use it as a sanctuary. And I pushed Anthony Marks to take command.”

  Mrs Astley sat thin-lipped, considering this. “I am not sharing my rooms.” She eventually announced.

  “No one is asking you to, mother.” Hunter replied with a touch of exasperation. “They are being housed in the village too, there’s space enough.”

  “What?” Mrs Astley looked up at her son with surprise. “The villagers will not take kindly to you pushing house guests on them.”

  Hunter narrowed his eyes at his mother. “The villagers were evacuated three weeks ago to save them from the witches.”

  “Oh.” Mrs Astley took this bit of news in. “So that must be why Mrs Harsmith has not been to visit. I assumed she had the flu again.”

  Hunter was caught at that familiar place between wanting to laugh at her, and being thoroughly annoyed by her. He decided to take the safest path.

  “I will leave you to your tea and chess, mother.”