Magic After Dark: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels

by Margo Bond Collins

  Aeden did all that he could think to do. He flicked the flexible shaft of the spear at Carbry’s neck, first on the left side and then the right. The smack of the wooden blade made the larger boy cough and sputter as if being choked. He dropped the hammer mid-swing and put his hands on his bruised throat. Aeden whirled, striking both of the Carbry’s legs behind the knee, and swept them out from under him. He landed flat on his back, still gasping.

  Aeden’s two opponents looked briefly at each other. He could almost hear their thoughts. He has already taken out two of us and now he has a weapon. A long weapon. He resisted the urge to smile at them. It would not do to become overconfident.

  Morag moved first, charging him with her greatsword, Ruadh only a step behind. Aeden danced to the side, swinging the tip of the spear at the boy. The clack of wood echoed through the training yard as his opponent blocked the strike. Morag was on the other side of the broadsword wielder and could not complete her strike without hitting her ally.

  She turned just in time to see the spear coming straight at her face.

  Aeden had laid his weapon along his shoulders behind his neck and propelled the shaft along the length of his left arm and shoulder, controlling it loosely as it zipped through his left hand. She was not able to get her sword up in time, not able to evade it. The point, though dull, would puncture her eye and blind her permanently.

  Aeden closed his fist on the shaft and stopped it just short of blinding the girl, a hair’s breadth from her pupil. She didn’t have time to fully exhale before he stepped forward while spinning the spear to strike her in the temple with the butt of the weapon. She dropped to the ground bonelessly, just as Cinaed had done seconds before.

  Ruadh, not waiting for Aeden to turn his attention to him, lunged in with his sword, striking Aeden’s left arm hard near the elbow. Lightning shot up and down the arm and Aeden almost dropped his spear. Instead, he shifted his shoulder to move the sword upward, away from his head and face, and connected a perfectly-timed side kick that lifted his opponent off his feet and landed him a few feet away.

  Aeden couldn’t control the spear with his numbed left arm, so he grasped his weapon further up the shaft with his right hand and jabbed at Ruadh. They danced around the center of the ring for the time it took for each to attack four times. Lunge, parry, jab, deflect, slice, evade; they moved so quickly the spectators probably couldn’t follow the blurred weapons.

  Ruadh committed himself to a powerful downward stroke toward Aeden’s head. Bracing the spear under his right arm, Aeden swung inward and slapped the oncoming blade toward his left side. In the same motion, his left foot arced outward in a crescent kick that connected to Ruadh’s cheek, upsetting his balance. A right inward crescent kick followed, staggering him even more, Ruadh’s sword still far to the right of the kicks.

  Aeden left the ground, jumping and spinning to harness the motion he had already built up. His left foot came around so rapidly, the dazed Ruadh couldn’t even focus his eyes on it as it contacted him in the side of the head. The force was enough to nearly flip the boy sideways. He landed in a pile of flaccid limbs outside the ring.

  The clan chief’s son landed on the balls of his feet, balanced with the spear held steady in his right hand, the tip pointing at his opponents and the other end behind his arm, protruding out behind his back. There was no need for his ready stance, though. The others were either unconscious or out of the ring.

  He had passed his Trial.

  Master Tuach shouted “End,” and Aeden rushed to his fallen opponents to make sure they were not seriously injured. They regained consciousness a few minutes later, and though Carbry had difficulty breathing and speaking with his throat so bruised, none of the four would suffer lasting effects of the battle.

  “You did not use maximum force or technique on your opponents,” Tuach said to him as the others were helped or carried out of the ring. “You did not strike first and hardest to eliminate your opponents as quickly as you can, as you have been trained. Is this becoming a habit for you, Aeden?”

  “I didn’t need to,” Aeden answered.

  “If one of them had gotten in a lucky strike, you could have lost. Once committed to battle, we must engage with every bit of ferocity we possess.”

  “Master Tuach,” Aeden said. “I know that is the truth, but this is not real battle. One, or all, of these may someday save my life in a real battle. Why would I want to cripple them now? When the stakes are real, life or death, I will not hesitate. But I will also not cripple or kill my family if it is unnecessary.”

  The master looked at him, searching his eyes, then nodded and put his arm on the boy’s shoulder. “Good. That is good. Just don’t go telling the other lads that. They wouldn’t understand and would use it as an excuse to shirk.”

  “I will keep silent about it,” Aeden said.

  Chapter 10

  The trainees who were successful in their Trials of Combat paid a visit to Dubhach, the tattooer. In general, clan warriors each had a few tattoos, some many more than a few. Perhaps the art commemorated important battles or quests, or at times they would indicate something special, and Dubhach was the one to make the designs come to life with needle and ink.

  The tattoos for the successful completion of the Trial of Combat, though, were a sacred thing and must be applied exactly as they had been for the last thousand years. It was an intricate design, but one that the tattooer could do in his sleep. It took hours of detailed work and was always on the left wrist for all to see. It looked like a continuous band around the wrist, swirls and maddeningly complex curves, but was actually two copies of the same art, one on each side and meeting in the middle.

  “This marking symbolizes that you have passed your Trial of Combat,” Dubhach told Aeden as he finished the tattoo. “There is another that you will receive when you pass your Trial of Magic, but that one is not the work of any such as I. It is applied to your skin magically, a product of the spells the clan chief and the clan elders cast upon you.

  “These two tattoos announce to anyone who knows our ways that you are a warrior of the Tannoch clan and that an attack on you means they attack and insult everyone else in the clan. You are halfway there. Succeed in your Trial of Magic, and you will truly be a warrior of Tannoch.”

  Aeden nodded respectfully to the tattooer and inspected the marking on his wrist. It stung still, would do so for several days according to Dubhach, but it was a beautiful thing to behold. He followed the swirling lines around, trying to see some pattern in it, but he could not. Perhaps it symbolized the ever-flowing and circular nature of life and the world.

  He laughed, thinking that maybe he had been reading too many of the old philosophy books kept in the village safehold. His father always joked with him that he acted twice his real age. Aeden figured the hard training was responsible, causing him to put away boyish things much earlier than he otherwise would have. It was a puzzle for wiser heads than his.

  The boys and girls who did not pass the Trial of Combat to earn their tattoos had one other chance to prove themselves worthy. Once they healed fully from the previous trial, they were allowed to face the Trial again.

  The elders of the clan knew that not everyone would be the best fighter of their peers, so the Trials were designed to push them, to force them to go beyond their normal abilities, to grow as warriors. It was rare that anyone failed the second Trial of Combat. Those who did, however, were cast out of the clan, given a waterskin and a knife and forced to flee. If they were ever found within clan lands after their banishment, they would be killed on the spot. There was no one who received such punishment in Aeden’s class. He was glad of that. He could think of nothing worse than banishment from the clan.

  In addition to continuing their training in survival, combat, and strategy, the trainees began to learn the forms for the clan magic.

  “Tannoch clan magic is blood magic,” Master Solon said, “and so involves life and death. Blood is the surrogate of both. Withou
t it, there is death, with it, there is life. The power of our magic is based upon this premise. Thus is it called the Raibrech, the Bloodfire. It is no small exaggeration to say that it is what makes us of Clan Tannoch.”

  Aeden looked around at the others. They were all rigid, focusing on Master Solon with intensity. He turned his attention back to the man in front of them.

  The warrior was more than sixty years old, but he stood erect and moved like a man much younger. Aeden had seen him sparring, and he was still agile and quick. His long, almost completely gray hair was tied behind his head in a ponytail, a complex piece of jewelry made of interlocking vines and snakes holding it in place. His sharp beak of a nose dominated his face, and several scars crossed his cheeks and forehead. They were reminders of battles with other clans, it was said.

  “You will be learning the forms for the magic, but will be unable to use it until the Trial. By tradition, the quickening happens when you become adults, at fourteen years of age. The elders have cast blocking magic upon you to prevent any from prematurely gaining the ability.

  “You must pay attention to every nuance, every movement and every word of power I teach you. It could be the difference between passing the test and failing. You do not want to fail this test.”

  So began their training and practice in the clan magic. Aeden thought it was fascinating, the mixture of deft hand and arm movements and words in other languages.

  Ruthrin, the common speech shared by most of Dizhelim, was used for conversation in Clan Tannoch. Some spoke in the traditional Croagh language, Chorain, but as time passed, that tongue was being relegated to the past. It saddened Aeden. It was a beautiful language, much more so than Ruthrin. Though a few of the words of power they were learning were Chorain, the vast majority of them were in another ancient language. The “language of magic,” as Master Solon called it, sounded even more impressive than the other two.

  “No, lad,” Master Solon said. “You canna do it like that. Turn your wrist a quarter turn and straighten your back. The magic will not come if you do not channel it correctly. And speak up. You’re barely whispering the words.”

  Aeden did as he was instructed and the master smiled. He had Aeden repeat the movements several times, adding the words of power in a clear, loud voice, and then Solon clapped his hands twice, getting everyone’s attention.

  “Everyone, come here.” The master pulled Aeden toward him so he was standing next to the older man. “I want you to see how the motions and words should be done. Aeden, perform the spell.”

  Aeden did as he was told, just as he had done earlier. Others in the crowd mimicked his motions.

  “Good,” the master said. “Keep practicing.”

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Greimich told Aeden later. “We’re told to go through the motions, say the words, do everything we would need to do to cast the spell, but we’re not allowed to call the magic. How can we be sure we have it right if we can’t actually feel the magic?”

  “We have to rely on the master to tell us if we got it right,” Aeden said.

  “But why would they block us that way?” Greimich groused.

  “It’s tradition. Maybe there was a reason in the past. Maybe too many trainees hurt themselves or others with their practice. Can you imagine loose magic flying about the training yard? Someone could burn the village down by accident.”

  “Aye, I see your point. Still, I don’t have to like it.”

  “No,” Aeden said, patting his friend on the shoulder. “You do not. But we have to accept it, don’t we? We have to train, learn what we need to learn, and trust that when the block is removed, we will pass the test. It’s all we can do, is it not?”

  “I suppose.”

  There were dozens of magics to learn, but the trial would consist of only a few. There were healing spells—not many because the blood magic concerned itself more with causing injury—as well as offensive and defensive magic.

  Some forms even did simple, mundane things. The master demonstrated a few, just to show them there was more to learn after succeeding in their Trials. For the time being, though, he drilled them relentlessly on the handful of forms they needed to master first.

  The time finally came for the Trials of Magic to begin. They had been learning the forms for nearly a year, since just after the Trial of Combat. At fourteen years of age, they were considered adults, though not yet warriors of the clan. Each of the trainees would be individually unblocked by all six elders of the clan, including Aeden’s father, for their test.

  “Before you go to get unblocked and take the Trial,” Sartan Tannoch said, addressing all the trainees, “I want to commend you all on your hard years of training. We took wee lads and lasses and have forged them into warriors deserving of the clan name.

  “After today, you will be free to go to your families and to take part in the day-to-day life of the clan. You will no longer live in the barracks and will no longer have your schedule set for you each day. You will have proved your adulthood and will be seen as such in the eyes of all the clan. After today. For now, you have one more task to complete, one more trial. The Trial of Magic. Let us begin.”

  The Trials were performed in reverse order, the lowest ranked boy in the class all the way up to Aeden, the top of the list. Aeden watched the first few, all successful, but to different degrees. The masters and the elders judged if the use of the magic was sufficient to allow the candidate to pass. While some showed a firm grasp of it in one or two of the required spells, many barely brought the magic up at all. It made Aeden feel better, though he was still nervous.

  Since the trainees were not required to watch, most of them went back to their bunks and rested, only returning when it was their time. After a while, Aeden did the same.

  The crowd sounded different than it had all day. It had the cast of disappointment and surprise, the tone dropping as the sound reached his ears. Aeden left the barracks and went toward the spectators to see what the commotion was about.

  “He failed,” someone said nearby, merely a whisper.

  “Seam didn’t pass the Trial,” another voice said.

  It seemed true. Seam was walking toward the mass of those watching the Trials, head hung low, his step barely a shuffle. The boy looked up at Aeden as he walked and there was pain there in his eyes. Failure. What would happen to him? No one had ever told them. What price did failure bring?

  The rest of the Trials passed without failure, and soon it was Aeden’s turn, the last Trial of the day. He went to the elders who, in unison, made several gestures and spoke unfamiliar words. A warmth settled over him, spread throughout his entire body, and then dissipated.

  Sartan smiled at his son, nodding his encouragement.

  “The last Trial,” Master Solon said. “Aeden, son of Sartan.”

  Aeden strode boldly up to the space in front of the masters and the elders. He did not feel as confident as his posture portrayed. Still, he had practiced the forms, knew all the words. The block was removed. All he need do was bring forth the magic.

  “Perform for us ‘Skinning the Highland Cat,’” Master Solon said, and chuckles rose from the spectators. All of the spells held poetic names such as this, not only to differentiate them from the others, but to remind the user of what the magic did. The pun on his trial of survival, a well-known story to all, was humorous to some. But Aeden was too nervous for joking.

  The boy dropped into a deep stance, such as would be used to withstand a charge, and he began to move his arms in the prescribed motions, circular in a counter-clockwise direction, the shifting so the right hand continued in that direction while the left moved clockwise. He clearly enunciated the words of power, “Feat. Gate. Adehal,” while facing the training dummy he was to use as a target.

  Nothing happened.

  “Cachten daedos d’estaigh!” Aeden muttered under his breath. His mother paled at the particularly vulgar curse. His father hid a small smile. What was he thinking, cursing at a time like t
his?

  The surprise on the masters’ faces stood out in stark contrast to the smiles of a moment before. Aeden knew his own face must reflect them. His hands shook slightly and his heartbeat doubled. His motions stalled until he grappled his mind back under control and started to repeat the fluid motions. He said the words again, this time louder, more insistent.

  Nothing.

  “Perhaps one of the more powerful spells will warm you up more quickly,” Master Solon said. “Take two deep breaths and perform for me ‘Light to Conquer Darkness’.”

  Light to Conquer Darkness. It was the most powerful magic they had been taught in their training. Done correctly, it would force the blood magic into the opponent, overwhelming them with energy and literally tearing their bodies apart from the inside out. It was one of the rare spells they had been taught that could affect more than one foe at a time. It was very powerful.

  Aeden breathed as he’d been instructed, noticing the look of concern on his father’s face. He closed his eyes, pushed that out of his mind, and pictured himself successfully performing the spell, the dummy in front of him exploding from the energy of the magic he wielded.

  Opening his eyes, he stared at the dummy with such intensity it should have burst into flames without the magic. He made rolling motions with his hands, almost as if he was punching something directly in front of him with one hand, then the next, repeated over and over again. As he did so, he fixed his mind on the dummy and the conflagration he would force into it, seeing the actual flame in his imagination. He spoke the words of power.

  “Liso. Vinctire. Aruna!”

  The only movement was the soft breeze gently carrying the ribbon tied around the dummy’s head. It remained still. And whole.

  Aeden’s heart doubled its rate again. It pounded in his chest, trying to get out, to run away. His palms were moist and his forehead dripped with perspiration. He didn’t understand. He did the forms correctly, exactly as Master Solon had taught him. The words were pronounced exactly right as well. He had just performed the same spells yesterday for the master, and he said they were perfect. Why, then? Why would the magic not come?