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

by Margo Bond Collins

  Aeden flicked his sword around and struck a deep slicing blow just below his opponent’s ribs that, if he was using a steel blade, would have cut him almost completely in half. As the momentum of his strike carried the other boy past him, Aeden rotated, reversing the direction of his sword, and slashed downward on his opponent’s upper back.

  Though he could have struck a few inches higher, the blow would most likely have crippled the other boy, crushing the bones in his neck. Aeden was fueled by anger, but he would not lose control. Killing or paralyzing the bigger boy would serve no purpose to the clan.

  Donagh shot toward the ground, striking it full with his face and chest, his weapon bouncing out of his grasp. A huff of air came out of him and Aeden knew that he had at least cracked a rib or two, if not broken them. The boy scrambled to his feet, gasping to get breath into his lungs. His eyes were unfocused, but he finally found the spear and bent to pick it up. Aeden stood silently and watched him.

  Donagh brought his weapon up in a ready position, breathing shallowly, face twisted in obvious pain. He was not taunting Aeden any longer. His eyes, glazed with agony, showed real fear. Aeden nodded at him.

  At this, the bigger boy’s face contorted in rage, and he rushed forward, grunting a pathetic and breathless attempt at a battle cry. Aeden waited patiently for his foe to come to him.

  Donagh swung his weapon with reckless abandon, slashing, jabbing, and flailing it about like an untrained barbarian. Aeden knew he had defeated his opponent. “When your enemy has sacrificed his defense for a mindless offense, he has lost,” Master Tuach always told them. If Aeden had ever seen someone give up all their defense, it was his foe right then.

  Aeden sidestepped a wild downward slash, batted away a lunge, moved his sword just slightly to block a strike from the butt of the spear, and watched as his foe twisted the polearm in midair to deliver a fast, hard horizontal blow. The bout had gone on long enough.

  Aeden again stepped toward his opponent, bringing his sword up in a deflecting position high up on the shaft of the spear. The short arc that section of the weapon traveled made it easy to do so.

  Without stopping, Aeden spun in a circle and struck his opponent’s midsection hard. The larger boy didn’t even have time to bend over fully before Aeden brought his sword around to strike the arm holding the spear. If the loud crack was any indication, he’d broken that arm. The spear clattered to the hardened dirt.

  Still moving in a flowing arc, Aeden struck the bigger boy hard in the face with the pommel of his sword, causing Donagh’s head to snap back. Another tight circle with the sword and he struck down on the collarbone on Donagh’s left side. There was a popping sound.

  His opponent was defeated and there was no honor in damaging him more. Still, level three combat required something more than an assumption that the foe could no longer fight.

  Donagh staggered to his feet, one arm hugged to his chest and the other hanging useless with a broken bone. He was a pathetic mess.

  Aeden stepped back half a step and whirled his sword around and back at his opponent. He delivered four short but blurringly fast strikes. Downward diagonal strike to the side of the neck, horizontal slash to the other side of the neck, a savage lunge to just below the sternum, and a final, downward vertical slice on the top of the foe’s head. All of them barely grazed his opponent, causing no damage but making it clear that, even with a wooden weapon, he could have killed the bigger boy.

  Wanting to end the bout, Aeden spun, throwing his foot out and whipping it across his opponent’s face, causing the bigger boy to fall like a tree to the ground, unconscious.

  Aeden looked at the other boy for a moment, then shifted his eyes to his father. Sartan was nodding, as was his mother.

  Master Tuach walked toward Aeden, a grim look on his face.

  “You have won, Aeden,” he said, “but do you want to explain why you spared him the strikes at the end?”

  “He was beaten,” Aeden said simply. “There is no honor in crippling him. We may need him to fight for the clan one day.”

  The master narrowed his eyes and looked deeply into Aeden’s, then he sighed. “Very well. Get back in line.”

  Aeden did as he was told and slipped back into line with the others. A few of the boys nodded or patted his shoulder as he went by, but most of them were too nervous to do anything but look toward Master Tuach, hoping their name would not be called next.

  “That was fantastic!” Greimich said and he slapped Aeden on the back. “It will be a while until he heals. We won’t have to worry about him lording it over us and threatening us for a time.”

  Aeden allowed himself to smile. He and Greimich had been selected to be training partners, Braitharlan. The term meant, literally, “blade brothers.” They trained, fought, ate, and did everything else together. Their bunks were even side-by-side. In the team combat and games of skill, they were always teammates. It was nice to have someone to rely on.

  The boys turned their attention to the two new combatants that had been called by Master Tuach. Not all the trainees fought in the level three matches. There would only be two or three more bouts. The clan could not afford to injure or cripple too many of their students so early in training.

  Aeden watched them as they fought, his mind recording their movements, their habits, their responses. He might have to fight them one day, and seeing them like this was invaluable. He noticed Greimich doing the same thing and smiled.

  Chapter 4

  The training regimen for Croagh boys—and to a lesser extent the girls—was brutal. Physical training, combat training, survival training, instruction in strategy and tactics, and other things that would be needed to carry on the reputation of the finest warriors in Dizhelim, they had it all, every day from their fifth birthday until their testing at the age of fourteen.

  Aeden thrived in the regimented lifestyle, and he excelled in every facet of the curriculum. His keen mind learned things quickly and could analyze and problem-solve in an instant. His physical abilities were second to none in his class as well, allowing him to sit at the head of the class, the second-ranked boy and first-ranked girl far below him.

  The months passed and he and Greimich became as close as brothers, relying on each other and supporting each other in everything they did. Because of Aeden’s influence, the other boy moved up the ranks as they trained and sparred together. Eventually, his friend was in second place among all the others being trained. It was good. Aeden was proud of Greimich. He saw similar situations with the other pairs who had bonded.

  “It is time,” Master Tuach said. “Tomorrow will be your level four combat. You will fight with all your strength and skill, holding nothing back. You will be using practice weapons, but otherwise, you will treat it like real combat. You will strike your opponent mercilessly and give no quarter.

  “Do not hesitate in this.” The master looked each of the students in the eye. There were twenty-six of them, two classes at different stages put together for the level four bouts. “You will treat your opponent as if he or she is an enemy and trying to kill you because it is true. Go and take the afternoon off. Visit your families, prepare your mind and body, rest. Tomorrow, some of you may die. Dismissed.”

  Aeden looked at Greimich. His friend looked back at him.

  “Level four,” Greimich said. “In the last class, two of the students died and one other was crippled.”

  Aeden’s eyes met those of his friend, but he said nothing.

  “I sure hope you get Donagh again. He deserves to be hurt. It didn’t take him long after he healed to start bullying the others as he used to. He’s had months to get back into shape, and his attitude is just as it was.” Greimich laughed. “Well, almost. I notice he doesn’t say anything to you anymore.”

  “No,” Aeden agreed and chuckled.

  “I’m going to go and see my family. I should be able to survive tomorrow. I’m second in the class in combat behind you. Still, I better go and see them.”
r />   “Me too,” Aeden said. The boys clasped forearms. “I will see you later, after dinner.”

  They split up and went their separate ways, Greimich to his family and Aeden to his.

  “Level four combat tomorrow,” Miera said with a frown. “I understand requiring the boys to be willing to follow orders even if they don’t agree with them, but I have never liked level four. Why injure or kill one of our own? We could use every man if one of the other clans—or outsiders—attack.”

  “Ah, Miera,” Sartan said, “ever the soft heart.” He pulled her into an embrace and kissed her. “It is a tradition from the first clan that grew from the Cridheargla. It will be fine. Aeden is the best of the class. He will be safe.”

  Miera didn’t say anything, but her face still showed concern. Sartan’s face, too, held reservation. His brow was slightly furrowed and his eyes wouldn’t quite reach Aeden’s. What was going on?

  “Father,” he said. “Is there something we are not being told about tomorrow’s trial?”

  The way Sartan flicked his eyes toward his son and how they opened slightly more told Aeden all he needed to know.

  “Why would you ask such a thing, my son?” the clan chief said. “It is the highest level of combat besides real warfare. Is that not enough for anyone?”

  Miera looked at her hands.

  “Yes,” said Aeden. “I suppose it is. I must get back to my bunk now. I want to be well-rested for tomorrow.”

  The look of relief on both of his parents’ faces when he changed the subject confirmed they were hiding something. Aeden thought he might know what, but he would be patient and wait for tomorrow. Knowing with certainty would do nothing but interrupt his sleep.

  “I love you, Aeden,” Miera said as she swept him into a hug.

  ‘I love you too, Mother. Father.”

  He hugged both of them, suffered through a kiss from his mother, and headed back to his pallet in the barracks where all the trainees were required to live. One thing was sure, he would have to hurt someone tomorrow. He hoped his hunch was wrong.

  Aeden and Greimich woke up at the same time the next morning, neither of them having slept well. They had nearly two hours before they were required to be at the training grounds, so they went to the dining hall and took their time eating breakfast. The large room was used by all in the village, everyone required to eat at least one meal a day there to keep contact with other clan members. For the most part, the trainees ate every meal there.

  Despite the very early hour, many of the boys and girls in training were already eating their breakfast. It must be normal to feel so nervous about what would happen that sleep eluded them before the level four fights. Aeden didn’t see Donagh, but whether that was because he slept well or because he was too nervous to be seen wasn’t clear.

  It didn’t matter. Aeden had no fear of fighting the other boy. In fact, he would prefer it. The bully had gone right back to his terrorizing ways after he had healed from their last bout. He stayed clear of Aeden himself, but he had obviously not learned a proper attitude. If there was one boy he wouldn’t mind beating senseless, it was that one.

  “How do they pick who we’ll fight?” Greimich asked.

  Several other boys and a girl at nearby tables cocked their heads to listen.

  “I don’t know,” Aeden replied. “I have asked my parents and others and no one will tell me anything. It’s like it’s a big secret or something. I don’t like that.”

  “Aye, me either.”

  They continued eating silently. Greimich looked at Aeden as if to speak a few times, but then apparently changed his mind and took another bite of food.

  When they had eaten as much as was wise considering the first bouts started in just over an hour, Aeden and Greimich left the dining hall and headed toward the training grounds.

  They started, as Aeden always did, with running easily around the area, warming his muscles and gearing up his breathing for the fight. Then, they chose practice weapons, the sword for Aeden and twin sticks for Greimich, and they sparred. They did so slowly at first, but soon moved at almost full speed, attacking, defending, and stalking around the area.

  “Enough,” Greimich called out, crossing his sticks in a salute. “I don’t want to be too tired for the actual fighting.”

  Aeden returned the salute by holding the sword vertically in front of his face. It was good sparring with his friend. The boy had become a fine combatant. He had almost struck Aeden a few times there. Aeden had tapped him with his sword, blows that could have been hard and—if he carried a steel blade—lethal, but it was by no means easy. His body was warmed up, and he was ready for the day’s trials.

  “I know I can take anyone here, except you,” Greimich said, “but I’m still nervous. If I have a bad day and my opponent has a good one, I could be hurt seriously. Or killed. I don’t want that to happen. I’m not a coward, mind you. Pain is part of life. But I wouldn’t want to be crippled before I have a chance to fight real enemies. Do you understand that?”

  “I do,” Aeden said. “I don’t worry about being hurt, but I wouldn’t like to kill one of my own clan, or injure them seriously.”

  The other boy’s eyebrows raised at that. “You are nervous about injuring your opponent?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you?”

  Greimich paused for a long minute, looking at his friend. “No. Master Tuach has told us we must follow orders above all else. If we must hurt our brother or sister to prove our loyalty, it is for the greater good. Right?”

  “As you say,” Aeden said.

  “Gather round,” Master Tuach said, entering the training grounds. “There will be thirteen matches today, so we must get started right away.”

  Aeden and Greimich replaced their weapons on the rack and went to stand with the others as the master motioned to several clan warriors, who moved into position around the crowd of trainees.

  “What you are about to hear you must never repeat to any who have not passed their trials. Violation of this rule carries a penalty of instant death. Do you understand?”

  The boys and girls all nodded. Aeden looked at Greimich, but his friend seemed preoccupied with something else, his face gone ashen. Aeden feared his suspicions were true. He didn’t like that the men surrounded them to prevent any from running. It didn’t bode well.

  “Today’s combat will be level four combat, meaning that the only way a bout will end is if your foe is unconscious, dead, or so severely crippled that he or she cannot possibly rally. Being thrown from the ring will not end that fight. Do you understand this?”

  He looked at each of the trainees to make sure they nodded their affirmation.

  “Good. We will not be drawing your opponent’s names. They have already been determined.”

  As one, all the boys and girls snapped their eyes toward the master. Some even leaned forward. The morning air was silent enough that Aeden could hear Greimich breathing next to him.

  “Combat will be with your training partner, your Braitharlan. Prepare yourselves.”

  Numbness washed over Aeden. It was as he suspected. Still, when the master said the words, they were a surprise to him. He blinked, not moving or making a sound. He heard a noise to his right as one of the boys tried to run out of the grounds. One of the men surrounding them caught the boy and threw him back into the group. There was even weeping from somewhere.

  “Daight daedos ist,” Aeden spat.

  He turned and saw Greimich looking at him, his face devoid of color. Aeden opened his mouth to speak, but Master Tuach’s voice boomed over anything he would have said.

  “Aeden and Greimich! You two are the top rated and also happen to be paired. You’re up. Choose your weapons.”

  With a final, forlorn look at Aeden, Greimich went to the weapon rack and retrieved the sticks he had just returned. Aeden picked up the training sword he had been using. Both of them trudged toward the center of the training grounds, to the all-too-familiar ring in which they would fight
.

  “Let me remind you that this is level four combat,” Tuach said. “You will win or you will be unconscious, seriously injured, or killed. Those are the only options.” He turned toward the other trainees in a loose circle around the combat ring. “You have grown close to your partner, you have become friends, family even. This is a test of your loyalty. You must put the clan first, and the good of the whole clan above individuals. If you cannot sacrifice one, even a loved one, for the good of the clan, you are to be cut off. The clan is all. Any who refuse to fight will face the Daodh Gnath, the Ritual of Death.”

  The master glared at those around him, then nodded. He turned his attention back to Aeden and Greimich. “You are to be the first. Show these others what it means to be a clan warrior. Do not hold back. Fight for your life, for that is what you are truly doing. Begin!”

  Aeden looked at his friend. Greimich looked back at him. Aeden opened his mouth, but Greimich simply shook his head, set his jaw, and attacked.

  The ferocity of the attack surprised Aeden at first, but then it made sense. His friend knew that he could not defeat Aeden in a fair fight, so he would try everything to throw his opponent off-balance. It was a good tactic.

  With a scream, Greimich rushed in, sticks swinging independently, the left coming in with a horizontal strike to the right while the right came down diagonally toward Aeden’s head.

  Aeden lifted his sword hilt up and to the left side of his head, catching the stick and deflecting it downward. In the same motion, he allowed the sword to slide down with the stick until it was on his right side, blocking the other stick. In a blink, he reversed the direction of the sword and sliced downward from right to left, a vicious cut toward Greimich’s exposed neck.

  The other boy jerked both sticks up to block the strike. Barely. Aeden’s swing was so powerful, it battered the sticks against Greimich’s shoulder, forcing him to stumble away, off-balance.