Four Wizards and a Funeral

By Katie Hanna

Family reunions, am I right?

I stalk through the crowd, the knives strapped to my thighs jangling with every step. Wizards spot me and clutch their oak staffs. Hardened warriors stroke their swords thoughtfully.

Sharp eyes rake me from my spiky raven hair to my black leather boots. I hold my head high.

“Return of the prodigal daughter,” I mutter. “Let joy be unconfined.”

I stride toward the dais where my grandfather, Kieran Mac Sweeney, lies in state. His heirs surround his coffin, resplendent in silver and purple.

Clearly, my siblings are doing fine without me. I’m not sure why I bothered to check.

I mount the steps, my knives clinking loudly.

My sister extends a polite hand. “Orla.”

I bow. “Ness.”

“You had to show up dressed like that?” Ness shoots a poisonous glance at my leather warrior’s garb.

“You had to show up dressed like that?” The geometric motifs on her purple wizard’s robes are already giving me a headache.

“We are wizards!” Ness raps her staff on the floor. “We have gathered to bury Kieran Mac Sweeney, the greatest wizard in five generations, and you waltz in here looking like some common warrior—”

“I am a warrior,” I hiss.

“Would it kill you to show some loyalty to your own clan?” Ness tosses her black hair. It tumbles down her back like a midnight waterfall. “This teenage rebellion has gone on too long, Orla Mac Sweeney!”

“I’m thirty years old, Ness! This teenage rebellion”—I gesture to my bristling knives—“is who I am!”

“Knock it off, sis.” My youngest brother, Rian, shoulders his way between us. “Orla likes swords better than spells. Big deal.”

“Thanks, Ri.”

He squeezes me in a bear hug, and I grunt.

“It is a big deal!” Cahal, our oldest brother, puffs out his chest under his shimmering silver robes. “It’s a serious breach of trust for a Mac Sweeney to fraternize with our rivals—”

“Our rivals?” A familiar figure snags my gaze, and my shoulders tense. “You mean, Aoife O’Donoghue?”

The most dangerous warrior in the O’Donoghue clan smirks at me from the foot of the dais. Aoife’s red hair blazes like a bonfire, and her knives glitter like the Milky Way. The rest of the funeral guests give her a wide berth. I don’t blame them.

“What in the name of the sacred mountain ash,” I demand, “is Aoife O’Donoghue doing here?”

“Why should you care?” Cahal blusters. “You work for these people!”

“I work for the other warrior clans! Not the O’Donoghues! Never the O’Donoghues!” My eyes dart through the crowd, spotting a few more red heads. Aoife’s brought company. “Why in the coldest Druidic hells would you invite our archnemesis to our grandfather’s funeral?”

Rian shrugs. “We’re negotiating a peace treaty. Cahal thought inviting her would jolly things along.”

“Oh, that’s cute.” I grab my sister’s shoulder. “Ness, you can’t tell me you’re on board with this!”

Her muscles are taut. Her lips crease in frustration. Ness hates Cahal’s little experiment as much as I do.

But she turns diamond-hard eyes on me. “Someone’s taking quite the interest in clan affairs after being gone for ten years.”

“You’re impossible.” I huff and shift my attention to the crowd.

Aoife O’Donoghue swaggers toward a Mac Sweeney wizard. As she passes, she deliberately jostles his elbow.

The wizard swings his staff, an eerie glow pulsing through it. In one smooth motion, Aoife flicks out a knife, brings down the blade, and slashes clean through the oaken rod.

Purple energy fizzes from the staff. The broken halves hit the floor.

The room erupts into chaos. Wizards and warriors shout and circle each other, brandishing their weapons. This funeral is on the brink of a multi-clan free-for-all.

I sprint down the steps, Ness and Rian at my heels. I reach level ground, and Aoife barrels into me. Her shoulder digs into my chest. I grunt and swing my knife. She whirls away. My weapon hisses uselessly through the air.

Her silver blade zips toward me like lightning. I shove my boot into her ribs, pushing us apart.

Aoife staggers backward, her blade clipping my leather sleeve. I lunge with all my strength, knocking her off balance.

Aoife’s skull hits the stone floor with a crack. Her knee jabs upward into my midsection. I yelp. She grasps my wrist and squeezes, her grip like a vise.

My kneecap crunches down on her shoulder. My leg squashes her stomach. My palm pins her arm—and her fingers choke the blood from my knife hand. I glare down at her, sweat dripping off my chin.

Aoife’s hand releases my wrist and tumbles to the floor. Her body goes heavy, leaden. Her eyes pop with shock.

I twist my head. Ness’ purple robes crackle with magical energy. Her staff points at Aoife like the finger of God.

The crowd goes quiet. Only the most powerful wizards can cast a full-body restraining spell.

“Ten years as a warrior, Orla,” Aoife sneers. “Yet you can’t beat me in combat without that Mac Sweeney mumbo-jumbo?”

“Sore loser.” Smirking, I flip sweaty hair out of my eyes. “At least I’m smart enough to fight by my sister’s side.”

“Throw her out,” Ness orders the guests. Eager volunteers hoist the offender like a sack of potatoes and lug her towards the door.

Rian pushes through the crowd. He flashes me a broad grin, clearly enjoying every minute of the ruckus. Not every clan member seems so thrilled. Cahal slumps against Kieran’s coffin, wringing his hands. He’s likely mourning the death of his lovely peace treaty. What kind of idiot tries to negotiate with the O’Donoghues? Maybe my family needs me more than I thought.

Ness coughs dryly, interrupting my ruminations. “You’re a real… wizard… with that knife, Orla.”

My shoulders stiffen. Did my straight-laced sister just make a pun? Worse, did she imply—

“I’m not a wizard!”

“Mmhmm.”

“Ness!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Ness!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katie Hanna is a writer in her spare time and a Hufflepunk all the time.  She has a Master’s degree in history from the University of Memphis, and puts it to work writing historical fiction and historical fantasy.  Katie likes strong women in her adventure stories and Oreos in her ice cream.

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