The High Druid's Blade: The Defenders of Shannara (9 page)

He remained where he was until Sebec emerged and then rose. Sebec came straight over. “She seems to know what it means, but it doesn’t hurt to make certain. Are you hungry yet? Would you like to go to lunch?”

That afternoon proceeded in very much the same way as the one before it. Oost started off with a short lecture about positioning and stance, then set him against the machine once more. This time Paxon felt he made Big Oost work a little harder, but the end result was pretty much the same. Though he strove mightily to break through the other’s defenses, he was blocked every time. The closest he got was when by accident, on a misstep, he struck back almost out of reflex and seemed to catch his sparring partner off guard, nearly getting past its belated block.

It started Paxon thinking, and when the session was over he found himself wondering if he couldn’t take advantage of what he had learned that afternoon. Shouldn’t there be a way to catch Big Oost by surprise? A way that would allow him to break past the machine’s automatic defenses and strike off his protective helmet?

Then late that night, when he was lying in bed still thinking about what might work, something occurred to him. He was looking at things the wrong way around. Oost himself had given him the clue he needed, and he hadn’t paid close enough attention to it at the time.

But he was paying attention now.

On the third day, he had the morning to himself. Sebec was otherwise occupied, and Paxon took advantage of the free time to explore the outside world from atop the walls of the Keep, viewing the surrounding forestlands and the distant mountains, orienting himself with his surroundings by direction and points of reference.

Skipping lunch, he went straight to the practice yard. He sat through another short lecture from Oost Mondara and then picked up his sword. Standing toe-to-toe with Big Oost, he started his regular feints and cuts and slashes, and then stopped thinking about what he was going to do and just reacted. He wheeled about so that his back was to the machine, then finished the movement by coming full circle. As he came around, he thrust swiftly and without thought at the helmet atop the pole, broke cleanly past the defensive block Big Oost tried to employ, and sent the helmet spinning away in a bright flash of metal to slam against the stone wall twenty feet away.

Oost Mondara climbed off his perch, grinning wickedly. “So, young Paxon, you figured it out, did you?”

“You said early on that nothing is what it seems when you face an enemy in combat, and that you should be ready for anything. Then I started mulling over what you said about infusing a piece of wood and metal with magic. But wood and metal aren’t sentient, so how could you do that? It seemed more likely that you were operating Big Oost yourself, controlling its movements by thought. You could see what was coming; you could anticipate what I was going to do. So Big Oost was responding to your own instincts. I was fighting you, after all.”

“Exactly. You were trying to break past my defenses, and I was trying to stop you. So it’s time we move on. Until now you hadn’t gotten to the place where you were ready to test yourself against an attack I might mount. That’s what we will work on next. Sit and have a drink of water, and we’ll start anew.”

Starting anew, as it turned out, quickly washed away any lingering sense of accomplishment and thrust the Highlander directly into a fresh kind of suffering. Now Big Oost was free to attack him, and he was forced to defend himself. He was allowed to counter, but not to directly attack his adversary. This was the next phase of his training, Oost Mondara advised. Now he would be required to concentrate solely on defensive work and holding strategies until he mastered those sufficiently. His reward for this promotion was a body that ached all over from blows struck by his attacker that he failed to adequately block and that left him bruised and battered.

When that day’s session had ended and he went back to his room and peeled off his clothes to bathe, he found his body was a rainbow of dark colors that formed intricate patterns over torso and limbs with barely a patch of skin untouched. Everything hurt from head to foot, and while nothing appeared to be broken, his muscles and joints were raw with pain. He bathed in salt water in an effort to ease his discomfort, then slept until dinner and went down to the dining hall.

Neither Sebec nor Avelene, sitting across from him, said a word to him while he ate. When the meal was finished, he rose, nodded to them, and went directly back to bed.

The days and weeks that followed were marked by further battering and bruising, but after a time it lessened as he slowly improved his responses to the attacks and his anticipation grew sharper and more effective. After two months, he was skilled enough to be able to block almost every blow Big Oost gave him and to keep the other not only at bay but also off balance with counterstrikes. His body toughened, and his confidence grew by leaps and bounds.

Even his taciturn, acerbic trainer began nodding and voicing approval, and Paxon was starting to feel he might really belong at Paranor with the Druids.

By then, he was studying magic with Sebec in the mornings—classes that were informal and mostly a sharing of the young Druid’s information on how magic worked rather than actual practice.

“Before you can learn magic, you have to understand it,” he told Paxon. “Not just in the raw, instinctual way that you came to discover the magic in your sword, but in an intellectual fashion. You have to appreciate the ways in which it can both help and hurt you. Because it can, sometimes without your meaning it to do so, sometimes without warning or reason, and mostly because you are too reckless and unthinking in your use of it.”

“I didn’t feel any of that when I fought against Arcannen,” Paxon pointed out. They were sitting in one of the classrooms, just the two of them. “If anything, it felt exhilarating.”

“Yes, and there’s danger in that, too. Magic can become addictive. Magic
is
addictive. You need to be aware of that and not let it become so much a part of your life that it comes to dominate it. All Druids run this risk. Every time they use magic, they chance crossing a line that they can’t cross back over. Brona, in the time of Allanon, was one such Druid—a man who delved too deeply into the arts and was consumed as a result. I’m not saying this would happen to you. But you need to know that magic is never safe and never predictable. It responds to you—to who and what you are inside. It adapts, and sometimes it wants to change you.”

“How am I supposed to protect myself against that?” Paxon wanted to know. “How do I measure the amount of magic expended so that it doesn’t do me some sort of damage?”

“Practice, mostly. But understanding the danger and being aware of it beforehand helps, too. You are less at risk than the Druids who use magic all the time and in varying forms. Your sword is a limited, recognizable sort of magic. There aren’t that many parameters to its use. Eventually, you will come to know them all. Unless you over-engage in use of that magic, your exposure and the resultant danger isn’t so great.”

So it went. They discussed how a nuanced use of magic could be mastered, how emotional control could help create the necessary balance between what was intended and unexpected consequences. Sebec explained how, over time, Paxon would come to understand uses of his sword’s magic that he could not even imagine now. The magic’s well was deep and cold, but its taste was sweet and life giving. Paxon’s choice to embrace it would give him strength and purpose; he need only be aware of its limitations and vicissitudes.

Mostly, Paxon agreed with Sebec in his analysis and explanation of magic’s workings, though he longed to experiment and discover its limits. But the young Druid was adamant: He must be patient and he must wait. His concentration now must be on his weapons training. Oost Mondara would not stand for distractions that using magic at this point—even it was only testing the limits of his sword—would cause.

So more time passed, and more lessons were learned, and better results were achieved on the practice field, but Paxon’s patience was slowly, steadily eroding.

Then, just over two months into his time at Paranor, he was summoned to the chambers of the Ard Rhys.

N
INE

I
T
WAS
S
EBEC
WHO
BR
OUGHT
P
AXON
THE
MESSA
GE
and who delivered him to the door of the room where Aphenglow Elessedil waited. But then the young Druid told him he was to enter alone and left him there. Paxon watched the other’s back recede down the hallway, not quite believing he was being left alone for this meeting. But then he took a deep breath and knocked.

“Come in, Paxon,” the Ard Rhys called out from inside.

He entered and found her waiting in the company of another Druid, a man of ordinary size and appearance, a Southlander by the look of him, one possessed of eyes that were of two different colors—one deep blue and the other lavender. The Druid nodded to him but said nothing.

“Close the door, please,” the Ard Rhys ordered.

He did so and stepped up to where she sat at her writing desk, its small surface cluttered with papers of all sizes, shapes, and colors. “This is Starks,” she said. “I’ve asked him to travel to the Westland to Grimpen Ward where there is evidence of a magic in use. I want you to go with him.”

Paxon didn’t know what to say. “As his protector?”

“That, but mostly as a student assigned to learn from a more seasoned member of the Order. I have spoken to Oost and he tells me you are well along in your training with weapons. He thinks you are ready for some practical experience. This particular journey should suffice. The magic the scrye has discovered is not large and is being applied in a haphazard manner. Whoever has it likely found it by accident and has no real idea how to use it. Or, perhaps, even of the danger it poses. To the finder, this is mostly an interesting toy. Starks will show you how to find such magic and how to retrieve it without calling attention to yourselves or causing harm to anyone else.”

“Will I be allowed to take my sword with me?” he asked.

She nodded. “But you are not to use it unless Starks tells you to or either of you is threatened in a way that absolutely requires it.
Absolutely,
Paxon. Do you understand why?”

“Because I am still learning about magic? Because I don’t have enough practice with it?”

“Because every time you use magic, you risk someone finding out about it. The Druids are not the only ones who scour the Four Lands in search of magic. Others, many not friendly to the order and not respectful of its goals, hunt it, too. We don’t always know who these people are or where they can be found, so we use caution in employing magic and avoid invoking it whenever we can.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised.

“I’m counting on it.” She gave him a brief smile. “Now go along with Starks and let him explain more about the details. You’ll leave tomorrow.”

She went back to sorting through her papers, and Paxon went out the door with the other Druid. As they walked side by side down the hallway, Starks asked, “How long have you been here, Paxon? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“A little more than two months.”

“Working with Oost the entire time?”

“Mostly. In the afternoons. Sebec teaches me about magic in the mornings—about how it works and what to look out for when using it. How long have you been here?”

The other shrugged. “Maybe six years. I’m impressed by the fact that you had a run-in with Arcannen and lived to tell about it.”

Paxon suppressed a grin. “I was lucky. The sword’s magic saved me. How do you know about this?”

Starks gave him a look, his bland expression shifting into something resembling amusement. “Everyone knows, Paxon. Everyone knew even before you arrived. The Druids keep few secrets from one another.”

The Highlander frowned, looking off in the distance. “Apparently.”

Starks laughed. “You didn’t think there wouldn’t be talk of you before you arrived, did you? Not when you are the first paladin selected by the Ard Rhys in five years. You did know that, didn’t you?”

Paxon managed a sheepish smile. “I think Sebec said something about it. I guess the one before me didn’t last.”

“Didn’t and shouldn’t have. You, at least, seem better settled and certainly more seasoned. Oost talks, too, you know—even if you don’t see him doing so. He likes you.”

“He does?” Paxon was genuinely surprised. “I always believed he was pretty much just putting up with me.”

Starks came to a halt. “If he didn’t like you or think you were adequately prepared for it, you wouldn’t be going with me. You can be certain of that.”

He started away, and then he turned back. “You should also know that I asked for you to come with me. That ought to tell you something.”

A moment later, he was gone.

They set out at dawn, flying the familiar two-masted clipper crewed by a pair of Troll guards. One of them took the helm and the other managed the lines and light sheaths. Starks showed no interest in helping out; indeed, he placed himself squarely in front of the pilot box upon a folded blanket, his black robes wrapped about him, and disappeared into a book he had carried aboard. After stowing his bag, Paxon stood around for a bit, trying to decide what to do. He didn’t want to interrupt Starks, and the Trolls seemed fine without him.

Finally, he moved to the bow of the clipper and started working through the list of exercises that Oost Mondara had given him to loosen up every afternoon before weapons practice. But he was free to use his own sword now, and he did. The blade felt so much lighter and more balanced in his hands than the wooden model he used in field practice that he practically flew through his exercises. When he finished the first run, he drank some water from the deck barrel and began again.

Two hours later, he felt hot and vaguely light-headed, perhaps from doing so much at a higher altitude. In any case, Starks told him to break it off and have some lunch.

They sat together with tins of hot vegetable stew and bread and washed it down with ale. Surreptitiously, Paxon watched the other man, trying to make sense of him. He seemed so removed from everything, as if he was always somewhere else in his mind. He showed no obvious concern for the mission on which they had been sent, having not once bothered to discuss it with his companion.

Finally, Paxon said, “Do you think we’ll have any trouble with getting this magic away from whoever has it?”

Starks smiled. “You want to know why I don’t seem worried about it. Maybe why I don’t even seem interested. It’s just the way I am. I don’t like to think too far ahead about what’s waiting around the corner. I like to be prepared, but not troubled. We’ve got two days before we reach Grimpen Ward. There is no point in fussing about it until then.”

Paxon frowned. “I don’t know if I could do that.”

“Most can’t. Other Druids wonder about me. I hear them talking sometimes when they think I don’t hear. But I’ve always been different from most of them anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Paxon said.

“I’m from the deep Southland. From Sterne. Not too many raised that far inside the Federation find their way to Paranor.”

“But you did?”

“I wasn’t satisfied with what the Federation had to offer. I didn’t accept that I wasn’t supposed to use magic if I could manage to do so. That sort of rule feels artificial. So I went north and asked the Druids if they would take me. Some of them wouldn’t have, I suspect. But the Ard Rhys did. She never questioned me, never asked for a reason, and never suggested I wasn’t to be trusted because of where I came from. She worked with me personally for a time, and then gave me over to Isaturin. That was daunting. He was very precise, very demanding. A tough teacher. But I came through, and now I am a full-fledged member of the order.”

He gave Paxon a look. “You know, you should give some thought to joining the order, too. It might be possible, once you’ve proved your value as a paladin.”

“I didn’t come to Paranor to join the order,” Paxon said quickly. “I don’t think it’s for me.”

Starks rose and stretched. “Give it time. You might not know what what’s for you this soon. And don’t underrate yourself. You can do and be anything you want.”

He went off for a nap, leaving Paxon to clean up the lunch, which the Highlander set about doing. At least he was performing a useful task.

They set down for the night halfway across the Tirfing in a copse of conifers that offered some protection from winds that had picked up late in the day and suggested a change in the weather. As the pair ate dinner with the Trolls, they could feel a sudden rise in the temperature.

“We’re going to get some rain,” Starks declared, the firelight reflecting from his different-colored eyes. “A lot of rain.”

They went belowdecks to sleep that night, heeding the Druid’s warning, and by midnight the rain was hammering against the sloop’s hull and the vessel was rocking and straining against her anchor ropes, buffeted by the heavy winds. The motion was familiar to Paxon, who had been aboard airships all his life, so he slept undisturbed until one of the anchor ropes broke and the clipper began slamming against the trunks of the trees in which she had been moored.

So throwing off his blanket, he went topside with the Trolls and down the rope ladder to fasten fresh ropes in place to resecure the ship. By the time that was done, he was drenched, and because it was near morning he chose not to try to go back to sleep. Instead, he sat up until dawn, listening to the howl of the wind and thinking about other times. He wished that Starks would be more open with him about what to expect, but he accepted that this might not happen. Starks was closemouthed and reticent, and Paxon believed the man pretty much preferred his own company. That he had taken as much time with the Highlander as he had at their initial meeting seemed surprising in retrospect.

He found himself thinking of his family and home. He had been back only once since coming to Paranor, in spite of his promises to his sister and mother—a fact he found troubling. He could argue that he had been too busy with his training, which was admittedly demanding, but the truth was that he had chosen to stay away. Going back before he had accomplished something worth talking about didn’t feel right. And to date, that hadn’t happened. Perhaps after this journey was over and he had helped retrieve the magic they sought, he would make another visit.

Perhaps.

When dawn arrived, the storm departed, moving eastward. The winds died and the temperatures dropped enough that the humidity faded. Starks, Paxon, and the Trolls ate their breakfast, released the mooring lines, and set out anew. They flew through the better part of the day, crossing the Tirfing to the Rock Spur Mountains, and finally descended into the Wilderun and the frontier town of Grimpen Ward.

They landed some distance away from their destination, choosing a spot within the forests where the ship wouldn’t be likely to be found. Starks shed his black robes in favor of woodsman’s garb similar to what Paxon was wearing, and then the two set out on foot. Twilight was approaching, and the shadows cast by the trees were lengthening, absorbing the fading splashes of sunlight. The woods felt empty and watchful, its eyes those of creatures that made their homes there. They found a footpath that took them a short distance to a road. From there, they could just make out the outlying cabins and sheds of Grimpen Ward’s residents—ramshackle affairs with no sign of life. The road they followed was empty until they neared the main part of the town, where the first of the taverns spilled its patrons out one door and on to the next while new patrons pushed their way inside and women from the pleasure houses called out to them from the doorways and windows of their workplaces.

A few dogs roamed the streets and alleyways as they made their way through the town, and carts and horses passed them by in a rumble of wheels and a clopping of hooves. Beggars came at them from everywhere, and pitchmen from the more exotic shows called out their promises, wild and tempting.
Come see, come experience!
Paxon glanced everywhere at once while Starks looked at nothing but the road ahead.

When they reached the crossroads marking the town center, Starks brought them to a halt, then moved out of the road to an opening between two buildings and stood with his back to the wall. “Keep your eyes open,” he said to Paxon.

Then he closed his own, and for long minutes was very still. When he opened them again, there was a hint of confusion on his face. “I’m picking up on more than one form of magic. That shouldn’t be.”

“You can tell where it’s coming from?” Paxon wanted to know.

“In general. I can sense the residue. The two are close to each other. Maybe they are even the same, reflecting different uses. In any case, we are not near them. They are all the way on the other end of the town.” He glanced about, looking up at the sky. “We should go before it gets any darker.”

They set out anew, maneuvering their way through the growing crowds, keeping to themselves, trying to avoid unwanted encounters. It was difficult to make headway, the streets filling quickly with the approach of nightfall and the air pungent with the promise of nighttime pleasures. Several times they were accosted, but Starks gently moved those who stopped them away with a touch of his fingers to his lips and a small twisting gesture.

Eventually they reached the far end of the town, the buildings just beginning to give way once more to the forest, lights in windows and streetlamps brightening with the coming of darkness. Starks slowed as they reached a tavern whose sign announced it as the Mudland Rose.

“This is where we want to be,” he said to Paxon. “The magic is close by, but we will have to sniff it out. I will ask the questions, and you will watch my back. If anything looks awry—anything at all—tap me on the shoulder. Don’t hesitate. If there is another magic hunter inside, we don’t want to be caught off guard.”

Paxon nodded. With Starks leading the way, they pushed through the double doors and entered the tavern.

Inside, it was a madhouse. Men and women were crowded up against one another shoulder-to-shoulder, with barely space to move about. The room was cavernous and so dark and smoky that Paxon could not see into the murky corners and higher spaces at all. Patrons stood three-deep at the serving bar, and all the tables were filled. The laughter and shouting were deafening.