High Druid's Blade

EIGHT

AS HE HAD PROMISED, FOLLOWING LUNCH SEBEC DELIVERED Paxon to Oost Mondara, who was waiting for him in the courtyard of the Keep reserved specifically for weapons practice and training. The yard was dusty and sunlit, and there were no other Druids or trainees about. Oost was standing by a rack of weapons, arranging them in a manner that suggested the paternal love of a father for his children.

“From now on,” the Gnome said without turning around, “I will expect you to be here promptly at noon. This area is reserved for your training each day for three hours exactly, and I know you don’t want to waste a minute of it.”

“Good luck,” Sebec whispered to Paxon, and hurried away.

Paxon, determined to do whatever it took to prove he belonged, stepped forward and bowed. “I apologize.”

The Gnome turned slowly to face him. In the daylight, he was even more gnarled and bent. “Apologies are not necessary between a teacher and a student. Nor is bowing required. Now, let’s have a look at you.”

He made a slow circle of Paxon, saying nothing until he had completed his study of the Highlander and was facing him anew. “You have a solid build and good posture. You might not think that’s important, but how you carry yourself defines how you will perform with a blade. Is that your sword you have strapped to your back?”

“It is,” Paxon said. “I thought–”

“Take it off.” The command was brusque, perfunctory, as if perhaps it shouldn’t have even been necessary. “You won’t be needing it today. Or for quite a while yet. Tell me of your training. Formal or informal?”

“Informal,” Paxon admitted. “But I drilled with members of the Border Legion and the Red Guard while they were on leave and visiting Leah. A few were stationed in the Highlands and offered to teach me.”

The Gnome’s face crinkled in distaste. “How wonderful for you. But your education here will take a slightly different direction. I am sure you know how to use your sword in at least a rudimentary way. I am sure you could defend yourself, if need be. I am equally sure that once you discovered your sword possessed magic, you began thinking you might never again need to worry about fighting an average sort of battle. You could just use magic if things got too rough.”

Paxon almost said no, just to be perverse. But instead, he nodded. “It crossed my mind. But obviously you don’t approve.”

“Obviously I don’t. That sort of thinking can get you killed. Magic is a wonderful thing, but it is unpredictable and treacherous. It cannot be relied upon one hundred percent of the time. And it only needs to fail you once to put an end to your life. An ordinary blade, on the other hand, is always constant. Learn to use it, and you have only the limitations of your education and skills to hold you back. My job is to provide instruction that will allow you to know going into any battle what you can expect from your weapon and yourself. If you are forced to fight, you want no hesitation. Am I making myself clear?”

“Very.” He reached back, released the buckle that held his sword and sheath in place, and removed them.

“Give them to me, please,” Oost Mondara ordered, and held out his hand.

Again, Paxon almost declined. But what he hoped was good judgment and common sense overruled his reluctance, and he gave up the weapon to the Gnome. Oost took it from him, balanced it in his hand, drew out the blade and examined it from every angle, struck a combat stance against an imaginary foe, and sheathed the blade once again.

He carried the sword over to a rack, hung it from a peg, and walked back again. “That is a very fine weapon, young Paxon. Perhaps too good a weapon for you; that remains to be seen. At the very least, you owe it to yourself to become a swordsman worthy of such a blade. You owe it to those who carried it before you to be their equal. Let that be your goal in the time we are together.”

He paused. “Now walk over to that barrel, pull out one of those wooden swords, and follow me.”

With a final reluctant look at his own weapon, Paxon did as he was told. The swords in the barrel were battered and unwieldy and appeared to have been used by thousands of hands before his. Feeling less than enthusiastic, he chose the best of the bunch and rejoined Oost, who was standing by an odd contraption a few yards away. It was a six–foot–long log embedded upright in a circular platform that rested on wheels. It was shaped to resemble a human, with poles for arms attached to the makeshift body by heavy springs and a head consisting of a helmet set upon the upright end of the pole. A wooden sword similar to the one Paxon held was tightly attached to one of the pole arms.

“Meet Big Oost,” the Gnome announced, gesturing toward the creature. “He will be your sparring partner until you can knock his helmet off with your wooden sword. He will be my surrogate in this early part of your training.” He caught the look that passed across Paxon’s face and laughed. “What, you thought you would train with me, personally? But look how small I am! What chance would I have against someone as big and strong as you? You try your luck with Big Oost first. Who knows? Maybe you will get a chance at me quicker than you think.”

Paxon didn’t know what to say. He started at the Gnome and then at the contraption. “Just hit it?”

“Wherever you can.”

Paxon eyed Big Oost warily. “This isn’t what it seems, is it?”

“Nothing much is when it comes to fighting an enemy. You are right to be wary.” The Gnome smiled crookedly. “But do something anyway. This is just a lesson.”

Paxon took a guarded stance, and Big Oost immediately mimicked him, bringing its wooden sword about in guarded fashion. Paxon hesitated and then swung a mighty blow at the other’s helmet. But Big Oost’s sword blocked it so quickly that Paxon’s sword arm shuddered from the force of the blow. The Highlander tried again, this time with a feint and a follow–up thrust. Again, he was blocked. He went into a crouch, angry now, circling the contraption, watching it follow his efforts smoothly, rolling on its wheeled base, always keeping Paxon in front of him. Three more times the Highlander tried to get past the machine’s guard and three more times he failed.

He stepped back, winded and frustrated, his arm aching. “How does it do that?”

“Magic,” Oost Mondara replied. “How does it feel to be on the receiving end? But you have to expect the worst and be ready for it every time. Take nothing for granted. Expect the unexpected. Take me, for instance. I am a weapons expert who trains others, but I also have the use of magic. I animated this pile of wood and metal and infused it with a generous portion of my own combat skills. I have no desire to wear myself out on those who can’t defeat an inanimate hunk of spare parts. You will spend the rest of the day looking for a way to break through its guard. If you fail–which I fully expect you will–tomorrow will be another day of the same. I will offer helpful hints when I can. I will suggest ways in which you can improve. But mostly, you will learn on your own. There is no better teacher than experience. Now have at it.”

So Paxon did, renewing his attack on Big Oost, slowly accepting that the machine was better at protecting itself than he was at attacking it. He tried everything he knew to break past its defenses, and nothing seemed to work. All the while, Oost Mondara stood by, watching. Now and then, he would offer suggestions on Paxon’s form and choice of stance and approach. But mostly he said nothing. Every fifteen minutes or so, he would call a halt and let Paxon have a short rest and as much water to drink as he wanted.

The three hours went by more quickly than the Highlander would have expected, and he was surprised when Oost called a halt to the day’s training. On the other hand, he was so sore and winded from his efforts he could barely stand.

“A hot bath with plenty of soaking, a good dinner with ale to wash it down, and a solid night’s sleep will help.” The Gnome retrieved the Sword of Leah and handed it to him. “You can leave that in your room tomorrow. As I said, you won’t need it for a while. What you need first is a better understanding of your shortcomings.” He gave a perfunctory wave as he walked off. “Remember. Noon sharp.”

Paxon soon discovered that three hours of attacking Big Oost had left every part of his body aching. His sword arm, in particular, hurt so badly that even lifting it was a problem. He took the bath as suggested, lying about in the water until it was cold, and then dressed and wandered down to the dinner table. He found Sebec sitting with Avelene at one end of a long table, both of them grinning.

“How’s the sword arm?” Sebec wanted to know.

“Need me to help feed you?” Avelene asked.

He laughed along with them, but even laughing hurt. “Did you have to go through this?” he asked them. “Does everyone have to train with Oost?”

“Druids don’t train with weapons unless they are warrior Druids, and we have very few of those,” Avelene said. Her lean face bent close to her food, as if she was afraid it might get away from her. “There hasn’t been a single one since I came to the order five years ago. Training is reserved mostly for those in the Druid Guard and when Oost decides it is needed for men and women like yourself who are asked to serve as protectors and paladins for the order.”

“Well, how many of those are there?” Paxon demanded.

Sebec cocked an eyebrow. “None, right now. The last was several years ago. He didn’t complete the training. It’s rigorous, I hear.”

Then he and Avelene began laughing anew, trying to muffle it but failing miserably. “Look on the bright side, Paxon,” Avelene declared. “You’ve got no competition! You’ve got the field to yourself.”

Paxon nodded along agreeably and finished his meal quickly so he could go off to bed and suffer alone.

The following morning, Sebec took him up to the cold room and let him have a look at the scrye. Paxon was still sore, but feeling better after his night’s sleep, ready enough for the afternoon weapons practice and confident that he wouldn’t have to limp through it.

They climbed to one of the highest floors in the main building and down a long hallway past many closed doors to one that looked the same as the others, but wasn’t. Inside, a huge stone basin resting on a circular riser housed the scrye’s magic–infused waters. A single Druid sat next to the basin, keeping close watch, monitoring its responses. Or in this instance, its lack thereof, because nothing was happening.

Nodding a greeting to the other Druid, Sebec offered a brief explanation of how it all worked. The basin bottom was inscribed with an intricately drawn map of the Four Lands and surrounding bodies of water and scattered islands. If magic was used anywhere within the Four Lands, it would register within the waters–sometimes as ripples on their surface and sometimes as a boiling deeper down. Now and then, there would even be changes of color.

“This is how we first learned about your sword,” Sebec said. “When you ignited its magic in your confrontation with Arcannen, it revealed its presence in the scrye waters. We followed up from there.”

“So the response of the waters varies according to the strength of the magic expended?” Paxon asked. “The amount of turbulence is directly proportional to the nature of the magic used? And you can read the nuances?”

“Pretty much. A weak usage might not even register, but we aren’t really looking at those incidents, in any case. We are mostly interested in the stronger ones because they indicate a more powerful form of magic and the possibility of greater danger to anyone close.”

“The reaction to my fight with Arcannen must have been fairly dramatic.”

Sebec cocked an eyebrow. “Enough so that the Ard Rhys was summoned immediately. The search to uncover the source of the magic was begun that very night. We found Arcannen quickly enough. It took a little longer to find you.”

“How did you find me?” Paxon pressed. “How did you even know I had been to Dark House?”

“Oh, that wasn’t so hard. At the direction of the Ard Rhys, I flew to Wayford and asked around. We have people living there–friends of the Druids–who keep us informed. Once we knew of Arcannen’s involvement, one of those friends advised me that the sorcerer had just that day flown in from Leah with a new girl for one of his pleasure houses. When I spoke with the airfield manager, he pointed me toward the boy Grehling. He told me about you.”

Paxon pursed his lips doubtfully. “He didn’t seem the type to tell much of anything to anyone.”

Sebec shrugged. “He isn’t. But I can make almost anyone tell me what they know, if I wish it. That’s part of what I can do with my magic.”

Paxon wasn’t all that happy to hear that magic had been used against Grehling, but he supposed it was in a good cause if the end result had led the Druids to him and in turn brought him to Paranor. He didn’t think Sebec would do anything to hurt the boy. Still …

“Sebec!” the other Druid called out, pointing at the basin waters, which were shimmering and giving off tiny ripples just above the outline of the rebuilt Southland city of Arishaig.

Sebec and Paxon moved over for a look. “A medium disturbance, nothing too overt, but heavily concentrated on one area. Or person.” He caught the Highlander’s quizzical look and smiled. “Once you learn to read the waters–something all Druids have to learn how to do–you can pretty much tell what is happening when magic is used.” He nodded to the other Druid. “I will let the Ard Rhys know of this.”

He left the room at once with Paxon in tow, and it seemed to Paxon they were departing with more alacrity than he would have thought necessary, given Sebec’s disclaimer about the disturbance. Then he remembered how Sebec had told him that his own use of magic had warranted summoning the Ard Rhys, and wondered if this instance wasn’t more serious than the young Druid was letting on.

They went up to the top level and the quarters of the Ard Rhys. Sebec knocked, waited for permission to enter, and left Paxon outside to wait. The Highlander moved over to a bench on the other side of the hall and sat down, thinking it over. He supposed it wasn’t strange that Sebec would shade the truth about the seriousness of any particular magic’s use. Why should Paxon be allowed to know the truth of such things? He was only in training, and there was no guarantee he would still be around in a month or two. Even though he believed he would be, no one could be sure.

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 overengage 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 if 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.