Terry Brooks: High Druid's Blade

Paxon raised his sword in readiness, easing forward. “Let him go,” he ordered the sorcerer.

Arcannen ignored him, his eyes fixed on Leofur instead. “You could have just knocked,” he hissed at her. “My door has always been open to you.”

“Ever wonder why I never take you up on that?” she snapped. “Why don’t you stop hiding behind other people?”

The sorcerer’s eyes shifted to Paxon and back to the young woman. Paxon could see the anger and desperation reflected there. “I don’t think I want to have this conversation just now,” he said.

“Paxon thinks you should have a talk with the Druid order,” she retorted. “Maybe you can explain to them why you killed one of their members.”

“Please let me go!” Fentrick gasped sharply.

“I don’t think they would like my explanation, Leofur.” Arcannen was dragging the guard deeper into the room, toward the back wall. “Why are you doing this to me, anyway? What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing you would ever be able to give me!”

Paxon was hearing this conversation, but not quite understanding what it was about. Or maybe he understood all too well. Whatever the case, he didn’t care to listen to any more of it. He was standing within five feet of the sorcerer by now, close enough to act if Arcannen resisted. “Either you come out from behind your guard or I’m coming right through him!”

Arcannen was looking at him now, a direct, challenging gaze. “You are, are you?” The black eyes glittered. “But do you intend to go through those men behind you, as well?”

It was an old trick, but both Paxon and Leofur instinctively shifted their gazes, casting a quick look over their shoulders. It was enough. Arcannen shoved the hapless Fentrick into Paxon and brought both hands up just an instant before Leofur could level her flash rip. A flash of light caught her squarely in the chest and knocked her backward into the wall, where her head slammed into the wooden boards. She collapsed instantly, the flash rip falling to the floor beside her.

Paxon kept his feet, if only barely, shoving Fentrick out of the way and charging at Arcannen as the terrified guard righted himself and staggered out the door. The sorcerer crouched against the wall, hands held out in what appeared to be a defensive posture, but was not. A flaring of white fire burst from his fingers into Paxon, the fire hot and crackling.

The Sword of Leah scattered it in shards.

Arcannen tried again, this time with a flame that was even hotter and separated in three parts so that it came at Paxon from different directions. But the Highlander stood his ground and did not panic, wielding the sword as Oost had taught him, choosing his targets and blunting their force with responses that were as swift and accurate as the movement of his eyes from one to the next. The fiery strikes burst apart, pieces of flame flying all over the room, leaving scorch marks everywhere.

Arcannen roared in anger and shifted his stance once more, hands weaving, words pouring from his mouth in a rush of hissing and growls. Light flashed between them, and suddenly the sorcerer was holding a sword encased in fire. It had substance and a clearly defined shape, and the flames burned bright green.

Paxon took a step back, uncertain about this new wrinkle, waiting to see what would happen. Arcannen feinted casually, the strange weapon flaring each time he did so. “Did you think you were the only one who knew how to use a sword?”

He rushed at Paxon with a flurry of blows that the latter only barely managed to block as he sidestepped the worst of it and tried to get at Arcannen from the side. But the other was agile and his movements smooth, and it was instantly clear that he had real skill and experience with his weapon. He blocked Paxon’s counterattack easily, turning it aside with little effort. They separated and then met in a clash of blades, sparks and flames exploding from Arcannen’s sword as it collided with Paxon’s. Back and forth they surged, each one fighting to overpower the other, to cause him to slip, to lose his footing, to grow weary and fail.

Finally, Paxon thrust the other away from him, seeking space in which to maneuver. Arcannen laughed cheerfully as they began to circle each other. Then, abruptly, the sorcerer turned and fled the room. Paxon raced to catch him, but Arcannen was waiting just outside. As Paxon charged through the doorway, he only barely managed to block the other’s sword as it swept past his head. Even so, the impact of the fiery sword against his own blade knocked him sideways into the wall. Arcannen was on him instantly, hammering at him, trying to break through his defenses. For an instant Paxon faltered, sensing he was overmatched. But his training and his determination saved him again. He blocked the sorcerer’s blows and regained his momentum, first stopping the attack and then forcing the other man to give ground.

Again, Arcannen turned and fled, this time for the stairway. He was screaming for help, yelling for his men to come to his aid. A handful did, appearing at the head of the stairs, blocking Paxon’s way as their leader rushed past them. But the Highlander never slowed. Giving the battle cry of his ancestors, the one all boys learned almost as soon as they were old enough to walk–Leah! Leah! — he went right through them.

He was down the stairs and on top of Arcannen before the other could reach the front door. Again they met in a clash of metal and fire, the sounds of the blows and their own heavy gasps from the effort filling the hallway. Paxon was wearing down, his strength ebbing, but he sensed that Arcannen was even more exhausted. At one point, in what the Highlander took to be an act of desperation, the sorcerer tried using magic to create a lumbering giant encased in armor. But Paxon slammed into the image fearlessly, and shattered it with a single blow.

Arcannen was retreating, step by step, now clearly interested only in escape. Smoke and ash filled the hall, clouding the air. Both men were bloodied and battered, their faces blackened and their eyes red with fatigue. Rage was present in their locked gazes, reflected in the glint of their eyes. Paxon was thinking of Starks, of how he had died. He was telling himself that the man he was battling had killed him and could not be allowed to go unpunished. He was telling himself that he was the one who must make that happen.

What Arcannen was thinking was unreadable. But his eyes said it was dark and dangerous.

They were alone now, the hallway empty save for them. The guards who remained upright had either fled or gone into hiding. No one was coming to Arcannen’s aid. Paxon felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. The sorcerer’s guards had abandoned him, his strength was fading, and his hopes for escape were disappearing.

He rushed Arcannen anew, sword lifted, yelling out once more–Leah! Leah! — intent on finishing this. Arcannen snarled something in reply and held his ground. When they collided, the impact staggered both. Weapons flashed and clanged, and the blows the men exchanged were fierce and unrelenting. They surged back and forth across the hallway, fighting from one wall to the other and back again. The minutes dragged on; the struggle continued.

Finally, as they backed away from each other yet again, muscles screaming with fatigue, mouths open and gulping for breath, Arcannen held out one hand in a warding motion. “You can’t win this,” he gasped.

The Highlander laughed, drawing in huge breaths. “I am winning it. Hadn’t you noticed? Why don’t you just give it up and come with me?”

“Back to Paranor? Back to your Druids? You know what would happen to me.”

“You shouldn’t have killed Starks!”

Now Arcannen laughed. “You think I didn’t know that even before it happened? You think I wasn’t trying to avoid it? But he tracked me and would not quit! I just reacted; it was instinctive.”