Brooks, Terry - High Druid's Blade - The Defenders of Shannara (9780345540713)

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.”