The High Druid's Blade: The Defenders of Shannara (10 page)

Starks took a quick look around, then began maneuvering his way toward the end of the counter where the serving girls were gathering tankards of ale on trays to carry to the tables. Paxon followed, trying to stay close. It required considerable effort, but they eventually reached their destination. Starks immediately bent to the closest server and whispered in her ear. She went white, nodded slowly, and did not turn to look at him. Instead, she mouthed something Paxon couldn’t hear, picked up her tray, and swiftly went about her business. Starks moved deeper into the room, Paxon following in his wake, using him as a buffer against the crowds. Although he was repeatedly jostled, he kept his feet and stayed close, scanning the crowds, taking in everything, thinking he might see something that mattered.

And then he did. At the very back of the room, a tall figure, cloaked and hooded, rose from a table and went out through the back door. Two others sitting with him, thicker of build and heavily muscled, moved in front of the door and stood blocking it.

“Starks!” Paxon hissed, tapping him hurriedly on the shoulder.

The Druid glanced back at him, followed his gaze, and nodded. “How many others?”

“Only one that I saw. He went out through the door just ahead of those two. I can’t be certain, but it looked like …”

He let the rest hang, so uncertain his eyes had not deceived him he didn’t want to finish the thought. Starks was already moving anyway, making for the door and the men guarding it, no longer evidencing even a trace of the careless disinterest that had marked his earlier behavior aboard ship. Paxon started to reach for his sword, but the patrons of the tavern were packed together so tightly that he couldn’t find space to maneuver.

Starks wasn’t waiting anyway. He came up to the men without slowing, felled one with a fist that shimmered with blue fire as it connected, and stunned the second with a bolt of that same fire flung from his hand in a brilliant flash. Both men went down, and Starks was past them and out the door to the yard behind the tavern, Paxon at his heels.

In the next instant a shock wave of black light exploded into them, throwing them back against the rear wall of the tavern. Starks was leading, so he took the brunt of the strike and lay motionless on the ground. But Paxon was only momentarily stunned, and he came back to his feet swiftly, drawing the Sword of Leah as he did. Another flash of fire exploded toward him, but this time Paxon caught it on the edge of his black blade and shattered it into harmless fragments. In the dying light, he saw that the attack had come from a stable set out behind the tavern at the end of the lot—a smallish structure with a handful of stalls and a maintenance shed. He also caught a glimpse of two figures crouched within the shed’s entrance.

Then everything went dark again, and Paxon was forced to wait until his vision adjusted. Crouched in the night’s gloom, aware of Starks unmoving behind him and the figures ahead waiting, he held his ground, ready for a fresh attack.

When he could see again, the entrance to the stable was empty, and the figures were gone. He advanced warily, thinking it might be a trap. But when he reached the building, he could tell it was deserted. There weren’t even any horses in the stalls.

He was about to go back to see to Starks when he noticed the dark bundle in a corner at the rear of the structure. Casting a quick look around, he went over for a closer look and found a boy of perhaps eighteen, his hands and feet bound and his body badly mutilated. It looked as if he had been cut and burned repeatedly. His eyes were wide and staring, and his mouth was stretched as if trying to scream. He must have died in the midst of whatever torture he was enduring. Paxon found and lit a lamp and bent close to the boy. Blood stained the ground surrounding the body, and he could make out the strange markings of boot prints.

“Federation issue,” Starks said, bending close. He was back on his feet, but one side of his face and body were heavily singed. “But these were people who knew magic, not common soldiers. That boy was subjected to a lot of pain, both internal and external. They wanted something from him, and I would be surprised if they didn’t get it.”

“The magic we were hunting?”

“That, for certain. But I think they wanted something else—something that wasn’t so tangible. Perhaps an explanation for how he found the magic. Or how he learned to use it. Or where he heard of it.” He looked at Paxon. “How many of them did you see?”

“Two. The one that left the tavern ahead of us and a second who must have already been out here waiting. What’s going on? Did both forms of the magic you sensed earlier belong to these two men? Or did one belong to whatever talisman the boy was hiding?”

“I’m not certain. At least one form of magic was what killed this boy, so we know that much. To know anything more, we would have to find the men who did this. If they were men.”

Paxon stared at him.
If they were men?
What else would they be? Were they dealing with some other form of creature?

“Let’s go after them,” he said abruptly. “Maybe we can still catch them?”

Starks gave him a look. “Maybe they would like that.” Then he shrugged. “Let’s do it anyway.”

They set out at once. Starks seemed to know where he was going, his head lifted, his eyes peering through the darkness as if he could see beyond it. They went at a fast trot, heading farther outside the town in the opposite direction from which they had come, following a narrow pathway into the trees. The shouts and laughter of Grimpen Ward slowly faded away, and the night’s stillness grew deep and pervasive. The only sounds now were of their own breathing and footfalls as they ran. Paxon had his sword out, ready for use, fully expecting that he would need it. Starks didn’t object. Once or twice, as they were running, Paxon caught sight of familiar boot prints in the soft earth ahead, and he knew they were on the right track.

Ahead, the woods opened onto a broad treeless stretch of pasture, and an airship sat bathed in moonlight on its far side. Two figures were running toward it and had nearly reached it.

“Leah! Leah!” roared Paxon, caught up in the moment, and with a sudden burst of speed he raced right past Starks in an effort to the catch the fleeing men.

He should have used better judgment. Ordinary men would have offered no threat to him from this distance. But magic users were another story. They turned, and the entire pasture lit up with explosions of green fire. It had the look and feel of an attack by flash rips and fire launchers, and Paxon was suddenly dodging this way and that to avoid being struck. He heard Starks calling out to him from behind, but he was too busy trying to stay alive to respond.

One of the men abandoned the attack and scrambled aboard their two-man, powering up the diapson crystals and preparing to lift off. Paxon ran harder, close enough now that he thought he could launch his own attack.

But in the next instant he was struck a powerful blow that lifted him off his feet and threw him backward, his clothing on fire and his ears ringing. He collapsed, still clinging to his sword, fighting to stay conscious. An instant later Starks was bending over him, smothering the fire with a sort of dry mist that spilled from his fingers. Paxon gasped for breath and tried to sit up, hearing the sound of the airship ascending into the night sky.

“Stay where you are,” Starks ordered, pushing him down again. “It’s too late now. They’ve gone. What were you thinking, anyway?”

“I just thought … they might panic … and then I could catch them,” he gasped. “Stupid, I know.”

The Druid felt carefully along his arms and legs and torso. “No harm done, apparently. But don’t ever do that again or it will be your last outing with the Druids. Am I understood?”

Paxon nodded. “Can I get up now?”

Starks pulled him to his feet. “At least we know a few things we didn’t know before.”

“We do?”

The Druid grinned. “Well, for one, we know you can’t readily disengage your brain from your impulses. You’ll have to work on that. I’ll tell you the rest on our flight back to Paranor. Come along. And put that sword away, please.”

Feeling both exhilarated and sheepish, Paxon Leah did as he was told.

T
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Paxon went immediately to the Ard Rhys to give their report. It was not a comfortable situation. Nothing they had set out to do had been accomplished. They had failed to find and claim the source of the magic the scrye waters had detected. The user—a boy not yet fully grown—was dead, likely at the hands of the men who had stolen the magic and escaped the Druids. A thorough investigation of the matter failed to turn up any explanation of what the magic was or how the boy had found it in the first place. No one had seen him use it; no one knew anything about how he had found it. No one even knew much about the boy himself. He was an orphan who had come looking for work several years ago and been hired to care for the horses of the inn guests. He lived in the maintenance shed and had no friends.

But, as he had indicated to Paxon, Starks had a couple of pieces of information he felt the Ard Rhys would find useful. First, it was clear that at least one of the men they had fought was a powerful magic wielder with skills the equal of his own. Second, the vessel their attackers had been flying had Federation markings. The Druid had noted them as the ship was lifting off. It was likely Federation-based and therefore quite possible the men aboard were in some way connected to the Southland.

“But this is the most important piece of information, Mistress,” he finished. “The men who stole the magic were expecting us. Clearly, they were magic hunters, and they would have taken precautions in any case. But they had set up a watch inside the tavern, and they knew us for who we were even though I wasn’t wearing the Druid robes that would identity us. They had it in their minds to kill us, and they very nearly did. But how did they know to look for us? How did they know we were coming?”

Aphenglow regarded him steadily. “You don’t think it was simply luck, I gather?”

“I don’t. I wish I did. But I think someone knew we were coming and told them so.”

“A spy.”

“Within the order. Yes. It is the best explanation, though not the easiest to accept.”

“No, hardly that.” She looked out her window for a long time, saying nothing. “Why would anyone go to so much trouble to claim a magic that seemed to have so little value? It was a minor magic when it revealed itself to the scrye. Is it possible it was much stronger than we believed? Or that it somehow evolved?”

“That would be unusual,” Starks offered quietly.

The Ard Rhys glanced at Paxon, who was doing his best not to be noticed. “What do you have to add to all this,” she asked suddenly. “You were there. What did you see that Starks didn’t?”

Paxon hadn’t planned on saying anything, so for a moment he was left speechless. “I only saw what he saw. Except …”

He paused, remembering suddenly. “Except that the man sitting at the table who went out the door ahead of us looked familiar. I didn’t see his face. It was the way he moved, how he held himself.” He shook his head. “But I’m not sure.”

“He reminded you of Arcannen, didn’t he?” she pressed him.

He nodded. “He did. But I just don’t know.”

“Well, he would be one who would be magic hunting. And he is a powerful magic user.” Starks smoothed back his dark hair and shrugged. “We should put an end to him, Mistress. Whether he was there or not, we’ve had enough of him.”

The Ard Rhys made no response, but instead got to her feet. “Is there anything more to report?”

To Paxon’s relief, Starks shook his head. He hadn’t said one word about the Highlander’s impetuous and dangerous charge across the pasture or how close he had come to getting himself killed. He hadn’t offered criticism of any kind.

“You may go, then. And thank you both for your service. Paxon, tomorrow you will report back to Sebec in the morning and Oost in the afternoon to continue your instruction. Starks, please write down everything you’ve told me for the records on magic retrieval. Now go eat something and then get some rest.”

And that was the end of matters for several weeks. During that time, Paxon began training with magic as well as weapons, abandoning the heavy wooden sword in favor of his own blade. It was Oost Mondara who determined he was ready, and Oost who turned him back over to Sebec for his lessons on using magic. Paxon was surprised when he discovered it was to be Sebec, mostly because the Druid seemed so young—not much older than his student, after all. But it made sense that the Druid who had provided him with his lessons on the theory of magic’s uses during their days of long talks and discussions should be the same one who provided his practical experience.

And he liked Sebec. Working with him was easy, and communication was uncomplicated and direct. With Oost, even now, there was a clear delineation between teacher and student, and Paxon never even thought about trying to cross that line. But Sebec was more a friend than a superior or mentor, and their relationship felt more like one of equals, though Paxon never doubted for a moment that the Druid was the more experienced and skilled.

This became clear on their first day of training together. Although there was no actual combat involved in learning how to use the magic contained in the Sword of Leah, it was Sebec who, from the beginning, understood the various ways in which it might be employed.

“You have to start thinking of it as a weapon that has multiple functions. You’ve seen it act to defend you—an instinctive reaction of the magic of the talisman when the holder is threatened. But there are other forms of protection it can offer, as well, if you ask for them—different shapes and sizes it can take and purposes it can assume. It can ward you as a shield or covering. It can encapsulate you. It can thrust away as well as shatter other magic. It can burn or strike a blow. It can become a thunderous wind or a heart-wrenching wail. It can be small or large, soft or loud. But everything it can do depends on your heart and determination. Your belief is as important as your physical strength. You need to believe in yourself and in your weapon both. Doubt is the enemy. Hesitation is potentially fatal.”

Sebec began working with him on expanding his attack skills. The Sword of Leah’s magic generated a powerful form of fire, very like what diapson crystals were designed to emit when used as a power source for the deadly flash rips. Technology had finally caught up with nature, Sebec opined. Once upon a time, before the Great Wars, technology had dominated and magic had been kept hidden away by those few who had use of it. Now that was changing, and the Federation was at the forefront of a determined effort to explore ways in which the old sciences could be brought back into the world to replace magic, most particularly as a multifaceted set of weapons.

There had been a time, more than 150 years ago, when it seemed this undertaking might have stalled permanently. The demonkind had broken free of the Forbidding and destroyed Arishaig and thousands of its people with it. The Prime Minister of the Federation had been killed along with almost half of the Coalition Council, and the government was in disarray. If ever there was a moment when the population’s collective attention might have been turned to other efforts, this had been it. But instead Arishaig had been rebuilt, a stronger fortress than ever; the Coalition Council and its officers had been replaced by an even more militant body; and the once-stalled efforts at creating weapons and warships had intensified.

The belief among the Southlanders, Sebec said, had never changed. A strong military, dominant weapons, and aggressive tactics were what would keep them safe. History suggested this mind-set might never change, even after all the catastrophes and defeats endured, even after all the hard lessons administered. The Southland had its own particular worldview, and as the largest and most heavily populated of the Four Lands, the heartland of the Old World and its storied survivors, it viewed itself as dominant and entitled. It was this attitude as much as anything else that had led it astray repeatedly over the centuries, but that nevertheless continued to prove pervasive among its people.

Discussions on topics such as these filled gaps in the actual training efforts that Paxon underwent over the next few weeks. Sebec used the time between attempts at focusing the magic as opportunities to discuss related matters, providing Paxon with a broader perspective of the world. The Highlander did not discourage or disdain this instruction; rather, he looked forward to and appreciated it. Sebec, in spite of being so close in age, was far more knowledgeable about history and current events, and he had traveled extensively on behalf of the Druids during the time he had been at Paranor and so knew the whole of the Four Lands. Paxon was grateful for the chance to share in what the other had learned.

But it was mastering the skills needed to unlock his sword’s potential that provided him with his most exciting and compelling moments. Because he could not wield the power of the Sword of Leah personally, Sebec was restricted to offering explanations on the nuances of a variation over and over. He was always patient and encouraging, every time, until Paxon would finally begin to comprehend what was needed and see his efforts rewarded. It was a slow, sometimes torturous process, but he wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

So his training progressed, and the three weeks passed swiftly.

He was still in the middle of his education at the beginning of the fourth week when he was summoned once again before the Ard Rhys.

Climbing the stairs to the upper levels of the Keep and the offices of the Ard Rhys, he paused when he reached the closed door behind which she waited, taking a deep breath. He remembered the last time he had come, brought to her by Sebec to be sent on his first assignment as a protector away from Paranor.

Was this to be his second?

He knocked, heard her bid him enter, and opened the door. Aphenglow Elessedil was bent over her writing desk once more, fussing with several stacks of paper, her ink-stained fingers clutching a quill pen. He bowed in greeting, and she waved him toward a chair to one side. “Sit down,” she ordered. “Pour yourself a glass of ale.”

He found a pitcher and two glasses on a small table beside his chair and did as she had instructed. Sipping the ale, he glanced at the other glass, a possible indicator that someone else was expected.

Five minutes later, the knock came again. “Come,” the Ard Rhys called out, and the door opened to admit Starks. The Druid was dressed in his black robes, and his sleepy expression suggested the summons might have caught him napping. With Starks, it was hard to tell. He smiled and nodded at Paxon.

“I have something new for the two of you to look into,” Aphenglow announced, rising from her desk to face them. She motioned Starks into a second chair, and he sat down at once. “This one involves traveling into the deep Southland below Arishaig to a small farming community called Eusta. Five killings have taken place in a little over a month, all of them by what the community elders are describing as a wild animal. But this animal has been seen and walks upright on two legs. It also seems able to disappear into thin air. It may be a shape-shifter or a changeling or something else entirely, but it is not a normal creature. What we know from reading the scrye waters is that it has the use of magic.”

“Why have we waited so long to respond to this?” Starks asked her.

“Deep Southland, Starks,” she pointed out. “They hate us worse than they hate whatever’s killing them. If the killings hadn’t come so close together, they might have continued to ignore us.” She shook her head. “Such fools. We offered help when we took the first reading, weeks ago. They turned us down. Now they’ve changed their minds.”

“So the magic might come from this thing changing appearances?” Paxon asked. “Or do you think it comes from something else?”

Aphenglow smiled. “I don’t think anything. It’s up to you and Starks to find out the truth. But see that whatever it is, it gets dealt with. Don’t leave it alive. Bad enough that we are shunned when we could help; imagine the reaction if we can’t help once we’ve been asked. The protocol is the same as before. Starks commands, Paxon protects. Don’t get it mixed up.” She sighed heavily. “Be careful with this one; I don’t like things that hide behind false faces. Watch your backs.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Arcannen, does it?” Paxon said.

The Ard Rhys cocked an eyebrow. “You can tell me that when you return. Leave in the morning. Travel safe.”

It was a long night for Paxon, who had trouble falling asleep. The idea of another assignment so soon was troubling. He didn’t think he had done all that well the time before, and he had wanted to complete his training before having to go out again. But Starks told him they had no one else to act as protector for the Druids save other Druids, and he believed the Ard Rhys thought additional practical experience would be good for him.

He also pointed out that there had been a sharp increase in the number of readings of magic throughout the Four Lands in the past half a year.

“It all began about the time the scrye orb disappeared,” he told Paxon before they parted that afternoon. “The orb was a companion magic to the scrye waters—different, yet serving the same purpose. Aphenglow found it in the wake of the events surrounding the breakdown of the Forbidding more than a century ago. It happened after she returned to form the Fourth Druid Order and build on the work of the Third. The orb allows its holder to view magic of any sort if it manifests itself. It can let the holder know the nature and location of that magic.”

“It disappeared?” Paxon repeated. “How did that happen?”

Starks gave him a look. “Not by accident, I can tell you, but the details are fuzzy. One day it was there, the next it was gone. Stolen, of course. But by whom? And who has it now?”

“But it’s a magic,” Paxon pointed out. “Wouldn’t the scrye waters reveal it at some point? Surely it’s been used.”

“Yes, well, there’s a problem with that. The one doesn’t reveal the other. One magic negates another—a rare but sometimes unavoidable event—so we can’t pinpoint where it is. We are still waiting for something or someone to let us know what happened.”