The High Druid's Blade: The Defenders of Shannara by Terry Brooks Page B

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 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 went up 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