High Druid's Blade

TEN

ON THEIR RETURN FROM GRIMPEN WARD, STARKS AND 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 Druid had noted that the vessel their attackers had been flying had Federation markings, and it was likely 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 identify 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 likely other forms of protection it can offer, as well, if you know how to summon them. Perhaps it can ward you as a shield or covering, can thrust away, as well as shatter other magic. Maybe it can burn or strike a blow or become a thunderous wind or a heart–wrenching wail. Or 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 accomplish when used as a power source for the deadly flash rips. Technology had finally caught up with nature, Sebec opined. Once upon a time, technology had dominated and magic had been kept hidden away by those few who had use of it. That had changed with the Great Wars when magic had resurfaced. Now it was all changing back again as the Federation pursued ways in which the old sciences could be brought back into the world to replace magic once more, most particularly through the development 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 at her summons, 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 re–form the Fourth Druid Order and build upon its work. 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.”

He didn’t have anything more to add to what he had told Paxon, and the Highlander realized how hard it would be to track something like that once it was gone. But he found himself wondering if whoever stole the orb might not be the same person who had given them away to Arcannen at Grimpen Ward. It would be odd if it weren’t. There couldn’t be two spies within the order, could there?

They set out the following morning aboard the fast clipper and with the same two members of the Troll guard as before. Starks was soon back in his favorite position in front of the pilot box, buried in another book, reading as if there were nothing better to do. Paxon moved to the bow, thought about doing his exercises, then abandoned the idea in favor of a nap. Sleep seemed more important.

They reached Eusta the same day, but very late at night. There was a small airfield occupied by a couple of worn–looking skiffs and one two–masted transport moored up alongside a maintenance shack, and no one around. They spent the night aboard their vessel, then rose at dawn, washed and ate breakfast, and walked into the village.

Eusta was small and worn down by age and weather. Most of the buildings were wood–sided and thatch–roofed, patched and crumbling. A handful of men stood outside a grain storage bin, talking in low voices, and Starks approached them, Paxon at his heels.

“Well met,” he said. “My name is Starks. My companion is Paxon. We’re here about the killings.”

Because he was wearing his Druid robes, there wasn’t much doubt about either who he was or why he was there. But it forced the men who were gathered to engage in conversation with him.

“Two more just last night,” one answered. The man was big and strong, with huge forearms and hands. “Ellice and Truesen Carbenae, on their farm, a mile south of the village. Thing’s not satisfied with taking just one anymore. Now it wants two.”

Last night, Paxon thought. While we slept.

“Anyone see it happen?” Starks asked. “Anyone get a look at this creature?”

“Just those that are dead,” growled a second man, his ferret features sharp and narrow, his eyes challenging. “They didn’t have much to say about it.”

Starks ignored him, eyes on the first man. “Can you take me there?”

“What’s the point?” snapped Ferret–face. “You think you can catch a ghost? You think you’re up to it, Druid? This thing is smart and dangerous. It will end up eating you for its next meal.”

Starks turned. “If you are so concerned about me, why don’t you come along? You can help.”

The man smirked. He glanced at his fellows knowingly, then back at the Druid. “I don’t help Druids.”

“You’ve probably never had one ask you in the right way.” Starks crooked his fingers and twisted them in the way Paxon had seen him do before in Grimpen Ward, and the man went rigid, unable to move. His face turned red with his futile efforts at freeing himself, his mouth opening and closing pointlessly. “There you are,” Starks finished. “All ready to go. I’ll even let you lead.” He turned away. “Can we get under way?” he asked the first man. “What’s your name?”

“Joffre Struen.” Joffre glanced at his companion. “You really going to take him with us?”

Starks shrugged. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve made your point.”

The Druid nodded. He turned and gestured again, and Ferret–face dropped to the ground in a heap. “Don’t let me see you again,” Starks said, bending down to him, and then he walked away.

The journey to the farm took a little more than half an hour on horseback. Joffre Struen provided them with horses from the town stables, of which he was owner and manager, and led them south down a dirt road that quickly petered out into broad swaths of pastureland. The day was sunny and bright, the sky clear of clouds and deep blue. The landscape was rolling and grassy, with small patches of forest and plowed fields. It was good soil for growing, Paxon saw, and the crops were just starting to poke through the furrowed earth.

“Does this creature eat its victims?” Starks asked Struen at one point. “What does it do to them?”

“Tears out their throats and mutilates the bodies. Sometimes it dismembers them. Just rips them up.”

“It doesn’t eat them?”

The other man shook his head. “Not so far. It kills mostly at night, after dark. Probably catches them unawares. You can decide for yourself.”

They arrived shortly afterward at a small farmhouse with a barn and a fenced–in pasture. Cattle grazed inside the fence, and chickens roamed the yard.

“Were any of the animals harmed?” Starks asked.

Struen shook his head.

“No damage to anything?”

Another shake of the head.

“Same with all the others who were killed?”

“Always the same. Hard to know what to think.”

Paxon knew what he thought. This was something that killed for reasons other than protection and food. It killed because it was compelled to kill or because it liked to kill or maybe even both.

They reached the farmhouse and dismounted, tying the reins of their horses to a post and looking around warily. “Inside,” Struen said.

They walked up the wooden steps to the veranda, opened the door, and went inside. The bodies were gone, but there were bloodstains everywhere. There were smears on the floor and walls, and on the furniture–most of which had been smashed. There were even blood spatters on the ceiling. It looked like the bodies had been thrown around in a rage. Paxon stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Who found them?” Starks asked.

The stable owner shrugged. “I did. I came by to help with shoeing one of the field horses. I found the door open and them inside. I buried them out back. I couldn’t stand to leave them like that.”

Paxon was wandering about the room, picking out the debris that was recognizable, noting everything. “It looks like they were in the middle of eating dinner,” he said.

Starks was back examining the door. “Was this door unlocked when you got here?”

Joffre Struen nodded. “Closed, but unlocked. But the windows are all broken out. I’m guessing that whoever got in and killed them probably came through that way.”

“Were the others killed in their own homes, too?”

Struen shook his head. “Two were. The others were in various places around their homes. Out in the barn for one. In a pasture, for another. One was killed at the miller’s, right by the grinding wheel–a young man who was visiting the daughter. The miller was away, down at the tavern. The young man was just leaving when the thing took him. The daughter heard the screams and hid in the cellar.”

Starks and Paxon exchanged a look. “How many plates do you count?” the former asked.

“Three. Someone was visiting.”

“Someone these people knew and let come inside.”

“Otherwise, the door would be locked.”

“If what killed them had to break in, it would have come through the door, locked or not. It had to be incredibly strong to do the sort of damage we’re looking at.”

“So the killer was a guest, a friend.”

“Or at least a familiar acquaintance.” Starks left the door and walked back into the room. “But I’m finding no traces of magic. All this was done with brute force. Let’s walk outside, Paxon. Struen, can you give us a few minutes to look around?”

They left the big man standing amid the debris and walked out into the yard. Starks moved in leisurely fashion toward the barn, looking about the grounds as he did so. Once, he stopped to examine some wagon tracks, kneeling in the dirt to bend close and smell the earth. Another time, he poked with his toe at something that was lying on the ground, but didn’t pick it up.

Inside the barn, they found the usual tack and harness for fieldwork, bags of feed and a bin of hay, and hand plows and scythes. This was a rudimentary farming operation, probably involving only the husband and wife.

Back outside again, Starks stopped and stood looking off into the distance. “Three place settings, an unlocked door, and a dinner cut short maybe halfway through.” He turned to Paxon. “Wagon tracks from yesterday and no wagon in the barn. Someone was here just before they were killed. But who?”

Paxon had no answers to offer. Together, they walked back up to the house. Struen had come out to stand on the veranda. “A little close in there,” he said, shrugging. “Is there anything more you want to know before we go back?”

“Were the people killed connected to each other in any special way?” Starks asked him.

The stable owner shook his head. “Just that they were part of the community, most of them born here.”

Starks nodded. “Let’s go back. Can you help us find a room for the night?”

“Got you one already. At my place, above the stables. I use it now and then for visitors. There’s no inn or rooms at the taverns. Hardly anyone outside the community passes through that isn’t kin to one of the families. Besides, I was the one who sent for you. The others, they still think Druids are more the enemy than this thing that’s killing them.”

Starks swung up into the saddle of his mount. “We aren’t the enemy, and we will prove it before we leave.” He waited as Paxon remounted and swung in next to him. “Don’t talk about this with anyone just yet. Let us do some more looking around first.”

“You have an idea about this? Can you put a stop to it?”

Starks smiled, his calm demeanor reassuring. “Yes,” he said.