He was lost in reverie for a few seconds, and then he straightened abruptly and started ahead once more. “We’ll have a quick look at the study rooms and lecture halls and then go down to lunch. Afterward, you can start your training with Oost.”
EIGHT
AS HE HAD PROMISED, FOLLOWING LUNCH SEBEC DELIVERED Paxon to Oost Mondara, who was waiting for him in the courtyard of the Keep reserved specifically for weapons practice and training. The yard was dusty and sunlit, and there were no other Druids or trainees about. Oost was standing by a rack of weapons, arranging them in a manner that suggested the paternal love of a father for his children.
“From now on,” the Gnome said without turning around, “I will expect you to be here promptly at noon. This area is reserved for your training each day for three hours exactly, and I know you don’t want to waste a minute of it.”
“Good luck,” Sebec whispered to Paxon, and hurried away.
Paxon, determined to do whatever it took to prove he belonged, stepped forward and bowed. “I apologize.”
The Gnome turned slowly to face him. In the daylight, he was even more gnarled and bent. “Apologies are not necessary between a teacher and a student. Nor is bowing required. Now, let’s have a look at you.”
He made a slow circle of Paxon, saying nothing until he had completed his study of the Highlander and was facing him anew. “You have a solid build and good posture. You might not think that’s important, but how you carry yourself defines how you will perform with a blade. Is that your sword you have strapped to your back?”
“It is,” Paxon said. “I thought–”
“Take it off.” The command was brusque, perfunctory, as if perhaps it shouldn’t have even been necessary. “You won’t be needing it today. Or for quite a while yet. Tell me of your training. Formal or informal?”
“Informal,” Paxon admitted. “But I drilled with members of the Border Legion and the Red Guard while they were on leave and visiting Leah. A few were stationed in the Highlands and offered to teach me.”
The Gnome’s face crinkled in distaste. “How wonderful for you. But your education here will take a slightly different direction. I am sure you know how to use your sword in at least a rudimentary way. I am sure you could defend yourself, if need be. I am equally sure that once you discovered your sword possessed magic, you began thinking you might never again need to worry about fighting an average sort of battle. You could just use magic if things got too rough.”
Paxon almost said no, just to be perverse. But instead, he nodded. “It crossed my mind. But obviously you don’t approve.”
“Obviously I don’t. That sort of thinking can get you killed. Magic is a wonderful thing, but it is unpredictable and treacherous. It cannot be relied upon one hundred percent of the time. And it only needs to fail you once to put an end to your life. An ordinary blade, on the other hand, is always constant. Learn to use it, and you have only the limitations of your education and skills to hold you back. My job is to provide instruction that will allow you to know going into any battle what you can expect from your weapon and yourself. If you are forced to fight, you want no hesitation. Am I making myself clear?”
“Very.” He reached back, released the buckle that held his sword and sheath in place, and removed them.
“Give them to me, please,” Oost Mondara ordered, and held out his hand.
Again, Paxon almost declined. But what he hoped was good judgment and common sense overruled his reluctance, and he gave up the weapon to the Gnome. Oost took it from him, balanced it in his hand, drew out the blade and examined it from every angle, struck a combat stance against an imaginary foe, and sheathed the blade once again.
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.