Jon Wilson - The Obsidian Man

by Jon Wilson

  proximity to the door.

  “There cain’t be this many,” someone

  was saying. Holt recognized the voice and nearly tripped in his sudden effort to reach

  Gar’s side. “They cain’t be, not here.” “Gar! Gar, what’s happening?” Holt

  started at his own unfamiliar voice. He

  sounded hoarse, as if he’d been screaming

  for hours.

  “An’ the imps,” Gar said. “No imps in the

  north. And no imps with trolls. Never.” “Gar!” Holt found himself touching the

  old man’s coat, tugging at it. “Gar, my

  mother…” And then his voice broke apart

  completely. The old man continued to berate

  himself with the impossibility of their situation. “Where did he go?” A woman was

  kneeling behind Jal. Holt could not see her

  face and her hair was a wild mound of burnt

  and oily tangles. She was pulling at Jal’s

  trouser leg. “Why did he leave us?”

  “He went to the temple.” Jal did not

  spare the woman a glance. He held an ax—a

  tool fashioned to attack wood, not trolls. Even

  from his distance, Holt could see the wet stain on the blade. He gazed up at the young man’s eyes. They were black, as if the pupils had expanded and eclipsed the irises. Black and wet, like Holt’s despair. Not the eyes of a

  farmer.

  “Why?” The woman was mad, Holt

  decided. Why didn’t she leave the men to

  guard the door?

  Finally, Jal turned and pushed her away

  with a nudge of his leg. “There’s folks there!”

  he screamed at her. “Keep quiet!”

  Other voices rose. Someone caught up

  the woman who had begun to writhe on the

  floor. “You didn’t have to kick her!” An

  argument broke out. Both men turned to face

  the others, demanding silence. The

  cacophony of voices rose.

  Fools, Holt thought. They would get

  themselves killed and him too. He tried to

  move toward the door, but Gar held his arm.

  “There ain’t no trolls with imps,” the old man

  said. “Never.” Holt grabbed the pudgy wrist; the ease with which the offending grasp was broken surprised him. He scampered along

  the wall toward Jal’s side.

  “He told us to guard the door!”

  The argument showed no signs of

  abating, and Holt peered beyond Jal’s knee.

  Three troll bodies were piled just over the

  threshold. A scattering of others lay further

  out. The ranger was nowhere to be seen. Holt

  strained to scan the square. Fighting

  continued around the great hall, but seemed

  to be lessening. Screams came louder and

  more terrifyingly anguished, but with less

  frequency than before. And then a dark shape

  detached itself from the shadows to the north

  of the fire. It seemed impossibly alien at first,

  hobbling around the perimeter of the hall.

  Then it appeared to notice the storehouse

  and grew steadily larger as it approached. This must be what Gar called an imp,

  Holt decided. The same sort of horror that

  had murdered his aunt. The same as the thing he had watched hack away at his brother Gabin. He looked quickly up at Jal. Both men¾both door guardians¾were as yet explaining to their charges why they needed to do as the men bid them. Gazina actually asked them how they thought themselves

  qualified to give orders.

  “He told us to guard the door,” Wyn

  repeated.

  “Shut it,” someone else said, and Holt

  realized it had been himself. But the men

  showed no sign of hearing. He directed his

  gaze back out onto the square. The imp had

  stopped, and was looking purposefully in all

  directions. It gave a loud call, punctuated by

  hisses, and then started forward again.

  “Close the door!” Holt screamed. “Shut it!” Jal looked down, annoyed. “Get back!”

  He took Holt by the hair and tried to shove

  him away.

  Holt grabbed at Jal’s wrist, twisting

  frantically. “There’s something coming! Shut

  the door!”

  Jal continued to wrestle Holt away, but

  Wyn turned to look back over his shoulder.

  “He’s right!” Holt felt the hand release his hair,

  and tumbled forward against Jal’s thigh. Jal

  fought to turn, trying to lift his ax.

  The imp leapt, striking Jal’s chest with

  all four of its limbs. The man stumbled back

  as the women began screaming in terror. The

  occupants of the room scattered, and Jal and

  his attacker crashed to the floor. Holt,

  staggered by the kick he had been dealt as

  Jal fell, watched the scene swim dizzily a

  moment. When he looked back up at Wyn, he

  saw the man was torn between aiding Jal and

  facing the two trolls also approaching. “Shut the door!” Holt tried to rise, found

  he couldn’t, and crawled toward Wyn. “Shut

  the door!”

  “Hesaidtoleaveitopenincasemorepeoplecome.”

  Wyn’s words tumbled out all as one. He was

  staring at the advancing monsters in absolute

  terror.

  Holt turned his attention back to the

  interior of the storehouse. Jal had somehow

  managed to throw his attacker off, but not

  before the imp had successfully slashed his

  face with its talons. The monster now

  crouched in the corner, confronting the

  terrified women with threatening hisses as it

  appeared to coil for another attack.

  Jal was tossing about on the floor,

  holding his face in both hands. Blood was

  flowing over his fingers. His ax lay just beyond

  him, abandoned.

  Without a thought, Holt jumped over Jal

  and picked up the ax. He rose, lifting the

  weapon in both hands. It had looked heavier

  than it felt now that he held it to his chest. The

  imp spied him and redirected its hissing. Holt

  wondered how imposing he might be. He

  was, in fact, taller and heavier than the imp,

  and now he was armed. He wasn’t sure how

  best to wield the ax, but the imp had no way of knowing that. He stood off against the monster for what felt like a painfully extended

  length of time.

  The sounds of battle drew his attention

  back to the door. Wyn had engaged the trolls.

  Holt wanted to turn and assist him, but the

  imp hissed again, as if to remind him of its

  own threat. He leapt forward, amazing himself

  with the bestial grunt that issued from his

  chest. He swung the ax up. The imp’s eyes

  seemed to glisten in panic, and Holt allowed

  himself an arrogant moment of pride thinking

  he could not miss. That was quickly replaced

  by frightened vexation as the blade buried

  itself in the wall amid a flurry of splintering

  wood.

  As he set about desperately attempting

  to pry the weapon free, Holt gave little

  thought to the whereabouts of his former

  prey. It wasn’t until the imp hissed, that he

  turned, just in time to see the monster spring

  toward him. Holt twisted his back to the wall. The ax came l
oose and he raised it as if it were a shield. His eyes screwed shut; his jaw clenched. He felt the imp crash against him and then twist to the side. He congratulated himself for a narrow escape until he opened his eyes and saw the imp hobbling on the

  floor.

  Holt decided the monster must have

  somehow struck the ax-blade. There was a

  terrific, purple rent in its fur. It scrambled to

  face him again. But even as it managed to

  ignore its wound, Gazina attacked it from

  behind. Three other women quickly joined her,

  utilizing whatever equipment they could find. Again a flurry brought his attention back

  to the door. One troll had already succeeded

  in maneuvering its short legs onto the

  barricade of its comrades’ bodies, though

  somehow Wyn had managed to strike it a

  good blow on the back. It sprawled now, as if

  trying to decide how best to add its own

  carcass to the mound. As Holt watched, Gar lifted a heavy stone, already splashed with blood, and brought it down on the back of the

  monster’s head.

  Wyn was struggling with the remaining

  troll, wrestling for control of the ax. He fell

  backward into the storehouse, pulling the troll

  in atop him. Holt sprang forward, heaving his

  own axe, but Jal knocked him roughly aside.

  He had a small crate in his hands which he

  crashed down upon the back of the troll’s

  head. Wyn managed to throw the creature

  off, and it lay, dazed, as once again the

  women swarmed over it, striking with

  whatever weapon they could find.

  “Where’s that blasted ranger?” Jal

  shoved Holt aside and moved to regain the

  doorway. His cheek bore a thick coating of

  mottled blood.

  Wyn climbed to his feet. “Maybe they

  ran into trouble.” He took hold of the shaft of

  his ax, still locked tightly in the dead troll’s

  grasp, and yanked it free.

  It seemed apparent to Holt that his aid

  was to be overlooked. The men clearly

  wished him out of the way. He pushed

  forward, realizing, when Jal turned on him,

  that he stood nearly as high as the man’s

  shoulder. “Did he go to the temple?” he

  asked, somehow managing to keep his voice

  from cracking.

  “Get back there with the women!” Jal

  thrust out his hand to shove Holt in the

  indicated direction.

  Holt twisted, letting Jal’s bloody palm

  slide off his shoulder. “There are people in

  Fitts’ cellar!” He moved to squeeze between

  the two men, hoping to reach the doorway

  before it was secured again. Jal caught his

  arm and gave it a vicious twist before hoisting

  him back against a shelf of supplies.

  “They’re damned dead now, you can

  bet! All the houses over there are burning

  bright.”

  Holt, staggered by the violence with which he had been thrust aside, stumbled to one knee and then settled on the floor. He reached up and felt the back of his head. His fingers came away damp, but the lighting was too poor to make out what coated them. It looked black.They’ll kill me as surely as any troll, he thought, scowling up at the men’s backs. He had to get outside; it was his only

  hope.

  Someone touched his shoulder, took

  hold of his shirt and gave it a tug.

  “We need to get those out.” Gar

  indicated something beyond Holt with a nod of

  his head.

  Holt turned. The dead imp lay folded

  near the far corner of the chamber; the troll

  sprawled almost in the center of the room.

  The women, finished with them, had moved

  as far back as possible, and huddled

  together, whimpering.

  Holt could muster no concern for their

  comfort and was about to object, when an idea occurred to him. He got quickly to his

  feet. “Come on then.”

  They hoisted the imp’s body easily; Holt

  guessed it weighed no more than his brother

  Gabin. As much as Gabinhad. He distracted

  himself from those thoughts by concentrating

  on the foul smell of the creature, on the

  coarseness of its fur. He had forced himself

  to take the upper end, grabbing the scrawny

  arms just below the shoulders, and he looked

  down into the battered face. It was nothing

  near human, he discovered—just huge black

  eyes, which appeared no more nor less

  sightless now that the creature was dead.

  There was a gaping maw scattered with

  jagged teeth, but no nostrils, nor ears. The

  imp looked even more alien than the trolls. “Here,” Holt called as they carried the

  imp toward the door. “Let’s add this to the

  others.” He tried to deepen his tone, to make

  it more authoritative, less likely to be denied.

  He was surprised when the voice of his father

  issued from his lips.

  Jal and Wyn stepped aside with

  disgusted sneers, as if even after everything

  they had experienced, touching the mangled

  imp was not to be borne. Holt swung his end

  of the body up toward the top of the

  monstrous barricade. Gar, slower, released

  the legs too late and the imp failed to reach

  the top. Holt stepped forward to push the

  corpse the remaining distance, crossing the

  threshold, actually past Jal and Wyn. He

  shoved harder, and heard Jal laugh at his

  plight. He continued to shove, even when the

  body had settled atop the mound, until it

  began to slip down the other side. Then,

  under the guise of trying to pull the imp back

  into position, he stepped up onto the shoulder

  of the first troll and sprang to scale the

  barricade.

  Wyn made an abortive effort to catch

  him, but Holt was too eager. He tripped, felt

  himself sliding out of control, and rolled over the topmost troll. He slid down the far side of the mound, becoming entangled in the slack limbs of the imp, and fell onto his back. He kicked his arms and legs wildly, groaning in revulsion. The imp’s face seemed to rise over him, and he heard a gasp and smelt its fetid breath. It was still alive! Holt struggled even more recklessly, but the body felt much heavier than it had only moments before. It felt as if it were actually being pushed down

  on top of him.

  Abruptly, the corpse grew lighter. He

  thrust it away and looked up to see the ax

  blade that had buried itself in the creature’s

  back rising over him. They were trying to kill

  him! He rolled clear and scrambled to his feet.

  He spared just a quick glance toward the

  storehouse. Jal was screaming obscenities at

  him, but making no move to follow. Holt

  stumbled on toward the square.

  The chapel was north of the square, up

  a broad lane. Holt had recovered enough of his senses to keep close to the edge of the path, if not to veil himself completely in the shadows. Fewer figures lurched along the avenue, but he could see the lights of the chapel ahead, and hear the carnage behind him. His chest was burning with the narrowness of his escape, and he moved

  slowly, not wishing to get caught again. When he felt the powerful grip on his
/>   shoulder, pushing him irresistibly around and

  toward the dark wall to his left, he would have

  screamed if he had possessed the breath and

  had not another hand clamped itself over his

  mouth.

  “Perhaps just stupid after all.”

  Holt went rigid in the ranger’s arms, and

  then abruptly began to struggle. He

  immediately felt the futility of his fight, but

  could not bring himself to submit.

  Kawika strengthened his grip. “Enough.”

  His voice was little more than a whisper, but

  as undeniable as any shout. Holt’s thrashing subsided. “I’m bringing some others. I’ve just cleared this path and I won’t have you hollering and calling another horde ofjirran down on us.” The ranger had been studying the darkness all around them, but abruptly brought his gaze back to Holt’s face. “Am I

  understood?”

  The hand left Holt’s mouth, but he limited

  his response to a nod. Kawika straightened

  up, maintaining his hold on Holt’s shoulder.

  The ranger was staring back toward the

  chapel, poised like a hound testing the air.

  Suddenly he scooped Holt into his arms and

  sprinted northward, navigating the darkness

  as if it were day.

  Chapter 5 Holt fought to contain the whimper that was threatening to erupt from his chest. After all that had happened, so many tumultuous events he could not even begin to sort them out, to be carried like a child was proving more than he could bear. He tried to will himself to be strong; he had never cared what the villagers had thought of him before. They were huddled within the chapel, weren’t they? And they had hidden all morning. But Holt had braved the hayloft; Holt had witnessed the ghastly spectacle on the east bridge. Holt had made his way to the storehouse alone. Holt had fought an imp. And Holt had escaped from his fellow human beings, intent upon killing him. Holt had come to the ranger’s aid.

  The cry broke free. None of it was true. He wasn’t brave; he was stupid. He was terrified. And he had always cared what the others thought of him. He began to tremble.

  When they emerged into warm torchlight, Holt felt himself dropped unceremoniously onto his feet. Two armed men were beside them, posted on the main entrance to the chapel. They resealed the breech which had allowed Holt and the ranger ingress. The powerful grasp returned to Holt’s shoulder. He was led quickly through the chamber.

  Sounds of battle arose from the back doors. Somehow, Holt realized, the ranger had managed to shift the monsters’ attack to the rear, opening the avenue toward the square and the storehouse. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a handful of terrified faces, huddled near the front. He thought they must be awaiting passage to the storehouse, but the ranger strode purposefully by them, toward the rear and the melee there.