Jon Wilson - The Obsidian Man

by Jon Wilson

  The ground lurched under his feet, but the warm strong hand was on his shoulder, steadying him. “You did well, Holt. You are ready.” Another tremendous shifting of the earth. Holt staggered, feeling himself about to fall. He threw his arms out to grab the ranger. “Don’t let me go! Don’t leave me here! You said you would take me to the VaSaad!”

  But he was down ¾down on the wood. Down on the wood that was alive and kicking and trying to throw him off. The monster was battering against the doors. Even weakened by the loss of its leg and hampered by the body rolled in its wing, it was powerful enough to hoist Holt into the air with each thrust. He frantically wondered where he had dropped the hoe. He lifted his head, keeping his weight pressed to the doors. There, to his right. He stretched—stretched more. He had it, fumbling as he wedged it beneath the twin handles of the cellar doors.

  He rose, stood a moment to see if the lock would hold, and then moved determinedly off, his small triumph suddenly mapping out a course of action. He entered Fitts’ house and strode through the main room, snatching up all the oil lamps. He spilled their contents out onto the floor, moving to the kitchen, to the stove where embers would be kept burning through the night. It was a simple chore to stoke up a small flame; he did it daily. He selected a stick of kindling, lit an end and carried it back to the main room.

  The oil surprised him. It spread quickly, but the flames were frustratingly minuscule. He set small fires in several places before igniting draperies and chairs and quilts and anything else that caught his eye. He stood, letting the red veil encircle him, feeling but not feeling the heat—the freeze was too deep inside of him now. Even had he not wished to die, he could not have gone on living. Living things were not so cold.

  A thump. He ignored it. Nothing mattered now. He would melt and that would be the end of it. The end of his short, meaningless existence. A fitting end to a series of failures. He had failed them all, his parents, his neighbors, the ranger. And himself. Of all the lies that made up the life of the thing called Holt, none were as foul as the multitude he had told himself. He would never reach VaSaad-Ka. He would never be a Hyr-Danann ranger. How he had kidded himself. How he had made himself endure the torturous days for nothing. Better he should have given in, accepted his fate, because at least then he would have known some happiness; he might have felt some cause for grief now he was dying. Instead of knowing nothing but struggle. Useless struggle. Futile Holt. Ha, he had convinced himself it would make him stronger! But he was weak. So weak. And cold. They had never shown him any warmth. He had never let them. He had denied them, denied himself, until all that remained to warm him was the flame.

  Another thump, louder. Surely it was that black thing in the cellar, banging against the barred doors. Well, at least he would destroy it. Fitting. Only by blotting out his pathetic life could he infuse it with meaning.

  A final, tremendous thump, followed by a crash and a hiss, and turning Holt saw the black, winged creature emerge through a trap door in the corner of the room. It had seen Holt and was staring with astonished hatred, as if even its black heart could not fathom the malignity of its emotion. Holt stepped back. Why? If he was to die, then why not die? Why struggle? Why cringe? Why not accept the gift of death when offered?

  And he took another step.

  The creature tumbled up onto the floor. It tried to rise, hobbling toward Holt on its single talon, utilizing its left wing for balance. The ranger’s body was still enveloped securely in the other wing. The monster continued to hiss; it continued to glare.

  Holt felt his own mouth opening, wanting to cry out but stymied by the boiling air. Smoke surrounded him. Had he ever known a world that was not choking in smoke? He tried to will himself to stand his ground, to let the monster reach him. Perhaps he could anchor the creature just long enough for the flames to finish them both. And then a wooden beam came crashing down from above, between them, and the monster lurched back and Holt leapt toward the door and ran out into the snow.

  He ran and ran, back toward his own house and then left toward the stables and then up into the hayloft where he had spent the morning. Guided by some unconscious memory, he scaled the wall and found the opening in the rafters that let him out onto the roof of the structure. He slid down the frozen, dangerous slope, reached the edge without pausing and dropped nearly two stories into the snow outside of the town wall. He sped away from the bridge, down into the creek, and slid across the frozen surface of the water. Scampering up the far bank, he noticed nothing but the numbness of his fingers as he clawed at the snow. His village glowed behind him, all burning fires and destruction and poison that coursed through his veins. He staggered into the woods and even then kept running. Running toward the east, toward the dawn.

  Part 2: Ranger’s Ward

  Chapter 1 The Kyuet-Dwaithe moaned in his bed rolls, struggling to sit up. Even in the early morning frostiness, he felt himself smiling. Where had he pulled that funny old word from?Shouldn’t call myself that. Shouldn’t think of myself in that way.That was Danann thinking—he was a trapper, a scout. Well, he had been a scout, back in the old days before his beard had grown whiter than the snow, and before the damned people had settled into the edge of the great wilderness. But that’s what happened to old men who spent all their time in the mountains and the forest, seeing nothing but an occasional benighted ranger or an occasional benighted troll: they start thinking like one of them. He would be ruminating injirrannext.

  He looked at his fire. Built to last the night untended, it had barely survived. Like himself, that fire. Just hanging on. He twisted around, keeping the blanket draped about his shoulders. Gathering the few twigs he had set aside, he coaxed the fire into burning once more. When the flame began to dance, he rubbed his hands over top of it, trying to coax the blood back into his gnarled fingers.

  Something was not right; he had sensed it even in his sleep. He looked at the sky, saw the smoke reaching up from the horizon out of the west. Big fire. Been burning for some time. Could be a part of the forest, could be Darnouth¾that was over there somewhere. He hadn’t been so far south in a long while— was Darnouth even there any more? Surely it was. Damned farmers, come in cutting trees and tilling the ground and soon there would be no wilderness left.Now I sound like a politician calling for war,he scolded himself. Let’s claim the whole of the continent before there’s none left!As if the pathetic wretches could tame a tenth of it. The Kyuet-Dwaithe had roamed the land for forty years and had yet to see a tenth himself.

  There he went again: Kyuet-Dwaithe. In his youth he would have killed a man for calling him that. Benighted rangers, making up names for real men as if they were better than the rest. Well, maybe he wouldn’t have killed a ranger. Maybe he couldn’t. The rangers were different, and nice enough in their own way. Fortunately their way usually led them out of yours.

  Now, about that fire. It looked to be several days off. Surely it was near Darnouth. Probably started by the damned farmers themselves¾burning trees now because the axes couldn’t clear them fast enough. He shook his head. He didn’t care. He couldn’t— he hadn’t the strength these days.

  He fumbled in his rucksack, digging out a long, thin sliver of jerky. Having eaten a whole rabbit for dinner, he wasn’t particularly hungry, but he would need his strength if he was going to set off toward Darnouth.

  Now, why would I do that? There was nothing left toward the west. All of his traps were east, and in need of tending. But they could wait. Just a few days west to Darnouth and then he could come back and check his bounty. That smoke needed tending more.

  Fool, he berated himself.What do you care if those feldyshfarmers are burning trees? Forget about it. Clear out your traps. Reset them. Head north to trade at Fort Ridge. Fire, ha! Silly old Kyuet-Dwaithe; that’s soldiers’ work.Even the rangers didn’t concern themselves with stupid farmers burning trees.

  But there was a weird feeling in the mountains. Had been for days. Something wicked. Something that the smoke only hinted
at. He had heard about trolls killing a trapper further south. Why, the old scout traded with trolls! The darned fool trapper had probably insulted them. Trolls were easily insulted for such ignorant beasts.

  He rose and began to gather his belongings, making ready to set out before the sun had topped the trees. Funny, he hadn’t felt so vigorous in years. Maybe only a day and a half to Darnouth. That was better. Lots of trapping and trading still to be done this season. And trolls would be raiding his traps if he didn’t keep them clean.

  As he started off toward the west, toward the thin pillar of smoke, he experienced a final, nagging doubt. Why was he leaving all of his toil behind? Why was he concerning himself with thefeldysh? Even granting that there might be something more to the smoke than burning trees, wouldn’t it make more sense to head up to Fort Ridge? Shouldn’t he inform the colonel? Wouldn’t the colonel offer him a nice chair and some Lyr-Danann wine? Wouldn’t they discuss the smoke and the spreading rumors of discontent among thejirran, the haughty insolence of the Danann rangers and the growing threat of war with Belfayne?

  He was imagining the warm comfort of Colonel Colmaire’s easy chairs and the smooth taste of the mulled wine as he trudged briskly off into the trees¾marching west, toward Holt, who was also marching. Marching again.

  * * * * Outside it was daylight, but in the icy corridors of the white room, smoke as yet hung in the air. Holt was hurrying because a man was after him. He could see him through the ice; he could see himinthe ice. It was another Hyr-Danann—a taller, tauter version of Kawika—darker hair and lighter, all the more beautiful eyes. And the eyes burned through the frozen walls toward Holt—burned like the small black stone in the man’s hand. Like the small stone in Holt’s own hand.

  He could not recall where the stone had come from. He remembered Kawika giving it to him, but could recollect nothing of it after that. Until now. Until it reappeared burning in his palm, shining like a beacon guiding the other man toward him. Had he slipped it unconsciously into his pocket sometime during the ordeal at the village? His thoughts had only been on getting himself and Kawika to safety. Moving them to the cellar. Oh, that had been an utter failure. Kawika delivered into the gaping jaws of the beast. Surrendered by Holt’s own hand.

  This brought his mind back to the man, back to why he must flee. The man knew what he had done. Holt could see the contempt in the beautiful burning eyes. The man knew what Holt had done and would punish him for it. He would be made to pay for giving a Hyr-Danann ranger to that awful, monstrous thing.

  He stumbled, falling to the ground, only he had not fallen, he had dropped, knelt. He was outside again—free of the white room and the pursuing man. He was at the edge of a creek and it was midday and through holes in the ice he could see running water. He gulped the liquid like a starving animal, bearing it to his mouth in his cupped palms.

  The sight of his empty palms reminded him of the stone. He could feel it in his pocket —could remember clearly placing it there as he had struggled to his knees the night before. After consuming several handfuls of water, he sat back on his ankles, burrowing for the stone.

  Examining it in the daylight, Holt could see the stone was not simply black. It was flecked with small white patches, like snowflakes etched in its surface. It was eerily beautiful and he wondered what it was composed of. He had never seen a stone like it. Glassy smooth and yet hard and mostly opaque. Mostly opaque. He thought given the right light he might possibly see through it. Or inside.

  He was up. Moving. The sun had passed its zenith, sinking westward, to Holt’s left. He spied it occasionally through the ice. No, through the trees—the ice was below him. But not when he was in the white room. Then the ice was around, above—encasing him.

  It is a waking dream, he told himself. Partly fatigue—partly hunger. Also partly something else. Something he could feel moving inside of him, churning like a vat of boiling oil—building, growing, spreading. And always that man pursuing, watching him angrily through the ice. Following the stone. Northward. Following the stone that burned Holt but kept him moving. Kept him warm and alive in the frozen world of the white room.

  * * * * The old man caught himself veering northward. He had been for more than an hour.Why?he wondered.Have I decided to head to Fort Ridge after all?No, that wasn’t it. The fort was somewhat east of him now and he was still heading mostly west. Mostly west but no longer toward the smoke.

  He made camp only at the last moment. The days were too damned short. He needed more time, although he knew he had covered the distance of a man half his age. What was he hurrying to? He had given over fighting some time back, but he still doubted himself. He had never been a man of vision or impulse or even quick wit.

  As his head touched the ground he drifted off to sleep, sank into a darkness that permeated a frozen maze. Someone was wandering the maze. More than one. A youngster by the smell of it and another damned Danann. The boy was fleeing the man—frightened, panicked. Not so strange that—or maybe it was. And stranger still were the two nearly identical pieces of volcanic glass both clutched so desperately, pieces of one old, fiery-birthed stone. Powerful pieces. Pieces that longed to be reunited.

  * * * * Holt, too, was dreaming. His body, abandoned, lay shivering against the base of a tree; his mind swam the velvety depths of the night sky. Circling, soaring, he rejoiced in the ultimate escape from his pursuer. The man with the stone was far behind him now, barely a memory. Holt was deep into the unexplored passes, careening down through canyons of wild forest. Light caught his eye— did he have an eye? He seemed to see everywhere at once. Light caught his attention and he swooped, descending upon thejirran encampment, drawn to the barking arguments of the trolls below.

  “We were promised the gift of rolling fire,” Katawanif charged the others. “Where is it? Did we not fight alongside thekaolas the demon bid us? Why has he now forsaken the jirranand fled back to hisfeldyshmasters?”

  Moitunic stared at the fire. He was an ancient troll, his fur the regal yellow. “Katawanif speaks true. Themakkadar will rise up in anger against thejirranand we have no weapon with which to fight them.”

  “We do not need rolling fire to kill feldysh,” Raot shouted, jumping to her feet. “We are Huerunan, the mightiest of thejirran! Summon the prides and let us go to war. Then, when we have gathered the last makkadarskull from the west, thebilftaniwill be forced to make peace with us!”

  Moitunic nodded. “I fear it may come to that. But manyjirrancall themakkadarfriend and will not so quickly take up arms against them.”

  “Then they are not jirranat all. They are weaklings to accept themakkadarinto their lands. They surrender their claim to those lands. Let them die alongside thefeldysh beasts.”

  “You would so easily call your own kind enemy?”

  “I would not blind myself to the truth until it rose up and crushed my skull with its club. We have waited too long. Already there are villages on the Yuer plain. Soon thefeldysh will be wearing your fur, old one, and taking your granddaughters as their slaves.”

  “Calm yourself, sister,” Katawanif said, stepping forward. She was a tall, slender huntress, possessed of noble bearing and easy grace. “Let us not so easily forget the last treachery perpetrated against us. Many Huerunan huntresses say they saw the demon maimed. If so, he may not have reached the lands of the Yul. He may as yet be hiding in the mountains. I am no friend to these westernfeldysh, but let us demand what was promised! With the rolling fire, manyjirran who might otherwise fall in this coming war will be spared.”

  Raot grumbled. She had once respected Katawanif—envied her. But no more. Now she saw the arrogance in Katawanif’s manner, the cloying contempt hidden just beneath the deferential affectations. Raot dismissed her with a shrug, turning her back even on Moitunic—a dangerous breach of etiquette. But she no longer cared. She addressed the assemblage directly. “I myself watched the troll-killer fight the demon. The claims that the demon lost a leg are false. And even if he dies in the mountain
s, our time is now. Thefeldyshare weakest while the snows bind them. Let us strike up the range to the very shores of the North Sea. Then, come spring, they will pursue us into the mountains and we can swoop down and rid the land of them forever.”

  “You forget the troll-killers,” Moitunic reminded her. If Raot’s disregard for propriety offended him, he showed no sign.

  “The troll-killers will not join thefeldysh in a war,” Raot said. “This the demon has promised us.”

  “They will not join in a war against other feldysh. But they will hunt thejirran. Since before the birth of my father they have done so, and it will always be.” He turned to Katawanif. “What of our new allies thekaol?”

  The huntress grimaced in disgust. “They are savages. Without the demon it will be impossible to make terms with them.”

  “Better to let them return south,” Moitunic said with a sage nod.

  Raot agreed. “And better to leave the demon to make his own way back through the mountains.”

  Katawanif eyed the resolute troll skeptically. “Why is this you worry more about offense to thebilftani?”

  Raot snarled. “I fear nofeldysh. But the bilftani dwell across the sea. They do not invade our caves. Nor do they steal the food from our children’s mouths.”

  “Nor do they honor their bargains with us.” Katawanif appealed to Moitunic, “Give me but a guard of warriors and we will find the black demon and demand the rolling fire!”

  Raot began to object, but the old troll raised a hand, and to ignore such a gesture would have been more than a breach—it would have been sacrilege.

  For many long moments Moitunic stared into the fire, watching the embers collapse upon one another as if they might somehow sort his dilemma. Raot did her best to quell the impatience squeezing her heart like vice. Either course of action would commit her pride, her people, to years of repercussions —years she felt certain the old shaman knew he might not live to see. And already the pride had withered under his failing eye—which is why she no longer respected him, nor wished to suffer under his authority.