Jon Wilson - The Obsidian Man

by Jon Wilson

  The spear struck home and the troll turned, knocking Holt to the ground. Kawika was over him, the trolls were dispatched. “Very bravely done. And stupid.” And Holt was in the storehouse, extricating himself from Gazina’s embrace, trying to get through to Gar, listening to the arguing of the others. Shut the door. Something was coming. Something black and horrible and utterly alien.

  The imp had sprung, knocking Jal to the ground. Holt got the axe, attacked the imp, missed, but managed to maim it when it sprung at him. The women finished it off. Gar and he hoisted it out the door, up onto the mound. Holt mounted the barricade of bodies, desperate to escape, spilling to the ground outside with the imp on top of him. The axe rose. He fled.

  He made his way toward the temple only to be caught up in Kawika’s arms. “Perhaps just stupid after all.” Whimpering Holt was carried into the temple, set roughly down on his feet, given his first warm taste of wine. “They’ll set fire to this soon,” but the sister refused to go. Kawika did not argue. He and Holt returned to the front. Instructions were given to the small group assembled there and then they set off, winding their way through the darkened alleyways toward the storehouse.

  The dark-haired man seemed to notice it first; Holt saw him look up at the sky even before Kawika. Long before the memory of Holt looked up. “You must take them the rest of the way.” The hand on his shoulder was irrefutable. Cyn was arguing; Holt was leading the milliner away. Kawika was gone.

  Instructions were given to Wyn. Holt had never had any intention of staying with them. He turned away quickly, better to make the break sudden and complete. Back into the dark valley between the walls of fire. Back to Fitts’ cellar, the door opening too easily, and no footprints around. Had Kawika returned to the temple? Desperately, insanely, up the broad lane toward the square. And then the wounded Kawika tumbling out of the shadows and Holt winced as the dark-haired man’s grip tightened.

  “Why?” They were inching into the shadows. “Just stupid.” Holt said the ranger’s name for the first time. What happened? What happened? And then nothing but sobs and tears. “Mustn’t cry now. Too late for tears. Always saying we’re sorry.” The grip would crush Holt’s hand! “Silly man.”

  Holt was trying to hoist Kawika up, to get the ranger onto his feet and back to Fitts’ cellar when suddenly Kawika threw him down, covering him with his back. The flags were unfurling—daggers coming down from the sky. The great black beast hopped toward them. Kawika rode the wing up, kicked the creature, only to be thrown against the wall. They struggled. Finally the claw came down on the ranger’s belly. Talons punctured flesh. Holt attacked, first felt the cold embrace of the wing, and then the monster was screaming. Holt fell, lifting his head to watch the thing try to rise with Kawika still attached to its leg—Kawika pounding the break, falling to the ground as the limb ripped in two. Kawika, Kawika. Holt pried loose the dismembered claw, cast it aside, began to cry anew as he felt Kawika’s life fade heavily into his lap.

  “A man will come.” The fist was pressing into Holt’s palm. He pulled back the fingers. The stone fell. “For him.Da’an.My ward. His duty.” The hold on Holt’s hand weakened and he looked up at the darkhaired man again. The man was shaking his head. “He will take you to VaSaad-Ka.”

  ::Stop. Stop, please. No more!:: “Too late. Too much poison. Even if you were here. I’m sorry. Always sorry. You were right of course. Always going.” And then Holt saw the dark-haired man come at him and thought he must surely be finished. He felt himself heaved off his feet into the man’s arms, but he continued to rise, continued up into the sky and the sky was blue. It was day again. They were back, only no longer there.

  Holt was flying, careening, soaring up through the unexplored passes. He passed over the troll encampment without slowing, headed toward the distant reaches. Another small band of trolls was down there, searching the caves for something. But they would not find it; it was too well hidden. Holt, however, knew where it was. He could feel it inside of himself—could feel the residue of its poison still crawling under his skin. He might never be rid of it, but that was all right because it, too, would never be rid of Holt. And Holt was swooping toward the mouth of its lair, penetrating the side of the mountain, screaming down into the maze of stone, diving toward its bed. It felt Holt now but was helpless. It could do nothing but throw back its head and roar its frustration and Holt rammed himself down its wicked throat.

  Chapter 4

  “Enough, Ardee. You’ve made your

  point.”

  Holt struggled to open his eyes. There

  were tense sounds of movement near him,

  and he needed to see what was happening. “I did not spend two days drawing the

  poison from the child just so this—this

  stonedivercould come finish him off!” Another brief flurry of movement—Holt’s

  eyelids responded to the command and

  unshielded his eyes.

  The dark-haired man was mounted on a

  wall. A blonde woman, her hair tied back,

  was holding him there, a forearm pressed to

  his throat and a leg thrust forward between

  his, twisting them uselessly to the side. Her

  other arm held the man’s left arm, but his right

  hung at his side. He was not fighting her.

  Another man stood behind the woman. This

  fellow was also blond, with a broad, friendly face. He was smiling, and his hand fell lightly on the woman’s shoulder. Behind them all, some distance away and nearer Holt stood the girl in the red cloak. She was watching the

  strange tableau with obvious worry.

  The blond man spoke again. “I know,

  sister. These VaSaadites are a curse on us

  all, but I can’t let you kill him.” He was grinning

  despite his proximity to what Holt thought was

  surely a serious situation.

  The woman maintained her hold another

  moment and then slowly began to ease away

  from the dark-haired man. “Who said anything

  about killing him? I was just going to make

  him regret he had balls.”

  The blond man laughed aloud.

  The dark-haired man slid down the wall

  onto his feet. Only when the woman stepped

  back did he reach gingerly up to massage his

  throat. He said, “There was a Moadaeshe

  demon here.”

  The woman looked insulted, and the blond man decided to step between her and the other man. His smile vanished as he told the dark-haired one, “The colonel will want to

  know about this.”

  “And the judges.” The dark-haired man’s

  voice was full of scorn.

  The woman sneered. “Yes. Hurry back

  and tell them all about it!”

  The blond man shook his head.

  “Enough! I can’t spend my time refereeing you

  two. Someone has to go to Fort Ridge.” “He’s awake.” The girl had spoken. All

  eyes turned on Holt. All eyes except those of

  the dark-haired man.

  “See,” the blonde man declared lightly.

  “Didn’t I say he’d be fine?”

  It was the woman’s turn to shake her

  head. She came at Holt and placed a hand

  across his cheek. “He looks fine. But he

  hasn’t spoken yet.” She addressed Holt, “Can

  you talk, boy?”

  Holt realized he was lying in the snow. He struggled to sit up and the woman helped him. The tickling sensation returned, something fluttering across the bottom of his

  face. No sound issued.

  “That’s all right. Don’t push yourself.”

  The woman smiled. Holt could tell by the lines

  of her face that it was not an expression she

  entered into lightly. “Start with something

  easy. Like your name. Wh
at’s your name?” He wanted to tell her. He felt a strong

  desire to please this strange, hard and plainly

  attractive woman. She had drawn the poison

  out of him. She had been willing to fight to

  protect him. And she was a ranger; he knew

  that by her clothes. Also she clearly did not

  care for the dark-haired man. He willed

  himself to speak but could form no words. She stroked his face, her rough hand

  eerily soothing. “What’s your name?”

  But Holt couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring

  his mouth to utter words.

  “Holt,” the dark-haired man said quietly. He was still looking elsewhere. “His name’s

  Holt.”

  The woman’s expression instantly

  hardened. She turned and would have

  attacked the dark-haired man again had not

  the blond fellow intercepted her. He turned to

  look over his shoulder. “Go on,” he said,

  flicking his head to indicate he wanted the

  other man to leave them. “Now.”

  The dark-haired man did not hesitate.

  He strode off through the snow toward the

  east gate. The girl in the red cloak stepped

  toward the other two. “Lorre,” her voice was

  plaintive.

  “I’m sorry, Sihr,” the blond man told her.

  “I know he’s hurting, or whatever it is you

  people feel.”

  The girl’s shoulders drew back; her

  spine straightened. She had spoken as a child

  to an adult, but now she might have been the

  adult. Her voice was scolding. “You people? “ The blond man shook his head, releasing the woman. He, too, altered, looking youthfully abashed. “You know I…I meant no

  offense.”

  The woman stepped toward the girl.

  She was unchanged; she might have been the

  mother of them all. “You stonedivers, child.”

  Her voice was contemptuous. “It isn’t natural.” The girl remained resolute. “There are

  those among thefeldyshwho call the Danann

  unnatural.”

  The words were barely in the air before

  the blond woman waved her arms

  dismissively and turned toward Holt. “I don’t

  need to listen to this.” She offered her hand.

  “Up you go, Holt.”

  Holt watched the stern face darken. It

  was as if she had not wished to say his

  name. He watched as she seemed to weigh

  her indiscretion, found the results somewhat

  shy of calamitous and shook her hand to

  indicate she wished to help him up. He rose,

  trying to do as much of the work himself as possible. They must not think him a complete invalid. She began to lead him off across the

  square, back toward the north.

  “He is hurting,” Holt heard the girl say. The blond man seemed to sigh. “Sure

  he is. But this isn’t the VaSaad. Things are

  different out here.”

  Chapter 5 Keone crossed the bridge, heading off into the snow. He knew but did not know he was retracing Holt’s footsteps, following the path blazed by the boy as he had fled the burning village. That damned awful boy! He was inside of Keone now. The man couldn’t free himself of the residue. Ugly breeder child! But that was not true; Keone knew that too.

  He suddenly sat down. He had traveled enough in the last four days—crossing the whole of Macadre from the VaSaad—coming out into this godforsaken wilderness. He looked at the rolling layer of snow, broken here and there by dark patches of damp earth and shriveled twigs. Why did people choose to live like this? Why would they leave the comfort of the cities? Then he spat angrily. People left the cities and came out into the wilderness so rangers could die trying to protect them, that’s why!Why did you go, Kawika? Why were you always leaving me?

  He propped his elbows on his knees, lowering his chin onto his fists.And why can’t I cry? Why am I as dry as dirt?

  The crunch of snow beneath boots— Sihr approached, in her own steady fashion. Keone did not look over at her.She feared me once,he thought,but now she treats me as if I am her child. I am supposed to be teaching her but as often as not…He longed suddenly for the stone; he felt the need keenly, sharply, as he had not felt it in years. He wanted to go deep—as deep as he had ever gone—and press his ear to the quiet pulse of the world. There was nothing holding him now. Kawika was gone.

  His ward settled next to him, all grown up—her shoulder nearly equal to his. She seemed to mimic him, bending her knees and lodging her elbows atop them. She did not look over, just ahead or down as he did. He waited, knowing that once he had possessed a mineral patience, but now he could not match her.

  “Well?” She turned her head slightly, directing her vision his way out of the corners of her eyes. “Well?”

  He smiled, lowering his own gaze to the ground between his legs. He felt her head settle on his shoulder. “Has he convinced her to spare me?”

  She did not immediately respond. He wondered if she was weighing the strength of his shoulder. Five days of upheaval—the poor girl’s perceptions should have been swimming. Was she reveling in the comfort of his support? More likely she was only trying to make him think she was—make him think she depended on him, that she enjoyed depending on him. Hers had always been an unshakable inner core. Somewhere in the seafaring soul of her people was a great anchor that saw her over the tumultuous seas. His own innerself he attributed almost completely to Faer. His wise teacher had molded his strength with her own hands, and only after years of toil. He had been a spoiled child.

  Sihr lifted her face, setting her chin on his arm. “What happened?”

  Keone swallowed as the words swam up and back in his throat. “I had to know,” he told her. “I had to see for myself.”

  “And that boy?”

  He shrugged.

  “Who is he? Did he know Wika?”

  Keone looked up, off toward the village. “What do they say?”

  “Just that he was found a day or so from here, northeast, by a breeder Dwaithe. He was sick with poison. He hasn’t spoken since he arrived. Where would he get the obsidian?”

  “Wika gave it to him.”

  “Then he did know him.”

  Keone felt himself nodding. “He was there. When Wika died. He was with him.”

  “I tried to join you. When I realized what you were doing, I reached out. But you were gone.”

  “I felt you. I…” He hesitated.

  “You pushed me back. I know. I will always be your silly child.”

  He looked at her, finally, smiling again. “You are no child.”

  “No?”

  “No, and if we are to prevail it will be thanks to cooler heads than mine.”

  She shook her head happily. “What a liar you are; what a flatterer. You must really think me a silly child to try and beguile me with such supercilious nonsense.” She gazed once more out across the rolling snow banks. “Will we stay here tonight?”

  He shrugged. “This miserable place is as comfortable as any we could reach before dark.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” He arched a brow at her. “I think you’d have enjoyed seeing Ardee knock me about.”

  She laughed. “Oh, it would have done us all a world of good, but no. It’s this wilderness.”

  His expression was doubtful. “You’ve truly been a sport.”

  “Yes, I’ve not complained once. Even when we had to ride with those awful boatmen through the foothills.”

  “Ah, there was a handsome crew.” His shoulders shook in an exaggerated shiver. “You’ll decide to take up rangering now I suppose.”

  She made a show of considering the notion. “Hmm…Sleeping outdoors, tracking jirran, fightingkaol.”


  He smirked. “My ass is frozen.”

  “Well, one does not often sit for long periods in the snow.” She gently tugged his arm. “Let’s find where they’re hiding. Rangers always have wine.”

  “Yes, and Ardee and I can discuss politics.”

  Sihr laughed again. “Silly man! It isn’t your politics she disapproves of. It’s… Keone?”

  He heard her voice falter, uncertain; he heard her say his name. But his chin was pressed to his chest, his eyes blinded by sudden moisture. Still, he did not believe he was ready to cry until she tugged him toward her and he felt himself surrendering to her arms. She embraced him tenderly, whispering things he could not quite hear. Her hand stroked the back of his head, comforting, warm. Too warm.

  He pulled roughly free of her, but she only looked annoyed at his resistance. “Onee. It would take so little.”

  He rose, stumbling off, away from the town. She, too, climbed to her feet as he began to jog, to run. To flee.

  “Keone, come back!”

  He did not look back, confident that she would refrain from actually pursuing him.

  “It will be dark soon,” she said, but he continued to ignore her, turning northward. “It’ll be dark soon and there may still be jirran!”

  “Bring them!” he shouted at last. “I want to kill a troll! I am a troll-killer but I have never killed a single troll!”

  Chapter 6 Lorre bound the thin strips of braided leather around his waist. Even preparing for his journey he could not refrain from devoting a portion of his attention to Ardee. Watching her dote over the little breeder boy was incredibly amusing. She should have had a child herself; but no, she possessed strong feelings about the Danann breeding. He knew something inside herself had long ago convinced her she would make a disastrous parent. How obviously wrong she was.

  “After Fort Ridge will you return?” Her voice was quiet. The boy was back in the bed now, looking none too pleased at all the attention but dutifully acquiescent.

  “No,” Lorre told her back. “I’ll find Euch and Hare. Then head over toward G’nash. We’ll see what the trolls say. I can’t imagine the demon would wait around, but just in case. I’ve always wanted to see one up close. You?”

  She straightened, rubbing her palms on her hips. “He’s about well enough to make the journey to ThistleTown. One of the other survivors might be his kin.” Turning, she leveled her eyes on Lorre. “We’ll set out tomorrow…Probably.”