Jon Wilson - The Obsidian Man

by Jon Wilson

  “How are you holding?” The priestess had moved down the center isle to intercept them, her face a mixture of green and white as if to match her robes. “Not much longer,” she said. Holt thought her voice astoundingly tempered, until he saw the vacuousness of her eyes. “Let me dress that.”

  “No. Wine,” Kawika said. The sister led them to an alcove at the side. She offered the ranger a skin, which he unstopped with his teeth. The hand never left Holt’s shoulder.

  “Can you get them to the storehouse?” Kawika nodded quickly—slight but definite. He tossed his head back and directed the stream of wine into his mouth. Abruptly Holt felt his own head yanked back. He gasped and the warm, bitter fluid filled his mouth. When he realized what was happening, he tried not to sputter. The priestess watched impassively.

  “He’s going into shock.” Kawika restopped the skin and slung the strap over his shoulder. “They’ll find a way to set fire to this soon.”

  The woman turned toward the back of the chamber. “I can’t desert the others who might make it here. I’ll direct those who will go on to you.”

  Kawika didn’t argue, didn’t even follow her with his eyes as she moved slowly to rejoin the fighters. Holt felt the hand turn him, guide him back toward the half dozen villagers at the front door.

  Cyn, the milliner, stepped out of the group. “Can we go?” His voice was as frantic as the sister’s had been calm. His eyes were nearly white.

  Kawika moved by him silently, proceeding to the door before turning to address them all. “Stay close. Don’t fret about keeping in the shadows, and don’t stop to fight, even if there’s only one. There’ll be more to replace it if the others hear the commotion.” He turned to Holt. “You ready?”

  Holt nodded and the ranger shrugged toward the door, pulling him along. The pair standing guard cleared the way for them and they slipped back out into the night.

  Chapter 6 Despite the ranger’s admonition, it was nearly impossible for the group to move quietly. People stumbled, whimpered, even grumbled and whispered. Holt seemed to hear every sound amplified a dozen times, rendering himself even more silent. Though the hand was gone from his shoulder, the memory of it continued to guide his feet with a surety he had never known. And as strange as any emotion he had felt thus far that night, a sensation of confidence and pride seemed to radiate outward from somewhere deep within his chest. A part of him attributed the feeling to the wine, but another part knew it was because he stood at Kawika’s side, that the other villagers were followingthem.

  “We’ll never make it,” some woman wailed, and—far louder—four others turned with frantic hisses, flapping their arms at her to be quiet.

  Looking at the ranger sideways, Holt decided the man apparently thought the outbursts just a matter of course. He would have berated the woman himself but for the influence of the Hyr-Danann. Kawika paid the villagers no mind, alert to any dangers lying ahead, and Holt tried to do the same. Having feigned indifference for years, he found it easy to forget the foolish bickering and focus on their progress.

  They skirted the southern edge of the square, maintaining a rapid pace, and Holt marveled at the absence of monsters. They darted down a darkened alley that would swing around and bring them toward the storehouse from the side. Holt wondered how Kawika had learned the layout of the village so quickly. He was scolding himself for a dimwit—surely his own village was nearly identical to any of a dozen others on the frontier, they were designed to facilitate the same functions—when he felt Kawika slow. His ears automatically picked out the voices behind him, immediately confirming that none of the others had noticed. He turned his head to look at the ranger, matching the man’s stride exactly.

  Kawika was watching the sky. His feet continued to fall as silently as ever but his face was inclined, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. Holt could see the glistening tips of his fine white teeth, the corded muscles of his strong sloping neck. He felt a familiar spell begin to come over him, a sense of satisfaction and longing—a warm pull not so different from the one it usurped.

  Stupid, he thought.Stupid, stupid, child! Death is everywhere, and you start daydreaming. What is he hearing? What does he see? Have the trolls or the imps climbed up onto the rooftops?

  Still trying to conceal his actions from the others, Holt also gazed upward. He saw only blackness, although it was not the usual blackness of the night sky. It was dingy gray and stifling smoke that seemed to hang over the entire village. And why not? Surely every flammable structure was alight. The air was rank with the smell of burning timber and burning grass and burning flesh, and only when he thought of the fire all around did Holt remember he was cold and begin to shiver.

  Almost simultaneously, the warm strong hand was back on his shoulder. He felt the fingertips press firmly into the flesh below the back of his head. His eyelids fluttered. The oppressive darkness dipped, swirling around him, suddenly sultry. He had to force his mind back to the moment. They were still moving, but he angled his head to look up at the ranger’s face once more.

  Kawika was smiling at him. It was a slight, hardly noticeable tilt at the edge of the man’s mouth, but on that face and in that instant it was the most beautiful sight Holt had ever seen. He felt his own mouth sag, his lips parting unconsciously, his jaw drooping lower and lower toward his chest.

  How foolish I must look, Holt thought, although he could do nothing to help himself. He noticed the ranger was sweating profusely; it seemed perfectly understandable and somehow amazing all at once. Would he ever be so handsome?

  “You must take them the rest of the way,” Kawika said. As Holt felt his brow begin to furrow, the ranger grinned, adding, “You’ve done well so far. They’ll marvel over the wonder boy when we reach the VaSaad.”

  “But…” They were stopping. The lane had taken another sharp right turn. He could see the side of the storehouse.

  “What’s the matter?” Cyn demanded. “Why are we stopping?”

  Kawika continued to ignore everyone else; the large brown eyes were only for Holt. “Are you ready?”

  Holt chewed his lip. That was twice the ranger had asked him. Of course he was ready. Hadn’t he come to the shed? Hadn’t he escaped Jal and Wyn to go in search of the ranger? Hadn’t he helped the ranger guide the villagers back? He was ready. But he was ready for far more. Why did Kawika have to leave them? Why wasn’t he coming to the storehouse as well? Holt didn’t want to part. He wasn’t ready for that.

  “Take them into the storehouse. Bar the door. Barricade it. The door’s the danger. The door’ll burn. You’ll have to be ready.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” It was Cyn who had managed to voice Holt’s question.

  Kawika faced the milliner. His voice was a whip. “No. You’re on your own. I have—”

  “What!” Cyn was outraged. “How dare you abandon us!”

  The ranger nodded. “I have other things to attend to. You’ll be safe in there against the side of the hill. They didn’t come for your stores this time. This is a massacre. But don’t worry, it’s almost over and it looks like they missed you.”

  A massacre, Holt mused. That’s what it was. No denying. His mother and brother and aunt all dead. His father, too, probably. He felt Kawika’s gaze on him again.

  “You’re ready,” the ranger said. “Remember about the door.”

  Holt felt himself nodding, even as he knew he mustn’t agree to leave. “I…”

  The ranger squeezed his shoulder. “Go on. You’re in charge.”

  “This is madness!” the milliner cried.

  Kawika smiled. “Quick before he brings a pack ofkaol.”

  Holt started to pull away, took two steps back and then one forward. “There are people hiding in Fitts’ cellar!” His voice returned now that it was too late to argue.

  The ranger gave him a single nod. “Where’s that?”

  “Nearly straight across. Down some.” He pointed. “Three from the end there.” Why couldn’t he go with Kawika
and show him? He swallowed. “What about the others?”

  “The others?”

  “The priestess said she would send any others. We can’t barricade the door.”

  The ranger shook his head. “There won’t be any others.”

  “We probably won’t make it ourselves,” Cyn declared angrily.

  “I’m counting on you,” Kawika told Holt.

  Cyn stepped in front of the ranger, leaning in to scream at the man’s face. “On him? You’re counting onhim?”

  Kawika met the milliner’s manic glare with his usual stoicism. Holt decided he was the only one who could see the real emotion behind the ranger’s eyes, the violence residing there. He stepped forward and took hold of Cyn’s elbow. He used all the strength he could muster. “Come on,” he said, pulling the man away. The others moved hesitantly to follow. With a struggle Holt tore his eyes off of Kawika and looked toward their destination. When he looked back, the ranger had vanished.

  Chapter 7 He had made no promise. Helping the others through the door of the storehouse, Holt cast furtive glances back the way they had come, up the main road toward the square, at the sky with its lowering blackness. There were still creatures in the shadows—he could hear them—but none within sight. If he could maintain his newfound stealth, he would be safe; he could make it to Fitts’ cellar and help Kawika again. He had accepted the ranger’s charge to guide the villagers to the storehouse, but only through acquiescent silence. He had not given his word that he would hide with them, although he knew he had to see that they understood about the door.

  He turned to Wyn, using his father’s voice again. “The ranger said you must barricade the door and stay back against the side of the hill. He said there would be no others coming. He said to watch the door in case the trolls tried to burn it.” Holt took a deep breath.He said whenweget to the VaSaad.

  Wyn accepted all of this without comment, but clearly listening and understanding that the instructions must be obeyed. Holt wondered if it was something else that had changed within himself, or if the poor farmer had simply exhausted his own mental processes and needed to follow someone else’s orders for a change.

  Holt continued, “He said he thought it was nearly done. They’ll burn most of what they can and then go.”

  All of the six people in his care were through the doorway. Wyn’s eyes rose to Holt’s face. They were like bubbling viscous pools, dripping down his cheeks. “What’s to become of us then?”

  Holt had no idea, but tried to conceal his ignorance. In his whole life, no one had ever asked him an important question, and now that it happened he was unable to answer. He could not even shrug. “Stay against the side of the hill.” He had to turn away from Wyn’s awful, starving eyes. He looked east, toward the fires that rose high into the air, and then slightly south toward where he knew Fitts’ house to be. “Watch the door.”

  He moved, not waiting to see the door closed or listen for sounds of a barricade being constructed.Better to break the tie quickly if it must be broken completely.He did not think he could regret not going inside with them, but better not to test the theory by seeing or hearing his last route to safety sealed.

  He sped back down the lesser avenue, heading south. He knew the edge of town was all collapsing bonfires, but between the perimeter and the square there seemed to be a dark valley to which the fires had not spread. And the trolls and imps—or were theyjirran andkaol—had been lured to the north side, to the temple and the heavier conglomeration of residences. Holt could wind his way through the dark structures. He knew the paths well. His own house, the smithy where his father worked, the stables where the horses lodged, all lay less than two hundred feet away. He would, in fact, simply be completing a circle—trekking out a ring of death and destruction on this fine winter night.

  It felt good to let his thoughts free of any tether. It helped his feet to find the ground more gracefully, it let the corners of his mind which sensed danger—corners that had sprung to amazing life—work unencumbered by his futile attempts to guide them through concentration. Once again he felt the ghost of Kawika’s hand on his shoulder. He slipped past the yard where his brother and mother lay in the snow.

  A sound like the unfurling of a giant flag whipped above his head. Instinctively he ducked, darting toward the edge of the path, flattening himself against the side of a building. He squinted upward into the smoke. Nothing. Just heavy black haze, rolling like some evil, low-hanging cloud. Perhaps it had been the wind, whipping through the smoke. He took a breath, wondered why his heart rate had accelerated so, then dashed the remainder of the short distance to Fitts’ house.

  When the cellar door swung open easily, he knew there would be no one inside. Of course, Kawika could easily have covered the same distance in half the time, but by what route was he leading them back? And why would he lead them back? The storehouse door was barricaded. He scanned the ground, searching for footprints. Had the ranger even come to the cellar? Holt released the door and it fell open. He left it that way and rushed around to the front, peering up the lane to his right. That would lead him back to the square; he could see the blazing bonfire. Directly ahead of him was the path by which he had just come. He did not look left, that was toward his own house. Nothing there. Surely Kawika would not have gone that way.

  He turned northward, toward the square. Beyond the great fire, he sensed commotion. Had the ranger returned to the temple? Would he join the priestess and Holt’s fellow villagers to die there?

  Holt began to move faster. Panic set in, obliterating his newfound abilities to move silently and guard against danger. When the large figure lurched from the shadows, he was too slow to avoid it. An arm encircled his waist, hoisting him off his feet. They tumbled, rolling to the far side of the lane. Holt felt other limbs entwine his legs, even as he regained enough sense to begin to struggle. His head was caught in the crux of an elbow. A hand slapped stingingly over his mouth. And then Kawika’s face was there, just an inch from his own.

  “Why?” Immediately, Holt sensed a drastic change. The ranger should have been angry, but the word was uttered with entreaty¾the breath it rode, hot and rasping. His eyes were glassy and half-lidded. Sweat poured down his face, dripping steadily off the tip of his nose.

  They were moving. Though Holt was trapped beyond all hope of escape, every limb pinned and useless, he could feel Kawika’s powerful body inching them further into the shadows. When they were completely off the main road, the ranger propped a shoulder against the rough planks of a wooden wall. His head fell back, the eyes closing completely. He took several struggling breaths.

  Holt wanted to speak—needed to know what had happened—but Kawika continued to hold him securely. Finally the ranger’s eyelids fluttered open, and his head rolled slowly over to peer down at Holt. “Just stupid,” he said and then sighed, shutting his eyes again and leaning heavily against the wall.

  Holt felt the entangling limbs slacken, and managed to snake an arm free. He reached up and pulled the hand from over his mouth. He gasped, taking in a chest-full of air.

  “Kawika?” He had never said the name aloud. He wished he could have managed it better—perhaps on his father’s voice. But now his own, childish voice had returned. “Kawika what happened?”

  The ranger shook his head, his lips working soundlessly.

  With a great effort, Holt sat up. He felt his jaw drop when he looked over at the man. Another cold wallop stung his chest. “Kawika…”

  The ranger’s face was pale, bloodless, practically glowing in the darkness. The left leg of his trousers was rent from mid-thigh to below the knee¾soaked with blood. Another piece of cloth had been tied around the thigh above the wound. Holt reached gingerly down to peel back the edge of the torn garment. The flesh below was equally incised: tattered, oozing edges stretched back to reveal stained bone deep within their mangled folds. He flinched instinctively, dropping the piece of torn fabric. His vision trailed up Kawika’s body: more cuts and bruis
es—another serious wound across his abdomen—but nothing as horrible as the leg. The ranger’s right hand was pushed against the ground, clenched in a tight fist. His other arm still draped Holt’s shoulders.

  “Kawika what happened?” How could the man who had so easily dispatched the trolls on the bridge have been mauled so terribly? They must have overwhelmed him. Trolls and imps—jirran andkaol—dozens of each. Why hadn’t he let Holt accompany him? Why hadn’t he let Holt help? And then the tears began to flow unchecked because he knew he would have been less than useless even if he had been allowed along.

  After a moment, the grip tightened on his shoulder. He looked up to find Kawika again shaking his head. This time the trembling lips brought forth words. “No, no, wonder boy Holt. Mustn’t cry now.” The ranger’s voice was ragged, weary. His tongue slipped out and across his lips. “Too late for tears. Always saying we’re sorry.” He shuddered and then began to chuckle. “Silly man.” His chuckles triggered a cough.

  Suddenly Holt was seized by an idea. Fitts’ cellar! He had been thinking about it all night and now it lay nearby and abandoned. Of course! Surely he could get the ranger there, and once inside, with the door barred and themselves hidden safely in the shadows, they would be safe. He could somehow dress Kawika’s wounds and then nurse him quietly through the night and in the morning they could…Well, in the morning the ranger would be better and he would know what to do. He would know how to get them back to VaSaad-Ka.He said when we get there!

  Holt scrambled to his knees. “Kawika. Kawika, listen. Fitts’ cellar. Fitts’ cellar is just over there. There isn’t anybody inside. We can hide.” He began pulling the ranger up, fighting to hoist the man back to his feet. He could hear himself muttering incoherent instructions, struggling to secure Kawika’s arm across his shoulders.

  Then abruptly the ranger was fighting him. He had him nearly up—Kawika had seemed to be in agreement with his plans— when all at once Holt was wrestled back to the ground. He was shoved savagely against the wall and positioned behind the ranger’s back.