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  The Obsidian Man

  By Jon Wilson

  Published by JMS Books LLC This book is available in print. Visit jms-books.com for more information. Copyright 2011 Jon Wilson ISBN 978-1-61152-108-5 Cover Photo Credit: Javarman Javarman,

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  Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License. Cover Design: J.M. Snyder

  All rights reserved

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * * Glossary of Selected Names, Terms and Phrases

  Ardee—a Danann ranger

  Baton—a villager of Darnouth, murdered by trolls

  Belfayne—a country in Wyrnet, one of nine principal world powers Bennie —A Danann ranger, deceased bilftani—(jirran) Belfayne, Belfaynese breeder—(Danann) any non-Danann human

  cajir—(jirran) a diplomatic or religious gathering

  Colmaire—a breeder colonel, commander of Fort Ridge Cyn —a milliner of Darnouth

  da’an—(Danann) spouse, lover, mate Danann—a citizen of VaSaad-Ka

  Darnouth—a small village in the northeast, Holt’s hometown Dela —Holt’s aunt

  Dooble—a villager of Darnouth

  Dot— a Danann stonediver, deceased; Ardee’s da’an

  Drekkofysh Lake—a midsize body of water beyond Macadre’s northeastern border dthak—a jirran shaman

  DuLyn-Au—a major port city of Macadre in Stindon Essie —a Danann ranger; Ardee’s paradigm Euch—a Danann ranger

  Faer— a Danann stonediver; Keone’s paradigm; Mab’s paradigm

  Farnarrysh-Jamak—(jirran) “the spine of god;” a mountain range in Stindon farysha—(Danann) male ward (obs.), in later times a birth son

  Feathersbone Isle—a large island state off the northwestern coast of Belfayne feldysh —(jirran) humans

  Fitts—a dry-goods merchant of Darnouth Gabin—Holt’s younger brother

  Gahari—a jirran shaman (dthak); son of Moitunic Gar —a retired soldier, resident of Darnouth Gazina—a villager of Darnouth

  Gir, Mount —a jirran holy place, west of Macadre in Stindon; in mytholgy, the home of Jir

  Girjir Valley —a region beyond the northwestern borders of Macadre in Stindon

  G’nash—a Huerunan encampment

  Greysbridge—Keone’s hometown, merged with Kings Town Habaaj —a small nation in central Wyrnet Hare—a Danann ranger

  Holt—a villager of Darnouth

  Huerunan—a jirran pride

  Hyr-Danann—a male citizen of the VaSaad Jal—a villager of Darnouth

  Jir—in jirran mythology, the principal deity (of commerce, art and war)

  Jir-Theesa—a river in eastern Stindon jirran—a race of (probably alien) humanoids; trolls

  j’ranna—(jirran) a diplomatic or religious journey

  kaol—a race of (probably indigenous) sentient lifeforms; imps

  Katawanif—a jirran huntress

  Kawika— a Danann ranger; Keone’s da’an (alsoWika)

  Keone— a Danann stonediver; Kawika’s da’an; Sihr’s paradigm

  Kings Town—the largest city in eastern Macadre (Stindon)

  Kyrni Keep—a military outpost and training facility in northern Macadre (Stindon) kyuet-dwaithe —(Danann) term for non-Danann wilderness dwellers (trappers, scouts, etc.), also simply dwaithe or breeder dwaithe

  Laesombea—Ardee’s jirran name, “snow woman”

  Lei—a Danann ranger

  Lorre— a Danann ranger, Ardee’s younger brother Lotte Johns —a villager of Darnouth

  Lyr-Danann—a femal citizen of the VaSaad

  Macadre —a country, with land in both Wyrnet (center) and Stindon (colonies); one of nine principal world powers

  makkadar—(jirran) Macadre, or, more commonly, a citizen of Macadre Moitunic—a jirran chieftain, leader of the Huerunan

  Orata—a villager of Darnouth, Holt’s cousin paradigm—a Danaan teacher, guide, trainer, parent

  Polefe—a villager of Darnouth, Holt’s childhood friend

  ranger—any of various official frontier patrols, esp. the Danann

  Roef—a villager of Darnouth, murdered by trolls Raot —a jirran huntress

  Sihr—a Danann stonediver; Keone’s ward

  Stindon —the large continent to the west of the Wyring Ocean, mostly unsettled by humans; Macadre has colonies there in the north, Belfayne has colonies in the south

  stonediver—Danann mystics

  Thara Jadmere—a world-famous Danann artisan (bard)

  Varley—a villager of Darnouth, murdered by trolls VaSaad-Ka —home of the Danann, on the west coast of Stindon, now enveloped within the coastal city of DuLyn-Au

  VaSaadites —a ranger/mariner/courtesan term (of derision) for those of the Danann who remain at the VaSaad Waas—a lieutenant stationed at Fort Ridge

  Wul—a Huerunan huntress, deceased, dam of Raot Wyring Ocean —the name applied to the various (connected) bodies of water encircling the northern and eastern coasts of Wyrnet and the northern and western coasts of Stindon

  Wyrnet—a continent, the center of human civilization on the planet

  Xan—a villager of Darnouth Yuer Plain —a region beyond the borders of southern Macadre (Stindon), where the Belfaynese have established colonies

  Yul—a jirran pride

  Yulnockt—a large body of water (sea) south of Macadre (Stindon)

  The Obsidian Man

  By Jon Wilson

  to deep sleep logan

  Prologue He did not mind the cold. Standing shirtless on the old bridge, indifferent to the icy gusts rolling off the frozen lake, he could not quite claim to be inured to harsh weather, but, after nearly ten winters, he did not feel it like he once had.

  His legs and feet were clothed in worn leather, held in place by coiled tongs. Similar wrappings adorned his forearms and hands. Two tooled stones, each about the size and shape of one of his own fingers, had been tied across his palms. Though his hands were relaxed, had he made them into fists, his fingers would have coiled comfortably around the stones.

  He had donned the implements as a concession to the fallibility of memory. There was a thin dagger which he often strapped to his right shin, but which he had buried a short distance away in a bank of snow. There was also a garrote. Under most circumstances he would have preferred to abjure all such tools —their mere presence often provoked their use—but he had received wildly varying accounts of the situation. Though he knew the mind in such instances tended toward exaggeration, in the end he had decided that if the matter had escalated even half so far as he had been led to believe, he would regret attempting to address it empty-handed.

  But as he stood blinking into the sunrise, he regretted his decision after all. The stones tickled his palms, making his fingers ache to squeeze them. He could ignore the wind and accept the freezing cold, but he was loath to once again explain that some children must starve that others might live.

  “Why?” the old troll asked, shuffling its feet. The creature seemed to be trying to work itself
up into taking another step forward.

  The pack was huddled several yards up the road, where they had halted their noisy charge at first sight of the ranger standing on the bridge. Trolls were, of course, naturally stealthy creatures, and the ranger knew these dozen had crept quietly down the frozen creek, presumably hoping to hide themselves below the town gate. But detecting the scent of a man on the bridge, and no doubt assuming the villagers had gotten an earlier start than usual, they had erupted from the creek bed howling. They had reckoned, clearly, on the element of surprise, and the terror instilled in the majority of humans by the lupine timbre of their cries.

  When the ranger standing on the bridge did not flee in terror—when, in fact, he reacted not at all to their ploy—their cries gurgled uncertainly in their throats. For even more than the leather dressings, the palm stones and the garrote, even more than the fact that the town gate was still closed and clearly barred from within, the man knew his imperturbable bearing identified him as just one thing: a Danaan ranger.

  The trolls clustered clumsily back along the road, their irresolution identifying them to the ranger as immediately as his own composure had identified him to them. They were plainly not a hunting pack of Huerunan. Most likely they were gypsies, remnants of some lesser clan driven from their pride for whatever reason. Obviously they were starving. There were twelve, ranging in age from perhaps fifteen seasons to fifty. A few wielded crudely made replicas of the stoneheaded malletsJirranwarriors favored. Most of the others carried clubs. Five of them were male. The ranger knew even the most desperate of the great prides would never tolerate males hunting.

  For several moments, a few of the trolls continued to growl and raise their hackles, but soon an eerie calm returned to the scene. The ranger said nothing. The marauders recognized what he was—they knew the significance of his presence there on the bridge. He hoped they might simply turn and disappear back into the mountains.

  But then an elderly male shuffled forward, a young female growling into his ear. Her angry insistence seemed to cause him acute distress. Finally he waved a long, furry arm. “Go away from there!”

  The troll’s muzzle rendered the words nearly incomprehensible, but the ranger was encouraged by the presence of a creature capable of even rudimentary human speech. His own mastery ofjirran could as easily hinder a situation as help it. He did not offer any sort of reciprocal gesture, having no desire to appear more confrontational. Instead he spoke softly, firmly. “This is Macadre land.”

  The young female gave a loud screech, though the ranger doubted she understood more than the word Macadre. She barked something at the old male, and then directed several more guttural sounds at the rest of the pack. They began to howl once again, a few batting their breasts in what could best be interpreted as a variation on the human practice of shaking a fist.

  The old troll’s muzzle quivered, then opened and closed several times as if he were choking on the word fighting its way up his throat. “Jimarrang!” he managed at last, and a few others, inspired by the familiar term, began a sort of grossly syncopated chant of it. “Jimarrang! Jimarrang!”

  The ranger did not bother to reply; what might he have offered them? They did not believe what they were saying, and surely held out no hope of changing his mind. They were simply working themselves up. He waited with an icy patience, feeling the one small particle of hope to which he’d been clinging slip away.

  Abruptly, another of the females broke from the group. She darted to the left, stooping with absurd grace to claim a large rock. She loped a few paces forward, spun, and hurled the rock at the ranger’s head. Twisting his torso and bending slightly at the waist, the man allowed the rock to sail within a finger’s width of his ear and over his right shoulder.

  In a rage, the troll resumed her charge, raising her club. With a gurgling roar she swung—wicked spikes curving in a wide arc toward the man’s head. Only at the last moment did the ranger take action, thrusting his shoulder into the crux of the troll’s arm, grabbing her wrist, and pulling downward with the force of the blow. He twisted, putting his back to his attacker and steering the long, hairy arm across his chest. Finally he gave the wrist a powerful turn. A sickening sound like splintering wood came from the troll’s elbow.

  A scream eclipsed the troll’s war cry, only to itself be broken as the ranger swung his elbow up under the creature’s muzzle, snapping her jaw. The troll staggered, teetering backward before dropping to her knees. Without a pause the ranger spun and brought his foot up against the side of her head.

  The troll was propelled headfirst over the edge of the bridge. With a crack, her face met the ice below. Her grizzled body piled upon itself like an emptied sack.

  The remaining trolls started forward, but slowed when the ranger turned to face them. They hesitated; several took steps back. The troll who spoke the human language called out, “You stand?”

  The ranger continued to regard them steadfastly, flexing the fingers of his right fist slowly around his palm stone. With all hope lost he longed for a quick end to things.

  “Why stand?” The troll took a wary step forward, bolstered by the man’s reticence. “Why protectthem?”

  The ranger nearly smiled. He might have been loath to explain why their children must starve, but it would have been easier than answering that surprising query. He knew from personal experience that hours of debate might not do the trick—there was an achingly familiar echo in the old troll’s stony growl. But he did not smile, he sighed. He told them simply, “Go,” but instead they charged.

  It was over in a matter of moments—the last troll fell as quickly as the first. Their broken bodies sprawled over the bridge and the ice below. Dark pools of reddish purple blood spread between them, seeping into the wood and dripping down onto the frozen creek. By midday the bridge would be adorned with a dozen pink stalactites, the only reminder of the gruesome battle of the morning once the filthy bodies were carted off and burned.

  Displaying neither approval nor contempt, the man inspected the carnage, insuring all of the pack were indeed dead. He bled only superficially—a few scratches that he ignored as he stepped over the bodies and back up to the gate.

  While he stood waiting for the villagers to creep out of their holes, he did not look up at the hayloft over the stables. He had noticed the boy hiding there even before the trolls had appeared, but did not want to reward such recklessness with acknowledgement. Surely the child had subjected his parents to a fair amount of distress. But the man did hope, fleetingly, that now the fight was ended, the boy might alert the others and someone would come soon to open the gate.

  Part 1: The Freeze

  Chapter 1 “Here’s Holt!” Gabin stood in the doorway, watching his brother trudge across the frozen yard. He turned back into the hut, adding in a disappointed tone, “He ain’t hurt, mamma.”

  Holt walked dutifully into the kitchen. It would not do to come slinking in as if he thought he had done something wrong. True, h ehad done something wrong; he had sneaked off before breakfast to hide in the hayloft so he might peer over the town wall and watch the excitement unfold on the east bridge. He had put himself in danger by not joining his mother and aunts and cousins hiding in the neighbor’s cellar. But he felt the rewards of his actions clearly outweighed the risks, and he thought he should face the punishment he knew must await with the proper attitude. Unfortunately, the room was hot and damp, a drastic change from the frigid dryness outdoors and his resolve melted.

  His aunt Dela told him, “Your poor mother was frantic.”

  His mother sat at the table sorting meal. She was a stout woman, with thinning red hair so unlike Holt’s own that he sometimes wondered how they could be kin. She seemed completely unconcerned by Holt’s misbehavior. He stood, waiting for her to speak, no longer afraid of either her or his father—he had been thrashed too often for that. Still, he had some sense of duty and felt he owed her the privilege of a good scolding. Instead she rose, picking up two small sacks
and offering them to him.

  “There’s work to be done. Take this for the birds and then go help your father harness the horse. They’ll be wanting the big cart.”

  Holt hesitated. This was hardly what he had expected. Even his aunt seemed disappointed. Finally he stepped forward, taking a sack of meal in each hand.

  It was then that his mother slapped him, a powerful blow that made him realize again how much they all hated him. He could barely hear his aunt’s stifled giggle over the ringing of his ears. His mother did not look at him but told him quite indifferently, “Well, go.”

  He turned and passed with measured steps back through the doorway.

  Gabin followed him out into the yard, bouncing exuberantly along beside him. “What’d jah see? Did he kill ‘em all?”

  Their mother called, “Gabin, don’t be bothering him! See to gathering those eggs.”

  Both boys ignored her and continued toward the stables, Holt scattering handfuls of meal.

  “I thought he would have been killed for sure,” Gabin rambled on. “Like what they did to Roef and…”

  “Well, he’s not like Roef, is he?” Holt turned angrily on his brother, venting the fury he had struggled to contain. “He’s not like any of us!” He had meant to sayyou. He’s not like any of you.

  Gabin stopped, bewildered, but when Holt started forward again he called after him, “Was there a lot of blood?”

  Holt ducked inside the birdhouse. The birds screamed in terror and then suddenly flocked toward him when they realized the presence of food. He distributed what remained of his burden indiscriminately, shaking out the empty bags and then tucking them into one of the large pockets of his coat. He took his time. His father would hardly welcome his presence, and even if word of his absence during the morning had not reached the old man’s ears, there were no doubt half a hundred other things Holt could be hollered at for, and no doubt would be.

  He began searching the straw for eggs, taking care not to let any of the nervous birds catch him with their beaks. True, Gabin had been told to do it, but at least it kept him out of his father’s way. Besides which, Gabin would only put the chore off until Holt was made to do it anyway. Even as he slid his hand carefully along the underside of the first slat, a wary eye watching each hen as he passed, he heard his brother laugh and call out to someone. A feminine voice responded, but he did not recognize the source. Only when his brother gasped loudly, in a tone suitably awestruck, “For the ranger?” did Holt’s interest pique.