Besides, the voice had stirred, restless that he continue.
The sooner he was finished with Lathea’s sister, the sooner he could visit his ancestral home, the People’s Palace. It would be wise to learn what he could, first, so that he might know what to anticipate from his half brother.
Oba wondered if Jennsen had been to see Althea, yet, and if she had, what she had found out. Oba was more and more convinced that his fate was somehow linked to the Jennsen woman. Too many things kept leading back to her for it to be a meaningless connection. Oba was very careful about how things on the lists he kept connected. Other people weren’t so observant, but they didn’t have to be—they weren’t important.
Both he and Jennsen were a hole in the world. Possibly even more interesting, they both had something in their eyes that Clovis had noticed. What it was, exactly, the man wasn’t sure. Oba had pressed him, but he couldn’t say.
As the morning wore on, Oba made the best time he could along the twisted tangle of roots that passed for a path, until it sank lower ahead of him into an expanse of still, dark water. Oba paused, panting, sweat streaming down his face, checking to the sides, searching for another way across to where the ground looked to rise up again. It appeared that the way ahead tunneled on through the thick, steamy growth. But first, he had to get across the water. Hot as he was, that didn’t sound half bad.
He saw no vines hanging down that might steady him, so he quickly cut a stout limb and stripped it of branches to make himself a staff to help him balance as he crossed the low place.
Staff in hand, Oba waded out into a stretch of water. It wasn’t as much of a cooling relief as he had hoped; it smelled awful and was full of brown leeches. As he moved through the water, trailing a wake that dislodged debris from the banks, he had to keep brushing the clouds of biting bugs from his face. He kept checking, but unless he backtracked to look for another way, he saw that it was the only way to dry land beyond. That thought alone convinced him to keep going.
There were roots enough under the surface for footing, but Oba soon found himself in up to his chest and he wasn’t yet to the middle. As deep as it was, the water made him buoyant, which meant his footing wasn’t as good. The roots at the bottom were slippery and poor support for the staff, but it at least helped him keep his balance.
He was a good swimmer, but didn’t like the thought of what else might be swimming with him, and preferred to keep on his feet. Almost to the far bank, Oba was just about to discard the staff and swim the rest of the way to wash the sweat off, when something heavy brushed against his leg. Before he could think what to do about it, the thing bumped him hard enough to push him from his feet, dumping him into the water. As soon as he plunged into the deeper water, the thing enveloped his legs.
He instantly thought of the monsters that were said to dwell in the swamp. Throughout their long ride, Clovis had regaled him with stories of the beasts, warning him to be careful, but Oba had scoffed, confident in his own strength.
Now, Oba cried out in fright of the monster that had him. He struggled frantically, in gasping panic, trying to shake his legs free, but the fire-breathing beast had him fast and wouldn’t let go. It reminded him of being locked in the pen when he was little, trapped and helpless. Oba’s cry echoed out across the frothing water, returning threefold from the darkness beyond. The only clear thought that came to him was that he was too young to die—especially in so awful a fashion. He had so much ahead of him to live for. It wasn’t fair that this should happen to him.
He cried out again as he splashed and fought to escape. He wanted away, just as he had wanted out of the terrible trapped feeling of being locked in the pen. His screams never helped then, and they didn’t help now; their echo was empty companionship.
The thing suddenly and forcefully twisted him around, spinning him, and dragged him under.
Oba gasped a breath just in time. As he went under, eyes wide in fright, he saw for the first time the scales of his captor. It was the biggest snake he had ever seen, but he was also struck with relief because it was still a snake. It might be big, but it was just an animal—not a fire-breathing monster.
Before his arm could be pinned, Oba snatched the knife in a sheath at his belt and yanked it free. He knew that in water it would be difficult to use the same force as on dry land. Still, stabbing the thing would be his only chance, and he had to do it before he drowned.
With his neck stretching for air, but the life-giving surface getting farther and farther away as the weight around him continued to drag him deeper, his feet unexpectedly found something solid. Rather than continue to fight to reach the surface for air, he let his legs bend as he sank. When his legs were folded like a bullfrog ready to spring, he tensed his powerful leg muscles and pushed with a mighty shove off the bottom.
Oba exploded from the water, coils of snake wrapped around him. He landed on his side, halfway out of the water, up on twisted roots. The snake, its body cushioning Oba’s weight when they crashed to the ground, clearly didn’t appreciate it. Iridescent green scales shimmered in the weak light as the reeking water sluiced from both combatants.
The snake’s head rose over Oba’s shoulder. Yellow eyes peered at him through a dark mask. A red tongue flicked out, feeling along its troublesome prey.
Oba grinned. “Come closer, my pretty friend.”
The snake undulated along his body as the eyes fixed him with a menacing stare. If a snake could get angry, this one was. Lightning quick, Oba snatched the thing behind the dark green head, gripping it in his brawny fist. It reminded him of the wrestling he had done before on rare occasions. He liked wrestling. Oba never lost at wrestling.
The snake paused to hiss. With powerful muscles, each held back the other. The snake tried to enfold Oba in yet more coils and gain the advantage by constricting. It was a mighty struggle of strength as each tried to wrestle the other into submission.
Oba recalled that ever since he had listened to the voice, he had been invincible. He remembered how his life used to be ruled by fear, fear of his mother, fear of the powerful sorceress. Most everyone feared the sorceress, just as most everyone feared snakes. Except Oba had stood up to her dangerous magic. She had sent fire and lightning at him, magic able to blast its way through walls and vanquish any opposition, yet he had been invincible. What was a lowly snake in the face of that kind of opponent? He felt a bit chagrined that he had cried out in fright. What had he, Oba Rahl, to fear, least of all from a mere snake?
Oba rolled farther up onto solid ground, taking the snake with him. He grinned as he brought the knife up under the scaled jaw. The huge animal went still.
With deliberate care, gripping the thing behind the head with one hand, Oba pressed the blade upward with his other. The tough scales, like pale white armor, resisted penetration. The snake, now under threat from Oba’s deadly blade, suddenly began struggling—not to dominate, this time, but to escape. Muscular coils unwrapped from Oba’s legs, sweeping across the ground, trying for purchase against roots and saplings, searching for anything to latch on to. With his foot, Oba pulled a length of the shimmering green body back toward him, preventing any escape.
The razor-sharp blade, with Oba’s powerful muscles pushing it, suddenly popped through the thick scales under the jaw. Oba watched, fascinated, as blood ran down his fist. The snake went wild with fear and pain. Any thoughts of conquest were long forgotten. Now, it wanted desperately to get away. The animal put all its considerable strength to that effort alone.
But Oba was strong. Nothing ever escaped him.
Straining with the effort, he dragged the twisting, turning, writhing body up onto higher, drier ground. He grunted as he lifted the heavy beast. Holding it aloft, screaming with fury, Oba ran forward. With a mighty lunge, he drove his knife into a tree, pinning the snake there with the blade through its lower jaw and roof of its mouth, like a long, third fang.
The snake’s yellow eyes watched, helpless, as Oba drew another knife from
his boot. He wanted to see the life go out of those wicked yellow eyes as they watched him.
Oba made a slit in the pale underbody, in the fold between rows of scales. Not a long slit. Not a slit that would kill. Just a slit big enough for his hand.
Oba grinned. “Are you ready?” he asked the thing. It watched, unable to do anything else.
Oba pushed his sleeve up his arm as far as he could, then wormed his hand in through the slit. It was a tight fit, but he wriggled his hand, then his wrist, then his arm into the living body, farther and farther as the snake whipped side to side, not just in its futile effort to escape, but now in agony. With a knee, Oba pinned the body to the trunk of the tree and with a foot held down the thrashing tail.
For Oba, the world seemed to vanish around him as he felt what it was like to be a snake. He imagined he was becoming the animal, in its living body, feeling its skin around his own as he pushed his arm in. He felt its warm wet insides compressed around his flesh. He slithered his hand in deeper. He had to stand closer, so that he could get his arm down in farther, until his eyes were only inches from the snake’s.
Looking into those eyes, he was wildly exhilarated at seeing not just brutal pain, but the most marvelous terror.
Oba felt his destination pulsing through the slippery viscera. Then, he found it—the living heart. It beat furiously in his hand, throbbing and jumping. As they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes, Oba squeezed with his powerful fingers. In a thick, warm, wet gush, the heart burst. The snake thrashed with the sudden, wild strength of death. But as Oba held the quivering burst heart, each of the snake’s movements became progressively more labored, more sluggish, until with one last rolling flip of its tail, it went still.
The whole time, Oba stared into the yellow eyes, until he knew they were dead. It wasn’t the same as watching a person die, because it lacked that singular connection of human identity—there were no complex human thoughts with which he could relate—but it was still thrilling to see death enter the living.
He was liking the swamp better all the time.
Victorious and blood-soaked, Oba squatted at the water’s edge, washing himself and his knives clean. The entire encounter had been unexpected, rousing, and satisfying, although he had to admit that it was nowhere near as exciting with a snake as it was with a woman. With a woman, there was the thrill of sex added in to the experience, the thrill of having more than his hand inside her as death entered her, too, to share her body with him.
There could be no greater intimacy than that. It was sacred.
The dark water was turned red by the time Oba had finished. The color made him think of Jennsen’s red hair.
As he straightened, he checked to make sure he had all his belongings and hadn’t lost anything in the struggle. He patted his pocket for the reassuring presence of his hard-earned wealth.
His money purse wasn’t there.
In cold panic, he thrust his hand in his pocket, but the purse was gone. He realized that he had to have lost it in the water while struggling with the snake. He kept the purse on the end of a thong he tied to a belt loop so as to be sure it was safe and couldn’t be accidentally lost. He didn’t see how it was possible, but the knot in the leather thong must have come loose in the struggle.
He turned a scowl on the dead thing slumped in a heap at the base of the tree. In a screaming rage, Oba lifted the snake by the throat and pounded the lifeless head against the tree until the scales started sloughing off.
Panting and drained from the effort, Oba finally halted. He let the bloody mass slip to the ground. Despondent, he decided he would have to dive back into the water and search for his missing money. Before he did, he made one last despairing check of his pocket. Looking closer, he saw, then, that leather thong he kept tied to his belt loop was still there. It hadn’t come undone, after all. He pulled the short length of leather out in his fingers.
It had been cut.
Oba turned, looking back the way he had come. Clovis.
Clovis was always pushing up close, yammering away, like a pesky fly buzzing around him. When Oba had bought the horses, Clovis had seen the money purse.
With a growl, Oba glared back through the swamp. A light rain had begun to fall, making but a whisper against the living canopy of leaves. The drops felt cool on his heated face.
He would kill the little thief. Slowly.
Clovis would no doubt feign innocence. He would beg to be searched to prove he didn’t have the missing money purse. Oba figured the man would likely have buried the money somewhere, intending to come back later and retrieve it.
Oba would make him confess. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Clovis thought he was clever, but he had not met the likes of Oba Rahl before.
Striking out back though the swamp to wring the hawker’s neck, Oba didn’t get far before he stopped. No. It had taken him a good long time to get this far. He had to be close to Althea’s by now. He couldn’t let his anger rule him. He had to think. He was smart. Smarter than his mother, smarter than Lathea the sorceress, and smarter than a scrawny little thief. He would act out of deliberate intent, not out of blind anger.
He could deal with Clovis when he was finished with Althea.
In a dark mood, Oba started out again toward the sorceress.
Chapter 37
Watching from a distance through the slow fall of rain, Oba didn’t see anyone outside the cedar log house that lay beyond the tangled undergrowth and trees. There had been tracks—the boot prints of a man—around the shore of a small lake. The tracks weren’t fresh, but they had led Oba up a path to the house. Smoke from the chimney curled lazily in the stagnant humid air.
The house up ahead, almost hidden under trailers of moss and vines, had to be the home of the sorceress. No one else would be fool enough to live in such a miserable place.
Oba crept lightly on the balls of his feet, up the back steps, up onto the narrow porch. Around in front, columns made of thick logs supported a low, overhanging roof. Out beyond the wide front steps lay a broad path—no doubt the way visitors timidly approached the sorceress for a telling.
In the grip of rage, and well beyond any pretense of being polite enough to knock, Oba threw open the door. A small fire burned in the hearth. With only the fire and two little windows, the place was rather dimly lit. The walls were covered with fussy carvings, mostly of animals, some plain, some painted, and some gilded. It was hardly the way Oba chose to carve animals. The furnishings were better than any he had ever grown up with, but not nearly as nice as he had become accustomed to.
Near the hearth, a woman with big dark eyes sat in an elaborately carved chair—the finest of the furnishings—like a queen on her throne, quietly watching him over the rim of a cup as she sipped. Even though her long golden hair was different and she didn’t have that hauntingly austere cast to her face, Oba still recognized her features. Looking into those eyes, there could be no doubt. It was Lathea’s sister.
Eyes. That was something on one of the mental lists he kept.
“I am Althea,” she said, taking a cup away from her lips. Her voice wasn’t at all like her sister’s. It conveyed a sense of authority, as did Lathea’s voice, yet it didn’t have the haughty ring that went with it. She didn’t rise. “I’m afraid you’ve arrived much sooner than I expected.”
Seeking to quickly nullify any potential threat, Oba ignored her and hurried to the rooms at the rear, checking first the room where he saw a workbench. Clovis had told him that Althea had a husband, Friedrich, and, of course, there had been a man’s boot prints outside. Chisels, knives, and mallets were laid out in an orderly fashion. Each could be a deadly weapon in the right hands. The place had the tidy look of work put up for a time.
“My husband is gone to the palace,” she called from her chair by the fire. “We’re alone.”
He checked for himself anyway, looking in the bedroom, and found it empty. She was telling the truth. But for the rain on the roof, the place was
quiet. The two of them were indeed alone.
Finally confident that they would not be disturbed, he returned to the main room. Without a smile, without a frown, without worry, she watched him coming toward her. Oba thought that if she had any brains, she should at least be worried. If anything, she looked resigned, or maybe sleepy. A swamp, with its heavy humid air, could certainly make a person drowsy.
Not far from her chair, on the floor off to the side, rested a square board with an elaborate gilded symbol on it. It reminded him of something on one of his lists of things. A pile of small, smooth, dark stones sat to the side on the board. A large red and gold pillow lay near her feet.
Oba paused, suddenly realizing the connection between one of the things on his lists and the gilded symbol on the board. The symbol reminded him of the dried base of a mountain fever rose—one of the herbs Lathea used to put in his cures. Most of Lathea’s herbs were already ground up, but that one never was. She would crush a single one of the dried flowers only just before she added it to his cure. Such an ominous conjunction could only be a warning sign of danger. He had been right; this sorceress was the threat he had been concerned she might be.
Fists flexing at his side, Oba towered over the woman as he glared down at her.
“Dear spirits,” she whispered to herself, “I thought that I would never again have to stare up into those eyes.”
“What eyes?”
“Darken Rahl’s eyes,” she said. Her voice carried a thread of some distant quality, maybe regret, maybe hopelessness, maybe even terror.
“Darken Rahl’s eyes.” A grin stole onto Oba’s face. “That’s very generous of you to mention.”
Not a trace of a smile visited her. “It was not a compliment.”
Oba’s smile curdled.
He was only mildly surprised that she knew he was the Darken Rahl’s son. She was a sorceress, after all. She was also Lathea’s sister. Who knew what that troublesome woman might have tattled from her eternal place in the world of the dead.
The Pillars of Creation Page 39