The Pillars of Creation (42 page)

Faint footsteps coming from beyond the door woke Oba from his nap. He opened his eyes, but he didn’t move or make a sound. The men were peeking out the opening in the door.

When the distant footsteps sounded like they began coming closer, all but one man moved back. The single man remained at the door, standing watch. He stretched up on his toes, gripped the bars, and pressed his face close, trying to get a better look down the hall. Off in the distance, Oba could hear the metallic clangs and echoing squeals of doors being unlocked and pulled opened. The man at the door remained motionless for a time as he watched, then he suddenly stepped back.

“They turned this way—they’re coming this way,” he whispered to the others.

All five of the men huddled closer on the far side of the room. Whispers passed among them.

“But what if a Mord-Sith comes in, instead,” one of the men whispered.

“Makes no difference to us,” another man said. “I know some about their kind. Their magic works to capture those with the gift. It makes them safe from magic, not muscle.”

“But their weapon will still work on us,” the first said.

“Not if we all overpower her and take it away from her,” came the insistent whisper in answer. “There are five of us. We’re stronger and we outnumber her.”

“But what if—”

“What do you think they’re going to do with us?” one of the others whispered in a heated voice. “If we don’t take this chance, we’re as good as dead in here. I don’t see what other chance we have. I say we do it and get away.”

There were nods in turn from each man. Satisfied, they straightened and moved off to different parts of the room, making it appear as if they wanted nothing to do with one another. Oba knew they were up to something.

One man took a quick check out the opening again, then moved away from the door. One of the other men came closer and jostled Oba with the side of his foot.

“They’re back. Wake up. You hear?”

Oba moaned, feigning sleep.

The man nudged with his foot again. “You wanted us to tell you when they came back. Wake up, now.” He stepped away when Oba stirred, yawning and stretching to pretend he was just then waking. The men, all except the one who had already seen more than he wanted to see in Oba’s eyes, glanced his way before they settled on a spot to stand. While they waited, they struck slouching poses, trying hard to appear detached and disinterested.

Down the passageway, two people spoke in words Oba couldn’t quite make out, but he could hear their voices well enough to tell that their brief conversation was no more than businesslike. The footsteps finally stopped just outside the door. A key turned in the lock. The clang from the bolt as it snapped back echoed through the hall. The men cast quick glances to the door. Outside, a man grunted with the effort of a strong tug. The door grated as it yielded, admitting more light.

Oba was astonished to see a woman silhouetted in the doorway.

Outside, in the hall, the big guard with her used the candle from a holder on the wall to light his lamp. While the woman stood just inside the door, casually appraising the men to each side, the guard brought the lamp into the room and hung it on the wall to the side. The lamp threw harsh light across the men’s faces and revealed the grim impenetrable reality of the confines of the rough-hewn stone room.

Oba saw then, too, what a truly mean and nasty-looking lot the men were. With cunning animal eyes glinting out from the shadows, they all watched the woman.

In the bleak lamplight, Oba saw that she was wearing the strangest outfit he had ever seen—skintight red leather. Tall and shapely, she wore her long blond hair in a single braid. Something dangled from a thin chain around her right wrist as her hand rested on her hip. Though she was not taller than the men, her commanding presence alone made her seem to tower, like some austere fury come to judge the living in their last hours.

Her scowl was as dark with displeasure as any Oba’s mother had ever worn.

But Oba was even more astonished to see her signal with a casual flip of her hand, dismissing the guard who had unlocked the door. If it surprised Oba, it didn’t faze the guard. After a last glance around at the men, he pulled the heavy door closed behind himself and locked it. Oba could hear the guard’s boots against the stone floor as he departed back down the hall.

The woman’s cool scrutiny swept over the men around her, appraising each, dismissing each, until at last her glare descended on Oba. Her piercing stare carefully studied his face.

“Dear spirits…” she whispered to herself at what she saw in his eyes.

Eyes.

Oba grinned. He knew she recognized that he was telling the truth about his paternity. She could see in his eyes that he was the son of Darken Rahl.

Eyes.

Understanding suddenly clicked into place for him like a knife into its sheath.

And then, bellowing like animals, the men all leaped toward her. Oba expected her to cry out in fright, or scream for help, or at least flinch. Instead, she stood her ground and casually met their attack.

Oba saw some kind of red rod, the one he had seen before hanging near her hand, spin up into her fist. As the first man reached her, she rammed the rod against his chest, pushing him back with a twist of her wrist. He dropped like a hay bale out of the loft—thud, onto the stone floor.

Nearly at the same time, the others pounced from all directions in a flurry of flailing arms and fists. The woman sidestepped, effortlessly avoiding the trap of meaty arms as it snapped shut. As the men lurched around, hastily trying to renew their attack, she moved with cold grace, meeting each man swiftly and methodically, and with staggering violence.

Without turning, she drove her elbow back into the face of the closest man as he tried to seize her from behind. Oba heard bone crack as his head snapped back, throwing a long string of blood against the wall.

The third man, to the side, was checked by her strange red rod against his neck. He crumpled, holding his throat, crying out in a choking gurgling blubber. Blood frothed at his mouth as he twisted on the floor, reminding Oba of nothing so much as the way the snake in the swamp had wriggled in death. Eluding another lunge, the woman spun away, past and over the man on the floor. As she did so, she hammered the heel of her boot down, smashing his face to finish him.

As she swung around, she delivered three rapid strikes to the neck of the fourth man. His eyes rolled back in his head before he slowly started corkscrewing down. Her leg swept his feet from under him, pitching him face-forward. His forehead smacked the stone floor with a sickening crack.

Her economy of motion, the easy flowing evasion followed by a swift and brutal counterattack, was fascinating to watch.

The last man flew at her with his full weight behind the lunge. She wheeled around, backhanding him across the face so hard that it spun him around like a top. She snatched him by the hair at the back of his head, jerked him from his feet, and with a thrust of that strange red rod into his back, drove him to his knees.

It was crooked-teeth. He shrieked louder than Oba had ever been able to get anyone to shriek. Oba was amazed by her ability to inflict pain. She held crooked-teeth by the hair, on his knees before her, as he screamed in desperate agony, begging for release as he tried without effect to twist away from her. With a knee in his back, along with the red rod, she bent his head back to control him as easily as if he were a child.

And then, as she looked up very deliberately into Oba’s eyes, she pressed the red rod against the base of the man’s skull. His arms thrashed out in a crazy fashion as his entire body convulsed as violently as if he’d been struck by lightning. He went limp, blood running from his ears. Finished with him, the woman released her fist from his hair and let him pitch forward to the stone floor. It was clear to Oba by the boneless way he fell that he was already dead and didn’t feel the heavy impact against the unyielding stone.

It was all over in what seemed like no more than five heartbeats, one for each man killed. Blood everywhere glistened in the light from the lamp. All five men lay sprawled in awkward positions around the room. The woman in red leather wasn’t even breathing hard.

She stepped closer. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you won’t escape that easily.”

Oba grinned. She wanted him.

He reached out and grabbed her left breast.

With a grimace of rage, she lashed her strange red rod down on the top of his shoulder, beside his neck.

Oba reached out with his other hand and grabbed her other breast. He gave them a both a firm squeeze as he grinned at her.

“How could you not—” She fell silent as some profound inner understanding suddenly filled her expression.

Oba liked her breasts. They were as nice as any he had ever held. Still, she was quite the unusual woman. He had a feeling that he would learn many new things with her.

Her fist came out of nowhere with deadly speed.

Oba caught it in the palm of his hand. He closed his fingers tight around her fist, squeezing as he twisted it back, turning her around so that her back was arched and her shoulders pressed against him. She rammed her free elbow toward his middle, but he was expecting it and snatched her forearm, using the momentum to wrench it up behind her so he could gather it up with the fingers of his other hand already holding her other arm.

That left him a hand to feel the delights of her feminine form. He slid his free hand around the front of her waist, in under the leather. She twisted with all her strength, trying to get free. She knew how to use leverage to try to wrench out of an opponent’s grip, but her strength wasn’t anywhere near up to the task. Oba slipped his hand down the front of her skintight leather pants, feeling her taut flesh.

The vixen drove her heel into his shin. Oba recoiled, crying out, just managing to hold on to her. But then she spun around, ducked under his arms, and broke his grip. Quick as a blink, she was free.

Rather than run, she used her momentum to strike at the side of his neck.

Oba was able to partially deflect the blow at the last possible instant, but it still hurt. More than that, it angered him. He was tired of playing gentle games. He caught her arm, twisting it around until she cried out. He swept his leg around to knock her feet out from under her first, then threw his full weight into her. Oba roughly wrestled her around as they crashed to the floor, landing on top of her, driving the wind from her lungs. Before she could get a breath, he slammed a good punch into her middle. He could see in her eyes how much it hurt her.

He was going to see much more in her eyes before he was done with her.

As they struggled on the floor, Oba had the clear advantage, and used it. He began tearing at her clothes. She had no intention of making it easy, and fought with everything she had. Her fighting, though, was unexpected in Oba’s experience. She didn’t fight to get away, as other women did. She fought, instead, to hurt him.

Oba knew, then, how desperately she wanted him.

He intended to give her the satisfaction she craved, to give her what she had never been able to get from any man before.

His powerful fingers pulled up on the top of her leather outfit, but it was cinched tight around her middle with a thick overbelt. The back of the outfit was crisscrossed with a web of tight straps and buckles. It was too strong to rip. Oba managed, instead, to strip it up past her ribs. The sight of her flesh ignited him. He fought her hands, her feet, even her head as she tried to butt his face.

Despite her best efforts, he managed to yank and tug the bottom of her tight outfit partway down over the curve of her hips. She struggled ever more violently, trying every move she could to hurt him. He could sense that she wanted him so badly she was hardly able to control herself.

As he was devoting his attention to trying to get her bottom off, her teeth seized his other forearm. The shock of pain stiffened him. Instead of pulling back, he rammed the arm in her teeth at her, smacking the back of her head against the stone. The second whack against the stone floor took a lot of the fight out of her and he was able to free his arm.

Oba didn’t want her unconscious. He wanted her awake. He watched her eyes as he rolled on top of her, forcing his knee between her thighs, and was pleased to see by the way she gritted her teeth, the way her eyes tracked his, that she was indeed aware of him.

Cognition was integral to the experience. It was important that she be aware of what was happening to her, of the transformations that would take place in her living body. Aware of death stalking near, waiting, watching. It was essential to Oba that he see all her primal emotions and sensations through her expressive eyes.

He licked the side of her neck, back behind her ear where the fine little hairs felt soft on his tongue. His teeth raked their way back down. Her neck tasted delightful. He knew she liked the feel of his lips and teeth on her, but she had to fight to keep up the pretense, lest he think her promiscuous. It was all part of her game. By the way she struggled, though, he knew how much she itched for him. As he nuzzled her neck, he worked with his other hand to unbuckle his trousers.

“You’ve always wanted it like this,” he whispered hoarsely, nearly delirious with his lust for her.

“Yes,” she answered, breathlessly. “Yes, you understand.”

This was new. He had never been with a woman before who was comfortable enough with her own needs to admit them aloud—except through the show of moans and cries. Oba realized that she must be frantic with desire to cast off pretense and confess her true feelings. It drove him crazy with hunger for her.

“Please,” she panted against the shoulder he had pressed to her jaw, holding her head against the floor, “let me help you.”

This was definitely new. “Help me?”

“Yes,” she confided urgently up toward his ear. “Let me help you unfasten your trousers so that you’ll be free to touch me where I need it most.”

Oba was eager to oblige her brazen desires. Leaving her to the treasured task of opening his trousers left him free to grope her. She was a delightful creature—a fitting mate to a man like him, a Rahl, almost a prince. He had never had such a wonderfully unexpected and intimate experience. Apparently, knowing that he was royalty drove women delirious with uncontrollable yearnings.