The pillars of creation

Clovis had plotted it all out and left him for dead. His intention had been to kill him. The fact that Oba had survived was no thanks to Clovis. The man was a murderer, when you thought about it. A killer. The people of D'Hara would owe Oba Rahl a debt of gratitude after he dealt out swift and just retribution to the wicked little outlaw.

Clovis darted around a comer stand displaying hundreds of items made from sheep's hom. Oba, being heavier, shot past the comer and, as he tried to turn, he slipped on horse manure. Through mighty effort and sheer skill, he managed to keep his balance and remain upright. Oba had spent years in such slop, carrying heavy loads, tending animals, and running when his mother yelled for him. He had had to do it in all kinds of conditions, too, including icy weather.

In a way, all those years of effort had been practice that had prepared Oba for making the comer when no other man his size and weight would have stood a chance. He made it, and in a smooth and swift fashion that was shocking to the thief. As Clovis glanced back with a mocking grin, apparently expecting that Oba was down for sure, he looked stunned to see instead Oba's full weight bearing down on him at full speed.

Clovis, obviously spurred on by the terror of knowing justice itself was descending on him, darted down another of the makeshift streets, a smaller and less peopled byway. But this time, Oba was right there behind him. He snatched the flapping rags at a shoulder, spinning Clovis around. The man stumbled. His arms windmilled awkwardly as he tried to keep his footing and escape at the same time.

Clovis's eyes went wide. First from surprise, and then from the pressure of the hand that had clamped around his throat. Whatever sort of squeal or plea was trying to make its way out didn't get past Oba's viselike fingers.

Fatigue forgotten, Oba dragged the murderous little thief, kicking and twisting, back between two wagons. The wagons' canvas tops shaded the narrow space between. To the rear of the tight space was a tall wall of crates. Oba's back blocked the constricted opening between the wagon beds, closing off the cramped spot from view as effectively as a prison door.

Oba could hear people behind him going about their business, laughing and talking as they hurried by in the brisk air. Others, in the distance, argued and bargained with merchants over the price of goods. Horses clopped past, their tack jangling. Peddlers plied the streets, calling out the benefits of their wares in a high-pitched singsong, trying to entice buyers.

Only Clovis was silent, but not by choice. The hawker's lying little mouth opened wide trying to say something. But as Oba lifted him clear of the ground and the man's eyes rolled from side to side, it was clearly a scream for help trying unsuccessfully to escape. With his feet kicking only air, Clovis pried at the powerful fingers around his neck. His dirty fingernails broke backward as he clawed in desperation at the iron fist of justice. His eyes grew as big around as the gold marks he had stolen from Oba.

Holding him aloft with one hand, pressing him against one of the heavy wooden crates in the back, Oba searched the man's pockets, but found nothing. Clovis desperately pointed at his chest. Oba felt a lump under the tattered layers of rags and shirt. Ripping the shirt open, he saw his familiar fat purse hanging by a leather thong around the thief's neck.

A mighty pull burned the thong down into the man's flesh until the leather snapped.

Oba slipped his pouch safely back into a pocket. Clovis tried to smile, to make an apologetic face as if to say that everything was square, now.

Oba was long past forgiveness. His head pounded with rage unleashed. Holding Clovis's shoulders up against the heavy wooden crates, Oba rammed his fist up into the little man's gut. Clovis was turning purple. Oba threw a heavy punch into the dirty little face. He felt bone break. He whipped his elbow around and into the lying, conniving little mouth and broke all the front teeth out. Oba growled as he walloped the little weasel with three more rapid blows. With each blow, Clovis's head snapped back, his greasy hair throwing back blood each time the back of his skull whacked the crates.

Oba was furious. He had suffered the indignity of being a helpless victim of a thief who had left him for dead. He had been attacked by a giant snake. He had nearly been drowned. He had been taunted and tricked by Althea. She had looked into his soul without his permission. She had cheated him out of his answers, belittled him for making something of himself, and died before he could kill her besides. He had suffered through a long march across the Azrith Plains dressed in rags-he, Oba Rahl, practically royalty. The utter indignity was humiliating.

He was enraged and aptly so. He could hardly believe that he finally had the object of that rightful anger at hand. He would not be denied just retribution.