The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within (12 page)

~~~

Something woke Morgin, some noise or sound. It was near
dawn, the sky beginning to brighten, and the fear had come upon him, the fear that
came with Kulls nearby. He still sat at the bottom of the ravine, the horse’s
reins tied to his wrist, his shadowmagic strong and active. He sat very still,
careful not to move in the slightest, and he thanked the gods the horse was too
exhausted to do more than stand silently beside him with its head hung low.

He heard a gruff voice say something, though the words
were hushed and unintelligible. Another voice whispered a response. He was
seated with his back to the edge of the ravine, so he turned his head very
slowly to look both right and left: nothing. But to his right the ravine took a
sharp turn.

He heard the hushed whispers again, so he stood, rising
carefully and silently. He tied the horse’s reins to some brush,
lowered himself to his hands and knees and crawled slowly to the turn in the
ravine. He checked his shadows, then peered carefully around the turn.

Like Morgin, two twelves of Kulls had tied their horse’s
reins to brush at the bottom of the ravine. Then they’d all
climbed up the slope at the side of the ravine and were looking over its lip at
something.

Morgin eased back away from the turn, climbed the slope
and looked over its lip. In the predawn mist, about a hundred paces distant, he
saw a line of shadowy figures he recognized immediately. It must be the sentry
line for one of the Benesh’ere encampments. The Kulls were setting
up a predawn attack.

Morgin crawled back to the bottom of the ravine, untied
the horse’s reins, then led it quietly away from the Kulls along
the bottom of the ravine. He walked the animal about fifty paces and decided
that was enough. He stopped, put a foot in the stirrup, reached up and gripped
the saddle horn, and hesitated. When he climbed into the saddle the horse might
splutter or make some noise, so he had to do this quickly for it to work.

In one motion he climbed into the saddle, got his right
foot in a stirrup, drew his sword and dug his heels into the horse’s
flanks. It struggled to charge up the slope, exhaustion weighing heavily on the
animal. He made the lip of the ravine, got the horse up onto the flat prairie
and charged toward the whiteface encampment.

“Kulls,” he screamed at the top
of his lungs, “about to attack. Kulls—Kulls—Kulls!”

He was about fifty paces from the perimeter when a whisper
of thought told him to duck to the left. He jerked that way as a Benesh’ere
arrow with a steel-tipped warhead hissed past his right ear. Instinct flashed
again and he twitched to the right as another steel-tipped arrow flew past. “It’s
me,” he screamed, “the Elhiyne.”

More arrows hissed past him, each missing him by only a
finger’s width, and then his focus locked on one particular arrow,
targeted straight for the horse’s chest. He didn’t
see it with his eyes, just knew that it was there, and he had an instant to
realize that its steel warhead would pierce the horse’s heart, and
the horse would collapse beneath him. So as the arrow struck he jumped, the
horse folded in on itself and he barely cleared its head; he hit the ground
feet first going much too fast to stay on his feet. He tried to turn his
landing into a roll, managed nothing better than a head-over-heels tumble that
ended a few paces from the sentry line. He sat up just as a sentry lunged
toward him with a spear, but the sentry hesitated, looked at him and said, “You’re
the Elhiyne.”

Behind the sentry stood a dozen whitefaces carrying
longbows. Morgin looked back toward the Kulls, saw a cluster of dead horses and
halfmen, all badly feathered by arrows. His warning had given the whitefaces
time to concentrate archers at this spot, and the battle had ended quickly.

He stood unsteadily and brushed dirt from his tunic. The
sentry grounded the butt of his spear, leaned on it and said, “You
sure got a crazy way of fighting Kulls. Ain’t never seen anyone
fight Kulls like that. You’re kind of crazy, you know?”
He considered that for a moment, half-grinned out one side of his mouth as if
recalling some old memory. “Not the worst kind of crazy I’ve
seen, but still crazy.”

Morgin looked back at the dead Kulls and horses, and
decided it was time to make a bow of his own. With Morddon’s
memories to guide him, he certainly knew how.

~~~

As Olivia and BlakeDown argued in the middle of Castle
Penda’s great hall, Brandon found it hard to believe only a year
had passed since the last meeting of the Lesser Council. So much had changed,
and none for the better. Back then Elhiyne had been ascendant, and even some of
BlakeDown’s sycophants had begun looking to Elhiyne for
leadership. With Morgin’s almost single-handed defeat of the
Decouix army, and his semi-mythical reputation as the ShadowLord-come-to-life,
there was little BlakeDown could do to thwart Olivia’s ambitions. Brandon
would not have been surprised to hear her propose they crown Morgin—AethonLaw—king
of the Lesser Clans. She might not have been able to push that through the
Council, but still, it would have been a close call, and then that sword had
changed everything.

Standing in the center of the hall Olivia spoke, using her
public voice that carried to all. “With the four Lesser Clans
united, we could field an army to challenge Decouix dominance. The White Clan
was badly stung by their defeat at Csairne Glen.”

BlakeDown countered, “We might have done
that, a year ago, had not your grandson brought that talisman among us. Valso
has had two years to rebuild, and I don’t believe he is as weak as
you claim.”

Olivia gave BlakeDown a dismissive smile. “They
lost six thousand men, and two years ago at Csairne—”

BlakeDown interrupted her. “At least, now
that your outlaw grandson is dead, that blade seems to have quitted the Mortal
Plane, and we can once again live without fear it will devastate the
countryside.”

Brandon shivered at the thought of Morgin and Rhianne
dying in the jaws of the skree.

“Tis a cold and dreary place, isn’t
it.”

Brandon turned to find that JohnEngine had quietly come up
behind him. He said, “It’s not the chill of Penda
stone that makes me shiver. It’s the chill in the hearts of the
Council I fear most.”

JohnEngine looked toward Olivia and BlakeDown, both of
whom were red-faced with anger. “Aye. Even though Tosk and Inetka
are leery of the growing rift between Olivia and BlakeDown, PaulStaff must
support BlakeDown, and Wylow must support Olivia, and the Lesser Council is
divided now more than ever.”

They both turned their attention back to the two clan
leaders.

Olivia sneered as she said, “You seem to fear
your own shadow, Lord BlakeDown.”

“And you, Lady Olivia, are foolishly
fearless. That talisman was an embarrassment to all the Lesser Clans.”

“You’re embarrassed. My, my! The
leader of Clan Penda is more concerned with how the Greater Clans perceive him,
than with their constant threat of war. Perhaps you should go to Durin. Then
you and Valso can pull out your manhoods and compare sizes.”

Brandon saw Wylow and Eglahan approaching them through the
crowd. Wylow was High Lord of Inetka, Eglahan, Marchlord of Yestmark, and both
sworn to Elhiyne. Olivia held both in high regard, especially Eglahan, so they
could be an important means of tempering her provocations.

“It’s open insults now?”
Eglahan asked.

Brandon said, “It digressed to that long ago.
If Olivia were a man, by now she and BlakeDown would have probably tried to
settle their differences with blades.”

JohnEngine added, “They’re just
getting a bit more malicious.”

“Look,” Wylow said, nodding
toward the center of the hall.

AnnaRail had stepped onto the main floor, awaiting
acknowledgement before speaking. One of the counselors, obviously relieved to
see someone step forward who might temper the situation, immediately said, “Lady
AnnaRail, you may speak.”

“Lords and ladies,” she said. “We
have much we disagree on, and yet we are united as the Lesser Council. There
have been many proposals placed before the Council, and since it is just past
midday, let us adjourn for lunch. We can satisfy our growling stomachs, and
consider these issues for further discussion this afternoon.”

Like almost everyone else, Brandon understood she was
trying to diffuse the situation. A break for lunch would do that nicely.

One of the counselors said, “Excellent idea.”

Another was about to agree, but Olivia shouted, “Wait.
I have one more proposal we should consider over lunch.” She
paused for dramatic effect, and a knot formed in Brandon’s
stomach; he knew the calculating old woman too well. She continued. “We
need unity. We have the unity of this Council, but we also need the unity of
our armies. So I propose that we name, as Warmaster of the Lesser Council:
Brandon et Elhiyne.”

JohnEngine groaned; they all knew BlakeDown wanted that
title for ErrinCastle.

No one responded, not a word, not an utterance. Then
BlakeDown threw back his head and roared with laughter. “If you
think Penda will play toady to some Elhiyne whelp, then you know nothing of the
most powerful of the Lesser Clans.”

They never did get to lunch that day.

~~~

Morgin limped into the whiteface encampment followed by
the sentry. The sentry said, “Heard you was lost in the mist. Figured
you was dead by now.”

Morgin hurt everywhere, but a dozen or more Kull saber cuts
concerned him most. He rolled up his sleeve and showed the sentry a nasty cut
on his forearm. “I’ve got about a dozen of these I
need to treat before they fester.”

The sentry looked at the cut and asked, “Kull
saber?”

Morgin merely nodded.

“Come with me.”

The sentry led him to a fire pit where a young girl knelt
on her hands and knees, blowing on the embers still hot from the evening meal,
trying to bring the fire back to life. The sentry told Morgin to sit down, and
as he did so the girl’s kindling caught, and a lick of flame
crackled upward.

“Tamlea,” the sentry said,
addressing the girl. “The Elhiyne needs a healer. We’ll
take care of the fire while you find one.”

She looked at Morgin curiously, then hopped to her feet
and ran off among the tents.

Morgin sat there in silence watching the sentry build up
the fire. Tamlea arrived with the healer, a middle-aged Benesh’ere
woman with streaks of gray in her coal-black hair. The woman didn’t
introduce herself, just began cleaning his wounds silently, sewing some closed.
Word spread quickly that
the Elhiyne
was still
alive, and as she worked a small crowd gathered around them.

Morgin recognized one of the men: Jack the Lesser. They’d
met shortly after he’d killed Salula. Jack stepped forward and
said, “So, Elhiyne, we meet again.”

“Aye,” Morgin said.

Jack sat down opposite him. “Chagarin told me
if you got back alive you can keep the sword, said something about it choosing
you. Now why’d it do that, Elhiyne?”

Morgin shook his head tiredly. “That’s
just one of many questions no one seems to be able to answer.”

“Well, you survived the last two nights. Sounds
like you have a story to tell. Come, let’s hear it.”

Morgin told them about his two nights and a day lost in
the mist. As he talked the sun rose above the horizon, and to his surprise, the
mist dissipated completely, producing a bright clear day. The western horizon
was no longer flat and unmarked, but now studded with trees blanketing
low-lying rolling hills. Morgin had stumbled into the lead encampment of the
March, and he estimated they were no more than an hour’s march
from the first trees.

Jack noticed him looking at the horizon and said, “Yes,
the March is over. At least for this year.”

Morgin finished the last details of his story. “So
I ended up here by pure luck.”

“But you kept your head,” Jack
said. “You stayed hidden and fought smart. And yes, you were lucky
you didn’t end up with your guts up in a tree.”

Again, that curious phrase! “Fantose said
something about
guts up in a tree
. What’s
that mean?”

Jack looked past Morgin to one of the whitefaces standing
behind him and asked, “Mind lending the Elhiyne your horse? He
knows how to ride.”

Jack gathered up about a dozen warriors, all heavily
armed, and Morgin rode with them at an easy trot toward the trees at the edge
of the plain. As they approached the tree line they slowed, the whitefaces
peering intently at the trees. Morgin tried to see whatever it was they were
keen to spot, but not until they reined in at the edge of the tree line did he
understand.

Four whitefaces had been tied upside-down high up on the
trunks of four trees: two male warriors, one female warrior, and a small boy of
no more than eight or nine years. They’d been tied upside down
with their backs to the trees, each with his or her head about the height of a
tall man off the ground, their feet tied above them. Then their abdominal wall
had been slit with a saber, spilling their guts down over their chests, then
over their faces, then onto the ground below. Flies swarmed about them in dense
clouds. They all showed signs of mistreatment, but they’d clearly
been alive when tied to the trees, clearly been alive when their abdomens had
been slit and their guts spilled out, clearly been alive when they’d
been turned into a feast for flies.

Without looking away from the corpses strapped to the
trees, Jack said, “If we get separated from the March, lost in the
mist, we try not to be taken alive. And you have to watch for a Kull that gets
past the perimeter into the camp. They particularly like to take a child.”

Looking at the four corpses tied to the trees, one of the
whitefaces said casually, “Only four. A good year.”