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

Morgin had drifted off
into a light doze in the middle of the heat of the day, when Harriok sat up
suddenly and startled him fully awake. The young whiteface cocked his head to
one side and appeared to be listening for something, and the look on his face
frightened Morgin. “What is it?” he asked.

“Silence,”
Harriok hissed.

Morgin obeyed without
question while Harriok listened further. After several heartbeats of silence,
the young Benesh’ere reached for his hooded robe and snapped out, “There’s
a storm coming, and we don’t have much time.”

In the stifling heat
of the midday sun, they broke down their small lean-to. Harriok pulled his
horse out into the sun to get it out of the way, then led them down into a deep
valley between two dunes. They scooped out a depression in the sand and
combined the two lean-tos to make a fully enclosed tent. Harriok pressed the
already short tent poles deeper into the sand, giving the tent a flat, low
profile. “Start tossing sand on top of the tent,” he
ordered. “We need at least a full hand’s depth.”

Harriok climbed into
the tent itself, began scooping out more sand. Morgin could now hear a faint
roar in the distance, and a dark cloud appeared on the horizon. He frantically
tossed handfuls of sand on the cloth of the tent, glancing over his shoulder at
the dark shadow that grew higher and closer with each heartbeat. Then one
moment the storm appeared on the horizon, and the next it hit them with a fury
that threatened to sweep them off their feet. But by that time he and Harriok
and the horse were safely sealed within the tent in relative comfort. The storm
raged above them, howling out its hatred as if it were a living thing. And
though the midday sun burned in the sky above them, in the tent beneath the
sand they waited in complete darkness.

“The
Munjarro is angry this day,” Harriok said. “Let us
hope it is not angry at us, eh?”

They carefully
arranged their provisions, and then settled down to an uneasy sleep.

Chapter 2: The Spirit of the Sands

Rhianne came to the
Lake of Sorrows near dusk of a calm,
clear day. The trail she followed opened out into a small village on the
eastern side of the lake, but as she nudged her horse forward she realized the
huts had been abandoned long ago. The glassy and smooth surface of the lake
glistened in the fading light, and a seemingly enchanted stillness hung over
all. The huts were in poor condition, there was no wood for a fire, and it had
been quite some time since she’d eaten anything more than the few
nuts and berries she’d gathered.

The sword hovered in
the back of her thoughts, always there, never to be forgotten. It hungered for
death and destruction, a thing of pure chaos and hatred and malevolence. It
called to her like a newborn child, obstinately demanding her attention,
begging her to take it up and wield it so it could sate its bloodlust on the
innocent. No wonder it had nearly driven Morgin to madness, and she understood
now what strength he must have possessed to resist its relentless demands.

Wearily, she sat down
on a flat rock near the edge of the water and watched the sun set over the
Worshipers, and as the chill of night settled upon her she wondered what she
would do for food and shelter, wondered if she could find the strength to
resist the sword as Morgin had. She buried her face in her hands and shed the
tears she had held back for so long.

When she ran out of
tears she sat up straight and opened her eyes. It was then that she saw the
lights on the north end of the lake, and the regularity of their spacing told
her there must be an active village there, not just a few campfires. She had
heard that some sort of town existed near the lake, so she took her horse’s
reins, pulled her cloak tightly about her and began searching her way through
the forest toward the lights. A good-sized moon gave her plenty of light, but
cautiously she led her horse rather than riding it, and after some time she
discovered a trail that hugged the lakeshore. It still took her several hours
to reach the village, and by that time the chill of night had cut to the bone,
and she hovered on the edge of collapse.

She searched out what
must be the village inn, the only two-story structure in the place, with a
healthy cloud of smoke billowing from its chimney. The door was barred, so she
rapped on it with the heel of her foot, and after a pause it opened a crack and
a grimy face stared out at her.

Close to tears, she
asked, “Is this an inn?”

“Aye,”
a gruff male voice answered her. “And who’s askin’?”

“A
traveler,” she said, “seeking shelter from the cold.”

“Where’s
yer man?”

A woman never traveled
alone; it was much too dangerous. Rhianne tried to think of a good lie, but
realized they’d learn the truth soon enough. “I’m
traveling alone.”

The innkeeper looked
her over silently for an interminable moment, then grumbled his disapproval and
opened the door. Inside, blessed warmth washed over her and she paused just
within the door for a moment to let her shivers die. Across the room a healthy
fire crackled in a large hearth, and without hesitation she approached it. She
stood in front of it until she could no longer stand the heat, then she backed
away and turned about, and for the first time took stock of her surroundings.

There were a number of
patrons seated at crude benches in the inn’s common room, all of
them male, all of them staring at her with undisguised distrust. The ceiling
was low, the air sooty and stale, and the floor simple packed earth. The fat
innkeeper had retreated behind a bar at the far end of the room, and like his
patrons, he stared at her suspiciously while he used a dirty rag to polish a
tin cup. She crossed the room toward him, stepped up to the bar and smiled
politely. “I’m very hungry. I haven’t
had a full meal in days.”

“Sure,”
the innkeeper grumbled, thick folds of skin at his neck wobbling as he spoke. “We
got food to sell.”

Money! Rhianne had
never thought to carry money. A woman didn’t carry money, unless
she was the kitchen maid going to market for her master, or some servant on an errand.
“I have no money,” she whispered.

The innkeeper shook
his head. “I don’t give food away free.”

A man stepped next to
her at the bar, standing over her uncomfortably close. “So yer
hungry?” the man said. “And penniless, eh?”
He grabbed her by the arm, spun her to face him, leaned up close to her and
grinned a gap-toothed grin. His breath smelled of onions and beer and it turned
her stomach. “But yer a pretty one, me girl, and I know how you
can earn a few coins.”

“Jokath,”
someone shouted, “going to keep her all for yourself?”

“Please,”
Rhianne pleaded. “Let go of me.”

“Ah, you
just don’t know what you want, little girl.”

“Let her
go, Jokath,” the innkeeper said.

The bully glanced his
way. “I’ll let her go when I’m done with
her.”

He grabbed both her shoulders
with his hands, pulled her face toward his, and as rising panic took her she
instinctively reached for the only weapon at her commend, and she surprised
herself at how easily her magic answered her call.

Sparks crackled at her
shoulders where his hands touched her, and while her power protected her, the
bully screamed out, jerked and twitched, then fell away from her and landed on
his back on the floor. He groaned and clutched his smoking hands to his chest. At
that moment, every man in the inn decided he had other business to worry about
and looked away. But Rhianne’s blood was up: Morgin’s
death, days without food and rest, hungry, tired, and dirty. She stood over the
bully and he cringed beneath her as she pointed a finger at him. “Lay
a hand on me again, bully, and I’ll turn you into a toad and feed
you to the innkeeper’s cat—if he has one. If not, I’ll
eat you myself. Now be gone with you.”

The bully whimpered,
got up onto his hands and knees and crawled to the door. Rhianne wondered how
he’d feel if he knew she didn’t know how to turn him
into a toad. She turned back to the innkeeper. Clearly as frightened as the
bully, he remained behind the bar as if it would protect him from the witch who’d
come in the night. “I’ll work for a meal and a roof
over my head,” she said.

The innkeeper’s
fear dissipated, turned into curiosity as he considered her proposal for a
moment. Then he came to a decision. “Can you heal?”
he asked. He leaned across the bar toward her, cocked his head to one side and
pulled the collar of his tunic down to expose the side of his neck and a large,
ugly, swollen boil. “Can you heal this?”

She looked it over for
a moment. It was obviously painful. “You’re asking
for magic,” she said. “And magic is difficult and
dangerous. Dangerous for me, not you. So healing that will cost you far more
than a single meal and a single night’s sleep.” She
tried to judge the degree of suffering the boil had caused. “Three
days and nights room and board, and stabling and feed for my horse.”

He lifted his collar,
straightened up and looked at her narrowly. They argued further, settled on a
day and a half. He finished with, “Ok, what’s yer
name? Gotta have a name to seal a bargain.”

Rhianne hesitated,
knew she shouldn’t give her real name, hadn’t thought
far enough in advance to come up with one. She blurted out the first thing that
came to mind, “Syllith.”

The innkeeper noticed
her hesitation, but didn’t say anything. “And I’m
John, but everyone calls me Fat John.”

He lifted his hand,
spit into his palm and extended it toward her, saying, “Done,
Mistress Syllith.”

Not sure what she was
supposed to do, she spit into her own palm and shook his hand, then wiped her
hand on her dress. “I’ll begin in the morning. For
now have someone show me to my room. And that’s where I’ll
eat, so have them bring my dinner as soon as possible.”

The innkeeper nodded
to a young boy seated near the end of the bar. “Take her to the
room in the northeast corner.”

Rhianne’s
magic flooded her soul, and she sensed some deceit in the innkeeper’s
words. She looked at him angrily. “I won’t demand the
best room in the inn. But if there’s anything wrong with the room
you give me, I’ll give you another boil to match that
one . . .” She glanced down at his crotch, “. . . but
in a far more painful place.”

The innkeeper looked
at her for an instant, then shivered and grumbled at the boy, “On
second thought, take her to the southeast room.”

~~~

NickoLot sat in her room, trembling as she listened to
Rhianne’s screams. When the Kulls were done with Rhianne, she knew
in her soul that Valso would give her to them next . . .

The Tulalane tried to paw her, slapped her and hurt her . . .

NickoLot awoke from her nightmares trembling. She sat up
in bed, recalled that night so long ago, and yet it seemed only last night that
she’d had to sit in her room, listening to the Kulls raping
Rhianne in the room next to her. Rhianne’s screams had eventually
died down to whimpers, barely heard through the thick wall between them, then
nothing. And yet, Nicki had still sat there imagining what they would do to her
when her turn came.

She climbed out of bed, went to her closet to select a
gown for the day. After Csairne Glen there’d been a great deal of
mourning to do, and Olivia had arranged for all of them to be properly attired.
Nicki found black a comfortably unflattering color, and she now preferred it,
wore it exclusively. She liked the high necklines that hid her small breasts,
with a black veil to hide her face.

It suddenly struck her that the black dresses and veils
were her equivalent of Morgin’s shadows, a comfortable place to
hide.

~~~

Morgin awoke to the
blackness of the tent, vivid dreams of Shebasha and Aethon’s tomb
fluttering through his memories. Outside, he still heard the storm blowing out
its fury, while inside he sensed a tension in the air that could only be coming
from his companion. “What’s wrong?” he
whispered into the darkness.

Harriok shifted his
position. “Night is
approaching, and there’s no sign the storm is letting up.”

“So?”
Morgin asked. “We seem to be safe.”

“So we’ll
miss travel time, and we’re short enough on water as it is.”

Morgin could almost
see Harriok through the darkness, and he wondered if some small part of his
lost sense of shadow might have returned. But more than seeing him he heard the
tension in his voice. “There’s something else, isn’t
there?”

Harriok nodded. “The
big cats. They hunt at night, though they’re loners, so ordinarily
they’ll stay away from men, especially if there’s
more than one of us. But they become quite bold during a storm like this
because we’re so helpless.”

“Aren’t
they helpless too?”

“No. Where
the blowing sand would cut the flesh from our bones their thick fur protects
them; and where the grit and the dust blind us, they have a transparent
membrane that protects their eyes. But we should be safe. We’re
dug in nicely, so it’s not likely one will find us.”

Remembering his dream
Morgin asked, “Do they kill with their venom?”

To be the target of
the lightning speed of a Benesh’ere warrior was a frightening
experience. Almost before he’d finished speaking, Harriok pressed
the cold steel of a knife to his throat. “What did you mean by
that? The cats have no venom.”

Morgin glanced down at
the blade. “I dreamt of a big cat with one venomous claw.”

Harriok released him,
shook his head and muttered, “We’re doomed.”

“What do
you mean we’re doomed? I’m not giving up that easily.”

“It doesn’t
matter,” Harriok groaned. “If you dreamt of the
demon-cat then she is coming for us.”

“And why
is this cat so special?”

Harriok curled up in a
corner of the tent. “Her soul is haunted by the spirit of a demon,
and her venom is the darkest magic of death. Once it has touched you your soul
is hers until she dies.”

Morgin argued, “Then
we’ll have to kill her.”

Harriok shook his
head. “How can you kill something that is already dead? The storm
itself is probably her doing.”

As the hours passed
the fury of the storm abated somewhat, though not enough, Harriok assured him,
for them to travel. The howling of the wind outside often sounded like the cry
of a large animal, and with increasing frequency Morgin found it difficult to
convince himself it was only his imagination. Eventually he drifted off into a
fitful sleep where he dreamt of the storm and the sand and Harriok and the cat.

She was a hot spark of
life in the blackness of the wind and the sand and the night, a soul filled
with hatred and desire and madness. He needed not the vision of his eyes to see
her, for in his soul he watched her stalking them, darting from one dune to the
next, uncaring of the fury of the storm.
Just a
dream,
he tried to tell himself, but
he found little comfort in that, for he’d long ago learned how
dangerous his dreams could be.

Another spark of life
appeared in his dream, a hint of netherlife with a strange familiarity to it, a
netherbeing whom Morgin would never fail to recognize: Rat. The spark that was
Shebasha changed course, intent upon intercepting Rat. But he darted from one
dune to the next, popping in and out of reality as if reality and dream were
stepping stones across a path of fear.

Rat crossed the
terrain of Morgin’s dream and slipped into the tent. He crouched
within a shadow in the confined space and his scent reminded Morgin of the
sewers of Anistigh. Dressed in a jumble of filthy rags, his eyes, hot sparks in
the blackness of the tent, he growled, “You forgot this.”
He dragged forth Morgin’s sword and dropped it in the sand before
him.