The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within (4 page)

Morgin awoke to the
howl of the wind, his fingers wrapped about the hilt of his sword, memories of
Rat haunting his dreams. Shebasha’s scream rose above the cry of
the wind, an anguished shriek Morgin knew must come from the demon haunting her
soul. With the sound of tearing cloth the tent opened up to admit the night,
and the fury of the storm, and the spark of hatred that haunted the great cat’s
soul.

The sand cut painfully
at Morgin’s cheeks so he folded the hood of his robe across his
face to protect it. Harriok rose beside him, sword in hand, probably unaware
Morgin now had a sword of his own. Harriok gripped Morgin’s tunic,
pulled him close and screamed in his ear above the howl of the wind, “Stay
low, or the blowing sand will shred your skin.”

Morgin sensed the
spark of Shebasha’s hatred tracing a zigzag charge through the
sand toward them. Then she made her final charge, and as she leapt, he wrapped
his arms about Harriok, let his own knees fold and they landed in the sand. Arcing
over them, she missed them and plowed into the horse. The horse screamed, went
down with the cat on top of it, and Morgin caught a momentary glimpse of a
massive, clawed paw tearing out its throat. As the horse kicked out its last
moments of life, the cat clamped its jaws about its throat and dragged it off
into the storm.

Morgin screamed into
Harriok’s ear, “Get up. We have to fight.”
But the young Benesh’ere remained unmoving and lifeless. Morgin
held on to his sword with one hand and with the other gathered the tattered
remnants of the tent about them, tried to wrap them both within its folds to
protect them from the storm. But he sensed Shebasha just on the other side of
the dune next to them, and tangled in the cloth and sand he feared there was
little he could do to defend them.

He concentrated on his
only chance: the sword. He sought out its magic, searched for it, opened his
soul to it. But Shebasha, possibly born of the same netherlife as the sword,
sensed his tactic, climbed to the top of the dune and leapt just as the
metallic scent of magic touched his nose. The sword came to life, literally
lifted him off the sand, and stood him straight up in the heart of the storm
directly in the cat’s path. He struck out as she hit him, but the
force of the impact sent him and the great cat tumbling down the side of a
dune. At the bottom she landed on top of him and consciousness left him.

~~~

JohnEngine cringed as Olivia said, “This has
been a disaster.” Even in his mid-twenties, JohnEngine reacted
like a trained dog taught to fear the voice of its master.

“Yes it has, mother,” AnnaRail
said, Roland standing beside her. “But you must calm yourself.”

JohnEngine glanced about the room as the two tried to calm
the agitated old woman. Even here in Durin, Olivia had managed to recreate her
sitting room in the suite she’d been given. The furniture was
clearly not the same as that in her room in Elhiyne, the colors and materials
different. But the various pieces had been moved about, and were no longer
positioned as JohnEngine had first seen them almost twelve days ago. The old
woman had shifted them here and there until the atmosphere of her sitting room
had been recreated, an atmosphere in which all present felt as if Olivia sat on
a throne above them, passing judgment at every turn.

“How can I remain calm with Morgin and
Rhianne both dead?”

At the mention of their deaths, JohnEngine saw the hint of
a tear in AnnaRail’s eyes, and suppressed a tear of his own. DaNoel’s
stoic attitude disturbed him. His brother showed even less feeling than the old
woman, and JohnEngine found that curious. Certainly, he and Morgin had never
gotten along, but it appeared odd that he showed absolutely no sorrow
whatsoever at the death of his adopted brother.

Olivia continued her rant. “The Decouix
turned the tables on us. BlakeDown will surely use this to his advantage.”

Yes, Valso had turned their victory at Csairne Glen into a
horrible loss of face. They’d come to Durin in triumph. Then the
Kulls had dragged Morgin into the throne room and dumped him onto the floor, a
bloody, beaten mess.

“We leave this city on the morrow,”
Olivia said. “Instruct our servants and retainers to be ready for
travel.”

JohnEngine bowed and said, “As you wish.”

DaNoel did the same, and they both turned and left the
room while AnnaRail and Roland remained.

Out in the hallway JohnEngine turned to DaNoel and said, “You
feel nothing for Morgin?”

JohnEngine expected to see defiance, but thought he saw
something akin to guilt flash in DaNoel’s eyes.

“I mourn him,” DaNoel said. “Perhaps
not as deeply as you, but I do.”

DaNoel’s words just didn’t ring
true. As DaNoel turned away and strode down the hall, JohnEngine wondered why
he felt the need to lie so; and from where did such guilt stem? JohnEngine
pondered that as he followed in DaNoel’s footsteps.

~~~

Morgin awoke to the
vast silence of the morning dunes. The
storm had blown itself out, the sun had risen, the morning still and calm with
the temperature just beginning to rise. He lay on his face at the bottom of a
dune, twisted up in the tangled remains of the tent. He hadn’t
dreamt of Shebasha, but he had dreamt of Aethon’s tomb.

He looked about; there
was no sign of the big cat, so he rolled over onto his back, discovered
painfully that she’d clawed him across the back of his left
shoulder. Probing with his right hand, he found five straight, deep furrows in
the skin there, each throbbing painfully and caked with dried blood and sand. He
thought he felt a small sixth furrow next to them, perhaps the length of his
thumb. To his surprise it didn’t throb with pain, but was numb to
the touch. He tried to recall what Harriok had said about Shebasha’s
venom, and he wondered if he would now die some horrible death as her venom
consumed his soul.

His left arm was of
limited use and it took him some moments to pull free of the tent, then he
climbed slowly to the top of the dune to survey his surroundings. On the other
side of the dune the remnants of their camp were spread across the sands,
though he saw no sign of his sword and assumed he’d lost it in the
sand somewhere. Harriok’s horse lay nearby, its throat ripped out,
long since dead. Sand had completely filled the depression Harriok had created
for their tent.

Morgin dug frantically
and quickly found Harriok wrapped in a good-sized piece of the tent. He was
still alive, though unconscious. He’d been clawed across the
chest, and he bore the marks of all six claws. Morgin examined the mark of the
sixth claw carefully; it was shallower than the rest, and while the others had
closed and the blood about them had dried, the small, sixth mark continued to
ooze a thick, yellowish fluid.

Morgin laid Harriok to
one side and dug further. He uncovered one of the water skins, torn and empty
with no hint it had ever contained moisture. Digging further he found Harriok’s
saddle, and along with it the rest of their provisions, including one,
half-full water skin.

He pieced together as
much of the tent as possible, managed to reassemble a small lean-to to protect
him and Harriok from the sun, spent the day going through Harriok’s provisions, discarding anything not
absolutely necessary and tying the rest into a small pack. As night approached and the temperature dropped, he
converted the lean-to into a litter, tied Harriok securely within its folds,
attached a piece of rope to it and tied the other end about his waist.

His only chance was to
make for the oasis at Aelldie. He looked up at the emerging stars. Harriok had
taken them due west, so he guessed the oasis must be somewhere in that
direction.

Chapter 3: Rescue

Tulellcoe stared silently out the window of the inn at
the rippling waters of the lake. He heard Cort approach him from behind, felt
her wrap her arms around his waist. She rested her chin on his shoulder and
said, “It is a sad day.”

They’d taken a room in an inn at Lake Savin,
about half a day’s ride northeast of SavinCourt. With almost an
entire season of rest, and under Cort’s care, his wounds had
healed nicely. It could have been a pleasant time, had it not been for the
steady stream of unpleasant news: Morgin captured and a prisoner of the Decouix
in Durin. Then, just the previous day, they’d heard that Morgin
and Rhianne had both died in the jaws of the skree.

“Yes,” he said. “Those
two young people deserved better than that. I should have done something to
help them.”

Cort sighed patiently. “And how would you
have done that, my love, with a hole in your side from a Kull saber?”

He could not dispute that. Nevertheless, he felt
responsible, as irrational as that might be. “You’re
right,” he said. “But I think I might have to avenge
Morgin . . . and Rhianne. I think I want to avenge them.”

She removed her hands from around his waist, gripped his
shoulders and turned him to face her. “Now you listen to me. You’re
not going to go riding off on some ill-conceived quest for vengeance.”
She put her arms around his waist and pressed her body against him, reminding
him of the pleasures they shared. “I’ll not let you
deprive me of you that way.”

He couldn’t help but smile. He kissed her on
the forehead and grinned. “I’m not foolish enough to
ride off in haste. I’ll bide my time, and some day an opportunity will
arise, especially if I help it come to pass.”

She kissed him on the cheek, just lightly brushing her
lips along his skin. “You’re frightening when you get
that look in your eyes. At times, Morgin had a similar look, and he was tall
and lanky, like you. Are you sure he doesn’t have some of your
blood in his veins? Perhaps you spent a little too much time with the wenches.”

Tulellcoe shook his head. “It wouldn’t
have been me. I never whored around, ever. But the gods know there were enough
Elhiyne clansmen who did, men who were related to me. It’s quite
possible there was some Elhiyne blood in his veins.”

He wrapped his arms around her. She smiled and said, “Well,
you’re whoring around now.”

He shook his head. “Oh no, my lady. I’m
taking great joy in the pleasures of a beautiful woman. A woman whom I hope
will share my days to come.”

~~~

Carsaris watched four Kulls carry the plain wooden chair
with the unconscious swordsman strapped into it. Standing beside him, Valso was
preoccupied with the little, demon flying snake perched on his shoulder. The
combination of Valso and the snake always unnerved Carsaris. Valso had
occasionally used the snake to execute someone who displeased him. The snake’s
venom produced a long, slow and horrid death.

The Kulls put the chair down in the middle of the dungeon’s
main chamber, a large room filled with various tools for extracting information
from enemies of the crown, or for merely punishing those who had displeased the
Decouix king. The swordsman’s head hung down, his chin almost
touching his chest, his greasy and unwashed long, blond hair hanging limply,
covering his face.

Standing beside Carsaris, Valso said to the little snake, “Shall
we see how much progress Lord Carsaris has made?”

“Yesss, Massster,” the snake hissed.

Fearful of one of Valso’s whims, Carsaris
said, “I hope you’ll not be displeased, Your Majesty.
It is a . . . difficult task.”

“Fear not, Carsaris,” Valso said
magnanimously. “It is a near impossible task. But the
near
impossible merely takes more time. And you are one
of my best, so I have every confidence that you will prevail.”

Valso waved a hand at one of the Kulls. “Wake
him.”

The Kull lifted a wooden bucket and tossed its contents
into the swordsman’s face. When the stream of filthy water hit him,
the swordsman didn’t react at all. He didn’t splutter
or cough or choke, but with his head still bowed he remained still and
motionless for several heartbeats, the water dripping from his hair. Then he
merely took a deep breath, his chest rising slowly. He released the breath,
then just as slowly, he lifted his head, and the eyes that looked upon them
bore no semblance of humanity.

The swordsman smiled and spoke in a voice no longer that
of the swordsman. It was almost a deep, grumbling growl. “Your
Majesty, I see that you are now king. My compliments to you. It will be a joy
to serve you again.”

Valso stepped forward, though he carefully remained well
out of reach of the monster in the chair. The snake took to the air and hovered
above the swordsmen nervously. “My dear Salula, it is so good to
see you again, though I do apologize we must treat you so.” Valso
waved a hand, casually indicating the chair into which they’d tied
the monster.

The monster shrugged. “He is a strong one,
this swordsman, this France fellow. I wonder at times if he is perhaps more
than he appears. He is—”

The monster stopped speaking, closed his eyes and
trembled. Then his eyes snapped open, his teeth clenched so tightly Carsaris
saw the muscles of his jaw bunched and straining. He grimaced and shook his
head violently, then he threw his head back and screamed, a cry of anger and
fear and hatred.

Valso stepped back fearfully, and the snake retreated with
him as the thing strapped into the chair struggled against his bonds. But his
hands and feet and arms and legs had been tied with thick lengths of knotted
rope, reinforced with powerful spells. It took him the space of many heartbeats
to realize the futility of his struggles. Only then did he cease his efforts,
and an odd calm settled over him. The eyes that looked upon them were now quite
human, and it was the swordsman, not the monster, who said, “I’ll
fight you to the death.”

Valso shook his head patiently, as one might when
instructing a child. “No, my friend, not to your death; at least
not as you mean it. To the death of your spirit, yes. But my dear friend Salula
has need of your soul and your body. So I’ll not allow them to
escape so easily.”

Valso turned to Carsaris. “You have done
well. I know it seems that little progress has been made, but patience is
required in this matter.”

He looked at the swordsman. “And when Salula
owns you, body and soul, we’ll let you go get that sword from the
Elhiyne. That blade is the only thing that prevents my master from properly
manifesting on the Mortal Plane. And after that, you can kill this ShadowLord.”

Valso laughed. “That’s funny,
don’t you think. You’ll get to kill the man who
killed you.”

~~~

Morgin allowed
himself one tiny sip from the water skin, just enough to wet his throat and
relieve the burning. The sun had reached midday, and out on the sand waves of heat danced silently in homage to whatever
gods they worshiped, while inside the remnants of the patched-together lean-to
it seemed the temperature was little better. He was burning up with fever, he
realized, and so he was in no condition to pass judgment on the heat. The venom
of the sixth claw had finally taken its toll.

He trickled a few
drops of water across Harriok’s lips, but the young Benesh’ere
made no effort to swallow, and he lay so silently that once again Morgin tested
the pulse at his throat. He put the stopper into the water skin, then shook it
carefully, listening to the water gurgle within. Perhaps only two or three
mouthfuls remained.

It was quickly
approaching the hottest part of the day, and out on the sand he spotted the
same flicker of movement he’d seen every day now. Shebasha was on the prowl, darting across
the dunes like a ghost in a children’s tale.

Every night and every day had been the same. Morgin pulled Harriok across
the dunes through the night, pitched camp as the sun rose, though he hadn’t
the energy to set traps. He would sleep for a while, dream of Aethon’s
tomb then awake near midday to watch the great cat circle the lean-to
carefully. Each night he broke camp and continued on.

“How many
days?” he asked aloud,
but there was no one there to answer him.
Two
, he thought,
maybe
three.
The days were all the same,
and the only thing that changed was the diminishing weight of the water skin,
and his ever weakening strength.

Shebasha sat down on
her haunches just outside the shadow of the lean-to and preened herself. “Good
day, mortal,” she said.

“Good
day,” Morgin answered. They had the same conversation every day. But
again he wondered how many days.

“Do the
days matter, mortal?”

Morgin shrugged. “I
don’t know what matters. I suppose water matters.”

“All that
matters is what matters to you. So what matters to you, mortal?”

“Getting
out of this alive,” Morgin said. “Getting Harriok out
of this alive. Will you kill me, and eat me?”

“Now why
would I do that,” she asked, “when you’ve
done so much to help me?”

“What did
I do to help you?”

“Why, you
killed me, and for that I am grateful.”

She stood then, and he
saw the wound in her chest where he’d struck blindly with his
sword when she’d leapt upon him in the midst of the storm. After
that glimpse she drifted away like another wave of heat, and he slid deeper
into his dreams.

He awoke shivering. The
sun had set long ago and the night had come upon him.

That was different. In
days just past he’d
managed to awake shortly before sunset, in time to break camp and be on his way
by nightfall. He tried to lift himself to his feet, barely managed to get up on
one elbow, realized then he was hopelessly weak, that even if he got to his
feet he wouldn’t have the strength to do more than just stand
there.

He lay back down,
hoped a little more rest might give him the strength to go on.

~~~

Rhianne looked at the
old woman kneeling before her, realized she was not that old, just poor, and
filthy, and underfed. And her husband was in no better shape. “Will
you help us, Yer Ladyship?”

Rhianne sat in a chair
in her room in the inn, while the two peasants knelt before her. “I’ll
help if I can,” Rhianne told the woman. “But I can’t
be sure until I examine the cow myself.”

The woman’s
husband spoke up. “Our farm’s about two leagues north
of here.”

Rhianne nodded. “Very
well. Tell Fat John to have my horse saddled. I’ll join you
shortly and you can lead me there.”

For the last few days
she’d lived a precarious sort of existence. It had taken her two days to heal the innkeeper’s boil, and
by that time she wondered where she would find shelter when that was done. She
had considered trading her horse for more time, but beyond the clothes on her
back, the animal was her only possession. But on the day she finished with Fat
John’s boil the town’s smith brought his son to her
with a broken arm. The man was quite fearful his son’s arm would
heal improperly, and he would not be able to take up his father’s
profession. So Rhianne set the bone, bound it carefully with a splint, gave the
smith instructions on how to care for it, and told him to bring the boy back at
six-day intervals while it healed. The smith had given her a chicken as payment
for her services, and she’d given that to the innkeeper for
another day’s room and board.

The word spread
quickly that a witch-healer had taken up residence in the inn, and after her
success at healing Fat John’s boil, and the smith’s
son’s arm, every man and woman in the district with any kind of
ailment had come to see her, and she now did a rather steady business. They
paid her mostly with food and dead animals and goods and barter, and
occasionally a few coins. Only the day before, she’d acquired a coarse shirt and a set of men’s
breeches, along with a pair of small riding boots. None of it fit well, but
there was a woman in the village with some skill as a seamstress. All of these
poor people needed healing of one kind or another, so she bartered that for some
alterations to her newly acquired peasant garb. It would have to do. She was
about to change into the breeches when instinct told her these country folk
might not understand the sight of a woman in men’s pants, so she
decided to continue wearing her only dress over the breeches. The boots would
come in handy for slogging through the mud and dung of a farm, and her skirt
would keep them well hidden.

As she left the inn,
the innkeeper showed considerable concern, and looking at the patrons of the
common room, she realized she attracted a fair amount of business for him. It
occurred to her then that she should negotiate some sort of contract with the
man, perhaps a reduced rate on her room and board as long as she stayed in the
inn.

The peasant couple
walked and Rhianne rode her horse, its saddlebags filled to bursting with herbs
and prepared potions. It was the first time Rhianne had ridden west from the
lake toward the mountains, and the terrain grew steeper as they traveled. Just
short of the couple’s hut, the road opened out into a large area
cleared of all trees, with three, enormous open pits of blackened earth.

Rhianne had heard of
the coalmines, knew that they and the iron mines drove the local economy. But
she’d expected to see dark, forbidding tunnel mouths in the side
of the mountain, not open pits with seams of black coal running through
them. To one side the miners’ camp consisted of a large cluster of
huts and tents, and she saw more than a hundred men scattered throughout the
pits, swinging picks and bending their backs to shovels.

Rhianne stopped and commented to the peasant couple. “Quite
an enterprise!”