The Heart of the Sands, Book 3 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

  The girl jumped at the sound of her voice, but she didn’t answer.

  “Come now, Braunye. Answer me. Why are you crying?”

  The girl spluttered and sobbed, then in a tearful voice said, “Please don’t eat me. I’m not more than skin and bones anyway. Please.”

  “Oh dear!” Rhianne sighed. “Very well, Braunye. I won’t eat you. You can be my servant instead. How does that sound?”

  “Oh thank you, milady. Thank you.”

  The room grew quiet with the end of Braunye’s tears, and Rhianne hungered for a dreamless sleep. Her dreams were normal, and like most dreams, strange and inexplicable, but the sword hovered ever in the background. It wanted something from her, wanted it desperately, and like an infant it constantly cried and begged for her to satisfy it. But like that same infant, it didn’t know how to tell her what it wanted. After such a night she would climb out of bed exhausted, and struggle through the day yawning and nodding off here and there.

  ~~~

  Morgin dreamt of water touching his lips, washing away the thirst and the heat. And he dreamt of the Benesh’ere giants, lifting him, carrying him away to a place of tree-lined groves and large, pavilion-like tents. He dreamt that someone forced him to eat foul tasting herbs, to drink warm, meaty broth, and water with the chill of winter to it. And then he snapped awake and realized it wasn’t a dream, that Harriok’s people must have found them.

  The sun had just risen, and when he sat up he found that the leather debt-ring about his neck had been tied to a stake in the ground by a length of rope. In every direction, for as far as the eye could see, small Benesh’ere tents dotted the dunes, with the occasional large pavilion nestled among them.

  He stood with great care, testing each muscle before putting it to use, though he discovered the rope was much too short to stand fully erect. He felt reasonably good, a little wobbly at the knees, but otherwise in relatively good shape. Twice now, that oven of sand had tried to take his life.

  A bandage covered the claw marks on the back of his shoulder. He sat down in the shade of the lean-to and tried to peel back an edge to get a look at the wound, but it was too far back to see anything clearly.

  “Now leave that alone,” a young girl snapped at him. He looked up, found her standing over him holding a tray, noticed that, like him, she wore a leather debt-ring braided about her neck, though her skin was the white of the Benesh’ere and she wore one of those broad-brimmed straw hats with the hood thrown back. She couldn’t be more than sixteen, though if he’d been standing she’d stand as tall as him.

  “Feels nearly healed to me,” he said.

  She answered him with a sneer, put the tray down on the sand nearby, lifted a knife off the tray, stood behind him and began cutting away the bandage. Her hands were not gentle.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Yim,” she said, “And yes, it is nearly healed. I think you can do without a bandage now.”

  Morgin looked over his shoulder at her face. “How is Harriok?” he asked.

  Her eyes darkened. “Lord Harriok,” she corrected him, “is very ill. You were lucky. You were not touched by the sixth claw.” She frowned for a moment and looked at the wound on the back of his shoulder carefully. “There is a sixth mark here.” She probed at it, but it was numb to her touch. “But it’s long since healed, an old scar. No, you were not touched by that claw.”

  Morgin had been touched by the sixth claw; of that he was almost certain. The sixth wound had been open and fresh the morning after Shebasha’s attack. But all he said now was, “Will he live?”

  She shook her head. “We don’t know. He should be dead by now.”

  She lifted a cup of steaming liquid off the tray and handed it to him. “Drink this, and you look strong enough for food. Let me see what I can find.” She picked up her tray. “And Lord Harriok’s father, Jerst, will want to question you.” The girl turned and walked away before Morgin could protest.

  Jerst! Morgin struggled to remember where he’d heard that name before. How many times had he seen Benesh’ere in this life? His memories were all confused with those of Morddon in the far past. But then he had it: Jerst was warmaster of the Benesh’ere, and Morgin had insulted him and his hot-blooded daughter Blesset shortly before the battle at Csairne Glen, and Jerst had sworn that when next they met, he’d kill Morgin.

  Morgin began fumbling at the knot connecting the rope to the debt-ring about his neck, but as he did so a shadow blocked the ever-bright sunlight. Blesset stood over him with her hands on her hips. “Go ahead,” she said calmly. “Untie the knot. Free yourself. And you’ll also free me to kill you here and now.”

  Morgin knew he could not match the fighting prowess of a Benesh’ere warrior, male or female. And for some reason the debt-ring stopped her from killing him, so he carefully lowered his hands from the knot.

  “At least you’re not stupid,” she said. “It is fortuitous the sands have chosen to put you in our hands. My only sorrow is that you owe my brother a debt, so I cannot kill you until it’s repaid. But that time will come, Elhiyne. Either he’ll heal, and grant me permission to kill you, or he’ll die, and his wife will inherit your debt and she’ll gladly allow it. Yes, that time will come.”

  Chapter 4: The Jest of a Name

  The oasis was a large strip of fertile land somewhere near the western edge of the Munjarro. Sand still covered almost everything, but the oasis contained a large lagoon with open water, and a great many shrubs and trees with broad-bladed leaves that cast shadows everywhere. Hundreds of the white-faced giants moved about, with quite a number of tents both large and small pitched among the trees.

  Harriok had told Morgin that out on the sands the tribe broke up into smaller clans and family units. But each year, with the coming of spring, they all converged on Aelldie and waited there until the last had arrived.

  Word had spread that Morgin was to be mistreated by everyone. Whitefaces passing by spat on him, or kicked sand at him. As the morning progressed the mistreatment ratcheted up a notch; they not only spat on him, but occasionally gave him a healthy kick, though the punishment never grew to the point of serious harm. By nightfall his body felt as if it had become one giant bruise.

  As the sun set the camp filled with the smells of cooking, and while the Benesh’ere ate, Morgin sat alone and the torment abated. Then, for a while, many of them congregated around several of the fires where they talked in low tones, until one by one they retreated to their tents and the camp grew quiet. Yim brought him a bowl of table scraps and a blanket. “Thank you,” he said gratefully.

  “Don’t thank me,” she snapped. “If it were up to me I’d cut your throat myself. But Lord Jerst wants you healthy so he can kill you himself.”

  “Why doesn’t he just kill me now? I’m here for the killing.”

  She frowned at him as if she thought him an idiot. “Why, that would dishonor him. You have to repay the debt first.” She turned her back on him and walked away.

  Morgin sat on the ground and wrapped the blanket tightly around his shoulders. He gnawed on the table scraps and tried to clean every last bit of meat from the bones. He could easily untie his leash, but where would he go? Aelldie lay too deep in the Munjarro, and without the Benesh’ere to help him he would quickly die.

  As the last of the whitefaces disappeared into their tents, the camp and the night grew quiet and still. Morgin sat on the ground and watched the glowing embers of the many cooking fires slowly die, and he tried to understand how he’d come to this. It seemed ironic to have gone from guttersnipe, to prince, to outlaw, to debtor, and now a man under sentence of death.

  The night was warm, the air still and the camp silent. But in the distance Morgin noticed three men walking his way, weaving their way among the tents. He could tell by their relative heights that one was not Benesh’ere. Only when they were within a short stone’s throw did Morgin realize the shorter man was Val accompanied by two Benesh’ere warriors. “Val!”
he called. He jumped to his feet, was jerked painfully to a halt by his leash and forced to remain in a crouch.

  The two warriors walked on either side of Val, watching him closely as if guarding him. Val approached warily, stopped about five paces away and said, “I dare not come closer. Jerst is allowing me to speak to you only because I told him I have very bad news for you. Rhianne is dead.”

  It took Morgin a moment to hear Val’s words, to let them punch a hole in his heart.

  “No,” he pleaded. “It can’t be.”

  Val continued. “She rode out of Durin following you. She went after you in some misguided hope of helping you, or saving you, or something. She rode out ahead of the skree, and they caught up with her before they got to you. They left nothing for us to bury.”

  Morgin’s heart lurched, and as his eyes welled with tears he closed them and sat down in the sand. He pictured once again what the skree had left of the old mare, just a smear of blood on the grass of a field. They would have left nothing more of his beautiful Rhianne, just another smear of blood on the grass of another field. He recalled again the night she’d kissed him in the stables what seemed an eternity ago, and the way that untamed lock of hair always escaped the tangle of tresses atop her head. That kiss, the only truly passionate moment they’d ever shared, that kiss had held such a promise of happiness for them, a promise that now would never be fulfilled.

  With tears streaming down his cheeks, he opened his eyes and said, “I’m going to kill Valso. I’m going to kill him with my bare hands.”

  Val said, “I would enjoy helping you.”

  Morgin didn’t want to think of Rhianne, not with Val and two Benesh’ere looking on to watch him cry. He asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Once all of Decouix had your scent they left us alone. We took Tulellcoe south to Yestmark where Cort has some friends. When he was doing better she and he decided to take up residence near a pretty lake, and since I was close to the Munjarro I thought I’d come and see some old whiteface friends.”

  Val held up his hands, and Morgin finally saw that his wrists were tied together by a length of rope. “Apparently, anyone who was with you the night you insulted Jerst is guilty by association.”

  “Enough,” one of the Benesh’ere guards growled. “Jerst said you could give him the bad news about his wife. You’ve done so. Now end it.”

  Still holding his tied wrists out, Val said, “I do hope you can mend the situation with Jerst.”

  Morgin watched the two warriors lead Val off toward the center of camp. Rhianne had died because of him, and it appeared that Val would soon die because of him as well.

  Morgin lay down on the sand and pulled his blanket tightly about his shoulders. He’d learned that nights on the desert took on a decided chill, though this night it was the chill in his heart that kept him awake.

  ~~~

  Brandon stood on the parapets of Elhiyne and watched Olivia and her retinue approach the castle. Morgin dead! Rhianne dead! Olivia had sent riders ahead with the news, which by now had spread throughout the valley.

  Standing beside him, NickoLot said, “I don’t believe he’s dead. He can’t be dead.”

  Brandon turned and looked at her carefully. In her late teens, of marriageable age, she was still a tiny thing, stood barely chest high to Brandon; and rail thin, she was light as a feather. But she’d gone to wierding after Valso and his Kulls had occupied Elhiyne and the Tulalane had tried to rape her. She’d taken to wearing only black, and always obscured the features of her face in the shadows of a dark veil. It was a lovely face, almost childish—until one looked deeply into her eyes, and there, one might glimpse the power within her soul, a frightening thing at best. In the last two years she had grown from a middling witch, to one of the most powerful in the clan, rivaling even AnnaRail and Olivia in that respect.

  Brandon asked. “What about Rhianne?”

  She didn’t move; just stood there staring out at the train of horses and carts and carriages. “No, nor her. They can’t be dead.”

  “But grandmother wrote that, even with AnnaRail’s help, she can find no trace of their souls in mortal life.”

  She didn’t answer him, but stood there silently staring out over the distant fields.

  “Nicki, answer me, please.”

  She turned to look at him, and beneath the veil he caught a glimpse of her eyes and had to look away. “I don’t care what grandmother thinks. I don’t believe they’re dead.” She turned away from him and began walking.

  “Nicki, wait. Please.”

  She stopped and turned to face him.

  As much as Morgin and Rhianne’s deaths hurt them all, he feared Nicki would harm herself further by living in denial. “I’m sorry, but they are dead. You have to accept it.”

  She stared at him for the longest moment, didn’t acknowledge his words in any way. Then she turned and walked away.

  ~~~

  Morgin opened his eyes slowly, but lay there without moving, for something arcane had awakened him. The sun had yet to rise, but a hint of light in the sky told him dawn waited just over the horizon. He sensed netherlife hovering close at hand. He closed his eyes again, listened to the stillness about him, heard the sound of someone shifting his weight nearby.

  Morgin rolled over quickly, fearing one of the whitefaces had decided to give him a kick. He rose into a crouch, ready to defend himself, found one of them sitting with his legs crossed a few paces away, staring silently at him.

  Like most Benesh’ere men and women, the fellow wore loose-fitting, sand-colored breeches made of a coarse cloth and tucked into knee-high or calf-length boots. He also wore a knee-length robe made of the same material, gathered at the waist with a belt of intricately woven cord and strips of leather, a hood thrown over his head, formed into that triangular tent-like affair by the broad brimmed hat made of woven straw.

  The fellow threw the hood back, then removed the hat and laid it to one side in the sand; now Morgin could see that he was quite old. His hair had long since turned a white to match that of his skin, and while the top of his head was bald and shiny, a thick mane of it still grew out of the sides and back of his head to cascade down over his shoulders. His face remained expressionless, his eyes boring silently into Morgin’s soul.

  Morgin took a seat facing him, waiting for him to speak, but the old man seemed content to just sit and stare. Finally, Morgin’s impatience got the better of him. “What do you want?”

  Slowly, a smile formed on the old man’s lips, but still he did not speak.

  Morgin looked straight into his eyes, refused to be intimidated by his damn stare. “What do you want, old man?”

  The old man nodded, as if he’d seen something, or come to some decision. He spoke slowly. “My name is not old man; it is Toke, and I’ve come to see if you can see.”

  Morgin shrugged, couldn’t put the feeling aside there was something magical here. “Well I’m not blind, if that’s what you mean.”

  The old man’s smile broadened. “We’re all blind in one way or another, boy. I find you interesting because you see all, and yet you see nothing.”

  Morgin had once threatened to kill Tulellcoe if his uncle again called him “boy.” But to this old man everyone was probably a child.

  “I brought a friend,” Toke said. “It’s curious about you.” He looked to one side as if someone sat next to him. “Aren’t you, old friend?”

  Morgin saw nothing there, but his instincts told him to look closely, and for just an instant he caught the telltale shimmer of a netherdemon holding contact with this world, and he understood then why his sense of magic had been aroused. “You’re a sorcerer then?” Morgin asked.

  Toke frowned. “Ah, what I would give to taste true power. But alas! No, in that I am blind.”

  The demon hovering near Toke’s shoulder gave off a familiar nether scent. “But you’ve summoned life from the netherworld.”

  Toke shook his head. “No. The namegiver is a
n old friend of mine, and often seeks me out.”

  “The namegiver?” Morgin asked. “You mean ElkenSkul?”

  Toke turned to the demon. “He remembers you, friend.” He cocked his head slightly as if listening to something, then nodded. “Yes,” he said to the demon. “He is, but he’ll learn.”

  Again, Toke appeared to listen to something. He laughed softly for a moment and asked, “Really?” Then he reached down, and with the palm of his hand he smoothed over a small area of sand. A moment later the demon scratched something in the sand. Morgin craned his neck and tried to see what the demon wrote, but his leash wouldn’t allow that, and dawn was still too far off, and the light too dim for him to see the marks clearly.

  When the demon finished Toke looked carefully at what it had written, then threw back his head and cried out with laughter. “Oh that is good, namegiver. That is a wonderful joke. Truly wonderful!”

  Sitting on the sand, Morgin couldn’t see the namegiver’s scratchings. He climbed to his feet, leaned out to the maximum extent his leash would allow, peered down at the small area of sand where the demon had written its message. As the sun broke over the flat horizon of the desert he saw that the demon had scratched the symbol of the sunset king with the two crossed lines beneath it. It had added the two extra lines that made it appear to be Aethon’s name with crossed swords beneath it, the extra lines no one but Morgin had seen.

  As a young boy he’d put those extra lines out of his thoughts, put them away and forgotten them, thought of them rarely, if at all. How would he have explained to Olivia what he’d seen and she hadn’t? Attempting to do so would only have focused her attention on him even more. Perhaps this old man could tell him what those extra lines meant, tell him his real name.

  Morgin sat down at the limit of his leash. “Why do you find my name so funny?”

  “I don’t find it funny.”

  “But the demon wrote it in the sand, and you just laughed at it.”

  “But I wasn’t laughing at your name.”

  “Then what were you laughing at?”