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

dark silhouette always hid his features. He also dreamt
of the skeleton king sitting upon his throne in the tomb in Attunhigh: vivid
images that seemed very real, as if the sands wanted him to remember the crypt
with clarity far greater than that of a dream. He had seen the skeleton king’s
crypt for the first time when he lay dying in the enchanted alcove in Castle
Elhiyne. But now something in the image had changed. He couldn’t
say what, and that bothered him.
    Then the sense of a
dream ended and he came fully awake. The large cat was nowhere to be seen and
he realized she was just a figment of his delirium. The small lean-to was real,
though the shade it cast was far from cool, but certainly far cooler than the
oven out on the open sands. The man no longer sat in the shade with Morgin, but
Morgin spotted him out on the sands in the distance.
    Morgin first noticed
the shape of his head; it was enormous and triangular, though that hadn’t
been the case when the fellow sat in the shadows within the lean-to. He wore
sand yellow breeches tucked into calf length boots, an odd, knee-length robe
collected at the waist by a black belt, with a hood thrown up over his
strangely shaped head. He bent down over something in the sand with his back to
Morgin, and when he stood erect he lifted a small creature in his hand that
struggled to escape. He gave its neck a sharp twist and it went limp, then he
turned back toward the lean-to. It was then that Morgin understood what made
his head appear to be so oddly shaped. He wore some sort of broad, stiff-brimmed
hat, over which the hood of his robe had been thrown. The brim of the hat had
the effect of making a large tent of the hood, which, in the bright sun, hid
the man’s face in a deep and mysterious shadow.
    As the man approached
the lean-to Morgin sat up, found that he was still dressed in the torn and
battered clothing he’d worn during his escape from the Decouix
dungeon. About his neck, someone—he assumed it had been the man—had
added a thick ring of intricately braided leather. It was too small to slip
over his head, and it had no clasp so he surmised it had been braided in place
while he lay unconscious.
    “You’ll
grow used to the debt-ring,” a voice said.
    Morgin looked up and
found the man standing over the entrance to the lean-to. The timbre of his
voice told Morgin he was still a young man, probably in his mid-twenties like
Morgin. “Debt-ring?” Morgin asked.
    “Yes,”
the young man said. “I saved you from the sands. I gave you water—”
he held up the small, reptilian beast in his hand, “—and
now I’m about to feed you. You owe me a great debt, and it’s
not honorable to be indebted so.”
    Morgin wondered if
this made him some sort of slave, and for a moment he considered resisting the
young man. But as the fellow threw back the hood and pulled off his hat, Morgin
saw the bone-white color of his skin for the first time. With his memories of
haunting the soul of the ancient Benesh’ere warrior Morddon still
fresh in his mind, he knew this man would be a fearsome warrior. Though, even
if he were able to defeat him, they were somewhere out in the middle of the
Great Munjarro Waste, and Morgin was wholly dependent upon him for survival.
    The young man stabbed
a finger into his own chest. “I am Harriok, your new master. You
will address me as Lord Harriok.”
    Morgin decided to play
along, then escape at the first opportunity. “Yes, Lord Harriok.”
    “Very
good.”
    Harriok bent down,
crawled into the lean-to, sat down with his legs crossed opposite Morgin, drew
a knife and began gutting the small creature he’d captured. Morgin
had been right about his age, a young Benesh’ere warrior with the
characteristic bone white skin, and coal-black hair tied into a braid that hung
down his back just past his shoulders.
    Morgin cleared his
throat. “May I ask a question, Lord Harriok?”
    Harriok nodded. “Go
ahead.”
    “How long
ago did you find