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

unlike that of some of his childhood companions. “I’m
the son of an Elhiyne freeman. My father was a soldier and my mother a kitchen
maid. I was raised at Elhiyne itself, and taught some soldiering skills.”
    Harriok turned about
in the saddle and looked down at Morgin, his voice filled with curiosity. “You
grew up in the castle?”
    “Aye,”
Morgin answered flatly.
    “What was
it like? Was it big? It must be strange to live surrounded by stone like that.”
    Morgin told Harriok
about Elhiyne. He described every detail of the place, and the people who lived
there, which fascinated the young Benesh’ere warrior. But for
himself, he grew sadly homesick.
    “You miss
them,” Harriok said. “I can tell.”
    For all his bluster,
Harriok treated Morgin almost as an equal. To maintain a good pace they took
turns riding the horse, though Harriok tied one end of a good length of rope to
Morgin’s debt-ring, and the other to his wrist. If Morgin tried to
spur the horse into a run and escape, the young Benesh’ere could
easily yank him from the saddle. And only occasionally did Harriok remember
that Morgin was in his debt and demand that he call him “Lord.”
They stopped near midnight to eat,
then traveled on, continuing at a steady pace until well past dawn since the
air remained cool during the first few hours of morning. But as the
sands warmed Harriok called a halt. He
taught Morgin how to pitch the lean-tos, then how to set traps in the sand. By
that time the air had grown thick and hot, so they retired to the shade of the
lean-to.
    Morgin wanted to drop
instantly into sleep, but first they cleaned their catch from the previous day, cut the meat into strips, ate some of it raw
and lay the rest out in the sun to dry. After they lay down in the lean-to, and
before sleep took them, Morgin asked, “Do you own me? Am I a
slave, or something?”
    “Of
course not. You owe me a debt of honor, and until it’s repaid you
are mine to do with as I please.”
    The next night went much as the first. They kept up a steady
pace while Harriok quizzed Morgin incessantly about life among the clans. But
near dawn, just as the sky began to lighten, Harriok stopped abruptly, stood up
in his stirrups and sniffed the air.
    “Water,”
Harriok said excitedly. Then he climbed down out of the saddle, and with some
urgency untied his pack.
    “Help me,”
he said.
    Morgin could only
provide minimal help since he had no idea what Harriok was trying to do. “What
are we doing?” he asked.
    Harriok grinned. “A
mist still, for water. Just wait and see.”
    They quickly assembled
what appeared to be a strangely shaped and oddly inverted tent. It was a
contraption made of wooden stakes and a circular piece of oiled cloth about as
wide as the spread of a man’s arms. The stakes supported the outer
edges of the cloth about knee high off the sand, while in the middle Harriok
placed a small stone that weighted the center of the cloth downward. With that
done, they then went about the business of making camp, though it was much
earlier than the previous morning.
    As they worked, Morgin
noticed a light mist forming just off the surface of the sand. But by the time
camp was fully set it was knee deep and as thick as a heavy fog, and Morgin had
difficulty seeing through it to set the last trap. Then the sun rose, and the
mist dissipated.
    “Quickly
now,” Harriok said, and taking up a nearly empty water skin, he
stood over his strange contraption. “Come here and help me.”
    As Morgin approached
he looked down into the bowl of the little inverted tent, and in it he saw the
small rock Harriok had placed there to weight down the center. It now lay
beneath the surface of a good-sized puddle of water.
    Harriok pulled the
stopper on the water skin, handed it to Morgin, bent down and took hold of one
edge of the oiled cloth to support it as he pulled one of the stakes. Morgin
didn’t need to be told what to do. He carefully held the water
skin in