by Greg Keyes
Nothing seemed amiss. The chapel was quiet.
He had almost soothed himself when the screaming began. It came from the chamber of healing, where the stranger was. Hastily the sacritor made his way there, knowing what it must mean.
Hard men in dark clothing had brought the stranger weeks ago. Sacritor Hohn did not know who he was, but he was certainly a man of importance by his dress and the way he was attended. He'd been wounded near the heart, and his medicines and sacaums of healing had been able to do little but slow the rate of his demise. Only this morning, he had taken a turn for the worse. The only surprise was that he still had the strength to scream.
When the sacritor drew back the curtain, however, the stranger was not screaming, nor was he dead. He stood naked, staring at some unseen horizon of horror.
“My lord,” the sacritor said. “You've woken.”
“Indeed?” the man whispered. “I feel I dream. A dream most foul.”
“The saint has blessed you,” the sacritor said, making a sign. “I never thought to see you stand. Only this morning, your soul was slipping away.”
The man looked at him, and something in his eyes sent worms up the sacritor's back. “Where am I?” he asked.
“The chapel of Saint Loy at Copenwis,” the sacritor answered.
“Where are my men?”
“Quartered in the town, I think. One stands guard outside. Shall I fetch him?”
“In a moment. A moment. My brother is dead?”
“I do not know your brother, my lord.”
“Do you know me?”
“I do not, my lord.”
The stranger nodded and stroked his beard. “I think I do not, either,” he said.
Sacritor Hohn wasn't sure he understood. “Have you lost your memory?” he asked. He'd heard of that. “Sometimes the shock of a wound—”
“No, I don't mean that. I remember all too well. Fetch my clothes.”
“My lord, you cannot travel yet.”
“I think that I can.” Something in the man's eyes told Sacritor Hohn he ought not to argue. And after all, he had just seen a miracle. If the saints had saved a man from death, they could as easily restore him to perfect health.
Of course, the wound was still there …
“As you wish, my lord,” he said, bowing. “But before you go, shall I shrive you? Shall I perform lustration?”
The man stared at him, and his lips parted. He made a sound as if he were choking, and another.
It was only after a third that the sacritor understood that he was hearing laughter more bitter than the harshest sea.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to the following for reading and commenting on the manuscript at various stages of development: T. Karen Anderson, Kris Boldis, Ken Carelton, Veronica Chapman, Dave Gross, Professor Lanelle Keyes, Nancy Ridout Landrum, and Brian Smith.
A book is made by many hands. I often think they ought to include credits, like a movie.
At Del Rey, I have a lot of people to thank. Betsy Mitchell, the editor in chief and a real booster for The Briar King from the beginning of her tenure. Nancy Delia, the managing editor, who kept the trains on their tracks. Lisa Collins, the copy editor, who had to deal not only with my spelling mistakes in English, but in several imaginary languages. Denise Fitzer, the editorial assistant—without a competent editorial assistant, things can break down very quickly. Things did not break down. And of course, Steve Saffel, my editor, who has believed in this book and fought hard for it for years. Finally, thanks to Kuo-Yu Liang for years of support as publisher, friend, and drinking buddy.
I'd like to thank the production manager, Barbara Greenberg, Eric Peterson for the cover painting, David Stevenson for the cover design and a good deal of back-and-forth with me making certain the maps were right. Map artist Kirk Caldwell for what are truly works of art, publicity guru Colleen Lindsay, and online-marketing sorceress Christine Cabello.
A big thanks to Dana Hayward for expending her own time and effort to make a pre-proof proof, to get the word out as early as possible.
Beyond that I'd like to thank Elizabeth B. Vega for her help with the soundtrack (you'll see more what I mean in book two) and the Savannah Fencing Club for moral support. This book also seems to have supporters farther afield than my immediate circle of friends, for which I'm grateful—David Weller, Chuck Errig, Lisa Congelosi, Rebeccah Fitting, David Phethean, Ron Schoop, and David Underwood.
The saga of The Kingdoms of
Thorn and Bone continues in
THE CHARNEL
PRINCE
Read on for an excerpt
from this thrilling new hardcover,
available in August 2004
THE UTIN
ASPAR LOOSED AN ARROW at the thing before he could even see what it was. It hit, he was certain, but it didn't seem to have much effect. A long, clawed limb whipped out and struck Stephen to the ground.
As Aspar loosed his second arrow, a film of light seemed to settle on everything. The leaves that had concealed the pit the creature had been hiding in turned slowly as they fell, each distinct—iron oak, ash, haurnbagm, poplar.
As they settled, the Utin was revealed.
Aspar's first impression was of a huge spider. Though it only had four limbs, they were long and spindly, attached to a torso so compact as to be almost rectangular. A mass of muscle was covered in what looked like brown scales; sparse greenish hair grew thicker on its upper spine and ruffed a short, thick neck. Yellow eyes glared from an enormous oblong of dark green horn with only slits for nostrils and holes for ears. Its mouth was the laugh of a black Mary, a slit that cut the head half in two and champed around wicked black uneven teeth.
The second arrow took it high in the chest, where its heart ought to be; it didn't go deep. The Utin dropped to all fours and sprang toward Aspar with terrible speed.
Aspar got off another shot, and so did Ehawk, and then it was on them. Its stench hit Aspar in the gut, and his gorge rose as he discarded the bow and yanked out his fighting dirk and throwing ax. He struck hard with the latter and dodged as the thing swept by. A six-clawed hand swiped at him and narrowly missed.
He whirled and fell into a fighting crouch.
The Utin paused, bouncing slowly up and down on its weird long legs, its body upright, fingers tapping at the ground. It towered a king's yard above Aspar.
Aspar shifted back, hoping he was a little out of reach.
“Winna,” he said. “Get away from here now.”
Ehawk, he noticed, was slowly creeping behind the beast.
“Wiiiiiinaaah,” the thing croaked, and Aspar's flesh went as crawly as if he'd stumbled into a nest of worms.
“Wiinaah gooh, yah. I find you later. Make fun.”
The language was the local dialect of Almannish.
“Grim's eye,” Aspar swore. “What the sceat are you?”
For answer, the Utin swayed forward a bit, then plucked one of the arrows from its chest. Aspar saw that the scales were more like bony plates, natural armor—the shaft hadn't penetrated deep. More and more he was reminded of the Greffyn, which had also had much of the reptile about it.
If this thing was poisonous like the Greffyn, Stephen was already as good as dead. So was he, if it touched him.
He waited for its next move, looking for soft spots. The head was plated and was probably mostly bone. He might hit one of the eyes with a good throw. The throat, maybe?
No. All too far in. Its limbs were everywhere. He shifted his knife hand slightly.
The Utin suddenly blurred toward him. Ehawk gave a cry and fired an arrow; Aspar ducked, leapt inside the reaching claws, and slashed at the inner thigh, then stabbed toward the groin. He felt flesh part at the first cut, and the thing howled. His thrust missed as the monster leapfrogged over him and then dealt him a terrific kick with its rear legs that sent him sprawling. It turned before he could even think about getting up, tore a branch from a tree and hurled it. Aspar heard Ehawk cry out,
and then the thump of a body hitting the ground. Then the Utin bounded toward him. From the corner of his eye he saw Winna, armed only with a dagger, rushing in to help.
“No!” Aspar shouted, levering himself up, lifting his ax.
But the Utin struck Winna with the back of its hand, and as she staggered, it grabbed her with the other. Aspar hurled the ax, but it bounced harmlessly from the monster's head. In the next instant it leapt straight up, taking Winna with it. It caught a low-hanging branch, swung, clenched another branch with the second pair of hands on its feet. It moved off through the trees faster than a man could run.
“No!” Aspar repeated. He pushed to his feet, retrieved his bow and chased after the rapidly receding monster. A sort of shivering was in him, a feeling he had never known before.
He pushed it down and ran, reached to his belt for the arrow case the praifec had given him, and extracted the black arrow.
The Utin was quickly vanishing from sight, here again gone again behind trunk and branch. Breath tore harshly through Aspar's lips as he set the relic to his string. He stopped, got his stance, and for an instant the world was quiet again. He felt the immensity of the earth beneath him, the faint breeze pushing itself over the land, the deep slow breath of the trees. He drew.
The Utin vanished behind a bole, reappeared, and vanished again. Aspar aimed at the narrow gap where he thought it would appear again, felt the time come right, and released.
The ebony shaft spiraled out and away from him, hissing past leaf and branch to where the Utin's broad back was a brief occlusion between two trees.
The quiet stretched, but stillness did not. Aspar ran again, already taking out another shaft, cursing under his breath, his heart tightening like an angry fist.
He found Winna first. She lay like an abandoned doll in a patch of bracken, her dress smeared with blood. The Utin sprawled a few feet away, its back to a tree, watching him come. Aspar could see the head of the black arrow protruding from its chest.
Aspar knelt by Winna, feeling for her pulse, but he kept his gaze fixed on the Utin. It gurgled and spat out blood and blinked, as if tired. It raised a six-fingered hand to touch the arrowhead.
“Not fair, mannish,” it husked. “Not weal. An unholy thing, yes? And yet it will slay you, too. Your doom is the same as mine.”
Then it vomited blood, wheezed two more times, and looked beyond the lands of fate.
“Winna?” Aspar said. “Winna?” His heart tripped, but she still had a pulse, and a strong one. He touched her cheek, and she stirred.
“Eh?” She said.
“Stay still,” Aspar said. “You fell, I don't know how far. Do you have any pain?”
“Yes,” she said. “Every part of me hurts. I feel like I've been put in a bag and kicked by six mules.”
She suddenly gasped and jerked up to a sitting position.
“The Utin—”
“It's dead. Still, now, until we're sure nothing's broken. How far did you fall?”
“I don't know. After it hit me, everything is cloudy.”
He began inspecting her legs, feeling for breaks.
“Aspar White. Do you always get so romantic after killing an Utin?” she asked.
“Always,” he said. “Every single time.” He kissed her then, not from desire, but from sheer relief. As he did it, he realized that in the past few moments he had known the greatest terror he had ever in his life experienced. It was so elevated above any fear he had ever known before he hadn't recognized it.
“Winna—” he began, but a faint noise made him look up, and in the thicket behind the dead Utin, he had a brief glimpse of a cowled figure in a hat, half hidden by a tree, face as white as bone, and one green eye—
“Fend!” He snarled, and reached for the bow.
When he turned, the figure was gone. He set the arrow and waited.
“Can you walk?” he asked softly.
“Yah.” She stood. “Was it really him?”
“It was a Sefry, certain. I didn't get a better look.”
“There's someone coming behind us,” she said.
“Yah. That's Stephen and Ehawk. I recognize their gaits.”
The two younger men arrived a moment later.
“Saints!” Stephen gasped when he saw the dead creature.
Aspar didn't take his gaze from the woods. “There's a Se-fry out there,” he said.
“The tracks we saw earlier?” Ehawk asked.
“Certain,” Aspar replied.
“Yes, I'm fine, thanks,” Stephen said. “A little bruised, that's all.”
“The boy?” Winna asked.
Stephen's voice sobered. “He died.”
No one said anything at that. There wasn't much to say.
The forest was still, its normal sounds returning.
“You two stay with her,”Aspar said. “I'm going to see what became of our friend's companion.”
“Aspar, wait,” Winna said. “What if it is Fend? What if he's leading you into another trap?”
He touched her hand. “I think the one trap was all he had planned. If we hadn't had the praifec's arrow, it would have worked well enough.”
“You used the arrow?” Stephen gasped.
“It had Winna,” Aspar said. “It was in the trees. There was nothing else I could do.”
Stephen frowned, but then nodded. He walked over to the Utin, knelt near the corpse, and gingerly removed the arrow.
“I see what you mean,” he said. “The other arrows didn't even penetrate a fingerbreadth.” He shot them a wry grin. “At least we know it works.”
“Yah. On Utins,” Aspar allowed. “I'll be back.” He squeezed Winna's hand. “And I'll be careful.”
He followed the tracks for a few hundred yards, which was as far as he dared alone. He'd told Winna the truth—he didn't fear a trap—but he did fear that the Sefry was working his way back to Stephen and Winna, to catch them while he was away. Fend would like nothing more than to kill someone else Aspar loved, and he'd just come as close to losing Winna as he ever wanted to.
“It still looks like he's alone,” Aspar said.
They had been following the Sefry trail for the better part of a day.
“Traveling fast,” Ehawk said. “But he wants to be followed.”
“Yah, I reckon that too,” Aspar said.
“What do you mean?” Stephen asked.
“The trail is obvious—sloppy even. He's making no effort to lose us.”
“Ehawk just said he seems to be in a hurry.”
“That's not enough to account for it. He hasn't even tried the simplest tricks to throw us off. He crossed three broohs, and never even waded up or down the stream. Werlic, Ehawk is right—he wants us to follow him for some reason.”
“If it's Fend, he's likely leading us somewhere unpleasant,” Winna said.
Aspar scratched the stubble on his chin. “I'm not sure it is Fend. I didn't get a very clear look, but I didn't see an eye patch. And the prints look too small.”
“But whoever it was was traveling with the Utin, just as Fend and brother Desmond traveled with the Greffyn. So it's probably one of Fend's bunch, right?”
“Well, so far as I know Fend's outlaws are the only Sefry left in the forest,” Aspar agreed. “The rest left months ago.”
The trail had pulled them deep into the forest. Here, there was no sign of the black thorns. Huge chestnut trees rose around them, and the ground was littered with their sticky issue. Somewhere near, a woodpecker drummed away, and now and then they heard the honking of geese, far overhead.
“What could they be up to?” Winna wondered aloud.
“I reckon we'll find out,” Aspar said.
Evening came, and they made camp. Winna and Stephen rubbed down the horses while Ehawk started a fire. As-par scouted, memorizing the land so he might know it in the dark.
They decamped at the first light of dawn and continued on. The tracks were fresher, now—their quarry wasn't mounted, while they were.
Midday, Aspar noticed something through the trees ahead and waved the others to a halt. He looked at Stephen.
“I don't hear anything unusual,” Stephen said. “But the smell—it reeks of death.”
“Keep ready,” Aspar said.
“Holy saints,” Stephen breathed, as they got near enough to see.
A small stone building sat on a rounded tumulus of earth. Around the base of the mound lay a perimeter of human corpses, reduced mostly to bone. Stephen was right, though— the stink was still there. To his saint-blessed senses it must be overwhelming.
Stephen confirmed that by doubling over and retching. Aspar waited until he was done, then moved closer.
“It's like before,” he said. “Like the sacrifices your renegade monks were making. This is a sedos, yah?”
“It's a sedos,” Stephen confirmed. “But this isn't like before. They're doing it correctly, this time.”
“What do you mean?” Winna asked.
Stephen sagged against a tree, looking pale and weak.
“Do you understand about the sedoi?” he asked her.
“You mentioned something about them to the queen's interrogators, but at the time I wasn't paying much attention. Aspar was hurt, and since then—”
“Yes, we haven't discussed it much since then.” He sighed. “You know how priests receive the blessing of the saints?”
“A little. They visit fanes and pray.”
“Yes. But not just any fanes.” He waved at the mound. “That's a sedos. It's a place where a saint once stood, and left some bit of his presence. Visiting one sedos doesn't confer a blessing, though, or at least not usually. You have to find a trail of them, a series of places visited by the same saint, or by aspects of that saint. The fanes—like that building there— have no power themselves. The power comes from the sedos— the fane is just a reminder, a place to help us focus our attention in the saint's presence. I walked the faneway of Saint Decmanis, and he gifted me with the heightened senses I have now. I can remember things a month after as clearly as if they just happened. Decmanis is a saint of knowledge; monks who walk other faneways receive other blessings. The faneway of Mamres, for instance, conveys martial gifts on those who walk it. Great strength, alacrity, an instinct for killing, those sorts of things.”
