The Born Queen by Greg Keyes Page B

and relatively slow. From the rushing he heard up-and downstream, that easily could have not been the case.
    Once he had dragged himself out, his abused body had finally given out. The warm air soon had taken the water’s chill, and the forest had worked to soothe him to sleep. He’d fought it but had drifted into and out of dream, and he wasn’t sure where he was when the voice spoke.
    “Holter,”
it croaked again.
    He sat up. He’d heard an utin speak before, and this was just what it sounded like. But he couldn’t tell how far away it was. It could be one kingsyard or ten. Either way it was too close.
    “Mother sends regards, Mannish.”
    Aspar kept quiet. He’d lost the dirk and was unarmed. However badly the utin was hurt, if it could move at all, he doubted very much he could fight it with his bare hands. His best chance was to stay still and hope it was bleeding to death. Failing that, morning might give him a better chance.
    He heard something sliding through the undergrowth and wondered if the monster could see in the dark. He hoped not, but that seemed like a thing monsters ought to be able to do.
    “Mother,”
the voice sighed again.
    Something tickled the back of Aspar’s neck, something with a lot of legs. He stayed frozen as it explored around his ear, across his lips, and finally down his chin and across his jerkin.
    It was quiet save for the gentle
shush
of the river, and after a time the sky above began to gray. Aspar turned his head slowly, trying to piece together his surroundings as the light came up. He made out the river first and then the reeds he’d crawled through into the shelter of the trees. The cliff across the water came into focus, and the boles nearest him emerged from darkness.
    Something big fell behind him, brushing limbs and breaking sticks. He whipped his head around and saw something bright, glittering.
    It was the thing in the utin’s chest. The creature itself lay collapsed only a kingsyard away. It had been right above him.
    The thing in its chest, he saw now, was a knife, and he suddenly remembered, months before, a battle in an oak grove in Dunmrogh where a knight had wielded a sword that shone like this, a sword that could cut through almost anything.
    The utin wasn’t moving. Carefully, Aspar leaned forward, soundlessly shifting his weight until his fingers touched the hilt. He felt an odd, tingling warmth, then took hold of it and pulled it out.
    Blood spurted in a stream. The utin’s eyes snapped open, and it gave a horrible gurgling scream, starting toward Aspar but stopping when it saw the weapon.
    “Unholy thing,” it said.
    “You’re one to talk.”
    It started an odd gulp and hiss that might have been a laugh.
    “Your mother,” Aspar said. “The Sarnwood witch. Did she send you?”
    “No, no. Mother not sending us, eh?”
    “But you work for Fend?”
    “The Blood Knight calls us. We come.”
    “Why?”
    “How we are,” the utin said. “How we are, it’s all.”
    “But what does he want?”
    The utin had shoved its fist into the knife hole. It wasn’t helping much.
    “Not the same as Mother, I think,” it said. “Not at end of things. But doesn’t matter. Today he wanting you. Today, you.” It looked up suddenly and released a deafening, ululating shriek. Howling himself, Aspar drove forward, slicing through the exposed throat so deeply that the head flopped backward like the hood of a cloak. Blood jetted from the stump of its neck, pulsed another few times, and stopped.
    Aspar tried to still his own panting and reckon whether he’d been wounded by the thing. He didn’t want to take his eyes off it, so he was watching when its mouth started moving again.
    “Holter.”
    Aspar flinched and raised the knife back up. The voice was the same, but the timbre of it was somehow different.
    “Another of my children dead by you.”
    “Sarnwood witch,” he breathed.
    “Each one is part of me,”
she said.
    He remembered her forest, how he’d