Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

"How does that feel?"

Owen took a step. He felt the tug at the back of his leg, and some of the magickal pain triggering, but less. Another step and another, longer each time. "The iron mutes the magic. I need more nails. Another above the knee. One below. One below the calf, and maybe at the small of my back. Please, my friend, hurry."

"Yes. Let me prepare things." The pasmorte quickly bent the nails into a gentle curve. He tore the shackle covers into rectangular strips and pierced them with the nails first. He used the strips to pinch the skin, then inserted the nails through Owen's flesh and the leather. The wounds burned, and blood welled up to stain the leather.

Once all the nails had been set in place, Owen made several circuits of his cell. He moved more easily, but couldn't run. Then again, with the deep snow, what could? This will have to do.

He dressed, careful not to catch clothes on the nails. He wrapped one thin blanket around him and saved a corner as a hood, then pulled on the leather tunic Msitazi had given him. They tore the other blanket into strips and bound his feet in several layers, then tied them in place with strips of canvas. The remaining canvas he pulled around him as a cloak, and used the last two nails to hold it closed.

Quarante-neuf nodded. "Ready?"

"Wait, I need Agaskan's doll."

The pasmorte produced it from a drawer and Owen tucked it inside his tunic. "Now I will be safe."

Owen followed the pasmorte from his prison, hunching himself over. He moved haltingly, imitating as best he could the pasmortes circulating as sentries. He mimicked their awkward gaits and ducked his head as he turned north. The full brunt of the storm battered him. He snarled defiantly and forced himself toward the wall.

Snow drifted against the walls' northern faces. He fought the wind and reached the stone wall construction inside the north wall. The open end and ragged line of stones allowed him to easily scramble up to the top. He crouched, searched through the blizzard for any sign of pasmortes nearby, but saw nothing.

He couldn't see a dozen feet in any direction, but that hardly made him feel safe. He imagined du Malphias had some arcane means of piercing the storm's curtain. Or he might have a way to track me or Quarante-neuf. That thought soured his mouth, but he dismissed it.

Knowing where I am and dragging me back are two different things in this blizzard.

He grabbed the wooden wall's points and hauled himself over. He fell for a yard, then sank into snowdrifts. He floundered for a moment, then another body crunched down beside him. Quarante-neuf grabbed his arm and pulled him from the snow. The pasmorte wore no heavy clothes, but did have a pack on his back. "Come."

Owen began wading through the snow. "You have to get me away from here. I will kill du Malphias if I stay."

Quarante-neuf nodded. "Thank you, my friend…" His voice trailed off for a moment. "Is it that we are truly friends? Can it be?"

"Of course." Owen leaned heavily on the pasmorte 's arm. "Why would you think we are not friends?"

"I am dead, Captain. I may not remember much, but that cannot be forgotten. The dead have nothing to offer the living."

"Not so, Quarante-neuf, not so." They stepped free of the largest drift-which had totally filled the trench-and made their way across the wind-scoured glacis. They forded another drift, then pushed on straight north, toward the looming hill from which he had first scouted du Malphias' domain.

They paused in the lee of another drift. Quarante-neuf knelt with his back to the wind, providing Owen shelter. Snow caked the pack and his clothes, but he did not seem to notice. He did not shiver, he did not brush snow away. He remained untouched by the storm.

Then he grabbed Owen by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. "Come, Captain, we must go."

"Just a moment longer."

"No. Every step away from here makes my master safer." The pasmorte nodded. "And it brings happiness one step closer for your Bethany."

Owen smiled and warmth coursed through him. "She is a good woman, kind and smart. You would like her. But I am bound for the reunion with my wife."

"That does not mean your Bethany will not be pleased to see you. I shall get you to her." Quarante-neuf dragged him through another drift, then they began the long, slow trek up a half-carved hill. They cut toward the lake halfway up and around into the forest, then started working down again.

Owen began to shiver. He tucked his hands up under his armpits, seeking some warmth, and feeling the lump that was Agaskan's doll. I have more friends to see when I am safe.

Already his nose and ears had begun to burn. He'd lost feeling in his cheeks for the most part. The wind whipping through the trees lost some of its intensity, but dumped snow from high branches that drifted down to coat his hair, melt, and freeze eyelashes together.

They crested the hill and Owen sagged against a tree. "Just a moment's rest."

"Be quiet, Captain." Quarante-neuf shucked his pack and leaped to the right. Snow half-blinded Owen, but could not hide three forms looming from within the woods. Quarante-neuf pounced upon one and bones cracked. He lunged at another and vanished into the storm.

A pasmorte appeared at Owen's side, reaching for him with boney fingers. The Norillian lurched forward. A branch lashed him across the face. He twisted, his knees buckled. He went down and began sliding across the frozen snow on the hill's windswept face.

Owen could do nothing to slow himself. Snow sprayed into his face, then he barked a shin against a sapling. He spun and slammed his shoulder into another tree. Twisting forward and back, spinning helplessly, he caromed from one tree to another and finally, battered and aching, slid into a deep drift at the hill's base.

He huddled there, his hands drawn in. His body ached from the collisions, but he forced that away. He listened, waiting for sounds of an enemy's approach. He slipped one of the cloak-clasp nails into his right hand. Crush the skull with a shackle or stab it with this nail. That has to work.

The snow and howling wing mocked him. He couldn't have heard a cavalry charge above the wind. Anyone coming downhill for him would have the wind carrying away the sound of their approach. But if he moved he would give himself away. He shivered, despair seeping into him.

A hand grabbed his ankle.

He kicked at it, but it held tightly. "Captain Strake, I have found you."

"Quarante-neuf?"

The pasmorte dragged him from the drift and rolled him over. "Are you hurt?"

"Banged and bruised. Ready to go on." He looked to the north. "There has to be a canoe here. There must be."

Quarante-neuf smiled. "There is, my friend. We will find them closer to the lake."

Owen looked up at him. "You sound happy."

The pasmorte 's gaze drew distant. "Happier, I think. I am free. Destroying the others I did because I wanted to, not because I was compelled to."

"Good, my friend." Owen nodded, fighting against dread. How long will you remain free? Owen could not forget the first pasmorte they had found, all curled up and chewed, the journal showing evidence of deterioration. Quarante-neuf might be free, but there would come a point where the magick would run out.

"Tell me you have some vivalius."

"I chose not to steal any."

"What? The Prince could re-create it from a sample. He could keep you alive."

"Not possible, my friend, for I am dead." Quarante-neuf helped him over a fallen log. "I shall not fail you. But I would not have anyone else know what I know. The emptiness. Memories that hover just beyond remembering. I feel as if I am waiting, always waiting, but for what I do not know."

Owen grabbed him by the shoulder. "But…"

"I will return you to your Prince and your Bethany." The pasmorte smiled. "Then I shall return to the grave in peace."