Michael Stackpole - At the Queen_s command

"Agreed, but your trip can wait. I will need you, and the information we compile will make his sacrifice worth it."

The next day Vlad interviewed each man separately. He teased out extra details about pasmortes, which he compiled in a notebook. The idea that they could be killed by crushing the skull or shooting them in the head suggested du Malphias was stimulating something in the brain to animate the creatures. He carefully chose that word so as to avoid thinking of them as alive.

He'd torn through his library and found an interesting collection of treatises by a Tharyngian surgeon who had traveled with the army during the Tharyngo-Alandaluce War two decades earlier. He described, in clinical detail, the nature of head wounds in a variety of patients and the symptoms his patients exhibited. He coupled this with highly detailed descriptions of brain dissections where he purported to identify the structures that governed certain functions.

One, which lay lodged deep in the brain, above the stem, but not in the higher brain, he identified as the Gland of Miracles. He indicated that it, deeply set as it was, was the portion of the brain which enabled one to access magick. He included some tables that purported to show that magick users had larger Glands of Miracles than others, but his statistical sample had been ridiculously small. He so believed his thesis, however, that he had openly advocated inserting a needle through the ears of criminals to destroy that gland, assuring readers it could be done with minimal impairment of other functions.

Vlad's study led him to divide pasmortes into two classes. One were low-functioning creatures who were converted after an extended postmortem period. Their outer brain had decayed to the point where they were not capable of much more than following orders. If the Gland of Miracles, set deep inside, was one of the last portions of the brain to decay, it would allow for this sort of pasmorte.

The other pasmortes clearly had been brought back before much, if any, decay had set in. The Prince caught himself thinking about their being alive and not just reanimated. The fact was that very few people died instantly. Death was a process that look a long time, and ample were cases of people who had been believed dead and had later awoken to find themselves in a casket or being lowered into a grave.

What if du Malphias did not reanimate these people, but brought them back from the very brink of death? Some impairment consistent with their injuries made sense. The Laureate could have mistaken that for symptoms of brain damage, hence his belief they were actually dead. It could be that they were returned to life through magick healing, which was not unknown, but was rare and never before conducted so thoroughly.

But that can't be true. While Ilsavont's palsy was consistent with spinal cord injury, none of the three explorers had mentioned his being in pain or bleeding from the wound. That, coupled with the low-functioning pasmortes moving sluggishly in the cold, suggested a depressed metabolism. The things really were just reanimated corpses.

Or, at least, Ilsavont was.

A savage storm blowing in from the east prevented Nathaniel from heading into Temperance. Vlad did not envy his having to deliver the news and resolved to go with him to visit the Frosts. Given the nature of that visit, neither was anxious for the storm to end.

The storm did require the boiler to be fired up around the clock and Make-peace volunteered to help man it. "Well, now, I done some praying and thinking. Seems if Mugwump wanted to make a meal of me, I'd long since be et. I reckon God has plans for him and me, so this is God's work I'll be doing."

Mugwump, for his part, remained silent on matters of theology, but took to Makepeace's presence easily. He never splashed him and always looked up when the man came to relieve the Prince. Baker reported that Mugwump seemed sulky when Makepeace left and, as nearly as Vlad could figure out, he was hoping the big man would be bringing him another pasmorte as a snack.

Exactly why Mugwump had gone after the reanimated corpse remained a mystery. None of the Prince's books explained that behavior. Mugwump had resumed his normal diet and ate with his usual enthusiasm.

Three days after the storm had begun to blow, it broke. As the stablehands were hitching a team to the Prince's coach, a lone rider, his horse steaming, galloped into the yard. He leaped from the saddle, tossing Nathaniel his reins, and dropped to a knee. "Forgive me, Highness. I've just come from Temperance."

Vlad flicked a finger. "Up, please. You're Caleb Frost."

"I am, Highness." Caleb caught his breath. "Please, sir, I have a message. It's Captain Strake, sir."

The Prince nodded. "We know."

Caleb blinked in surprise. "You do?"

"Mr. Woods brought the news. Terrible thing. Tragedy." The Prince shook his head. "We were just heading into Temperance to let your family know he's dead."

"No, sir, that's not it." Caleb laughed aloud. "Captain Strake. He's come back to us. He's alive!"

Otherwhen

The Winding Path

O ne step onto the winding path and the world changed. The wind's whisper became the unceasing crash of breaking glass. With every footfall the powdery snow hissed and popped as if it were burning coals. The sky, where it peeked through between trees, became a luminous grey the likes of which Owen had only seen once before, on the voyage to Mystria. Sailors had pointed at the horizon, paled, and prayed.

Left arm tucked tightly against the hole in his side, he draped his right arm over Quarante-neuf's left shoulder. The pasmorte supported him with an arm across his back. Owen remembered to close his left eye. "Only use your right eye."

The pasmorte' s voice came listlessly. "It doesn't matter. Their magick does not affect me."

Behind him came shouting and two more shots. One hit Quarante-neuf in the lower back. He grunted. He twisted, putting his body between the Tharyngian soldiers and Owen. Owen peeked past and continued sidling along the winding path.

The Tharyngians spread out, their faces serious. An officer snapped orders. The two men who had shot reloaded their muskets with quick and efficient motions. But as they came to reinsert their ramrods beneath their barrels they slowed. Their intensity slackened, their ferocity melted into wonder. Their hands opened and guns fell forgotten.

Owen dared not open his left eye for fear of being seduced by whatever the Ryngians saw. Small creatures with spindly limbs, woven from branches and decorated with moss and mushrooms, played coy games of hide and seek. They peered from behind trees, the light melody of giggles playing through the air. Men laughed and darted forward, stumbling. They emerged from the snow, faces covered, laughing all the more in that tone men reserve for acknowledging their foolishness before women they desire.

Military discipline vanished. The officer bowed, sweeping off his hat, then straightening. He offered a gloved hand to a gnarled dryad. He took the creature into his arms as he might a Duchess at some grand Feris gala. They began to dance-he, surprisingly well for wearing snowshoes. His men scattered, chasing other phantom lovers further into the woods.

"We have to get away from them." Owen turned back south, then stopped.

Another of the creatures had emerged. Whereas the others had been made of sticks, this one had stout saplings for limbs and the bole of a tree for a body. Where branches might have topped it, lightning-blasted wooden spikes formed a crown. The creature sat there, knees drawn up, arms wide, eyeless and yet clearly watching them.

Words formed in low murmurs, seeming to vibrate up through the ground. "You know the dangers, yet you come. You do not seem stupid."