At the Queen_s command

And, clearly, if he had the time, du Malphias would replace the palisade wall with stone, forcing his enemies to expend more time and brimstone to bring it down.

Owen limped over to where du Malphias stood. "Do you know why they have slowed?"

The Laureate half-closed his eyes. "I have my theories."

"And you shall be testing them?"

"I may." He waved a hand toward a tattered crew dragging a large rock along. "It is their metabolism. When I first began my experiments, I chose the vampyr model-a creature that would feed on blood. Alas, they did not work well. Aside from an annoying tendency to scintillate in daylight, the vampyr created a logistical nightmare. In nature, a predator must consume forty times its own weight to sustain itself. The vampyr, then, would require a small city to make an army viable.

"The pasmortes, on the other hand, have a greatly reduced metabolism. They need to be fed very little, but it takes them a long time to process what they have consumed to repair themselves. Just keeping their muscles warm enough to function uses up most all of their energy. Thus they cannot repair themselves, so they move more slowly, have much less energy, and eventually break down."

"I see."

"Do you? What do you see, Captain Strake?" The Laureate smiled. "Is this place any less of a killing ground? Hardly. And lest you make a fearful mistake, you must remember that, as with the hardly lamented Monsieur Ilsavont, my pasmortes are capable of using muskets and cannon. Were Norisle to present an army to me here, even now, I could destroy it. And next spring, when I am reinforced with a more conventional force, your people will not be able to take this fortress."

He studied Owen's face for a moment. "You do not believe me."

"I believe this is a formidable fortress." Owen winced as he straightened up. "What I do not believe is that any fortress is unconquerable."

"Do you believe your God will smash this place? Or will He merely employ one of your generals as His agent to do so?" The Tharyngian laughed. "Ah, the shock on your face. If your God existed, would He not smite me for my insolence?"

"God moves in mysterious ways."

"Always the excuse when He fails you." Du Malphias clasped his hands at the small of his back. "This is what I find curious about you Norillians. You cling to superstition when it has clearly ceased to be of service. Tell me, Captain, were you motivated in war to do things because you feared Perdition?"

"No."

"Neither were our people. Aside from hopeful prayers before an attack, and the mournful petitions of the mortally wounded, God could easily be removed from warfare. For every man who claims he survived by a miracle, I can show you hundreds for whom a miracle failed to materialize. Shot and shell seem curiously indiscriminate when it comes to whom they kill."

"Perhaps God has a greater purpose which we cannot fathom."

"Another excuse. I would have thought better of you, Captain. You mouth platitudes which, I am certain, you do not believe." Du Malphias smiled cruelly. "So, I propose a test."

Owen's flesh puckered. "I am not a theologian."

"Nor am I, so we are well matched. You see that post over there?"

Forty yards uphill a post had been sunk into the ground. "Yes."

"Run to it. If your God speeds you before two of my pasmortes catch you, you are free to go. I swear this by your God." The Tharyngian shrugged. "If you fail, that is the end of you and this insipid notion of a God."

Du Malphias almost looks bored. "You can't be serious."

"But I am." Du Malphias yawned against the back of his hand, then nodded at a pair of pasmortes hauling on a stone. "You and you, kill him."

Two of the pastorates dropped their rope and began to shuffle toward Owen. One fell forward onto all fours and began to lope. Their jaws hung open, then snapped shut with solid clicks.

Fear jolted Owen. He turned to run. Pain ripped up the back of his legs. He cried out, slipping, dropping to a knee. He scrambled to get up again, more pain drilling into him.

Du Malphias laughed.

I will not give him the satisfaction! Owen heaved himself up and clawed at the ground. No giving up. No losing!

On came the pasmortes. As sluggish as they had been hauling on the rope, they picked up speed. One had an eye hanging by the stalk, bouncing off a cheek that was mostly bone. What was left of the other's tongue waggled out of its mouth.

Owen twisted around to keep an eye on them. He shuffled sideways up the hill. Pain continued with each step, but if he locked his knees, it didn't hurt as much. Teetering and tottering, he hopped along sideways. He dug at the ground with his hands, dirt impacting under his nails. One foot slipped. He almost fell, but he kept going. Pushing off with the other foot, he whipped his body around, dragging the recalcitrant leg.

Twenty yards. Ten. Owen kept on, gaining ground with his arms more than legs. The sharpened iron nails dug into his forearms. He ignored that pain and kept scrambling uphill. I can make it.