At the Queen_s command

Nathaniel looked at Kamiskwa, then back. "Caught him just above his paunch. Don't recall too much blood."

"And there was no sign of what had killed the one that possessed the journal, correct?"

Kamiskwa shook his head. "It looked as if he just lay down and died."

"These, gentlemen, are the things we need to know. We need to know how to kill them. Yes, you burned Ilsavont's head. This is good. But we do not know if the shot just rendered him unconscious and if he would have revived, or if your shot put him down."

The hunter smiled. "Onliest way to find this all out, Highness. You need you some specimens."

"Eventually, yes; and you'll have that job, Nathaniel. What I need first is your knowledge. I will go through these journals and the maps. I will need you to verify the maps, then I shall build a miniature." Vlad remembered the idea he'd just scratched into his journal. "Yes, I shall also need you to test something else. Perhaps not tomorrow, but soon, very soon."

"We will do that, Highness, but you'll be having to work with Kamiskwa tomorrow. And I'll need the lend of a horse."

"For?"

Nathaniel glanced down at a bone-strewn plate. "I reckon someone needs to ride into Temperance and tell the Frosts what happened. Since I know the blame will be settling on me, I might as well deliver the news."

Vlad slowly nodded. "Yes, of course. I should have thought of them first. I shall write a note. If you would deliver it for me, I should be most grateful."

"As you wish, Highness."

The Prince himself showed his guests to their quarters. He gave them rooms facing south with doors that opened onto a balcony. From previous experience he expected they would choose to sleep out there under the stars rather than in the beds.

He returned to his laboratory and began his study of the maps. Owen Strake had done a wonderful job, indicating heights and slopes as best possible, even sketching in little men to act as a scale. The Prince meticulously measured and transferred information from the journals to a larger sheet. With every wall and obstacle he increased the number of men that would be required to reduce the fort. He also increased his estimates of casualties.

At the end he made the final calculations and his stomach soured. So many dead, and that is just if we are truly facing what I see here.

He shook his head.

With du Malphias in charge, hidden horrors awaited. No man laying siege to that fortress would escape unharmed.

Chapter Thirty-Two

August 15, 1763

Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia

O wen ducked his head, shying from sunlight hitting him in the face. He wavered for a moment, taking enough weight on his right leg that he didn't topple over. He inched his left crutch forward, then the left foot, becoming steady again. His arms trembled. The crutches dug deep into his armpits, but he refused to fall or turn back.

But I would not be allowed to fall. Quarante-neuf hovered behind him, ready to catch him. Du Malphias had tasked the pasmorte to see to his every need. To the best of Owen's knowledge the creature never slumbered and, at least while he was awake, had never been far away. And whenever Owen had awakened from fever-dreams, Quarante-neuf had been there with cool compresses and gentle words.

The thin blouse Owen had been given did nothing to cushion the crutches. Du Malphias dictated he wear the loincloth he'd received from the Altashee, less as an honor, then it made inspecting the bandaged wounds much easier. The moccasins had likewise been returned to him and this was the first time he had worn them.

The gunshot to his right thigh had not opened so grievous a wound as the musket. The ball had been smaller and it missed the bone entirely. This did not please du Malphias. The lack of symmetry between the two wounds somehow ruined his experiment. So, with Quarante-neuf holding the leg steady, the Tharyngian used his hammer and chisel to break the femur.

When Owen resumed consciousness the Tharyngian was engaged in measuring both wounds by every means possible. He would call out numbers and comments, which another one of the pasmortes scribbled down. Then, apparently satisfied, du Malphias applied five drops of his vivalius along the length of the wound, and proceeded to stitch it up. He then closed the other wound and draped the first with a leather sheet so none of the dripping Shedashee potion would splash onto it.

Each day he would return, poking, prodding, taking his measurements and making notes. Owen had complained that his right leg did not feel as the left. It felt hot, and as if something was clawing into it. Du Malphias acknowledged his complaints with a nod, added an additional drop of vivalius, but his expression when he examined the wound from that point forward belied the confident noises he made.