Fortress of Mist

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “It is not your decision or mine.”

  “Interesting,” Geoffrey said. She felt as if he were a cat and she an injured mouse in his paws. “I thought that once you were spurned, you would want to see him dead.”

  “We have been taught, have we not, to set our emotions aside for the greater good of our cause?”

  The answer was deflective, of course, and she saw by the widening of his smug grin that Geoffrey understood.

  “After all,” she continued, “when I told my father I would hang myself if he gave you my hand in secret marriage, you set aside your own humiliation and continued to serve him.”

  Geoffrey’s grin became savage, and for a moment, she wondered if he would leap forward. Truth be told, she hoped for it. She never met with him unless she had a dagger ready and hidden in her sleeve, tipped with poison. If she killed Geoffrey here and now to protect herself, the others of the symbol would understand.

  With a visible effort, Geoffrey calmed himself. “Yes,” he said. “We both must serve.” Then came his turn to lash out. “A shame I needed to nearly kill you for you to learn to reveal nothing about us to the world.”

  Yes, Isabelle had been on the verge of telling Thomas too much. She didn’t know then what she knew now. Of the listening posts hidden in the walls. Of the vastness of the power belonging to those she now served. Of the boundless rewards that came with that power.

  “Such a man of sacrifice too,” she countered. “Providing the lesson and paying the price for it in prison.”

  They both knew that Geoffrey could escape at any time. All he had to do was leave the same way that Isabelle would leave with the chicken bones and goblet she had delivered. Those of the symbol knew all the secret passages in the castle. But their enemies knew the passages too.

  “When the kingdom is returned to us,” he snarled, “you will regret your impertinence. And now that you understand who we are—who I am—I doubt you will choose a rope over my bed next time.”

  Isabelle fought an outward show of revulsion. “Thomas will choose us. He will choose me.” And in so choosing, she would have Thomas for a husband, not this repulsive beast in front of her.

  Geoffrey snorted. “This is a man still searching his kingdom for that hideous, worthless freak.”

  They both knew that Geoffrey meant a girl who had been his servant, whose face had been destroyed by a fire. Katherine. The one, they suspected, who had helped Thomas in his most crucial moment of danger to conquer Magnus.

  Isabelle shrugged. “She is of no consequence.” Yet her emotions roiled within her. Thomas could have Isabelle at any time, yet the one he sought was a mere beggar with a face too gruesome to be seen. It was because of loyalty, of course, not desire. But still, she hated that another woman should claim any part of Thomas’s attention.

  “This is a man who lets a sense of justice rule him,” Geoffrey said. “Men such as this are dangerous. And we have learned the only way to stop them is to destroy them.”

  Thrust! Thrust! Slash sideways to parry the counterthrust! Thrust again!

  A small group of hardened soldiers watched impassively as Thomas weakened slowly in defense against their captain.

  Ignore the dull ache of fatigue that tempts you to lower your sword hand, Thomas commanded himself. Advance! Retreat! Quickly thrust! Now parry!

  Above Thomas, gray clouds of a cold June day. Around him, a large area of worn grass, and beyond the dirt and grass, the castle keep and village buildings within the walls of Magnus.

  Right foot forward with right hand. Concentrate. Blink the sweat from your eyes. And watch his sword hand!

  He can sense you weakening. He pushes harder. You cannot fight much longer. Formulate a plan!

  To his right, Thomas’s eye caught a sprightly boy, no older than twelve, struggling to push through the wall of soldiers blocking him from Thomas. “Thomas!” the boy cried. One burly soldier clamped a massive hand around the boy’s arm and held him back.

  Thomas began to gasp for air in great ragged gulps. His sword drooped. His quick steps blurred in precision.

  The captain, a full hand taller than Thomas, grinned.

  The death thrust comes soon! Lower your guard now!

  Thomas flailed tiredly, hoping to appear as though he had relaxed a moment too long.

  His opponent’s grin stretched wider, and brought his sword high to end the fight.

  Now!

  Thomas focused all his remaining energy on swinging his sword beneath that briefly unguarded upstroke. The impact of sword on ribs jarred his arm to the elbow. He danced back, expecting victory.

  Instead, the captain roared with rage as he fell backward onto the dirt and scrabbled to his feet.

  “That will cost you dearly!”

  Among the soldiers, a few faces showed amusement. The boy among them kicked his captor in the shins but could not free himself.

  The captain rushed forward and waved his sword.

  Intent on saving what energy he could, Thomas merely held his own sword carefully in front to guard.

  “Fool!” the captain shouted, still waving the sword in his right hand as distraction while his left hand flew upward. At the top of that arc, the captain released a fistful of loose dirt into the eyes and mouth of his younger opponent.

  Thomas caught most of the dirt as he sucked in a lungful of air. The rest blinded him with pain. A choking retch brought him to his knees, and he felt but did not see the captain’s sword flash downward. Once across the side of the ribs. Then a symbolic point thrust in the center of his chest.

  Over.

  The soldiers hooted and clapped before dispersing to their daily duties. Dirt wiped from his eyes, Thomas recognized his thieving traveling companion, Tiny John, who broke loose as his captor joined the applause.

  “That dirt was an unfair thing for him to do, it was!” Tiny John whispered. “You want me to snatch his purse to teach him a lesson?”

  In reply, Thomas coughed twice more, then staggered to his feet.

  “Wooden swords and horsehide vests aside, my lord,” the captain said with a smirk as he approached Thomas, “I expect you’ll be taking a few bruises to your bed tonight.”

  Thomas spit dirt from his mouth. “I expect you’ll have one yourself, Robert. It was no light blow I dealt to your ribs. By our rules, the fight should have been ended.” He wiped his face and left a great smudge of sweat-oiled dirt.

  “Rightfully so. By our rules, you were the winner,” Robert of Uleran replied. He was a man nearly into his fourth decade of living, solid and tough. His scarred and broken face was a testimony to the way of battle that he had spent much of his life. When it was set in anger, children would run from that face, screaming. But when he smiled, as he did now, no child could ever be frightened. “I continued, however, for two reasons.”

  Thomas spit more dirt from his mouth and waited. He felt Tiny John tugging at his sleeve and fidgeting as though he stood on hot coals. He clamped a hand onto the young man’s shoulder, hoping to quell Tiny John’s wild energy and maintain his own much-needed air of authority.

  “One, I was angry you had fooled me. A teacher should never misjudge his student so badly. It’s been a month, and you’ve learned far quicker than most. I should have expected that trick of pretending to weaken from you.”

  “Anger has never been part of the rules,” Thomas observed. Tiny John whined his name, but Thomas held him and paid him no mind.

  “Neither has mercy. And do not deny it.” Robert’s eyes flashed beneath thick, dark eyebrows. “When you landed that first blow, you should have moved in to finish me. Instead, you paused. That hesitation may someday cost you your life.”

  Robert drew his cloak aside and began to unbind the thick, horse-leather padding around his upper body. “I will not impart to you all I know about fighting, only to have you lose to a lesser man with more cruelty. The dirt in your face, I hope, has proved to be a great lesson.”

  “Thomas!” Tiny John blurted.
Thomas good-naturedly placed a hand over Tiny John’s mouth. He intended to use this moment to make his announcement.

  “Robert,” he said, “it no longer pleases me that you are captain of all these soldiers. Pick your replacement.”

  The older man’s jaw tightened. “My lord, have I offended you?”

  “Pick your replacement,” Thomas demanded. As lord of Magnus, he could not allow anyone to question his direct orders.

  “Yes, my lord,” Robert growled through gritted teeth. He inhaled sharply and cleared his throat. “I choose David of Fenway, my lord,” Robert said. “He shows great ability and the men respect him.”

  Robert of Uleran then turned, even though he had not completed the removal of his fighting gear. His obvious anger goaded him to leave quickly.

  “Please remove your possessions from the soldiers’ quarters,” Thomas said.

  Robert’s face reddened with rage at further insult. His narrow scar lines flushed with blood, and he wheeled quickly and stared at Thomas.

  Neither flinched.

  Finally Robert’s voice rumbled, “Yes, my lord.”

  Thomas drew his own breath to speak but was interrupted by the drumming of horse’s hooves.

  A great white beast rounded the buildings opposite the exercise area. On it, a man in a flowing purple cape. Sword sheathed in scabbard. No travel bags attached to the saddle.

  Thomas removed his hand from Tiny John’s face and placed it on Robert’s shoulder to hold his presence.

  “The Earl of York,” Tiny John blurted. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. The most powerful man in the land! He asked permission at the gates to enter alone and unguarded. Twenty of his men remain outside.”

  Thomas and Robert exchanged glances.

  “Wait,” Thomas told Robert. “First we go to the ramparts.”

  Robert nodded, his lips tight. Thomas felt a surge of gratitude at the man’s loyalty. Then he turned his attention to the unexpected arrival of the man in the flowing purple cape preparing to dismount from the great white horse.

  The Earl of York.

  Though tucked in the remotest valley of the North York moors, Magnus still lay within jurisdiction of the Earl of York. Thomas had always known it was only a matter of time until he faced his next challenge as new lord of Magnus. Would the earl accept a new pact of loyalty? Or could he be here to declare war?

  The man moved forward. To Robert, he extended his right hand to show it bare of weapons. “Thomas of Magnus, I presume. I am the Earl of York.”

  Robert’s hand remained at his side, clearly in no mood to enjoy the mistake. “The lord of Magnus stands beside me.”

  The earl’s eyes widened briefly with surprise. He recovered quickly and extended his right hand to Thomas.

  “I come in peace,” he said. “I beg of you to receive me in equal manner.”

  “We shall extend to you the greatest possible hospitality,” Thomas answered. “And I wish for you to greet Robert of Uleran, the man I trust most within Magnus and”—Thomas paused to enjoy the announcement he had been about to make—“the newly appointed sheriff of this manor. He may be busy, however, for the rest of the afternoon, as he is moving his possessions to his new residence in the keep.”

  If the Earl of York did not understand the reason for Robert’s sudden and broad smile, he was polite enough not to ask.

  Thomas, still accompanied by Robert, led the Earl of York and his horse to the stables. There, he summoned a boy to tend to the earl’s mount.

  It took great willpower not to bombard the Earl with questions. Thomas, however, remembered advice that he had been given by the woman who had raised him: the one who speaks first shows anxiousness and, in so doing, loses ground.

  Thomas contented himself with a very ordinary observation. “The clouds promise rain,” he said as they left the shelter of the stables.

  The Earl of York looked up from his study of the nearby archery range. “I fear much more than rain.”

  Thomas waited, but the earl said nothing more until their walk brought them to the keep of Magnus.

  “A moat within the castle walls?” the earl asked.

  In front of them lay a shallow ditch. Had it only been two months since he had filled it with tar and crackling dry wood and threatened to siege the former lord and his soldiers unless they gave up without bloodshed?

  “Temporary,” Thomas commented, and volunteered no further information. He was in the process of ordering even more protective features to the already famous defenses of the castle. It did not seem prudent to give away secrets.

  The earl paused and looked upward at the keep. Four stories high with walls constructed of stone more than three feet thick, it was easily the most imposing structure within the walls of Magnus.

  Thomas, too, gazed in appreciation. From its top turrets, he often surveyed the lake that surrounded the castle walls and beyond to the high, steep hills of the moors, etched against the sky. Morning was best, before the wind began and when the endless, low carpet of heather glowed purple in the sun’s first rays. He would watch as Magnus began to stir. Shops, each with a large painted sign that showed a symbol that represented its trade, lined the main street. Then the narrow curved streets with houses so cramped together and leaning in all directions like crooked, dirty teeth.

  And of course, the small cathedral. Even at a time when he should be alert to the utmost because of the presence of the Earl of York, Thomas couldn’t help but turn his eyes and thoughts upon the steeple that rose from the depths of the village. Though as an orphan, Thomas had seen enough of the corruption and wealth of religion to learn to hate it, he smiled because of an old man within its walls. An old man Thomas had once confused for the priest, but who instead had been tasked with sweeping the stone floors there. An old man who truly believed in the God whom Thomas struggled to find, and who seemed to live in a manner that aligned with his belief. Unlike the monks who had raised Thomas as a slave rather than the innocent orphan he was.

  Thomas forced his thoughts back to the present moment. He was, after all, standing beside the Earl of York, the most powerful man for hundreds of miles in any direction.

  He glanced at the earl to see if he, too, had finished his inspection of the keep. The earl nodded.

  Thomas almost smiled at the patronizing demonstration of power. This man appears to be giving me permission to allow him entry to my hall!

  They climbed the outside steps with Robert following. Tiny John, always easily distracted, had scampered away from them into the village.

  The entrance to the keep was twenty feet from the ground, designed to make it difficult for attackers to gain entrance.

  The ground level, which could be reached by descending an inside staircase, contained the food stores and the kitchen on one side, the open hall for eating and entertainment on the other. The top three stories of the keep’s square design contained residences, with the lord’s rooms on the top. All rooms were tucked against the four outer walls, so each level was open in the center and looked down upon the hall. Beneath was the dungeon, so deep below the stone that the cries of prisoners would never reach the hall.

  Thomas always shuddered when he pictured that hole of endless night. He had spent much too long there once, almost doomed before he could even start the events that had led to him conquering Magnus. And now—the thought was always on his mind, even as he swung open the great doors of the keep to allow the Earl of York inside—the dungeon held a silent and stubborn prisoner, proving to be one of his thorniest problems as a newly conquering lord.

  Until the arrival of the earl.

  “May I leave, my lord?” Robert asked.

  “As you wish,” Thomas said. He would have appreciated the man beside him during a discussion with the earl. But the need for help might show weakness. Thomas was glad that Robert knew it too. It said much for the man’s cunning.

  Thomas gestured at two leather-padded chairs near the hearth. Before they had time to sit, a
maid appeared with two cups containing a steaming mixture of milk, sugar, and crushed barley.

  The earl raised an eyebrow. “No wine?”

  Disdain?

  Thomas remembered the instructions from long ago: never show fear, nor hesitation.

  “No wine,” Thomas confirmed. “It tends to encourage sloth.”

  The earl grinned. “There’s gentle criticism if I ever heard it. And from one so young.”

  They studied each other.

  Thomas repeated to himself: Never show fear, nor hesitation. He wanted to close his eyes briefly to silently thank Sarah, who had spent many hours coaching him on how to behave as a lord. She alone had believed he would someday rule Magnus. And now he faced his first great test. What does the earl want? What is he thinking?

  His eyes did not leave the earl’s face. Thomas saw a man already forty years old, but with a face quite different than one would expect of royalty at that age. The chin had not doubled, or tripled, with good living. No broken veins on his nose to suggest too much enjoyment of wine. No sagging circles beneath his eyes betrayed sleepless nights from poor health or a bad conscience.

  Instead, the face was broad and remarkably smooth. Neatly trimmed red-blond hair that spoke of Viking ancestry. Blue eyes that matched the sky just before dusk. Straight, strong teeth that now gleamed in a smile.

  Thomas lifted his thick clay cup in a wordless salute. The earl responded in turn and gulped the thick, sweet drink.

  Sunlight glinted from the earl’s huge gold ring. Thomas froze.

  Its symbol was identical to that on Geoffrey’s ring and Isabelle’s pendant.

  Do you treat all visitors this harshly?” the earl asked.

  “Sir! I beg of you forgiveness. Do you wish to dine immediately?”

  “It is hardly the food, or lack thereof. Surely you have questions, yet you force me to begin!”

  “Again, I beg of you forgiveness.”

  “If you want me to believe that, you have to better hide your smile.”