Fortress of Mist

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Thomas sucked in a breath.

  Each brand showed the strange symbol.

  “Who … who …”

  “Who did this?” the Earl of York finished for Thomas.

  Thomas nodded. He fought the urge to glance at the earl’s hand to confirm what he didn’t want to believe. The symbol that matched the earl’s ring. A symbol that had been burned into the grass between two white bulls’ heads, adding to the mysteriousness of bulls’ hooves arranged in a circle. The symbol of conspiracy.

  “It is impossible to tell who did this to these men,” the Earl of York answered his own question. “Impossible to understand why they have been left for us to find.”

  “Impossible?” Thomas could barely concentrate. “Already the forces of darkness gather …”

  “Yes. Impossible. Their tongues have been removed.” The earl shook his head sadly. “Poor men. And of course they cannot write. We shall feed them, rest them, and let them return to their homes.”

  Could the Earl of York be this fine an actor to stand in front of these tortured men and pretend he had no part of the symbol? Or was his ring simply a bizarre coincidence?

  The earl wiped his face clean of sweat.

  His ring. Gone.

  A tiny band of white marked where the earl had worn it.

  Thomas shook off the feeling of being utterly alone.

  Surprisingly, Frederick—Frederick the Fat, as Thomas silently called him—proved to be a gracious loser.

  “This snot-nose has the teeth of a dragon,” he toasted at the council of war that evening.

  “Hear, hear,” the others responded.

  Again, the light of countless campfires spread like flashing diamonds through the valley. Still four days away from the lowland plains and any chance of battle, the army had not dug in behind palisades, and tents were still pitched far enough apart so that neighbors did not have to stumble over neighbors as they searched for firewood or water.

  Thomas accepted the compliment with equal graciousness. “As you rightly guessed,” he said to Frederick, “the power lies within the bows, not the archers.”

  “Still,” Frederick countered, “the Earl of York has again proven his wisdom. I erred to judge you on age or experience.”

  Thomas shrugged. Not necessarily from modesty, but rather because the idea for the ingenious modification of the bows had simply been taken straight from his hidden library.

  As described within one of his ancient books, running the length of the inside of each bow, Thomas had added a strip of wide, thin bronze, giving more strength than the firmest wood. His biggest difficulty had been finding a drawstring that would not snap under the strain of such a powerful bow.

  “But such archery will prove little in this battle.” An earl sitting beside Frederick interrupted Thomas in his thoughts. “You have only twenty bows with such a capacity for distance.”

  Thomas laughed. “Do the Scots know that? They will only understand arrows suddenly reaching them from an unheard-of distance long beyond their own range. Even if they knew our shortage of these bows, each man on the opposing line still realizes it only takes one arrow to pierce his heart. Surely there is benefit in that.”

  “Yes.” Another earl sipped his broth, then continued in support of Thomas. “The man we have dubbed Sir Snot-Nose …”

  General laughter. Thomas knew immediately it was a name of affection and honor. He smiled in return.

  “Sir Snot-Nose earlier spoke of battle tactics that interest me keenly. I see clearly that even a few of these bows can affect warfare.”

  The Earl of York strode to the campfire as that statement ended.

  All rose in respect.

  “You do well, Sir Steven, to make mention of the tactics of war,” the Earl of York said grimly in response. “I have just received word from our scouts. It isn’t enough to be plagued by the evils of slain white bulls and tongueless men. The Scots’ army numbers over four thousand strong.”

  Silence deepened as each man realized the implications of that news. They numbered barely three thousand. Man against man. Beast against beast. And outnumbered by a thousand. They would be fortunate to survive.

  The Earl of York, as was his due, spoke first to break the silence. “Perhaps our warrior, Thomas of Magnus, has a suggestion.”

  The implied honor nearly staggered Thomas. To receive a request for council among these men … yet still he wondered if the Earl of York was friend or foe. And if a foe, why would he give any honor to Thomas?

  “Thank you,” Thomas replied, more to gain time and calmness than from gratitude. To throw away this chance…

  Thomas thought hard. These men understand force and force alone. This much I have learned.

  Another thought flashed through his mind, a story of war told him by Sarah, a story from one of the books of ancient knowledge.

  He hid a grin in the darkness. Each man at the campfire waited in silence, each pair of eyes studied him.

  Finally, Thomas spoke.

  “We can defeat the Scots,” he said. “First, we must convince them we are cowards.”

  Katherine’s place of encampment was set apart from the others, for many feared the knowledge that an herbalist had about plants and animals. Indeed, any herbalist had to be careful that rumors about witchcraft did not begin.

  She was alone, then, when a shadow crossed over her as she crouched to stir the coals of an almost-dead fire with a sharpened branch, green and cut recently from a sapling.

  She had known Thomas was approaching, but also knew that an old woman would not have the keen hearing and sharp vision she possessed, so she acted ignorant of his presence, even as he stood above her.

  “I have questions for you,” he said.

  She pretended she could not hear him. Not only was that in character for an old woman, but it gave her time to compose herself for when she would finally rise and look upon his face.

  Although she knew that her filthy face and the unruly long and gray hair of the wig gave her the appearance of a hag, with Thomas she wasn’t as confident of her disguise as she was when mingling with the peasants and soldiers of the camp.

  Thomas was intelligent, an observer, and a man of questions. That made it dangerous enough to be near him. She was also forced to admit to herself that she could not fight her own emotional reaction to him, but could only hope to conceal it.

  “I said,” Thomas repeated, but louder, “I have questions for you.”

  “Eh?” Katherine made an awkward turn of her head, careful to keep the gray hair across her face.

  “M’lord!” she croaked. She pretended to almost fall as she rose, making it look as though her joints ached and all movement was painful.

  She began to bow in respect.

  “Please,” he said, “find a place to sit.”

  She moved to a fallen tree and eased herself onto a place between branches that had been removed to feed fires.

  “M’lord,” she repeated. She fought the temptation to look directly into his face, knowing that it would only lead to thoughts of what it might be like to caress it with her fingers. The night before, when she had been sent as a messenger to get him from the tent for the old man, she had wanted to hold him close and feel his strong arms around her shoulders.

  “Something about the way you move,” he said, “the cadence of your voice …”

  Had he guessed so soon who she was beneath this disguise?

  “I am the herbalist you ordered to join your army on this march,” she said in the quietest voice possible. “If you have a request of me, I will do my best to oblige. But please don’t confuse me with riddles.”

  He stared for a few moments, then shook his head, more at himself than at her.

  “I’m told that, of anyone,” he said, “you might have answers for me about the sacrifice of the white bulls.”

  Katherine squeaked with pretended fright, as any peasant would when confronted with an evil superstition.

  “None, m
’lord. None!”

  She made a movement to push away from him and rise again, but he placed a hand on her shoulders. It would be terrifying if he saw through her disguise. And yet she hoped he would.

  “Please,” he said. “I have no place to turn but to you. And your fright convinces me that you know more than you want to reveal.”

  There was a possibility—all too good—that Thomas had long since seen through her disguise. Perhaps he’d known even when he approached her and Hawkwood in the market to inquire about henbane and mandrake and poppy.

  Yes, if Thomas had already become one of the Druids, it would serve them to have Thomas pretend ignorance. Then, if Katherine and Hawkwood accepted him into their ranks, he could spy for the Druids.

  If so, she could play his game. Cautiously. She would act as if Thomas truly was searching for answers, but make no commitment to expose who she was. The stakes were too great to place trust in Thomas.

  “If I speak, I will die,” Katherine said, hugging herself and shivering. “The very trees have ears, and they will know what I have revealed and punish me for it.”

  “Trees do not have ears,” he said. “This conversation is only between you and me. And already you have revealed that there is danger, and that someone is part of it. When you say ‘they,’ who do you mean?”

  “No! You trick me with words!”

  “I only listen closely.”

  “I have nothing more to say.” To be true to her role, this reluctance was required.

  He smiled sadly. “Then I go forth, telling everyone in earshot about the old woman herbalist who revealed all the secrets about the strange symbol. That will get back to them soon enough, and then, if what you fear is true, you most surely will be dead. So choose. Safely tell me what you know, or remain silent and condemn yourself.”

  To properly play her role, there was only one answer for Katherine to give.

  “Go then,” she said. “Tell the world I’ve spilled all that I know. Go then, and pass a death sentence on an old woman. For I will tell you nothing. Either way, you will not gain answers from me.”

  “You have until three nights from now to change your mind,” Thomas said. “If not, you shall be arrested and thrown into my prison until you speak.”

  On his horse, Thomas stayed alongside his army as the mass of soldiers marched forward, creaky and bulky, but now with a sense of urgency. The enemy waited three days ahead.

  Repeatedly during the day, the Earl of York wheeled his horse beside Thomas and relayed new battle information or confirmed old. It was a clear sign to the other earls that Thomas was fully part of the council of war. Yet Thomas wondered. Did the Earl of York have other reasons for pretending friendliness?

  Thomas also noticed little laughter and singing in the marching column. No one had forgotten the grisly sights of the previous day.

  “Druids,” the old man had said. “Beware those barbarians from the isle.”

  The ones of the strange symbol and the terrifying acts of brutality!

  As Thomas swayed to the gentle walk of his horse, he decided there was a way to find out more about Druids, even if the old man of mystery never appeared again.

  First, however, there was the formal council of war as camp was made that evening.

  The Earl of York wasted no time once all were gathered. “After tonight, there are only two nights before battle. Each of you have reduced by a third the fires in your camps?” he asked.

  In turn, each lesser earl nodded, including Thomas.

  “Good, good,” the Earl of York said. “Already their spies are in the hills. Observing. Waiting.”

  “You know this to be true?” Frederick asked with slight surprise.

  The Earl of York snorted. “Our own spies have been reporting for days now. Only a fool would expect the enemy not to do the same.”

  “Their fires,” Thomas said, “what word?”

  “The valleys they choose for camp are filled as if by daylight.”

  Silence as each contemplated the odds of death against such an army.

  The Earl of York did not permit the mood to lengthen. He continued his questions in the tone that made them sound like orders. “All of you have brave volunteers ready to desert our army?”

  Each again nodded.

  “Tomorrow, then,” the Earl of York said, “is the day. Let half of them melt away into the forest. The rest on the following day.”

  He paused. “Slumber in peace, gentlemen. Dream only of victory.”

  While all began to leave, the earl moved forward and discreetly tugged on Thomas’s sleeve.

  “If this battle plan works, friend, your reward will be countless. If not”—the earl smiled the smile of a fighter who has won and lost many times—“it shall be man against man, beast against beast. What say you to that?”

  “Then I shall fight bravely, m’lord.”

  “No, Thomas. What say you to a reward? Let us prepare ourselves for the best. Ask now. What is your wish?”

  Thomas thought of the ring. The symbol. And Druids.

  Was the Earl of York part of the conspiracy to reconquer Magnus? If so, would he still honor a promise made?

  “Reward?” Thomas repeated quietly. “I would wish simply that you spoke truth to a simple question.”

  The earl’s jaw dropped. He recovered quickly. “You have my word of honor.” Then he dryly added, “My friend, in fairy tales, most men ask for the daughter’s hand.”

  Thomas snorted at the unexpected reply. During that moment, he felt at ease with the older man. “I would fear, m’lord, that the daughter might resemble too closely her father.”

  The earl slapped his belly and roared laughter. “Thomas!” he cried. “You are a man among men. I see a destiny for the likes of you.”

  Surely, Thomas told himself, this man could not be one of them.

  Thomas cooked his own chicken over a fire to ensure his food would not be poisoned. He’d shared a portion of it with his guards, and taken the remainder with him as he walked to another vantage point.

  The sun warmed his shoulders, and Thomas lifted the roasted chicken to his mouth. A rustle of leaves drew Thomas’s attention and he half-turned at the sound, just in time to see a cudgel swinging at his head.

  He ducked, and the cudgel swooshed over him and cracked into the trunk of a nearby tree.

  But there were two attackers, and as Thomas reached for the hilt of his sword, the second was more accurate, and a jarring blow from the other cudgel numbed his arm.

  The first man dove at Thomas. He spun sideways to avoid the tackle, but that put him solidly up against a tree with no room to maneuver.

  The second man swung again, and Thomas was only able to move his head slightly before the end of the cudgel banged his skull. It knocked him to his knees in a daze.

  A third blow, across his ribs, sent him sprawling on the ground.

  “Finish him off quickly,” one of the voices grunted, “before we’re discovered.”

  “Gold,” Thomas croaked. “Take my gold.”

  “Gold?” the second voice said.

  “We’ve no time!” the first voice said. “He’s supposed to be dead.”

  “How much time does it take to pluck his gold?”

  “Here,” Thomas said, rolling slightly and reaching beneath him for a pouch. “I’ll give you all I have. Just spare me.”

  “Hah!” the second voice said. “A coward after all.”

  Thomas found his vision returning. Above him, the two men were grinning in triumph. There was nothing remarkable about their clothing, nothing to give an indication who they were or who had sent them. Just two men, easily in their twenties, with dark hair and bearded faces. Neither carried a sword. In a way, this was not surprising. Swords would have marked them as military men and forced them to wear colors that would identify which earl they served. Otherwise, they would have faced questions walking anywhere through the camp.

  “Take his gold then,” the first growled. �
�Let’s get this done.”

  Thomas pulled the pouch into his palm and untied the leather loop that kept it shut.

  As the second man reached down, Thomas flung the pouch upward, and white dust sprayed from it.

  Quicklime, used to strengthen mortar.

  In losing his sword fight to Robert, Thomas had realized that while dust could be a weapon, quicklime was much better.

  As the powder made contact with the eyes of the man above him, the moisture of his eyes turned the quicklime into a burning type of acid.

  The man screamed, clawing at his face.

  Thomas took advantage of the confusion to roll over twice, finding the hilt of his sword as he rose.

  He managed to parry the downswing of the cudgel with his sword as the first attacker moved in.

  In losing his sword fight to Robert, Thomas had also learned that there were times to push aside any impulse of mercy—that only ruthlessness would allow him to survive.

  Without hesitation, Thomas punched as hard as he could, catching the man squarely in the nose.

  The man howled, stepping backward.

  Both of them clutched their faces.

  “Kneel immediately,” Thomas gasped through his own pain, “or I’ll run you through with this steel.”

  He needed them captured, and he needed to know who sent them.

  Without a word, both dropped to their knees.

  That’s when a blow from behind caught Thomas across the skull.

  Thomas toppled forward, unconscious before hitting the ground.

  When Thomas became aware of the world again, he discovered he was blind. His hands were bound in front of him.

  His head throbbed.

  He was sitting upright, his back against what felt like a tree.

  “You are awake,” a voice whispered from nearby.

  He felt a caress against his cheek.

  “You,” he said. “From the old man!”

  “Yes,” she answered.