Fortress of Mist

by Sigmund Brouwer

  He felt coolness against his forehead. It felt like she was wiping his face with a wet cloth.

  “Drink this,” she said. “It will lessen the pain.”

  She held a cup to his lips and tilted it. He kept his own lips shut, and the liquid spilled down his chin.

  “I’m not trying to poison you,” she said. “If I wanted you dead, I had plenty of time and opportunity as I bound your hands and blindfolded you.”

  “If you had good intentions,” he retorted, “I would not be bound and blindfolded.”

  “I had to do it to protect myself,” she answered. “You were in need of help, but I can’t risk my own capture.”

  He said nothing to that. She had guessed accurately that if he could, he would not let her escape until she gave him more answers.

  “Now drink. You can trust me.”

  “I doubt that,” he grumbled. But this time, when she held the cup to his lips, he opened his mouth and drank. The liquid was bitter and he choked it down.

  “It will take a few minutes,” she said. “I have placed a knife on the ground. To your left, a few paces away. If you crawl and feel around carefully, you’ll be able to find it. Then you can cut yourself loose and remove your blindfold.”

  That would give her time to escape, he realized.

  “Don’t go. Tell me what happened!”

  “I was following you, and from a distance, I saw the attack of the first two. A third man snuck up behind you. He forced the other two away from you at swordpoint.”

  “That makes no sense,” Thomas said. He groaned. “No sense at all. Who were the men?”

  “The third,” she said, “wore the colors of the Earl of York.”

  Someone sent by the earl had attacked him? Yet another reason not to trust a man he liked and wanted to trust.

  Or perhaps his attacker from behind was merely wearing the colors of the earl as an act of treachery against the earl. Each answer that Thomas learned, it seemed, only led to more doubts and confusion.

  His head began to throb less. Indeed, something in the potion had immediately begun to soothe him. That was no comfort. He was beginning to realize that a knowledge of herbs and roots beyond what the ordinary peasant understood was a marking of those who, it seemed, treated him like a pawn in a cryptic chess game.

  “And why were you following me?” he asked.

  “Much is at stake. If you want this conversation to continue, tell me what is in your possession that has such value that you must be watched and protected.”

  He felt anger, but told himself that it was a natural result of his confusion, and that giving in to his emotions would not gain him anything but empty satisfaction.

  “Magnus,” he said. “My own family lost it to the Mewburns. And I was able to reconquer it. The Mewburns want to regain it, and the power and wealth that comes with it. For all I know, others want to gain Magnus, and you belong to them.”

  “You are not stupid,” she said. “And don’t treat me as if I am stupid enough to believe that you believe this. If all that was at stake was a mere kingdom, your immediate death would ensure those who want it are free to battle over it. If you want answers before I leave, tell me what you possess of near infinite value.”

  Thomas wondered what he should reveal. He desperately wanted answers, but to even hint at the books in his possession was to put them in danger. Unless she—and others—already knew about them.

  “Knowledge,” Thomas finally said with graveness. “To own knowledge that others don’t have is to own power. Scientific knowledge can look like magic. Other knowledge, such as that of potions of herbs and roots, gives power over life or death.”

  “You need not be so coy, Thomas. Say it plainly. Books that contain knowledge beyond anything that is already known in England are priceless. And you have those books.”

  “If that is so, it would appear that I am caught between two forces battling for those books. Speak plainly in return. Druids are on one side. And the other?”

  “Here I cannot yet speak so plainly. Yet. However, this is a battle that has raged for centuries.”

  Centuries! He wanted to ask more, but sensed from her tone she would not reveal more. Instead, he focused on a different aspect to this puzzle.

  “You acknowledge I am caught between two forces? And that the Druids do exist?”

  “Unseen to society, manipulating the course of history. Yes.”

  “And the other side, then, opposes the Druids? You are on the other side?”

  “Thomas,” she answered, “before I leave, I need to tell you that you are mistaken about the books of knowledge. We both agree that the books you possess are beyond price, literally worth kingdoms. But there is something of greater value that you possess, and until you understand that answer, you cannot become one of us.”

  “Then at least answer who you are,” he said.

  “I cannot.”

  “Then let me say this. All I want for myself is to remain lord of Magnus. I have no interest in choosing sides in some battle that you pretend is so important.”

  “You need to see beyond Magnus, Thomas. Or you will lose what is of the greatest value of all.”

  “I need no help and will remain lord of Magnus by my own wits and willpower.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Hello?” Thomas said. “Hello?”

  Either she was gone or still watching him. There was only one way to find out.

  He sighed and began crawling to his left to find the knife that would free him.

  She did not prevent him or speak out. So she had abandoned him. He hoped the knife was there.

  It was where she had promised, and he cut the bonds loose by placing the knife between his feet and sawing against it.

  He pulled off the blindfold, and although he knew it would be a useless effort, he scanned the trees and the path to look for her.

  As promised, she was gone, and, likewise, so was his pain.

  Late afternoon the next day, Thomas joined the Earl of York at the head of the army column.

  From the backs of their horses they overlooked yet another moor valley.

  “Thus far, our calculations have served us well,” the earl said. “Scouts report the Scottish army is barely a half day away. And beyond here, the moors end at the plains.”

  Sunlight poured over the western hills. Thomas nodded and shaded his eyes with one hand. He did not trust this man, yet it was important to pretend otherwise.

  “This does appear to be the perfect place to ambush an army,” Thomas said. “High, sloping hills—impossible to climb under enemy fire. Narrow entrances at both ends—easy to guard against escape. Your scouts excelled in their choice.”

  Thomas nodded again, and for a moment, both enjoyed the breeze sweeping toward them from the mouth of the valley.

  “Well, then. We have made our choice.” The Earl of York sighed. “Any army trapped within it is sure to be slaughtered.”

  He turned and called to the men behind him.

  “Send a runner back with directions. We shall camp ahead.” He lifted a hand to point. “There. In the center of the valley.”

  Then quietly, he spoke again to Thomas. “Let us pray the valley does not earn a new name in our honor,” the earl said with a shudder. “The Valley of Death.”

  Thomas shuddered with him. But for a different reason. Even after several days of travel, it still seemed too bright, the pale band of skin on the earl’s finger where he had so recently worn a ring.

  What game was the earl playing?

  A deep drumroll of thousands of hooves shook the earth, and dawn broke pale blue with the thunder of impending war.

  The screams of trumpets ordered the direction of the men and beasts that poured into both ends of the valley. High banners proudly led column after column after column of foot soldiers four abreast, every eye intent on the helpless encampment of tents and dying fires in the center of the valley.

  It immediately became obvious that
much thought had gone into the lightning-quick attack. Amid shouting and clamor, men and horses moved into rows that were hundreds wide.

  Like a giant pincer, the great Scottish army closed in on the camp.

  When it finished—barely twenty minutes later—the pincer consisted of a deep front row of pikemen. Behind them, hundreds of archers. Behind the archers, knights on horses.

  At first light with stunning swiftness, it was a surprise attack, well designed to catch the enemy at its most vulnerable—heavy with sleep.

  Finally, a great banner rose upward on a long pole. Every man in the Scottish army became silent.

  It made for an eeriness that sent shivers along the backs of even the most experienced warriors. An entire valley filled with men intent on death, yet in the still air of early morning, the only sound was the occasional stamping of an impatient horse.

  Then a strong voice broke that silence. “Surrender in the name of Robert the Bruce, king of the Scots!”

  The tents of the Earl of York’s trapped army hung limp under the weight of dew. Not one flap stirred in response. Smoke wafted from fires almost dead. A dog scurried from one garbage pit to another.

  “We seek to deal with honor!” the strong voice continued. “Discuss surrender or die in the tents that hide you!”

  Moments passed. Many of the warriors found themselves holding their breaths. Fighting might be noble and glorious, but to win without risking death was infinitely better.

  “The third blast of the trumpet will signal our charge. Unless you surrender before then, all hell will be loosed upon you!”

  The trumpet blew once.

  Then twice.

  And at the edge of the camp, a tent flap opened and a figure stepped outside and began striding toward the huge army. From a hundred yards away, the figure appeared to be a slender man, unencumbered with armor or weapons. It was Thomas, who walked without apparent fear to the voice that had summoned him.

  The geese in front of Isabelle responded to her clucks and whistles and to the long stick that she used to nudge stragglers back into the procession. It was part of her daily duty to herd the geese to whatever water was available. Today she had spied a pond in a small valley just behind the army’s main camp.

  Walking toward her was an old cobbler, his trade obvious by the shoes strung over his shoulder. Respectfully, he stepped aside, his face hidden in the shadows of his cowl.

  He startled her, however, by turning around, moving to her side, and following her toward the pond.

  “I’m not interested in shoes,” Isabelle said. “We all wait for the outcome of the battle.”

  “Neither am I interested in shoes,” the old man answered. “But for the sake of anyone watching, how about we both pretend otherwise?”

  She recognized his voice. “Master!”

  “You are forgiven for uttering that word in public,” he said mildly. “You are intelligent, and it is obvious that none can overhear our conversation. But don’t make the same mistake again.”

  His voice was calm, but the power and certainty in it gave her a chill.

  “No,” she said quietly.

  “Good, then.” He held out a woman’s boot. “Suitable?”

  “I could not know unless I gave it close inspection. And were I to do that, I risk losing a goose or two. So for the benefit of anyone watching, I will ignore you.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Intelligent. I’ll follow, then, until your geese are in the pond.”

  It wasn’t far, but far enough that Isabelle had time to wonder and fear at his presence here. She’d never seen his face fully, and even now knew he’d taken steps to alter his appearance. A wig, perhaps. Wadded grass in his mouth between teeth and cheeks to make his face fatter.

  The geese honked happily as they scattered into the water. Later, when she was ready to move them again, she would lure the leaders out onto land with grain.

  Satisfied that all were accounted for, Isabelle turned to the old cobbler and asked for a boot. As she examined it, he spoke.

  “I commend you for your initiative,” he said. “Word has reached me that assassins attacked Thomas. While they did not succeed in killing him, I understand your motive. You and I have not been in communication. You must have decided that if the cook could not poison him, you would address this danger to our cause another way. I trust you were cautious in hiring the assassins and that no one can link you to them?”

  “Mas—” Isabelle cut that word off before she could finish.

  “You learn quickly,” he said in a soothing voice.

  “Cobbler,” she began again, her heart pounding at the near error. Had she spoken the word master so soon after the earlier admonishment, punishment would have been certain. “I wish I could accept your compliment, but this is the first I have heard of the attack. You say that Thomas survived?”

  It was frightening to her, how the Master seemed to know of everything through his network of spies.

  “Your concern for him seems genuine,” the old cobbler said. “But perhaps it would serve us better if he died. What do you say about this?”

  “If you were to arrange his death,” she said, “I’m sure it could be used to our advantage. The peasants already are frightened at the other signs of our power. But …”

  “But?” Now the old cobbler’s voice was silky.

  “I had understood you wanted Thomas to join us and that I was to help persuade him. I had understood that he alone held the key to ensuring the destruction of the other side. Why would we want him dead? If he survives the battle against the Scots and we can convince him to join us, he is of far greater value alive.”

  She felt a desperation that she hoped did not show. Thoughts of Thomas filled her with warm longing that had nothing to do with the hidden battle for Magnus. She felt as though she were fighting to save his life, but could not reveal the real reason she wanted him alive.

  The old cobbler studied her. His eyes were like black glass, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

  “It was not you, then,” he said softly.

  “I … I don’t understand.”

  “In arguing to spare Thomas, you have spared your own life.”

  He took the leather boot from her hand. He reached into his cloak and came out with a vial with a glass stopper. He opened the vial carefully and tilted it until a few drops fell on the toe of the boot.

  The leather began to smoke, and within seconds, a hole appeared as a perfect circle. He capped the vial and twisted to ensure the seal was in place.

  “My guess was that one of the earls sent men to kill Thomas because they feared his growing influence with the Earl of York. But I could not be certain. When I commended you for initiative, it was only to test whether perhaps the assassins had come from you. And if so, this acid would have been the fate of your father. And you would have learned your lesson.”

  He paused. “Or perhaps you have already learned it? Never—and that means without exception—take action unless you have been commanded to do so.” The horror of the image was bad enough, but Isabelle realized the ultimate horror was in learning that her father’s fate depended on her. In essence, he was a hostage.

  Thomas could barely comprehend the sight as he walked. Filling the horizon in all directions were men and lances and armor and horses and banners and swords and shields and pikes.

  Directly ahead, the men of the opposing council of war. Among them, the man who had demanded surrender with that strong, clear voice.

  Thomas tried driving his fear away but could not. Was this his day to die?

  He could guess at the sight he presented to the men on horseback watching his approach. He had not worn the cloak bearing the colors of Magnus. Instead, he had dressed as poorly as a stable boy. Better for the enemy to think him a lowly messenger. Especially for what needed to be done.

  There were roughly a dozen gathered. They moved their horses ahead of their army, to be recognized as the men of power. Each horse was covered in color
ed blankets. Each man in light armor. They were not heavily protected fighters; they were leaders.

  Thomas forced himself ahead, step by step.

  The spokesman identified himself immediately. He had a bristling red beard and eyes of fire to match. He stared at Thomas with the fierceness of a hawk, and his rising anger became obvious.

  “The Earl of York hides in his tent like a woman and sends to us a boy?”

  “I am Thomas. Of Magnus. I bring a message from the Earl of York.”

  The quiet politeness seemed to check the Scot’s rage. He blinked once, then said, “I am Kenneth of Carlisle.”

  Thomas was close enough now that he had to crane his head upward to speak to the one with the red beard.

  Sunlight glinted from heavy battle-axes.

  “Kenneth of Carlisle,” Thomas said with the same dignity, “the Earl of York is not among the tents.”

  This time, the bearded earl spoke almost with sadness. “I am sorry to hear he is a coward.”

  “He is not, m’lord. May we speak in private?”

  “There is nothing to discuss,” Kenneth said. “Accept our terms of surrender. Or the entire camp is doomed.”

  “Sir,” Thomas persisted, hands wide and palms upward, “as you can see, I bear no arms. I can do you no harm.”

  Hesitation. Then a glint of curiosity from those fierce eyes.

  “Hold all the men,” Kenneth of Carlisle commanded, then dismounted from his horse. Despite the covering of light armor, he swung down with grace.

  Thomas stepped back several paces to allow them privacy.

  Kenneth of Carlisle advanced and towered above Thomas. “What is it you can possibly plead that needs such quiet discussion?”

  “I mean no disrespect, m’lord,” Thomas said in low tones, “but the surrender which needs discussing is yours.”

  Five heartbeats of silence.

  The huge man slowly lifted his right hand as if to strike Thomas, then lowered it.

  “I understand.” Yellow teeth gleamed from his beard as he snorted disdain. “You attempt to slay me with laughter.”

  “No,” Thomas answered. “Too many lives are at stake.”