Fortress of Mist (13 page)

“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.

T
homas 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 colored 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.”

Suddenly Kenneth of Carlisle clapped his hands down on Thomas’s shoulders and shook him fiercely. “Then play no games!” he shouted.

That surge of temper ended as quickly as it had arrived, and the shaking stopped.

Thomas took a breath. “This is no game.” He looked past Kenneth of Carlisle at the others nearby on their horses. They stared back with puzzled frowns.

“I am here to present you with a decision,” Thomas continued again to the bearded man. “One you must consider before returning to your horse.”

“I shall humor you.” Kenneth of Carlisle folded his arms and waited.

“Firstly,” Thomas said, “did you believe our army was at full strength?”

After a moment of consideration, the Scottish earl replied, “Certainly not. Our scouts brought daily reports of cowards fleeing your army. The deserters we captured all told us the same thing. Your entire army feared battle against us. We saw proof nightly. Your—”

“Campfires,” Thomas interrupted. “Each night you saw fewer and fewer campfires. Obvious evidence of an army that shrunk each day, until last night when you may have calculated we had less than a thousand men remaining.”

Kenneth of Carlisle laughed. “So few men we wondered if it would be worth our while to make this short detour for battle.”

“It was the Earl of York’s wish,” Thomas said. He risked a quick look at the tops of the hills, then hid a smile of satisfaction.

“Eh? The Earl of York’s wish?”

“Again, with much due respect, m’lord.” Thomas swept his arm wide to indicate the valley. “Did it not seem too easy? A crippled army quietly camped in a valley with no means of escape?”

Momentary doubt crossed the man’s face.

Thomas pressed on. “The deserters you caught had left our army by the Earl of York’s command. Each man had instructions to report great fear among the men left behind. We reduced the campfires to give the impression of mass desertion. While our fires are few, our men remain many.”

The news startled Kenneth of Carlisle enough for him to flinch.

“Furthermore,” Thomas said, “none of those men are here in the valley. Each tent is empty. In the dark of night, all crept away.”

Five more heartbeats of silence.

“Impossible,” blurted Kenneth of Carlisle. But the white that replaced the red of flushed skin above his beard showed that the man suddenly considered it very possible, and did not like the implications.

Thomas kept his voice calm. “By now”—Thomas resisted the urge to look and reconfirm what he already knew—“those men have reached their new positions. They block the exits at both ends of this valley and line the tops of the surrounding hills.”

“Impossible.” This time, his tone of voice was weaker.

“Impossible, m’lord? Survey the hills.”

This was the most important moment of the battle. Would the huge man be stunned at their desperate bluff?

What he and Thomas saw from the valley floor seemed awesome. Stretched across the entire line of the tops of the hills, on each side of the valley, men were stepping into sight in full battle gear. From the viewpoint below, those men were simply dark figures, made small by distance. But the line was solid in both directions and advancing downward slowly.

The Earl of York had timed it perfectly.

“Impossible,” Kenneth of Carlisle said for the third time. There was, however, no doubt in his voice. Murmuring rose from around them as others noticed the movement. Soon word had spread throughout the entire army. Men started shifting nervously.

“The Earl of York’s army will not advance farther,” Thomas promised. “Not unless they have reason.”

Thomas also knew if the Earl of York’s army moved any closer, the thinness of the advancing line would soon become obvious. The row was only two warriors deep—as many as possible had been sent away from the line to block the escapes at both ends of the valley.

“We shall give them reason,” Kenneth of Carlisle swore intensely as he drew his sword. “Many will die today!”

“And many more of yours, m’lord.”

Kenneth of Carlisle glared and with both hands buried half the blade of the sword into the ground in front of Thomas.

Thomas waited until the sword stopped quivering. “M’lord,” he said, hoping the fear would not be heard in his voice, “I requested a discussion in privacy so you and I could reconsider any such words spoken harshly in the heat of anger.”

Kenneth of Carlisle glared harder but made no further moves.

“Consider this,” Thomas said. “The entrances to the valley are so narrow that to reach one of our men, twenty of yours must fall. Neither
is it possible for your men to fight upward against the slope of these hills. Again, you would lose twenty to the Earl of York’s one.”

“Warfare here in the center of the valley will be more even,” Kenneth of Carlisle stated flatly. “That will decide the battle.”

Thomas shook his head. “The Earl of York has no intention of bringing the battle to you.”

Thomas remembered a quote from one of his ancient books, the one that had given him the idea for this battle plan:
“The skilled commander takes up a position from which he cannot be defeated … thus a victorious army wins its victories before seeking battle; an army destined for defeat fights in the hope of winning.”

“The Earl of York is a coward!” Kenneth of Carlisle blustered.

“A coward to wish victory without killing his men or yours? All your supplies are behind at your main camp. His men, however, will be well fed as they wait. In two or three days, any battle of our rested men against your hunger-weakened men will end in your slaughter.”

Kenneth of Carlisle lost any semblance of controlled conversation. He roared indistinguishable sounds of rage. And when he ran out of breath, he panted a declaration of war. “We fight to the bitter end! Now!”

He turned to wave his commanders forward.

“Wait!” The cry from Thomas stopped Kenneth of Carlisle in midstride. “One final plea!”

The Scottish earl turned back, his fiery eyes flashing hatred. “A plea for your life?”

Thomas realized again how close he was to death. And again, he fought to keep his voice steady.

“No, m’lord. A plea to prevent the needless slaughter of many men.” Thomas held out his hands. “If you will permit me to hold a shield.”

The request was so unexpected that curiosity once more replaced fierceness. Kenneth of Carlisle called for a shield from one of his men.

Thomas grasped the bottom edge and held it above his head so that the top of the shield was several feet higher than his hands.

Let them see the signal
, Thomas prayed.
For if battle is declared, the Scots will too soon discover how badly we are outnumbered
.

Moments later, a half-dozen men broke from the line on the hills.

“Behind you, m’lord.” Thomas hoped the relief he felt was not obvious. “See the archers approach.”

Kenneth of Carlisle half-turned and watched in silence.

The archers stopped three hundred yards away, too far for any features to be distinguished.

“So?” Kenneth of Carlisle said. “They hold back. More cowardice.”

“No, m’lord,” Thomas said, still holding the shield high. “They need come no closer.”

The Scottish earl snorted. “My eyes are still sharp. Those men are still a sixth of a mile away.”

Both watched as all six archers fitted arrows to their bows.

“Fools,” Kenneth of Carlisle continued in the same derisive tone. “Fools to waste their efforts as such.”

Thomas said nothing. He wanted to close his eyes but did not. If but one arrow strayed.

The archers brought their bows up, drew back the arrows, and let loose, all in one motion. A flash of shafts headed directly at them, then faded into nothing as the arrows became invisible against the backdrop of green hills.

Whoosh. Whoosh
.

The sound arrived with the arrows, and suddenly Thomas was knocked flat on his back.

For a moment, he thought he’d been struck. Yet there was no piercing pain, no blood. And he realized he’d been gripping the shield so hard from fear that the force of the arrows had bowled him over as they struck the target above his head.