Fortress of Mist (8 page)

D
awn broke clear and bright. Despite the cold that resulted from a cloudless night, few complained. Rain would be churned into a sucking mud beneath the thousands of feet of an army this size. White mist, common to the moors, would disorient stragglers within minutes. Cold and clear nights, then, were much better for warfare.

Before the sun grew hot, all tents had been dismantled and packed. Then, with much confusion and shouting, the earls and barons directed their men so that the entire army formed an uneven column nearly a half mile in length—so long that the front banners began forward motion nearly twenty minutes before the ones in the rear.

The army marched only for three miles before an eerie noise began.

To Thomas, it sounded like the faraway buzzing of bees. Once he actually lifted his head to search for the cloud of insects. The whispering became a hum, and the hum gradually became a babble. The noise came from the army itself.

Still, the army moved its slow pace forward.

Finally the babble reached Thomas and his men, who were moving in the middle of the mass and slowly making progress to reach the front. Pieces of excited conversation became audible.

“Demons upon us!”

“We are fated to doom!”

“Pray the Lord takes mercy upon us!”

Then, like the quiet eye of an ominous storm, the voices immediately in front died. That sudden calmness chilled Thomas more than the most agitated words that had reached his ears.

Within sixty more paces, he understood the horrified silence.

Thomas felt rooted at the sight, and only the pressure of movement behind him kept him in motion.

To the side of the steady motion of the column stood a small clearing. Facing the column, as if ready to charge, and stuck solidly on iron bars imbedded into the ground, were the massive heads of two white bulls.

Blood—in dried rivulets on the iron bars—had pooled beneath the heads. Flies, gorged on the thick rust-red liquid, swarmed beneath the line of vision of the open yet sightless eyes of each head.

The remains of a huge fire scarred the grass between the heads. Little remained of its fuel, but charred hooves carefully arranged outward in a circle left little doubt that the bodies of the animals had been burned.

Thomas looked upward. Again a chill of the unnatural nearly froze his steps.

At first, it appeared as heavy ribbons hanging from the branches of a nearby tree. Then, as Thomas focused closer, he fought the urge to retch. Pieces of entrails draped over the branches swayed lightly in the wind.

Carved clearly into the trunk of the tree was the strange symbol of conspiracy, the one that matched the ring of the Earl of York.

Thomas closed his eyes in cold fear. Words spat with hatred by Geoffrey echoed through his head.

“Already the forces of darkness gather to reconquer Magnus.”

Thomas shivered again beneath the hot blue sky.

T
homas’s bold challenge would take place at noon—in a scant hour. Not for the first time did he doubt its outcome and his own destiny.

Alone with a bowl of stew, he sat on a knoll that gave him a view of much of the camp. From knights and squires and yeomen and archers to cooks and peasants and those who simply followed for merriment, there were hundreds who depended on the choices he made.

Who was he to pretend it was within his capabilities to wisely govern them all? And in the end, was it a good enough reason, simply because his long-dead parents had once ruled Magnus? What would all of his efforts bring him except power that some mysterious conspiracy seemed to continuously try to take?

He felt a scratching in the cage hidden beneath his cloak. The tame mouse smelled food and had learned to expect to be fed.

Thomas let the mouse crawl onto his hand. He’d been reluctant to have the mouse blinded to keep it from escaping, for he hated any act of cruelty. But better to risk the life of a mouse than that of an official food taster. The mouse, at least, was content. Not so much for the man who would sample every meal, wondering not only if it might be his last taste, but the beginning of a horrible and painful death by poison.

Thomas placed the mouse on his shoulder. He felt the twitching whiskers against his neck.

With both hands free, he slid some stew onto the flat of his knife blade. He set the bowl down with one hand, and kept the knife steady with his other. Then he reached across and gently lifted the mouse off his shoulder and onto his other wrist. The mouse crept forward and with delicate movements scooped the juices of the stew into its mouth.

Thomas’s thoughts drifted away from the mouse, back to the hidden library that he’d consulted before this march. He’d found advice on herbs and medicinal plants. He’d made military plans based on other portions of the books. But nothing in any of the books had prepared him for battle against those of the strange symbol.

Why not? he wondered. Why had his own mother not spoken a single word about Druids? Surely, on her deathbed when she’d made him pledge to reconquer Magnus, she could have anticipated that those who ruled it were masters of apparent darkness?

A slight movement distracted Thomas. He glanced down at his wrist, where the mouse was staggering in tiny circles. At that moment, it tumbled sideways and landed in the grass. It kicked and shuddered, then stopped.

T
his challenge may be a waste of time,” growled Frederick. His jowls wobbled with each word. “But I’m in favor of anything to make these peasants forget the morning’s unholy remains.”

White bulls, rare and valuable beyond compare, suggested a special power that appealed to even the least superstitious peasants. What demons might be invoked with such a carefully arranged slaughter of the animals?

It was a question asked again and again throughout the morning. Now, with the army at midday rest, nothing else would be discussed.

Thomas felt the pressure. He faced the barons and earls around him. “If each of you would, please summon your strongest and best—”

“Swordsmen?” Frederick sneered. “I’ll offer to fight you myself.”

“Yeomen,” Thomas finished.

“Bah. An archery contest. Where’s the blood in that?”

“Precisely,” Thomas said. He wondered briefly how the fat man had ever become an earl. “How does it serve our purpose to draw blood among ourselves when the enemy waits to do the same?”

The reply drew scattered laughs. Someone clapped Thomas on the back. “Well spoken!”

The fat man would not be deterred. “What might a few arrows prove? Everyone knows battles are won in the glory of the charge. In the nobility of holding the front line against a countercharge. Man
against man. Beast against beast. Bravery against bravery until the enemy flees.”

Thomas noticed stirrings of agreement from the other earls and barons. He felt like a puppy among starving dogs. Yet he welcomed the chance to argue a method of warfare that had well served generals two oceans away and nearly two thousand years earlier.

“Man against man? Beast against beast?” Thomas countered as he thought of the books of knowledge that had won him Magnus. “Lives do not matter?”

“We command from safety,” Frederick said with smugness. “Our lives matter and are well protected. It has always been done in this manner.”

Thomas drew a breath. Was it his imagination, or was the Earl of York, still silent, enjoying this argument? The thought gave him new determination.

“There are better methods,” Thomas said quickly. He removed all emotion from his voice, and the flattening of his words drew total attention.

“The bulk of this army—and any other—consists of poorly trained farmers and villagers. None with armor. How they must fear the battle.”

“The fear makes them fight harder!” Frederick snorted.

“Knowing they are to be sacrificed like sheep?”

“It has always been done in this manner,” Frederick repeated.

“Listen,” Thomas said, with urgency. He knew as he spoke that some of the earls were considering his words carefully. If he could present his argument clearly …

“If these men knew you sought to win battles and preserve their
lives, loyalty and love would make them far better soldiers than fear of death.”

“But—”

Thomas would brook no interruption. “Furthermore, man against man, beast against beast dictates that the largest and strongest army will win.”

“Of course. Any simpleton knows that,” Frederick said, his voice laced with scorn.

“And if we should find ourselves the lesser army of the two?”

Silence.

Thomas spoke from memory a passage of one of his secret books. “I would suggest an art of using troops in this way: When you have ten to the enemy’s one, surround him. When you have five times his strength, attack him. If you only have double his strength, divide the enemy. If you are equally matched to the enemy, when the situation permits, then engage him in battle. If you are weaker in numbers, there is no shame in withdrawing and being prepared and able to do so. Lastly, if in all respects you are unequal to a fight, then elude the enemy.”

Thomas noticed slack-jawed mouths in response to his answer. It was an ancient wisdom, but none in front of him, of course, could even guess at the source of it or how Thomas had acquired it.

Thomas continued. “War—all war—is deception. The most important thing in war is to attack the enemy’s strategy.”

Thomas watched the Earl of York nod in satisfaction at Thomas’s words, and so he finished speaking from his memories. “I would suggest most of all that the supreme victory would be to subdue an enemy without fighting.”

More silence.

The fat one recovered first and sputtered in an obvious attempt to recover his pride. “Bah. Words. Simply words. What have they to do with an archery contest?”

“There is no point in explaining what you will not believe until you see,” Thomas said, “and if you want to see what you might not be able to believe, gather your best archers.”

T
he opposing fourteen bowmen lined up first. Each had been chosen for height and strength. Longer arms drew a bowstring back farther, which meant more distance. Stronger arms were steadier, which meant better accuracy.

Seven targets were set two hundred yards away. People packed both sides of the field so that the space to the targets appeared as a wide alley of untrampled grass.

Without fanfare, the first seven of the selected archers fired. Five of the seven arrows pierced completely the leather shields set up as targets. One arrow hit the target and bounced off, but even that was a good enough feat to be acknowledged with brief applause. The other arrow flew barely wide and quivered to a rest in the ground behind the targets.

The results of such fine archery drew gasps, even from a crowd experienced in warfare.

The next seven archers accomplished almost the same. Five more arrows pierced the targets. The other two flew high and beyond. More gasps.

Then Thomas and his men stepped to the firing line.

In direct contrast, Thomas had chosen small men with shorter arms. The obvious dissimilarity drew incredulous murmurs from the crowd.

Thomas stood at the line with his twelve men. He spoke in low tones heard only by them. “You have practiced much. Yet I would prefer that we attempt nothing that alarms you.”