Fortress of Mist by Sigmund Brouwer

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 Icould 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