Free Fortress of Mist by Sigmund Brouwer

is where they gather, deep in the forests, to begin their rituals. I was told that their circle of high priests and sorcery began long ago in the mists of time, on the isle of the Celts. They study philosophy, astronomy, and the lore of the gods.”
    Astronomy! The old man in the cave had known enough astronomy to predict the eclipse of the sun!
    Thomas stood and paced, then realized her voice had stopped.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please, please continue.”
    “They also offer human sacrifices for the sick or for those in dangerof death in battle.” The crone crossed herself and after that, swallowed more wine. “I remember the fear in my grandmother’s eyes as she told me. And the legends still persist. Whispers among the very old. It is said that when the Romans overran our island—before the time of the Saxons and before the time of the Viking raiders—they forced the Druids to accept Christianity. But that was merely appearance. Through the hundreds of years, the circle of high priests held on to their knowledge of the ways of evil. Once openly powerful, now they remain hidden.”
    Thomas could not contain himself longer. “Magnus!” he said. “You spoke of Magnus.”
    Her hand clutched his knee one final time, then relaxed. From her came a soft laugh. “Bring me a feast tomorrow. Rich meat. Cheese. Buttered bread. And much wine. That is my price for the telling of ancient tales.”
    After a cackle of glee, she dropped her head to her chest and soon began to snore.
    Then, without warning, the snoring ceased and she lifted her head.
    “There is one other who knows more than I. She is the herbalist who visits Magnus weekly. Perhaps when you return to the castle, you can ask her.”
    Then the woman began to snore again, obviously unaware that Thomas had ordered the herbalist to march with his army.

T he northward march began again. Memory of the slaughter of two white bulls faded quickly, it seemed, and all tongues spoke only of the archery contest.
    Thomas and his men had little time to enjoy their sudden fame, however. Barely an hour later, the column of people slowed, then stopped.
    Low grumbling rose. Some strained to see ahead, hoping to find reason for the delay. Others—older and wiser—flopped themselves into the shade beneath trees and sought sleep.
    Thomas, on horseback near his men, saw the runner approaching from a long distance ahead. As he neared, Thomas saw the man’s eyes rolling white with exhaustion.
    “Sire!” he stumbled and panted. “The Earl of York wishes you to join him at the front!”
    “Do you need to reach more commanders down the line?” Thomas asked.
    The man heaved for breath, and could only nod.
    Thomas nodded at a boy beside him. “Take this man’s message,” he instructed. “Please relay it to the others and give him rest.”
    With that, Thomas wheeled his horse forward, and cantered alongside the column. Small spurts of dust kicked from the horse’s hooves; the sheer number of people, horses, and mules passing through the moors had already packed and worn the grass to its roots.
    Thomas spotted the Earl of York’s banners at the front of the army column quickly enough. About half of the other earls were gathered around. Their horses stood nearby, heads bent to graze on the grass yet untrampled by the army.
    Thomas swung down from the horse and strode to join them.
    For the second time that day, a chill prickled his scalp.
    Three men stood in front the Earl of York and the others. They wore only torn and filthy pants. No shoes, no shirt or cloak. Each of the three was gray-white with fear and unable to stand without help.
    The chill that shook Thomas, however, did not result from their obvious fear or weakness. Instead, he could not take his eyes from the circular welts centered on the flesh of their chests.
    “They’ve been branded!” Thomas blurted.
    “Aye, Thomas. Our scouts found them bound to these trees.” The Earl of York nodded in the direction of