The Golden City has fallen, the Empire is no more,
ancient magic threatens the land
In The Unwritten Words, Christopher Nuttall’s story-telling mastery weaves a new epic which follows on from his bestselling Bookworm series and is set in that same world. In The Promised Lie, the first book of the new series, five years have passed since the earth-shattering events of Bookworm IV.
The Golden City has fallen. The Grand Sorcerer and Court Wizards are dead. The Empire they ruled is nothing more than a memory, a golden age lost in the civil wars as kings and princes battle for supremacy. And only a handful of trained magicians remain alive.
Isabella Majuro, Lady Sorceress, is little more than a mercenary, fighting for money in a desperate bid to escape her past. But when Prince Reginald of Andalusia plots the invasion of the Summer Isle, Isabella finds herself dragged into a war against strange magics from before recorded history …
… And an ancient mystery that may spell the end of the human race.
Praise for the award-winning Bookworm series:
Bookworm was winner of the GOLD Award in the Adult Fiction category of the 2013 Wishing Shelf Independent Book Awards.
“A thrilling adventure packed full of magic and memorable characters. Highly recommended.” – The Wishing Shelf Awards
“one of the best authors of entertaining epic fantasy” – Seregil of Rhiminee
“the author has woven an exciting and entertaining story of secrets, dark history, books, werewolves and magic, and knows how to keep the story on the move” – Risingshadow
The Promised Lie
The Unwritten Words I
Christopher Nuttall
Elsewhen Press
ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER NUTTALL
The Mind’s Eye
Bookworm series
Bookworm
Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling
Bookworm III: The Best Laid Plans
Bookworm IV: Full Circle
Dizzy Spells series
A Life Less Ordinary
Royal Sorceress series
The Royal Sorceress
The Great Game
Necropolis
Sons of Liberty
INVERSE SHADOWS UNIVERSE
SUFFICIENTLY ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY
The Promised Lie
First published in Great Britain by Elsewhen Press, 2018
An imprint of Alnpete Limited
Copyright © Christopher Nuttall, 2018. All rights reserved
The right of Christopher Nuttall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, telepathic, magical, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Elsewhen Press, PO Box 757, Dartford, Kent DA2 7TQ
www.elsewhen.co.uk
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-911409-21-2 Print edition
ISBN 978-1-911409-31-1 eBook edition
Condition of Sale
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
Elsewhen Press & Planet-Clock Design are trademarks of Alnpete Limited
Converted to eBook format by Elsewhen Press
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, monarchies, cults and events are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, religions, kingdoms, places or people (living, dead, or undead) is purely coincidental.
To my second son, John, who made his appearance as this book was being drafted.
Contents
Map of The Summer Isle
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue I
Epilogue II
Prologue
The valley was dark and cold and as silent as the grave.
Lord Havant of Hereford glanced from side to side, warily, as his guide led him further down the rocky path. He’d been warned, time and time again, that the forbidden lands were forbidden for a reason ... that they were dangerous, rather than places the Grand Sorcerers preferred to keep to themselves. Walking into the valley bothered him on a very primal level, even though his rudimentary magic sensed no threat. There was something about the cold seeping into his bones that urged him to flee.
He banished the feeling with an effort, drawing his cloak tighter around his body. He’d expended a great deal of effort on crossing the Wild Mountains – far too close to the Goldenrod Lands for comfort – to back out now, despite the sensation of danger that pervaded the dark air. Hark had told him, time and time again, that the ancient temple was the only place they could perform the rite and Havant believed him. The monk knew better than to lie to the heir to an earldom.
The shadows seemed to shimmer as they reached the bottom, revealing a strange building hidden within the darkness. He couldn’t quite see it, as if there were a spell concealing its precise dimensions. All he could make out were impressions: strange towers, dark runes on the walls, stone statues positioned by the entrance ... and a faint light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. His guide didn’t hesitate. He walked past the statues and through the entrance as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Havant knew himself to be a brave man – he’d led his brother’s forces in war – but it took all of his courage to follow the guide into the building. The urge to flee was growing stronger and stronger all the time.
Inside, the building was empty, save for a single stone altar. The light grew stronger, radiating out of the stone walls. Hark was standing on the other side of the chamber, his hood pulled back to reveal his long beard and stern features. His dark eyes flashed with a fanatical determination that made him seem a different man. Havant had to force himself to look back, evenly. He was the master outside the building. He could be the master inside, too.
“You have come,” Hark said. His voice boomed in the shadows. “Did you bring the blood?”
“I did,” Havant said.
He reached into his pocket and produced the tiny vial. It had been his sister, Queen Emetine, who’d obtained the blood. Her husband’s guard had slipped, just once. Perhaps Emet
ine felt guilty for what she’d done, or for what she’d set in motion. But it didn’t matter. Emetine had failed in the first duty of a queen and it was only a matter of time before her husband put her aside for someone younger, prettier and fertile. A childless royal marriage simply couldn’t be allowed to last.
And then it will be just a matter of time until the civil war resumes, Havant thought. His family couldn’t afford another round of strife. They’d worked hard to secure their position and he had no intention of losing it. We have to strike first.
Hark walked forward and took the vial, then snapped his fingers. Monks started to walk into the chamber, the shadows moving around them like living things ... as if the monks were themselves shadows. Their faces were hidden completely behind their cowls, lost in the darkness. They made no noise as they moved. Havant couldn’t even hear them breathing. It was easy to believe, just for a moment, that they weren’t truly human. Suddenly, all of the strange tales about the forbidden zone seemed terrifyingly believable.
“Ours is the gift of death,” Hark said. His voice echoed in the chamber. “We offer it freely to those who wish it.”
Another hooded figure stepped out of the shadows and walked towards the altar, then stopped and removed her robe. Havant stared, despite himself, as the robe pooled around her bare ankles. She was naked, old enough to wed yet untouched by life; her face both enchantingly sweet and strangely alien. There were no blisters on her body, no hints of a hard life on the farms. She showed no sign of feeling ashamed or vulnerable, even though most girls on the Summer Isle were raised to keep their clothes on at all times. The sense of wrongness grew stronger as the girl climbed onto the stone altar and lay on her back. Havant could feel ... something ... drifting in the air, a presence waiting to be born. The entire world seemed to be holding its breath.
“Death is our gift,” Hark said.
He unstopped the vial and poured the blood onto the girl’s chest. She didn’t move, even when he dipped his crooked finger in the blood and used it to draw lines and runes on her body. Havant wondered, suddenly, if she’d been drugged or enchanted. There were plenty of spells and potions that would account for the girl’s calm. And yet ...
“Mighty Dusk,” Hark said. “We ask for Your blessing. We ask for Your gift. We ask for Your guidance as we work for Your day.”
“Death is our gift,” the monks said.
The sense of presence grew stronger. Havant watched, feeling almost as if he was floating outside his own body, as Hark withdraw a silver knife from his robes. Something told Havant that he should be alarmed, but ... he felt calm, utterly unmoved. And then Hark raised the knife up and held it above the girl’s chest.
“Death is our gift,” he said, once again.
He stabbed down, hard. The girl cried out, once. Blood splashed in all directions. The presence grew even stronger, pressing against the boundaries of reality ...
... And, four hundred miles away, King Edwin of the Summer Isle screamed and died.
Chapter One
“Well?”
Isabella ignored Big Richard’s rather snappy demand as she concentrated on the village in the distance, reaching out with her senses. It was a small village, forty miles from the nearest town: fifteen hovels, a blacksmith’s forge, a hedge-witch’s home and very little else, all surrounded by patchwork fields. It should have been teeming with life – men working in the fields, women and children tending the animals – but it was deserted. She couldn’t pick up a hint of life.
Big Richard snorted, rudely. “Performance issues?”
“No,” Isabella said, tartly. She concentrated. There was something, right at the edge of her awareness. A sense of ... something. She couldn’t put it into words. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone in the village.”
“Magicians,” Big Richard sneered. “Always coming up with excuses for failure.”
“There’s no one within eyeshot, either,” Little Jim pointed out. “Or can you see something the rest of us can’t?”
Big Richard made a rude sound. Isabella looked at him, then his brother. It was hard to believe they were related, even though they had the same eyes. Big Richard was a short, but beefy man, so muscular that Isabella rather suspected he had some orc blood in him somewhere, carrying a massive axe slung over one shoulder. His brother, by contrast, was tall and slim. The only thing they had in common was red hair ... and a prejudice against magic-users. Big Richard hadn’t made any bones about distrusting anyone who used magic, Isabella included. If Lord Robin hadn’t insisted on Isabella joining the company, Big Richard would have tried to drive her away.
Which wouldn’t have been easy, Isabella thought. The protective amulets Big Richard wore were effective, against hedge-witches. She’d been taught ways to get spells through basic protections, ways to curse someone who thought he was safe. And yet, that would have probably cost me my job too.
She rolled her eyes as the two men turned back towards the deserted village. She’d been with the company for six months and she knew, despite everything, that she’d been lucky. Female mercenaries were rare, even in troubled times. And while she had proven herself to Lord Robin, she was aware that too many of the other mercenaries distrusted her. They knew very little about her past.
And if they did know about my past, she reminded herself, they’d distrust me even more.
Very few people would have recognised her, even if they’d heard her name. Isabella was hardly a common name, but it wasn’t that uncommon. Her close-cropped black hair, scarred face and form-fitting brown leathers – complete with a sword, a knife and a wand – were very different from the clothes she’d worn years ago, in another life. No one would draw a connection between her and the Isabella who’d left the Golden City, seven years ago. And that was how she wanted it to be.
Lord Robin cantered up and smiled at them. He was a handsome man, Isabella admitted privately, with short blond hair and shining armour. And he was a good leader, one strong enough to rule a band of mercenaries and yet smart enough to listen to their concerns. She had no idea if he truly was an aristocratic bastard or not – he was the only person who called himself a lord – but it hardly mattered. There were countless noblemen seeking real power now the Empire was gone.
“I can’t sense anything,” Isabella said. There was no point in telling him about the feeling at the back of her mind. If she couldn’t pinpoint it, no one would take it seriously. “I think the village is deserted.”
“Probably hiding from the taxman,” Robin said. “King Romulus has been squeezing his peasants pretty hard over the last few months, hasn’t he?”
He raised his voice. “Mount up!”
Isabella nodded as she scrambled up into her horse’s saddle and followed the others down the dusty road towards the village. The heat grew stronger, a grim reminder that everything – even the weather – was in flux these days, as if the final days had come. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced from side to side. Too many streams intended to water the fields had run dry, leaving the crops spoiled. Even the millpond looked painfully shallow. She wondered, sourly, if Robin was right. The villagers had plenty of reason to know that drought was not an acceptable excuse for not paying their taxes. Perhaps they’d decided to hide somewhere in the countryside rather than pay.
And a tax collector vanished out here, she reminded herself. That’s why Lord August hired us to investigate.
She looked up as they approached the gate. The palisade wasn’t anything more than a boundary marker – it wouldn’t have stood up to a battering ram, let alone a spell – but there should have been someone on guard. Villagers tended to be suspicious of strangers, particularly ones who might be taxmen or recruiting sergeants. And yet ... they cantered though the open gate and into the village, heading straight for the headman’s hut. The village was deserted, utterly deserted. Isabella felt her sense of unease growing stronger. Something was very definitely wrong.
“He should have come out to grovel by now,” Manda
n said. The archer was looking from side to side, his eyes worried. He had good instincts, for someone who didn’t have any spark of magic. “Where is he?”
“Probably hiding all the comely lasses,” Big Richard said. “Wouldn’t it be a shame if one of them took a liking to us?”
Isabella silently contemplated the virtue of stealthily hexing his horse as she swung her legs over and dropped to the ground. Dust rose around her boots as she landed. Mandan was right, damn him. Someone should have come running by now, if only to plead for mercy or swear blind they didn’t know what had happened to the taxman. Maybe the villagers had gone into hiding. Lord August wasn’t known for his mercy. The village would be destroyed if they dared to lift a hand against him and his servants.
“Isabella, with me,” Lord Robin ordered. “The rest of you, guard the horses and wait.”
“Aye, sir,” Little Jim said.
Isabella felt Big Richard’s eyes on her as she followed Lord Robin up to the headman’s hovel. It was a large hut, compared to the others, but tiny by her standards. She pushed her senses forward as Lord Robin opened the door and peered inside, yet she sensed nothing ... save for the strange something. It was there, right at the back of her mind ...
“Deserted,” Lord Robin said.
Isabella entered the hovel and looked around, feeling old training and instincts coming to the fore. The headman’s chair – a rickety construction that allowed him to look down on his fellows – sat in the centre of the otherwise barren room. She felt her eyes narrow as she pushed aside the curtain to peer into the kitchen, where the headman’s wife would have cooked for her husband. It was large enough to suggest that the woman had probably also held court, inviting the other women to chat with her in the evenings. Shaking her head, Isabella scrambled up the ladder into the loft. There was enough bedding to suggest that the headman and his wife had had at least two children.
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