The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  A cold gust of wind brushed against him as he clasped his hands behind his back, watching the fleet as it slowly moved further into the channel. It was an impressive sight, for all that he knew it had weaknesses. A lone sorcerer – or sorceress – could wreak havoc with a handful of fireballs. And if the usurper had had the time to put a fleet of his own on the waves ...

  But he didn’t have time, Reginald told himself. The Summer Isle had never been a major naval power. Even now, King Edwin hadn’t had time to start a construction program before his untimely death. And the Summer Isle is ripe for the taking.

  He smiled, again, as the winds blew stronger. The future was waiting for him ...

  ... And it looked bright and full of promise.

  Chapter Ten

  “This is supposed to be Summer Bay,” Prince Reginald shouted.

  Isabella barely heard him over the rolling thunder. The skies had opened seven minutes ago, rain lashing down on the fleet while lightning flashed high overhead. Summer Bay was sheltered, according to the sailors, but if that was true she dreaded to think what it would be like to face a storm in the open sea. The ship was heaving so violently that it made her want to throw herself overboard before the inevitable happened and the ship was overturned.

  She caught hold of the railing as the ship lurched again, peering into the distance. Dark grey clouds, pregnant with heavy rain, dominated the horizon. Visibility was almost zero. In the half-light, she could barely make out a couple of other ships, half-hidden in the gloom. They might be supposed to be in the mouth of Summer Bay, but for all she knew they were hundreds of miles in the wrong direction. She gritted her teeth as the ship rocked, again. The wind was buffeting them savagely.

  The prince looked in his element, even though his hair was wet and his clothes were soaked, clinging tightly to his skin. He laughed as water dripped down his face, looking into the storm as if he was daring it to defy him. Isabella wasn’t sure if she should admire his determination or roll her eyes at his stupidity. The storm wouldn’t care if Prince Reginald screamed his defiance into the wind or not. But then, she’d noted that young men were often prone to dramatic gestures. The Crown Prince had to look good as well as be good.

  Lightning flashed, again. Thunder echoed over the bay a second later, so hard on the lightning’s heels that the storm had to be directly overhead. Isabella shook her head as the prince laughed again, feeling water dripping down her shirt and into her trousers. She’d be drenched to the bone if she stayed outside, yet ... she wanted to stay through the height of the storm. It wasn’t something she’d ever done before.

  The boat rocked, time and time again. Isabella kept a tight grip on the railings, hoping that Lord Robin and the others were alright. Big Richard had been the only one to avoid seasickness, although the others had got better fairly quickly. She’d be glad when the voyage was over, even though she knew the fighting would begin as soon as they landed on the Summer Isle. Two days of sailing had cured her of any desire she might have had to go to sea permanently. She didn't envy the handful of cabin boys clinging to wet ropes as they hurried about their duties.

  Her lips twitched. Unless she missed her guess, two of the cabin boys were actually cabin girls. It wasn’t something a man would notice, not unless he had his nose rubbed in it, but the signs were there if one bothered to look. She was tempted to talk to them, although she knew it might merely draw unwelcome attention in their direction. The girls could pass for boys as long as no one had a reason to look too closely.

  Lightning flashed, once again. This time, it was several seconds before the thunder roared through the air. Isabella allowed herself a smile as the gloom slowly began to lift, more and more ships becoming visible in the distance. Sailors whooped and hollered, sending up prayers to the gods of the sea for having spared them a cold and watery grave. Isabella wasn’t so sure. There was still plenty of time for the gods to condemn the sailors – and soldiers – instead.

  “Land HO,” the lookout called. “LAND HO!”

  Reginald turned to her. “Look,” he said, pointing into the distance. “I see land!”

  Isabella followed his gaze. He was right. A faint patch of land could be seen in the distance, barely visible in the haze. And that meant ... the navigators hadn’t been wrong after all. The fleet had entered the mouth of Summer Bay.

  “Get changed,” Reginald urged. “I’ll be calling a meeting in twenty minutes.”

  “I can use a spell to dry myself,” Isabella said. The rain was slowly coming to an end. She smiled at him, then looked into the distance. The land was coming closer. “What about you?”

  Reginald shrugged. “I’ll change before we land,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  ***

  Reginald had been warned, time and time again, that the weather in the channel could change very quickly, but he hadn’t really appreciated what he’d been told until he’d actually made the crossing himself. Two days of sunshine and rainstorms had left him questioning the wisdom of invading the Summer Isle, even though the voyage was finally coming to a conclusion. The sunlight beaming down on them, making it hard to believe that it had been raining twenty minutes ago, might vanish at any moment.

  “We’re going to land here,” he said, pointing to the map. He’d taken over the captain’s cabin and turned it into a war room. “Two miles to the north of Racal’s Bay.”

  “Very good, Your Highness,” Gars said. The Captain-General sounded weak. He hadn’t enjoyed the voyage any more than anyone else. “When can we land?”

  “We can start disembarking the first wave in an hour, more or less,” Admiral Tanoan said. “But unloading the rest of the fleet will take time.”

  “We need to take Racal’s Bay,” Reginald said. The plan they’d worked out was good, but two-thirds of his soldiers were in no condition to fight. “Captain-General Stuart, I want pickets fanning out in all directions – make sure all approaches to Racal’s Bay are covered. If they decide to meet us on the beaches, I want to know about it. Captain-General Gars, assemble the healthy men and prepare to meet an offensive.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Gars said. He sounded better, now that there was a prospect of fighting in the very near future. “And Racal’s Bay itself?”

  “We’ll proceed against the city as soon as our forces are assembled,” Reginald said. He hoped they wouldn’t have to lay siege to the city. He’d brought siege engines along, but unloading them without a harbour was going to be damn near impossible. And storming the city without them would be costly. “I want pickets thrown across the roads westwards, while preparing the regiments to move in for the kill.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Stuart said.

  “We’ll send a formal demand for surrender as soon as we’re in position to attack,” Reginald continued. “If they accept, well and good. We’ll keep the mercenaries out of the city as long as they cooperate. And if they don’t ...”

  He shrugged, expressively. Taking the harbours intact was the first priority, but afterwards ... if the city fathers chose to resist, he’d make their city pay. He wasn’t particularly bloodthirsty, but storming and sacking Racal’s Bay would convince other city fathers to surrender on demand. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d committed an atrocity to make sure he didn’t have to commit any others in future.

  “You have your orders,” he said, once they’d gone through the handful of other contingency plans. “Shall we begin?”

  He walked back onto the deck. Racal’s Bay was clearly visible in the distance, faint plumes of smoke reaching into the sky. It wouldn’t be long before the fleet was spotted, if it hadn’t already been seen by a passing fisherman. Summer Bay was supposed to be teeming with fish. One of the fishermen might have abandoned his nets and sailed straight home to alert his superiors. Not that it mattered, he reminded himself firmly. He’d planned on the assumption that they wouldn’t have the advantage of surprise.

  Which only leaves us with one question, he thought. What’s waiti
ng for us in Racal’s Bay?

  He sighed, inwardly, as the shoreline came closer and closer. He’d done everything in his power to gather intelligence, but very little trustworthy information had made it back over the channel. Racal’s Bay would have a City Guard, of course, yet what else would it have? A militia? An army camp? Or would the usurper have massed his entire force to greet Reginald on the beaches? If everything had gone according to plan, the Cold King would already have started his advance ...

  Reginald dismissed the thought, irritated. There was no way of overseeing so many things at once, not now the crystal ball network was gone. He’d find out when he landed and then adapt his plans to deal with whatever he found. It was unlikely the usurper would gamble everything on a single engagement. And if he did ... Reginald would welcome the battle. His men were hardened veterans. How many battles had the usurper’s men fought in the last ten years?

  The land came closer. He peered forward, scanning the beach. A handful of hovels were clearly visible, just out of reach of the tides; fishing and rowing boats rested by the walls, turned upside down to defeat the rain. There was no sign of anyone visible, suggesting that the occupants had seen the fleet approaching and scarpered. Reginald didn’t really blame them. Soldiers and mercenaries had a reputation for looting, raping and murdering when they were on the warpath. The peasants were probably getting out of the way before it was too late.

  But a shame we can’t ask them for local knowledge, he thought. We’ll just have to see who we capture once we start exploring inland.

  “Drop anchor!” the captain shouted.

  Reginald blinked in surprise. They weren’t going to get any closer? He kicked himself a moment later. Getting closer would run the risk of running aground, when the tide retreated from the shoreline. Or simply hitting a sandbank below the waves. He doubted the defenders had had time to hide any unpleasant surprises under the water – they could hardly have predicted precisely where the defenders were going to land – but they might not need to bother. The sailors had told him, with grim conviction, that the beaches were almost as treacherous as the waters.

  He heard someone walking towards him and turned. Gars stood there, one arm raised to block the sunlight.

  “Your Highness,” Gars said. “The first soldiers are moving now.”

  Reginald nodded, turning to watch as the ships launched dozens of small rowing boats, each one crammed with soldiers. They looked keen to get back on solid land, even if there was a reasonable chance of being killed in the next few hours. He didn’t blame them, either. He’d gone down to the holds once, just to make sure he showed himself to the men, and the stench of piss and shit and vomit had been enough to drive him back out. He’d been on battlefields, with carrion crows swooping to peck at the dead, that had smelt less noxious. The men were probably in the mood to kill someone.

  “I’ll take the next boat,” he said, once the beach was secure. A handful of protesting horses were being shipped now, their riders keeping them under tight control. The cavalry would start picketing the landing zone as soon as they were on the beach, half of them heading out to watch the approaches while the other half went straight to Racal’s Bay. “I need to get on the beach myself.”

  Gars looked as if he wanted to object, but said nothing as Reginald walked to the ladder and clambered down to the boat. The soldiers raised a muted cheer, much to Reginald’s private amusement. Some of them looked as if they wanted to be sick still, even though they were heading for land. He pretended not to hear a couple of men being sick as the boat was rowed rapidly towards the shore. No one would thank him for taking notice of it.

  The boat grounded, hard enough to shake him. He put one hand on the side and jumped overboard, splashing into the knee-deep water. It was bitterly cold, but he ignored the temperature as he waded through the water and up onto the land. The sand felt unstable beneath his feet, but he welcomed it anyway. It was land! He turned to look at the fleet, more and more boats plying backwards and forwards as the army was rapidly disembarked. It wouldn’t be long before he could start an advance on Racal’s Bay.

  Sergeant Ruthven saluted Reginald as he approached. “Sir,” he said. “The pickets are heading out, as per orders. So far, we have seen no sign of any enemy presence.”

  “That will change,” Reginald said. He lifted his head, peering into the distance. The land towards Racal’s Bay looked like fallow fields, as far as he could tell. A handful of sheep were contentedly munching the grass. They’d be lucky to survive the day when his men had had nothing to eat for two days but hardtack and salt beef. “Assemble the regiments in the field – keep men back if they’re too unwell to fight, then combine the able-bodied into smaller regiments if necessary.”

  “Sir.”

  Reginald looked around. “And set up the war tent in the field,” he added. “Remind the senior officers that I expect them to share the hardships of their men. Their tents are not to be erected until we have everyone under cover.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Reginald said. Lord William would hate it – the wretched man was too old for soldiering – but the younger officers would understand. And if they didn’t ... they could do as they were told anyway. Men would fight for money, but they’d die for a superior who genuinely cared about them. “And inform me the moment the pickets are in place. I’ll have to write a formal note to the defenders.”

  He looked back at the fleet and frowned. A couple of smaller ships had come close, alarmingly close. Men were jumping off the decks and swimming to shore, holding their bags over their heads. Were the ships in trouble? Or were they merely obeying his orders to get the ships unloaded as fast as possible? There was no way to know.

  The captains know what they’re doing, he thought. It was clear that not all of the ships had made it to Summer Bay. He hoped that meant they’d been blown off their course, instead of being sunk by the gale. Hopefully, anyone who’d lost their way would head to Summer Bay as quickly as possible. Let them handle it while you do your job.

  Turning back to the field, he peered south towards Racal’s Bay. The locals would know, now, that the fleet had landed. And how would they respond?

  We’ll find out, he thought, feeling a thrill of anticipation. There would be a battle soon. He could feel it in his water. And then we’ll claim this land for ourselves.

  ***

  Isabella kept one hand on her sword and the other on her wand as she splashed ashore, trying not to stumble and fall into the water. Countless soldiers had churned up the sand to the point where it was impossible to tell just where she was putting her feet. She heard curses behind her as a couple of men slipped, one landing face-first in the drink. His comrades laughed like loons as they helped their friend up and pushed him towards the shore.

  “Hotter than I expected,” Lord Robin said, behind her. He was holding his sword, looking around as if he expected invisible enemies to materialise at any moment. “And perhaps not as elegant as I expected, either.”

  Isabella frowned as she followed his gaze. The hovels didn’t look very nice, but they were some distance from the nearest farms. There were plenty of people who tried to make a living catching fish and selling it, people who had to live close to the sea. She headed after Lord Robin as he walked towards the nearest hovel, putting his boot into the door when it refused to open. The stench of unwashed humans drifted out.

  It still smells better than the boat, she thought, as she peered inside. But then, a latrine would smell better than the boat.

  Her eyes adjusted, slowly, to the dim light. The hovel was larger than she’d expected, but still smaller than her bedroom in the Golden City. A collection of blankets in one corner suggested that the inhabitants had huddled together for warmth. A pot sat on a stove, perched over a bed of damp ashes, which suggested that whoever had been cooking had put the fire out in a hurry, then fled the beach. Lord Robin glanced into the pot, then made a disgusted face. Isabella didn’t want to know what the o
ccupant had been cooking. Fish, probably. A peasant in such a place wouldn’t be allowed to eat anything larger than a rabbit.

  “They fled,” Lord Robin said. “I ...”

  Equerry Caen ran up. “The Prince requests your presence,” he said. “He’s in the war tent.”

  “We’re on our way,” Lord Robin said.

  Isabella frowned to herself as they left the pitiful hovel and strode over to the hastily-erected war tent. A handful of mercenaries were already searching the other shacks, looking for women or loot. Isabella doubted they’d find anything worth the effort. The huts might shelter a handful of men from the rain, but little else.

  Prince Reginald was studying a map as they entered. “We spotted some enemy horsemen,” he said, his finger tracing out a line on the map. Someone had added a handful of markers, showing where the pickets were meant to be. “They retreated as soon as we challenged them.”

  “So they’re well-trained,” Lord Robin said. “Most cavalrymen would at least try to slow you down a little, whatever they were ordered to do.”

  The prince nodded in agreement. “I can only assume they were given very strong orders to report back as soon as they made contact.”

  Lord Robin studied the map for a long moment. “I assume they headed towards Racal’s Bay?”

  “Yes,” Prince Reginald said. He sounded pleased, rather than discontented. “They know we’re here.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “They got here so quickly!”

  Sir Garston gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore Councillor Wade’s whining. If it was up to him, Racal’s Bay’s city fathers – the elderly men who ran the city – would be put in the stocks and pelted with rancid tomatoes. Wade was the smartest of the councillors and he was an utter fool. Given the chance, he’d turn his coat faster than a whore could lift her skirts.

  “Yes, they did,” he said. It was a shock. He’d assumed – the king had assumed – that it would take longer for Prince Reginald to assemble and dispatch an army. It said worrying things about Prince Reginald’s general competence that he’d managed to land troops on the Summer Isle before Garston had managed to complete his preparations. “And we have to deal with it.”