The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  “We will try,” Hark said.

  “Good,” Havant snapped. He strode towards his brother’s tent. Thankfully, Rufus had decided to go to bed early, rather than hold one of his wild parties. There was too great a chance of a sneak attack in the middle of the night. “We may need you to send messages to Allenstown.”

  “As you wish,” Hark said.

  Havant frowned, then stepped into the tent. His brother was sleeping next to a naked woman, one of his latest conquests. Havant rolled his eyes, then cleared his throat loudly. Rufus sat up, one hand reaching for the dagger he kept under his bed. Beside him, the woman squeaked loudly and grabbed for the blanket, lifting it up to cover her bare breasts. Under other circumstances, Havant would have enjoyed the sight. The woman was a noblewoman, not a filthy whore. But he didn’t have time.

  “Get out,” he snapped.

  The blonde woman gave him a nasty look, then wrapped the blanket around herself and headed for the flap. Not a particularly bright woman then, Havant decided, as she scurried into the night. Certainly not if she’d already opened her legs for the king, without waiting for a marriage contract. She might be hoping for a baby, in the fond belief that Rufus would marry her if she got pregnant, but that was unlikely. Rufus didn’t need to marry her to legitimise the child. And the king’s wife would be chosen for political advantage, not lust.

  “This had better be important,” Rufus growled. He sat upright, returning the dagger to its sheath. “Do you know how long it took me to get her into bed?”

  “Not very long at all,” Havant said, dryly. There was something about being the heir to an earldom – and later a king – that made a man absolutely irresistible to women. Even King Edwin, milksop though he’d been, had had a string of mistresses. A royal mistress would gain favour, influence and, if she played her cards well, power. “We have a problem.”

  Rufus glared. “What problem?”

  “Prince Reginald has landed,” Havant said. “And Racal’s Bay has fallen.”

  “... Shit,” Rufus said. The king stood and reached for his robes. “When did he land?”

  “Today, apparently,” Havant said. “The Red Monks just informed me.”

  “And Sir Garston?” Rufus pulled his robe over his head, then buckled his belt. “What of him?”

  “Dead,” Havant said. “The city may well have been destroyed.”

  “A blessing in disguise,” Rufus muttered.

  Havant shrugged. Racal’s Bay was – had been, perhaps – the most independent-minded city on the Summer Isle. It had bent the knee to the monarchy, but it had preserved a great deal of its independence ... even after round upon round of civil war. The city fathers had been very reluctant to pay more than the bare minimum of tax. Having the city destroyed – or at least severely damaged – wasn’t entirely displeasing, but in the long term it would have a major effect on the island’s economy. And he rather doubted that the docks had been destroyed.

  Worst case, Prince Reginald captured the docks and fishing fleets intact, he told himself. He can bring in his army at will, if he holds the docks, and feed it too.

  Rufus stuck his head out of the tent and bellowed for a messenger. When the young boy arrived, Rufus ordered him to find the senior officers and order them to assemble in the war tent. Havant couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pity for the poor boy. Senior officers didn’t like being woken unless the camp was under attack, he knew from bitter experience, and they might take their anger out on the messenger. But then, the child was the son of a powerful nobleman. Perhaps they’d think twice before slapping the boy.

  “They can’t possibly have expected us to hear of the invasion so fast,” Rufus said. He reached for his sword and buckled it to his belt, then headed for the flap. “How long would it take a messenger to reach us?”

  “Two days, at least,” Havant said. Rufus was right. Any messenger sent from Racal’s Bay wouldn’t know precisely where to go. Finding the army would be a nightmare. Sending a messenger to Allenstown, then sending another messenger to the army would add at least another couple of days. “Prince Reginald won’t expect us to react so quickly.”

  “No,” Rufus agreed. He stepped out into the darkness, his bodyguards appearing out of the gloom and surrounding him. “He won’t.”

  Havant followed his brother through the camp and into the war tent, noting just how many men were moving around. The guards had been awake, naturally, but most of the others should have been asleep. Word would be spreading, of course. And not all of Rufus’s vassals could be trusted. Havant wouldn’t have cared to bet that a messenger hadn’t left the camp to speed to the Goldenrod Lands. Earl Goldenrod might not believe the reports at first – he knew nothing about the Red Monks – but it wouldn’t take him long to realise that the army was heading south. Who knew what he’d do then?

  Rufus marched into the tent and bellowed for wine, then peered down at the map on the wooden table. It was the finest map the draftsmen could produce, although Havant knew from bitter experience that it wasn’t particularly accurate. A smart commander knew better than to rely on maps to get a feel for the terrain. The Empire’s mapmakers had never turned their attention to the Summer Isle, for better or worse. And no one else quite matched their skill at drawing maps.

  Not that we complained at the time, Havant recalled. We didn’t want the Golden City to think we could pay more in tax.

  “We have been informed that the enemy has landed in Racal’s Bay,” Rufus said, once his officers had been assembled. The servants moved around the tent, handing out glasses of wine. “We must move at once to confront the threat.”

  Havant nodded, more to show that he was supporting his brother rather than anything else. Besides, he didn’t really disagree with Rufus. They couldn’t allow Prince Reginald to remain where he was, let alone start marching towards Allenstown. Losing the capital would shatter their grip on the island. Havant had no doubt of it. Too many of their loyal supporters would start thinking of ways to switch sides before it was too late.

  Rufus traced out a line on the map. “We will force-march to Alcidine,” he said. “That will put us between Racal’s Bay and Allenstown, allowing us to either block an enemy advance or link up with Lord Francis and mount an offensive of our own. If Prince Reginald refuses our challenge, we will advance on Racal’s Bay and push him back into the sea.”

  A risky operation, Havant thought. No professional soldier regarded the idea of a pitched battle without concern. The civil war had been a collection of minor skirmishes with big impacts, not battles on an awesome scale. But we don’t have a choice.

  He kept his face expressionless as he studied the map. Deliberately or otherwise, Prince Reginald had lured King Rufus into a position where all of his choices were bad. If the king refused to attack Racal’s Bay, Reginald would have all the time in the world to consolidate his position, bring in reinforcements and eventually go on the offensive. But if the king attacked, he would be risking everything on a single engagement. And delay wasn’t an option either. The weaker Rufus looked, the more likely someone would switch sides at the worst possible time.

  Which means we can’t wait for the autumn storms to block passage to Andalusia, Havant told himself. No one in their right mind would try to cross the channel in autumn. Ideally, the defenders could wait for the storms, then attack ... knowing the invaders couldn’t call on reinforcements from the mainland. But we don’t have time to wait.

  He looked up, allowing his gaze to move from face to face. Some of the senior officers were loyal, insofar as that term meant anything on the Summer Isle. Others had switched sides, bringing enough of a dowry with them to convince the king to overlook their past indiscretions. They couldn’t be trusted, not if the battle went badly. They’d bend the knee to Prince Reginald if they thought he was the stronger party.

  “We will awaken the troops one hour before sunrise,” Rufus said. “They are to be fed, then readied for a forced march at sunrise. Our baggage train is to
be left behind, guarded by a single regiment. They can bring it south as quickly as possible.”

  Havant smiled at the shock echoing round the tent. Abandoning the baggage train was a colossal risk, even though the pickets hadn’t picked up any signs of enemy activity. It would be a tempting target for everyone from Earl Goldenrod to rebels lurking in the mountain caves. And losing it would be bad. Perhaps not completely disastrous, as long as they retained control of Allenstown, but bad. Merely capturing the army’s supplies would turn a rebel force into a very real threat.

  “We have no choice,” Rufus said. “I want to reach Alcidine before the enemy hears of our coming.”

  He paused, daring his officers to object. None of them said a word. They were all experienced enough to understand the dangers of leaving the baggage train behind ... and, more importantly, the risks of arguing with the king in public. Even Havant couldn’t disagree with his brother publicly. The king was always right, even when he was wrong.

  At least he listens to me in private, Havant thought. The officers would understand that, naturally. They could bring their concerns to the king’s brother, who would take them to the king. And wouldn’t they be shocked to know he listens to Emetine too?

  “We’ll send two messengers back to Allenstown,” Rufus said. “After that, the gates are to be closed and guarded. No one is to send a message out of the camp – or the army, when we start marching. Is that understood?”

  Havant nodded with the others, although he had a feeling it was already too late. Rumours would have swept through the camp by now, ranging from reasonably accurate stories to tales that no one would believe unless they were thoroughly drunk. The king would have to make an announcement shortly, just to keep the rumours from getting out of control. But it might well be too late to keep messengers from reaching Earl Goldenrod.

  As long as he waits to see who comes out ahead, we should be fine, Havant thought. But who knows what will happen if he decides to play kingmaker?

  It wasn’t a pleasant thought. In theory, King Rufus could draw on the extensive resources of the Summer Isle to build an army and push the invaders back into the sea. In practice, those extensive resources simply didn’t exist. Getting the nobility – even the loyalists – to work together was like herding cats, only worse. And if Earl Goldenrod decided to join Prince Reginald now, before Reginald had a chance to take Allenstown and declare himself king, he’d be in an excellent position to extract a steep price for his aid. Reginald was unmarried, if Havant recalled correctly. Earl Goldenrod could request a royal marriage in return for his support.

  Or he could just keep playing both sides, Havant told himself, sourly. And as long as he times it right, he can get away with it too.

  He headed for the flap when Rufus dismissed the meeting. He’d have to speak to his subordinates, then make preparations for the march. And then ... he shook his head. He wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, clearly. Maybe a quick nap once the orders had been issued ... no, it wasn’t likely to happen. Thankfully, he was still young and strong and experienced enough to cope. The older men would have real problems.

  Good, he thought, savagely. It might take their minds off betraying us.

  Hark met him outside his tent. His face seemed oddly hidden in the darkness, as if Havant’s eyes were slipping over his features without quite taking them in. He had to concentrate just to look at the monk. It wasn’t easy.

  “It went well?” Hark asked. “They believed you?”

  “We will be marching out at sunrise,” Havant said. No one had questioned the information, not openly. “Thank you for informing us.”

  “You are most welcome,” Hark said. “You have allowed us to spread the word.”

  “Yes,” Havant said. He shrugged, dismissively. Who cared what the lower orders believed? “Do you have any other words of advice?”

  Hark bowed. “I have spent many hours communing with Our Lord,” he said. “It would be wise for you to be very careful. The coming battle is a turning point.”

  Havant looked up, sharply. “Can you see the future?”

  “Only in the most general terms,” Hark said. “But the coming battle is indeed a turning point.”

  Havant rolled his eyes. Fortune-tellers and soothsayers had been banned, right across the Empire. Anyone who claimed to be able to tell the future was burnt at the stake ... something the cynical part of his mind thought they really should have been able to see coming. The Inquisition had hunted them ruthlessly, even though it had always struck him as thoroughly pointless. They spoke in such vague terms that it was impossible to pin them down. There was no such thing as a specific prophecy.

  And yet, the Red Monks did have strange powers ...

  “I will heed your words,” he said. He had never been particularly religious, but there was nothing to be gained by insulting the monks. Beside, religion existed – at least in part – to keep the commoners under control. “And I will be careful.”

  “Very good,” Hark said. “We thank you.”

  He bowed, then glided off into the distance. Havant watched him go, feeling tired and worn, then stepped into the tent. He had work to do.

  And Reginald has no way of knowing that we know, he told himself. He won’t expect us to start marching for at least two days.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Racal’s Bay felt on edge, Isabella decided as she walked down the cobbled streets. Soldiers patrolled the streets, their weapons clearly visible; press-ganged men were working in groups, picking up dead bodies and dumping them in carts for transfer to the mass grave outside the city. There were almost no women on the streets, even though it was mid-morning. The handful of women she saw were escorted by their menfolk, who looked jumpy. Isabella didn’t really blame them. The mercenaries had been moved to camps outside the city – and the city’s whores were doing a roaring trade – but the streets weren’t safe.

  She kept a wary eye on her surroundings, watching for potential threats. Lord Robin had offered to come with her – or detail a couple of bodyguards to accompany her – but Isabella had declined. If she ran into something she couldn’t handle, she doubted anyone would be able to help. And besides, just in case she encountered something that should be reported to Alden, she’d prefer to make the report before telling the others.

  Unless it poses an immediate threat, she told herself firmly, as she turned onto the street of the gods. We might not have time to send a message to the Golden City.

  The street of the gods looked surprisingly intact, although the temples appeared to be deserted. There was one in every city, a small collection of temples gathered together to allow the faithful to worship freely. She recognised a couple of the gods, but others were unknown to her. That wasn’t too surprising, she decided. The Summer Isle hadn’t exactly been isolated, but there had been very little cultural bleed between the island and the mainland. None of the familiar temples looked very big.

  But that means there might be hundreds of worshippers, she thought. Cults were frowned upon, but there was no way to keep people from worshipping in their homes. Where are they?

  She walked up the street, glancing from side to side. The priests should have been outside, calling the faithful to prayer, but there was no sign of them. Perhaps Prince Reginald had ordered them to remain indoors, just to keep a troublesome priest from causing a riot. A crowd of worshippers could easily become a mob, with the right impetus. And then the mob would either be allowed to run riot or be brutally slaughtered. Neither one would be good, in the long run. The temples would have to be watched carefully as Prince Reginald tightened his grip on the city.

  The Temple of Dusk – home of the Red Monks – squatted at one end of the street. It was a simple building, little more than a blocky stone mass, yet there was something about it that bothered her. The walls made it look old and new at the same time, as if the stone had aged overnight. She reached out with her senses and frowned. There was nothing inside the temple, as far as she could tell.
Nothing at all, not even the faint sense of background magic that had been with her since birth. It was a void.

  She cast a detection spell and aimed it towards the temple. The spell reported nothing ... it didn’t even register any magic clinging to the runes that someone had carved into the stone. Isabella inched closer and inspected them, one by one. She was very familiar with runes – her father had beaten them into her, literally – but these were new. As far as she could tell, they weren’t magic at all. And yet ... she reached out, holding her finger above the carvings. It felt as if something was watching her, waiting to pounce.

  Gritting her teeth, she stepped up to the door and pushed it open with her sword. No magic snapped at her, yet the sense of threat was suddenly overpowering. The interior of the building was dark, completely dark. She cast a light-spell, half-expecting it to fail. Instead, the flickering light lit up a barren interior. Isabella frowned, puzzled. If the building hadn’t felt so off to her, she would have wondered if she’d gone to the wrong place.

  She’d seen many temples in her life, from the grand temples in the Golden City to small kirks in tiny villages. They had all been extensively decorated, their walls covered in gold and silver ... even the poorest kirks had been decorated by their worshippers. But the Temple of Dusk was bare. The walls and floor were plain stone, unmarred by paintings or runes; there were no windows, no lights ... she wondered, absently, just how the worshippers were expected to see. The only object within the chamber was a plain stone altar, placed in the centre of the room. It was nothing more than a block of carved stone. She couldn’t even see any runes carved into the stone.

  Isabella stepped forward warily, holding her sword at the ready. Something was in the room with her. Her instincts were screaming in alarm. And yet, she could see nothing. Or sense nothing. The room was a gaping void, empty of everything. She knew how to look for an invisible person, with or without magic, yet ... there was nothing. The chamber was completely silent. Ice ran down her spine as she approached the altar. Something was very wrong. She touched the stone gingerly and ...