The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  The impressions slammed into her mind. Death. Death and pain and suffering and ... above it, someone laughing. Something laughing. A vast strata of unlimited power, reaching out in directions beyond her comprehension; despair, defeat, death ... death ... death. She tried to pull back as the sensations grew stronger, cackling howling in her ears, but her legs refused to move. The torrent of thoughts and feelings poured through her brain, then snapped out of existence. She fell backwards ...

  ... And landed, hard, on the stone floor. Her sword clattered to the ground beside her.

  For a long moment, she just sat there. She’d been under mental attack before – her training had included resistance to mind control spells – but the altar ... whatever had been lurking under the altar had been something else. She wasn’t even sure she’d been the target, as if she’d been caught up in someone else’s mind. And yet ... it was hard, very hard, to muster the strength to stand up. She was suddenly very glad she hadn’t brought anyone with her.

  She forced herself, inch by inch, to stand up, then reach for the sword. Her instructors would have been furious if they’d seen her drop the weapon. She’d been lucky not to land on her own blade! And yet ... she inspected it, carefully, before returning the sword to her belt. It was hard to escape the sense that the blade had come very close to snapping. She made a mental note to have it checked when she returned to the castle. Taking a brittle blade into a fight was a good way to wind up dead.

  The altar stood in the centre of the chamber, utterly unmoving. Isabella glared at it, then reached out with her senses again. There was nothing, beyond the faint hint of ... something, right at the edge of her mind. She gritted her teeth in annoyance. She’d often felt strange sensations in temples, particularly as she’d grown into her magic, but this was something different. Something wrong. And yet, she couldn’t put her finger on it. Magicians never talked about the magic in temples. Students were discouraged from asking questions.

  And yet ... she recalled odd stories, whispered in the night. There were cults that practiced old rites, rites that were partly magic ... rites that led to dark magic. They didn’t know what they were doing, if the rumours were to be believed, but that didn’t keep them from being dangerous. Isabella wracked her mind, yet she couldn’t remember anything else. The Inquisition would have known, if anyone did, but she’d never taken the oaths. She’d been kicked out long before completing her training.

  The Red Monks are dangerous, she thought, as she surveyed the rest of the chamber. What are they doing?

  She’d never heard of a god called Dusk. That didn’t mean anything in itself, but combined with the odd sensations – and the reports of odd magic – it suggested that the Red Monks were up to something dangerous. And yet ... what? She looked around for any clues she might have missed, then headed for the door. The entire building would have to be sealed off, then destroyed. Except she wasn’t sure that it could be destroyed. The gods alone knew what would happen if the temple was smashed to the ground.

  She winced as she headed back to the door and stepped into the bright sunlight. It wasn’t uncommon for magic to weave itself into a temple, particularly when a handful of untrained magicians were among the congregation. The uncontrolled magic could be very dangerous to unbelievers, although trained magicians had no trouble countering it if necessary. But here ... it felt different. It felt wrong. The last thing she wanted was to accidentally trigger another Blight. An entire district in the Golden City had been rendered uninhabitable after some idiot had started fiddling with dark sorcery.

  The cool air outside felt normal, even though the stench of battle and death still hung in the air. She took a deep breath, enjoying the sensation. And yet ... now that she was outside the temple, it was harder to understand why she’d been so concerned. It felt like a dream, a waking dream. She wanted to look away ...

  No, she told herself, sharply.

  She clenched her fists, driving her fingernails into her palms and biting her lip until she drew blood. The pain helped her to focus. There was something in the air, all right. Something subtly inducing her to forget everything she’d sensed inside the temple. It was powerful and yet ... she ground her teeth in frustration. She knew how to resist and counter most compulsion spells – she knew how to turn them back onto their caster – but this one didn’t seem to have a caster. And she couldn’t sense the compulsion directly. She could only sense the effect it was having on her. It was hard, so hard, to remember.

  Ice ran down her spine, again, as she reached for her notebook and pencil. Something was plucking away at her thoughts, making it harder to concentrate. She knew, although she wasn’t sure how she knew, that the effect would only get worse as she moved away from the temple. And yet, it was hard to write it down. She had to bite her lip, again and again, just to focus long enough to write a short note to herself. Even so ...

  Whatever they’re doing is very dangerous, she thought, as she finished writing a reminder to herself. But what are they doing?

  She took a long breath. Thankfully, the spell – whatever it was – didn’t seem to be focused on her. She’d seen forgetfulness spells that urged their victims to destroy anything that might remind them of the past, without ever being quite aware of what they were doing. The ... magic ... seemed to be more like an aversion charm, rather than a direct attack. But she’d never heard of an aversion charm that literally reached into someone’s head and removed their memories. Or even kept the victim from remembering something. It was beyond known magic.

  Taking one last look at the temple, she turned and walked down the street. The sensation seemed to grow stronger for a second, then snapped out of existence as if someone had simply cancelled the spell. She looked down at her notebook, frowning as she realised how faint the memories had become. They were urgent – she knew they were urgent – and yet it was hard to work up any sense of urgency. It felt like something she’d put off, and put off, until it was suddenly unimportant.

  Damn them, she thought. The question ran through her mind, time and time again. What are they doing?

  It chilled her to the bone. She’d had the finest magical education money could buy – and then undergone one of the most rigorous training courses known to mankind – and she still felt as helpless as a powerless mundane would in the face of a hedge-witch. She had faced stronger magicians in her time, from older students to her instructors, but none of them had scared her as much as the unknown. They, at least, were predictable. She’d known what they could do to her. The unknown was far more terrifying.

  No wonder Big Richard is so scared of magicians, she thought. We’re not people he can fight with his axe.

  She knew she should go straight back to the castle – and perhaps organise a hunt for whoever had worshipped in the temple – but it was hard to resist the urge to wander the streets and brood. Prince Reginald might listen to her or he might not. It wasn’t as if she had proof of anything beyond strange sensations she couldn’t put into words. She certainly wasn’t going to risk taking him to the Temple of Dusk. Alden would listen to her, she was sure, but Alden was in Andalusia. Unless, of course, he’d already headed home. It wasn’t as if he’d bothered to send her a copy of his itinerary.

  The streets felt louder, somehow, as she made her way towards the docks. Prince Reginald had forced the city fathers to pay the dockyard workers double their normal salary, if they worked day and night to unload the ships. Isabella rather suspected that the workers would be cheering Prince Reginald, even if the rest of the city hated him. The promise of more work in the future – when regular trade between the Summer Isle and Andalusia was established – would be enough to keep them happy. And the city fathers might find themselves out of a job.

  And they can’t even raise taxes without sparking off a riot, she thought, wryly. And the prince might simply veto anything standing between him and his supplies.

  Isabella stopped, sharply, as she heard someone – it sounded like a young woman – start
ing to cry. Her hand dropped to the pommel of her sword as the sound grew louder, accompanied by male laughter and loud whistles. She tensed – it could be a trap – and then started to follow the sound into an alleyway. The houses seemed to have been built at random, turning the alleys into a maze. Dirt and grime lay everywhere. She kept moving, keeping a wary eye open for ambushers. The alleys would be the perfect place for an ambush.

  She rounded a corner and froze. A young woman was standing in the centre of the alley, her breasts exposed and her fingers working on her skirt. Tears ran down her cheeks as she swayed through a seductive dance. Three soldiers were watching her with hungry eyes, drinking heavily; a fourth was holding a blade against an older man’s throat, forcing the young woman to strip. Her father, Isabella guessed. She felt a hot flash of pure rage. How dare they?

  “Stop this at once,” she snapped. The soldiers looked up at her, alarmed. “Now!”

  The fourth soldier casually slit the older man’s throat, then smirked at Isabella as the girl screamed and fell to her knees. Isabella cursed him – and herself – as she readied her magic. Of course they weren’t going to stop. Prince Reginald had already hanged a number of men for rape. The rapists had no choice, but to fight. Killing her was their only hope of avoiding the noose and they knew it.

  Not that it matters, she thought, savagely. Magic boiled though her, dancing around her fingertips. They won’t live long enough to be hanged.

  She lashed out at the murderer, slamming a blast of raw magic into him. His body flew backwards and slammed into a wall with a sickening crunch. Isabella sensed, more than heard, a number of his bones shattering under the force. The other soldiers froze, then threw themselves at her. They had no choice. And yet, it was futile. Isabella struck them with her magic, ripping them apart. Blood flew everywhere, covering the walls. The remains of three bodies crashed to the ground.

  The girl screamed, again. “Father!”

  “I’m sorry,” Isabella said, gruffly. The magic receded, slowly. She didn’t feel any pity for the would-be rapists. There were whores in the camp, if they’d had the patience to wait for the end of their shift. No doubt they’d found a stash of booze and got drunk. “He’s dead.”

  She checked the body, just in case, but it was pointless. The older man’s throat had been cut open. Even powerful magic couldn’t heal such a wound before it was too late, let alone bring the victim back from the dead. None of the stories of resurrection magic had ever been substantiated.

  “You killed them,” the girl said. She fumbled her way back into her shirt. “You ...”

  “Yeah,” Isabella said. She reminded herself, sharply, that the girl had been on the verge of being raped. She couldn’t be blamed for hysteria. “I’ll walk you home.”

  She took one last look at the dead bodies, then took the girl’s arm and led her down the alleyway. No one would question her, not when she was a powerful sorceress and reporting directly to Prince Reginald. And besides, the men had disobeyed orders. If she hadn’t killed them, they’d have been executed without trial anyway. They’d known the rules.

  And we have too many other problems to worry about, she thought, as they reached the main road. She waved to a sergeant, gave him a brief explanation, then led the girl onwards. What are the Red Monks doing?

  Chapter Sixteen

  “So you decided to kill four of my men,” Gars said. “You didn’t think to report them ...”

  “I stopped them from committing rape,” Isabella snapped back. “Would you have preferred me to just walk away?”

  Reginald held up a hand before the argument could end in tears – or transformations. “I informed all soldiers that they were to treat the population with respect,” he said. It was unfortunate that the would-be rapists hadn’t survived long enough to be hanged, but he wasn’t going to shed any tears over their deaths. “We do not need to alienate the workers.”

  Lord William made a rude sound. “They’re your serfs,” he said, with a sneer. “They will work for you.”

  “And most serfs are lazy assholes who won’t do more than the bare minimum,” Captain-General Jones said. “Freemen are far harder workers, My Lord, but they won’t work so hard if they think their daughters will be raped.”

  “She probably asked for it,” Lord William said. “She ...”

  Isabella leaned forward. “By somehow inducing them to hold a sword to her father’s throat?”

  William flinched. “I ...”

  “Enough.” Reginald slapped the table. “The matter is now closed.”

  He took a moment to let his words sink in. “What did you find in the Temple of Dusk?”

  Isabella looked, for the first time since he’d met her, slightly unsure of herself. It didn’t suit her.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. She looked down at the notebook in her hand. “There was a ... sensation ... of something there, but I don’t know what. It wasn’t magic, Your Highness, not as we know it. It was something else.”

  William frowned. “Could you be less specific if you tried?”

  “There were ... forces ... in there that I was unable to identify,” Isabella snapped. She sounded as though she was reaching the end of her tether. “There were ...” she shook her head in frustration “... effects of a kind I have never seen before. I nearly forgot everything I saw when I walked out of the building, everything. I am trained to resist all such spells, Your Lordship, and yet they nearly got me. Even now, just thinking about it is hard.”

  She made a visible attempt to calm down. “I spoke to a handful of people who visited the temple before we arrived. None of them were able to tell me what happened after they entered the building, not even in vague terms. They weren’t even able to tell me when the temple was founded. Even the city fathers didn’t know!”

  Reginald frowned. It was rare, very rare, for a city to refuse permission to build a temple, particularly if there were enough worshippers to make trouble, but surely they’d know when the temple was built! Or who used it. Or ... it made no sense. He was hardly the kind of person to outlaw worship of a particular god, but the stories worried him. Magic was displeasing enough, to a soldier. The thought of something beyond magic was worse.

  Gars cleared his throat. “There have always been stories of miracles in temples.”

  “Yes,” Isabella said. “And most of them have magical explanations. This was different.”

  Academic Milhous leaned forward. “Even a cripple suddenly being able to walk?”

  Isabella nodded, shortly. “An untrained magician who prayed would be feeding magic into the building,” she said. “Another who prayed for a miracle might unwittingly direct that magic into a spell, working the miracle. It isn’t impossible to use magic to help a cripple to walk, Academic. It’s just expensive and difficult.”

  “This seems ... blasphemous,” Captain-General Stuart said, darkly. “I saw a blind girl suddenly being able to see.”

  “And it has a natural explanation,” Isabella said. “There are plenty of spells that can repair a blinded eye. Every miracle I’ve ever heard of, My Lord, is more a case of something being mended, rather than being built from scratch. The magic already had a pattern to follow. It just needed the impetus.”

  She paused. “What I sensed in that temple was something different,” she said. “I don’t know what it was. But I do know it is dangerous.”

  Reginald took a long breath. He understood military matters. But magic? And religion? It worried him. He certainly didn’t know how to fight it.

  “We will be wary,” he said, firmly. He’d sealed off the temple. Perhaps they’d find someone who could give them answers. So far, none of the Red Monks had been found, but it was unlikely they’d managed to leave the city. “But we do have to decide on our next move.”

  He tapped the map, meaningfully. “How long until we have landed the first wave of supplies?”

  “The first wave should be disembarked by tomorrow, assuming the workers don’t decide
to strike,” Jones said. “It will be two or three more days before the second wave is disembarked.”

  Which includes most of the siege engines, Reginald thought. Taking Allenstown without them will be a nightmare.

  He leaned forward. “We already have pickets heading out to cover all of the possible approaches,” he said. “Once the first wave is disembarked, I intend to march east to Allenstown. We should be able to surround the city before the usurper hears of our arrival.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Gars said.

  Reginald allowed himself a tight smile. Fortune – that most fickle of gods – had favoured him beyond his wildest dreams. The Cold King hadn’t launched an invasion, as far as he knew, but the usurper had taken his army northwards anyway. By Reginald’s most pessimistic estimate, it would be at least another day or two before the usurper even knew the invasion had begun. And then it would take at least three to four days to march south. By then, Reginald might well have taken Allenstown for himself.

  Lord William coughed. “Should we not wait for a response to our messengers?”

  “There’s no time,” Reginald said. It would be at least two days before the messenger he’d sent reached Earl Oxley – and five or six days before the other messenger reached Earl Goldenrod. He doubted either of the earls would immediately march to support him – or the usurper. It was far more likely that they’d sit on their hands and wait for a clear winner to emerge. “The chance to capture Allenstown cannot be allowed to slip away.”

  He studied the map, carefully. Trying to hold Racal’s Bay against a determined attack would be risky, even though he had more and better troops than the late Sir Garston. Reginald’s offensive had smashed the defences flat, after all. Rebuilding – and then improving – them would take more time than Reginald had. He couldn’t take the risk of being trapped against the sea. No, he had to take the offensive. The usurper could not be allowed to seize the initiative.