The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Prepare the troops to march out in two days,” he ordered. “And make sure they’re ready for anything.”

  There was another reason to continue the offensive, he knew. Soldiers got restless in barracks – and that went double for mercenaries. Staying in Racal’s Bay would eventually lead to more and more trouble between the troops and the locals, no matter how many men he flogged for insubordination. Better to have the troops in the field than venting their frustration on the civilians.

  “I shall see to it personally,” Gars said. “I assume there has been no response from Allenstown?”

  Reginald shrugged. Lord Francis – another stranger raised to the peerage by the usurper – probably knew about the invasion already. It was hard to believe the usurper had left much authority in Lord Francis’s hands, but any local commander would have the freedom to take limited action without waiting for orders. And yet, what would Lord Francis do? Take whatever forces he could muster and march on Racal’s Bay? Or dig in at Allenstown and force Reginald to come to him?

  “He won’t have received our surrender demand yet,” Reginald said. He’d happily recognise Lord Francis’s title – and allow him to keep his lands – if he surrendered at once, but somehow he doubted it. No one would be left as de facto regent – and rear commander – if he wasn’t trusted. “We will assume that he won’t surrender.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Gars said.

  Reginald looked around the table. “Are there any other matters of concern?”

  “Merely the voyage back home,” Lord William said. “I believe the autumn storms are on their way.”

  Reginald shrugged. The sailors had made it clear that only an idiot – or someone tired of life – would try to cross the channel during the storms, but it was hardly a problem. They’d have won – or lost – by then. He could winter on the Summer Isle and return to the mainland in the spring, if necessary. He’d certainly not been planning to return home for several years.

  “We will have enough supplies by then to win,” he said, dismissively. He frowned. He’d hoped to leave Lord William in command of Racal’s Bay, but it was clear that the job required someone with a working brain. He made a mental note to choose someone later and leaned forward. “If you have any other concerns, bring them to me before we resume our march. Until then ... I’ll see you all for dinner in the Great Hall. Dismissed.”

  He met Isabella’s eyes. “Please remain behind.”

  Isabella nodded, sharing a glance with Lord Robin. Reginald leaned back in his chair as his councillors slowly departed the room, keeping his thoughts to himself. He had every intention of luring Isabella into his household and it was clear that Lord Robin knew it. Why not? A sorceress who worked directly for him would be one hell of an ace in the hole. Isabella had already proven she could be more than merely useful. And there was something about her – she was so different from the sheltered court girls – that he found appealing.

  He waited for the last councillor to leave the room, then looked at Isabella. “Can you make this room private?”

  Isabella waved her hand in the air. “Done.”

  Reginald frowned, inwardly. There was no way to tell if it was done. And yet ... he sat upright, dismissing the thought. He had to trust her. She’d had plenty of opportunity to turn on him if she’d wished. Her face, oddly puckish, betrayed none of her feelings. He couldn’t help wondering just what she’d gone through, before winding up in his service. She was just so different.

  She has power, he reminded himself. And so many other women do not.

  It was an odd insight. Reginald had power, and he would have more when he succeeded his father, but his sister would never wield power in her own right. She could give the kingdom to her husband, yet she could never rule for herself. It wouldn’t be long before their father picked a husband for her, someone who needed closer ties to the royal family. Sofia was a princess, yet she was powerless. Her life didn’t belong to her. Ruling Queens had been rare, before the Empire’s collapse. Now, he knew of only one Ruling Queen who’d managed to retain power.

  But Isabella? She had power and she was willing to use it. She didn’t need to flirt with him, she didn’t need to influence him ... she didn’t even need to pretend to like him. It made her ... different.

  He leaned forward. “How dangerous are the Red Monks?”

  “I wish I knew,” Isabella said. The frustration in her voice was all too clear. “I’d understand another sorcerer, Your Highness, but the Red Monks are something ... strange.”

  Reginald nodded, slowly. “Can they have disguised their magic in some way?”

  “... Not easily,” Isabella said. “The mere act of camouflaging their magic would be quite revealing. Anyone who had the power to do ... to do what I saw wouldn’t have to hide.”

  “They could just have devised new spells,” Reginald said.

  Isabella’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “You might as well start talking out of your arse,” she snapped. “It’s simply not possible.”

  “I’ve met a lot of men who talked out of their arses,” Reginald said, lightly. “Aren’t there spells to make it happen?”

  “Yeah,” Isabella said. She looked down at the table, then back up at him. “Your Highness ... what I sensed is impossible, by all known magical law. It wasn’t ... it wasn’t understandable. I could take a normal spell apart to see how it was put together, then rewrite it on the fly. This ... I’m not even sure it is magic. And yet, something is happening. I don’t know how to put it into words.”

  Reginald met her eyes. “Do you think we should continue?”

  Isabella blinked. “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes,” Reginald said. He was surprised at himself. It was hard enough to ask for advice from his trusted councillors, even though his father had drummed it into his head – time and time again – that disagreement, expressed in private, was not treachery. Being told no wasn’t easy to hear. He was a prince, after all. But ... he needed to trust her. And he wanted her to trust him. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Isabella said. She sounded honestly perplexed. “Whatever the Red Monks are doing is dangerous. It has to be stopped. And yet ... I don’t know what we might encounter. This isn’t conventional magic.”

  Reginald scowled. That wasn’t an answer. It was his choice, in the end, that would determine if the army marched west or returned to the ships and sailed east, but he would have appreciated her advice. And yet, he understood her dilemma all too well. The fog of war – not knowing where one’s own troops were, let alone not knowing where the enemy was lurking – was bad enough at the best of times. Now, facing unknown powers, it was impossible to even guess at what was lying in wait.

  Caution dictates withdrawal, he thought. But we cannot fall back now.

  He sighed. Retreating after losing a battle was one thing. Everyone would understand. But retreating from a shadow? From vague reports that could mean anything? He’d be the laughing stock of the northern kingdoms. His father didn’t have another son, so there was no way he could be written out of the line of succession, but ... it would be hard to stamp his authority on the land, once he became king. The barons would see him as a coward. The hell of it was that they might well be right.

  “We proceed,” he said. “And we will tear down the temple before we leave.”

  “Just leave it sealed off,” Isabella said. “You have no idea what will happen if you destroy it.”

  “As you wish,” Reginald said. “But we must take one of those monks alive.”

  ***

  The house was practically identical to every other house on the street, Big Richard noted, as they marched towards the building. A wooden front door, a pair of windows ... glass windows ... it was small, compared to some of the other buildings Richard had seen, but whoever owned it had to be rich. Glass was a luxury. He had no idea if the owner was actually guilty of hiding a runaway nobleman or not, but it didn’t matter. Guilty or innocent
, his house was about to be turned upside down. There would be plenty of opportunities for some private looting.

  He smirked at the rest of his squad, then lifted his foot and kicked the door hard enough to smash the lock. The squad rushed inside, clubs at the ready. An older woman gasped when she saw them, lifting a ladle as if she intended to use it as a weapon. The squad grabbed her, shoving her towards the wall. Richard saw a younger woman sitting on the floor and yanked her to her feet, taking advantage of the opportunity to grope her breasts. They felt full, suggesting she was a mother. He looked around and saw a baby lying in a crib. The little brat looked as though he was about to cry.

  “Stand against the wall,” he snarled. “Where are the others?”

  The women gibbered in fear. The baby started to howl. Richard snorted and hurried up the stairs, axe at the ready. There was nothing upstairs, save for a pair of bedrooms ... he felt a flicker of disappointment as he realised there weren’t rich pickings after all. And yet ... his instincts insisted that there was something to be found. He looked around and ...

  ... Something moved, behind him. He spun around. A hooded figure was standing there, wrapped in a red cowl that hid his features. Even his hands were hidden behind long red gloves. Richard grinned, raising his axe. He had no idea how he’d managed to miss the cloaked man, but it didn’t matter. Prince Reginald had offered a large reward for anyone who managed to capture a Red Monk. Richard would make sure he got all the credit. And then ...

  The Red Monk reached for his cowl and pulled it back. Richard raised his axe, too late. The face was ... the face ... things were moving under the cowl. His mind refused to grasp what his eyes were seeing. The world blurred, spinning around him. Someone was speaking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words. And yet, they sounded important. He tried to listen carefully ...

  His eyes snapped open. He was alone. He’d always been alone ... hadn’t he? And yet, he couldn’t escape the sense that something had happened. He looked around, warily, but nothing moved. There wasn’t even anything worth stealing in eyeshot.

  Shaking his head, he headed back down the stairs. He’d probably imagined it. He was tired and jumpy ... it wouldn’t be the first time he’d jumped at shadows. Perhaps it had been a spell ... perhaps one of the women was a witch ... he felt a surge of pure hatred, so intense that he almost cried out. Magic-users ... he hated magic users. They couldn’t be trusted.

  Something moved at the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. It was just his imagination.

  Right?

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I’m leaving you in command here,” Reginald said. Captain-General Jones looked torn between pleasure and fear. “You know what to do?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Jones said. “Open the shipping lanes to Andalusia, then bring in as much as possible before the autumn storms.”

  Reginald nodded as he took one last look at the audience chamber. Jones was the best choice to hold the city, even though it meant that Reginald wouldn’t have his services during the advance to Allenstown. Jones was enough of a pragmatist to work with the locals, rather than treat them as serfs. He’d already started forging ties with the city fathers. By the time the campaign was over, the city fathers would be in no position to switch sides. Their own people – enjoying a boom as the city started to trade with Humber and Havelock – wouldn’t let them. It would keep the slimy bastards loyal.

  “I’ll leave you a small garrison,” he said. “Make sure you work on the defences. I don’t want to come back and discover I’ve lost the city.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Jones said.

  He knows what to do, Reginald reminded himself. Master of Food or not, no one became a Captain-General without a considerable amount of military experience. Logistics was boring, but vital. He wouldn’t trust anyone who didn’t have genuine experience to handle it. The officers who didn’t know what they were doing screwed things up for the fighting men. I have to trust him.

  They exchanged salutes, then Reginald turned and walked down to the courtyard. The castle staff knelt as he passed, a handful of men and women who’d either been allowed to resume their posts or had simply been hired from the city’s population. Reginald would have preferred to bring in his own servants, at least until the war was over, but he couldn’t afford to waste shipping on servants rather than soldiers and mercenaries. The locals should know better than to cause trouble, he hoped. It wasn’t as if the usurper was close enough to take advantage of an uprising.

  And he would probably slaughter the rebels afterwards, Reginald thought, with grim amusement. Kings and princes disliked commoner rebels, even if the rebellion was in their favour. Rebellion is habit-forming.

  His bodyguard waited for him in the courtyard, their weapons at the ready. Reginald nodded to Isabella – he’d insisted on the sorceress staying close to him – and then clambered into the saddle. The horse looked ready to gallop, after a handful of days cooped up in the stables. Reginald felt a flicker of guilt. He’d been taught to take care of his weapons and horses – everything else could be done by the servants – but he hadn’t had time. Someone else had to handle everything.

  “Open the gates,” he ordered.

  The horse surged forward with the others, cantering through the gate and onto the cobbled streets. A handful of commoners – mainly merchants – could be seen on the streets, although almost all of them were men. Reginald reminded himself, again, that it would take time for Racal’s Bay to recover from the invasion. Jones knew to keep the troops under tight control, but it would be a long time before any of the locals felt they could relax. A single mistake might be enough to get them killed.

  He glanced back at the city as the small group headed towards the gates. The remains of the barricades had been cleared away, while teams of repairmen were already working on the walls. Jones probably didn’t have time to make Racal’s Bay impregnable, Reginald considered, but he could certainly stop an enemy troop from simply riding into the city and taking control. Unless, of course, the city rose in rebellion as soon as the enemy appeared on the horizon. It was another good reason to treat the city gently, but firmly.

  They cantered through the outer gates – or what remained of them – and out onto a muddy road. Reginald scowled in annoyance. It clearly hadn’t been a very good road at the best of times, before civil unrest and the passage of part of his army had turned it into a slippery nightmare. King Edwin had talked about building a proper road network, apparently, but very little had actually been done. Reginald silently revised his estimates of how long it would take to reach Allenstown, upwards. His men weren’t going to be deterred by a little mud, but it would slow them down. Maybe King Edwin had calculated that the bad roads would make it harder for his enemies to send troops south.

  And let’s hope he was right, Reginald thought, as they caught up with Captain-General Gars and his men. The usurper might well know we’re here now.

  “Your Highness,” Gars said. He raised a hand in brief salute as Reginald came up alongside him. More elaborate welcomes were forbidden during marches and combat. “The army is on the move.”

  Reginald nodded. Hundreds of soldiers and mercenaries were visible, marching westwards; hundreds more were out of sight, spread out across the countryside and watching for potential threats. The locals were probably already running for cover, hiding their daughters and whatever paltry food supplies they had before a horde of soldiers descended on their lands like ravening locusts. It was clear – his lips thinned in disgust as he surveyed the muddy fields – that modern farming techniques had never made it to the Summer Isle. They would have to be introduced, once the war was over. The Summer Isle would probably never be a major food exporter – the weather was too unpleasant – but it should definitely be able to support a bigger population. And a bigger population meant a larger army and tax base.

  A problem for my sons, he thought. He smiled at the thought. It would soon be time for him to marry, although he knew
he probably wouldn’t get to choose his bride. King Romulus had been considering the matter for years. They will learn to rule here, while I rule the homeland.

  “The pickets have reported no sign of enemy contact,” Gars informed him. “The enemy doesn’t appear to be watching us.”

  Reginald shrugged. There were plenty of hills between Racal’s Bay and Allenstown. And Lord Francis knew the army was on its way. There would be enemy pickets on those hills, watching for Reginald’s forces. Reginald would bet his crown on it. They probably wouldn’t be seen – the enemy troops would know the land far better than his men – but they would be there. It was unlikely that he could be assured of complete surprise.

  “Keep the river between us and the enemy,” he said. The River Racal wasn’t entirely impassable – although it had already swollen and burst its banks after the last set of rainstorms – but the enemy would have trouble getting an army across the waters. “And make sure the pickets stay on alert.”

  He settled back into the saddle as the sky darkened. It was going to be a long march, made worse by the rain and the mud. But at least they were on the way to Allenstown. And – if he was correct – he’d have an excellent chance of capturing the city before the usurper could respond to his invasion. And then ...

  I’ll hold all the cards, he thought. The usurper will not be able to stand against me.

  ***

  Isabella was quite familiar with unpleasant weather conditions. She’d trained near the Watchtower, where the weather could swing from hot to cold at terrifying speed; she’d travelled to sandy deserts and icy mountains, where she’d alternatively sweated like a pig or frozen solid. And yet, there was something strikingly morbid about the Summer Isle’s weather. The dismally dark skies opened regularly, discharging rain onto the marching troops; rain trickled into her collar and down her leathers, pooling in her pants and making her feel cold and uncomfortable. She kept her discomfort to herself, knowing she was one of the lucky ones. The marching troops didn’t even have the comfort of a horse.