The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  The whistle blew, again. Big Richard jumped up with the others, howling as they ran towards the enemy positions. Arrows hissed over their heads, flying backwards and forwards in search of a target. A man next to him was hit in the throat and tumbled forward, but Richard barely noticed. The bloodlust was rising in him, the urge to lash out with his axe and kill, kill, kill ...

  He howled louder as the enemy lines rose up in front of him. They were skimpy, even compared to Racal’s Bay. The enemy bastards simply hadn’t had time to fortify the tiny town. Richard laughed at the thought, then swung his axe and cut an enemy soldier in two. Blood splashed around his feet as a second man jabbed at him with a sword, followed by a third. Conscripts, part of his mind guessed. They hadn’t been trained in how to use their weapons properly. Allowing him into axe-range had been a dreadful mistake.

  “Die,” he shouted, as he struck out with his axe. “Die!”

  The second man crumpled as he jabbed the pointed end of the axe into his eye, the third man ducking backwards in horror. Richard thrust onwards, slicing off the man’s sword arm. He lifted his other hand in surrender, but Richard ignored it and beheaded him. There was no point in trying to take prisoners who obviously wouldn’t fetch a good ransom. Besides, the man – a boy, really – had been a fool. What sort of idiot brought a sword to an axe-fight?

  He grinned, savagely, then hurried forward and rejoined the others. The enemy had put their expendable troops on the outer edge of the defences, of course. Now, their inner lines were already mounting a counterattack. He prepared himself to meet it, blood dripping from his axe as more arrows hissed overhead. The enemy might push them back out of the trenches, but they’d pay a high price ...

  We’ll earn our pay tonight, he thought. And then it will be time to settle accounts with the sorceress.

  ***

  An arrow struck an invisible barrier and shattered, the pieces falling to the ground. Reginald shot Isabella an appreciative look, then turned his attention back to the battle. The enemy lines were wavering, but the enemy were already feeding their reserves into the trenches. In a couple of places, they were even firing arrows into their own trenches. It was the only thing they could do to keep them from getting overrun.

  He waved to a messenger. “Inform Gars that he is to concentrate his efforts on the eastern trenches,” he said. They had to get through the lines before night fell. “They look to be the weakest.”

  The messenger nodded and hurried off. Reginald swept his telescope across the battlefield, trying to gauge the usurper’s thinking. He’d be in there somewhere, planning his counterattack. Unless he’d already fled ... Reginald considered it hopefully, then decided it was unlikely. Deserting a battlefield before the battle was clearly lost would destroy his chances of holding on to the crown. Even if he tried, retreat would be difficult.

  He sucked in his breath as the noise grew louder. Gars was feeding more and more men into the eastern trenches, as per orders. The enemy line was buckling, yet ... he frowned, considering the possibilities. Would the usurper withdraw forces from the other trenches to repel the attack? Or would he try to pull back into the town? Even getting a number of troops across the river would make life harder for Reginald. It was one of the reasons he’d launched the attack almost at once.

  Another messenger ran up to him. “Sir ... the river has been successfully forded!”

  “Very good,” Reginald said.

  He leaned forward eagerly, resisting the urge to scan the southern riverbank for Caen and his troops. Caen hadn’t been able to cross too close to Alcidine or the enemy would have seen him, but ... but how long would it take to get his forces into position to hit the rear end of the bridge? And how would the enemy react? Reginald would have made sure to get a picket force onto the south side, even if he’d kept the majority of his force on the north. How long would it be until the usurper realised that his line of retreat wasn’t secure any longer?

  It will take as long as it takes, he reminded himself, firmly. Some things had to be left to chance, no matter what he did. Caen knows what he’s doing. And all I can do is wait.

  ***

  Rufus allowed himself a moment of cold pleasure as the eastern lines solidified again, despite the number of men hurling themselves against his defences. Using his weaker – and somewhat untrustworthy – troops on the outer edge of the defences had paid off in more ways than one. They’d slowed the enemy down, which was more than he’d expected, but their deaths had also weakened some of his nobility. They wouldn’t be able to cause so much trouble in the long run. And none of them had been able to refuse his command to serve.

  The assholes themselves may be dead, he felt, with a flicker of cold satisfaction. He’d taken pains to put the treacherous noblemen he disliked most in the front lines – or as close to them as possible. And even if they’re not, they will have no way to oppose me.

  He smiled, even as he barked orders to funnel more men into the trenches. The family had believed since time out of mind that they could turn the Summer Isle into a major kingdom in its own right. It had everything it needed to be great, save for a powerful and unquestioned ruler. King Edwin had been weak, the nobility torn apart by fratricidal conflicts ... Rufus’s father, just like the rest of them, had seen his children as nothing more than pawns in the endless game of thrones. But his children had had different ideas. Together, they were far greater than the sum of their parts.

  The enemy attack was losing steam, he thought. There were limits to what men could do, even fighting for a cause. The constant slaughter – the constant rebuffs – were crippling their morale, making it harder for them to fight. And all he really had to do was hold out until dark.

  And then we can launch an attack at night, he told himself. The enemy didn’t know the lands, but Rufus’s men did. And then we will win.

  ***

  Fife held himself still, aiming the bow with extreme care. There was a man standing by one of the stone houses, briefly appearing to survey the battlefield before snapping his head out of sight again. An enemy commander, perhaps. Messengers did seem to be going to him and then heading out again. Fife had left them alone. He wanted a bigger target.

  The man appeared again, warily. Two messengers were approaching, shouting and waving urgently. Fife had no idea what they were talking about, but it didn’t matter. It was an opportunity. He sighted, then fired. The arrow snapped into the air ...

  ***

  “Sire!”

  Rufus gritted his teeth. He knew it was bad news. “What?”

  “An enemy force has attacked the southern side of the bridge,” the messenger said. He looked as if he expected to be executed on the spot. “They’ve punched through the pickets and taken the far end.”

  “Shit,” Rufus swore.

  He forced himself to think as the messenger abased himself. It wasn’t a complete disaster. If the enemy had a large army on the southern side, it would get torn to ribbons when it tried to cross; if they didn’t, all they could do was block his troops from crossing the river. It wasn’t a complete disaster, but it was a major headache. And if the troops thought their line of retreat had been cut, they might panic. His defence line might come apart at the seams.

  “Get up,” he snapped at the cowering messenger. He had no qualms about executing men for failure – and then selling their widows and lands to the highest bidder – but killing messengers was stupid. Even his father, a brutal and cruel man in many ways, hadn’t killed men for bringing him bad news. “Tell the reserves to ...”

  He stopped, some instinct making him look around. Time itself seemed to be slowing to a crawl, as if the world itself was fading away ...

  ... And then the arrow struck his forehead.

  King Rufus crumpled to the ground and died.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “The King is dead!”

  Havant swallowed, hard, as word echoed through the rear. The king was dead ... the king couldn’t be dead! His brother could not be
dead. But panic was already spreading through the lines. It wouldn’t be long before some of the more treacherous noblemen decided to switch sides. They wouldn’t even be betraying the kingdom! Their oaths to King Rufus had died with him.

  A messenger ran up to him. “Sir, the enemy is resuming the attack!”

  “Obviously,” Havant snapped.

  He gritted his teeth. Prince Reginald might not know what had happened, but the sudden chaos was unmistakable. It was a perfect opportunity to anyone who wanted to win the battle before someone else assumed control. And, with his forces on the far side of the river ready to cross, it was all too likely that he’d win before Havant could take command. Hell, far too many noblemen would refuse to recognise Havant until he was crowned in Allenstown ...

  “Order the reserves to retreat and head north,” he ordered, grimly. “The remainder of the army is to hold as long as possible, then head north themselves. We will rendezvous at” – he took a moment to think – “Montrose.”

  “An inspired choice,” Hark said, calmly.

  Havant bit down a number of icy remarks. The battle was lost. Worse, the kingdom might well be lost too. The core army could be reformed, given time, but many of Rufus’s former vassals might switch sides now that he was dead. Even if they didn’t, they might not stay with Havant for long. They’d want to extract as many concessions as possible while their nominal king was in no position to argue.

  And Prince Reginald now has an open road to Allenstown, he thought. Getting the army reformed in time to save Allenstown might be impossible. The city may not be able to hold out for long.

  He summoned a handful of messengers and issued orders, then called for his horse. There was nothing to be gained from pretending that the battle wasn’t over. All he could do was preserve as much as possible, either to continue the war or sell out for the best terms he could get. And yet, after everything the family had done, he knew it was unlikely that Prince Reginald would let them keep their power. Their wings would very definitely be clipped. It was certainly unlikely that Reginald would agree to marry Emetine!

  Shaking his head, he climbed onto the horse and joined the retreat. Behind him, he heard the sound of fighting growing louder. The enemy had definitely scented weakness, then. It wouldn’t be long before they mopped up the remaining troops, secured the town and opened the way to Allenstown. And then ... he sighed. It was in the hands of the gods now.

  Hark walked beside him, keeping easy pace with the horse. Havant wondered, sourly, why the Red Monks hadn’t done more during the battle. They’d done enough to convince him that they could work miracles, yet ... he shook his head. He would have to have a proper chat with Hark, once they reached Montrose. Now, all they could do was retreat.

  And hope they don’t harass us as we run, he thought. They could finish us off if they press the offensive.

  ***

  Reginald had seen his first battlefield – the remnants of a brief clash with peasant rebels – when he’d been ten. He’d seen many more battlefields since, from a clash between two armies to a castle being stormed, but there was something about this battlefield that wore at him. Hundreds of bodies, most hacked to pieces, lay in piles on the ground, all concentrated over the trenches. The buildings beyond were blackened ruins, torn apart by his men when they stormed the town. It looked as though the tiny town – Alcidine was really nothing more than a village – would never rise again.

  “That’s the usurper,” Caen said. He pointed to a single body, an arrow sticking out of its forehead. “The prisoners were quick to point him out to us.”

  Reginald nodded, slowly. The usurper wore plain armour – a sign of an experienced soldier – but it was clear that he was nobility. Nobles were normally taller and fitter than the average commoner, if only because they ate better. His face was clean, unscarred by pox; his hands bore the telltale signs of a sword, rather than a plough. It was hard to be sure, but Reginald would have guessed the body was in its late thirties. Rufus Hereford had been thirty-seven.

  And now he’s dead, he thought, wryly. It was a shame he didn’t know which archer to promote. There was no hope of collecting a ransom for a dead body, unless the usurper’s relatives wanted to pay to give his ashes a proper burial, but there hadn’t been much hope of a ransom either. Reginald could not have left the man alive. The kingdom is mine.

  He looked up at Caen. “How many prisoners did we take?”

  “Seventeen noblemen of various ranks, all Hereford clients,” Caen informed him. “And around five hundred soldiers. Some of the latter have asked to switch sides.”

  “I’m sure they have,” Reginald grunted. He had no particular objection to absorbing defeated enemy troops into his army – most of them were little better than mercenaries, loyal only to their paymaster – but it was well to be careful. “The common soldiers can be held for a week, then released. They won’t be a problem without leaders. The sergeants and suchlike are to be held indefinitely, unless they’re willing to join us.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Caen said. “I should add that the noblemen are all extremely eager to kiss your arse.”

  “They must be desperate,” Reginald said. He smiled, despite himself. If the usurper was dead, his clients would need a new patron. “Have them taken to the camp, held in separate tents, and interrogated. I want to know what, if anything, they can do for us.”

  And they were taken in war, he thought, grimly. We can confiscate their lands and they know it. They’ll do everything in their power to seem useful.

  Stuart hurried up, his bodyguards trailing behind. “Your Highness,” he said. “The enemy is still retreating northwards. Their rearguard” – his lips twisted, unpleasantly – “was alarmingly effective.”

  Reginald nodded, feeling a flicker of sour admiration for whoever had taken command of the enemy force. Retreating from a battle was difficult enough at the best of times, all the more so when subordinate commanders were suddenly dangerously untrustworthy. Reginald had no doubt that some of the surviving noblemen would make contact with him soon enough, offering troops and money in exchange for a place in the new kingdom. Whoever was in command of what remained of the enemy force was in a very tight spot.

  A shame we didn’t manage to cut off their retreat completely, he thought. By the time he’d realised what was happening, it was already too late. And we don’t have time to chase them now.

  “Bring up the remainder of our supplies, then throw out a line of pickets,” he ordered, instead. “We’ll make camp here, then resume our advance in the morning. I want to get to Allenstown before the enemy has a chance to regroup.”

  “Your Highness,” Stuart said.

  He smiled, suddenly. “Do you think this was the decisive battle?”

  Reginald shrugged. The Summer Isle’s laws insisted that the prospective king had to be acclaimed by the Gathering – an assembly of noblemen – before being crowned as king, but anyone with any real understanding of power knew that force was all that mattered. He’d smashed a chunk of the enemy army, then captured or scattered all that was left of it. It was unlikely anyone would dare to block him openly, no matter what happened.

  And if we’re lucky, the chaos caused by the death of the false king will make it impossible for them to stop us just walking into Allenstown, he thought. And then we will be too strong to ignore.

  “We will see,” he said. “But if they don’t manage to rebuild their forces, we win.”

  ***

  “Hail, Your Majesty,” Hark said, as Havant entered the house. “Hail, King Havant!”

  Havant scowled. It had taken all the charm he possessed to convince most of his commanders to hail him as king, even though he’d been his brother’s heir. And those commanders were supposed to be loyalists, their families clients of long standing. It would be harder to keep some of the more distant clients – and fair-weather friends – from slipping away once they heard the news. The army had taken one hell of a beating. Worse, it knew it had ta
ken one hell of a beating.

  He stomped over to the table and poured himself a glass of wine. The merchant who owned the house – and had surrendered it to the king at swordpoint – hadn’t been a particularly rich man, but he’d known his wines. Perhaps he’d spent more time than he should aping his betters, Havant considered. There had certainly been more than a little defiance in his tone before the guards had taken him and his family away. He clearly hadn’t realised that Havant was in no mood for anything but absolute submission.

  “My brother is dead,” he said, taking a sip of the wine. “Why did that happen?”

  “Your brother refused to open his heart to Our Lord,” Hark said. “And so he was outside Our Lord’s protection.”

  Havant swung around, one hand dropping to the sword at his belt. “Are you saying you could have saved him?”

  “Our Lord could have saved him,” Hark said. His hood hid his features in darkness. “But he chose not to open his heart.”

  “And if he had, he would have lived?” Havant leaned forward, wondering – suddenly – just what he would see if he looked into the darkness. Hark was the only monk who didn’t keep his face completely covered at all times. “Or would you make excuses for your failure, like all the other priests ...”

  Hark lifted one white finger. “Our Lord does not fail,” he said. “Or did he not kill your brother-in-law for you?”

  “You needed a sample of his blood to kill him,” Havant snapped.

  “There is always a price,” Hark said. “And sometimes that price is measured in the willingness to do whatever it takes to gain Our Lord’s favour.”

  He leaned forward. The shadows seemed to darken.

  “Open your heart to Our Lord,” he urged. “And Our Lord will help you.”

  Havant couldn’t tear his eyes away from the darkness. And yet, he knew – on some instinctive level – that he didn’t want to know what hid under the darkness. He’d been told, from birth, that priests were better kept at arm’s length. They were useful to keep the peasants quiet and obedient – and fire the soldiers when they went to war – but they could not be allowed real power. Indeed, Rufus had insisted that Havant talk to the Red Monks because the head of the family could not be seen making an alliance with a single religion.