The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  Should have had more pickets out, you idiot, Havant thought. The enemy army was supposed to be experienced, but whoever had been in command behind him was an ignorant fool. Did you think the island was under your boot?

  He laughed, despite himself, as they hurtled into the darkness. The light behind him was growing brighter, driving the darkness away. Hark had promised that the flamers would burn until every last drop of blessed oil was gone, no matter what the enemy did. As long as a mere splash had landed on a wooden cart, that cart was doomed. It was just a shame they could only produce a little of the oil.

  The horses ran faster as they went off the road, climbing up the embankment and slowing as they plunged into the dark forest. Havant glanced behind him, listening for the sound of pursuit, but there was nothing. It was tempting to believe that the enemy had all been consumed by the flames, although he knew it was unlikely. They were probably trying to put out the fires before it was too late – an impossible goal – or simply trying to think of a story they could tell Prince Reginald. Havant wondered, idly, how many men the enemy commander would claim to have killed. He’d need to have killed a small army to save his neck from the block.

  “We did it,” Flores said, as he brought his horse up beside Havant. “We did it!”

  Havant nodded. Flores was the closest thing he had to a friend. He hadn’t been encouraged to get close to anyone – his father had snapped and snarled at anyone who spoke to his sons – but Flores had somehow ignored the older man’s bloodcurdling threats. It was almost a shame that there was a new barrier between them, one that no amount of comradeship could dispel. Havant ... was king or nothing. Flores was just a common nobleman.

  “Excellent work,” he said, allowing his voice to carry through the gloom. He had to show that Flores had his trust. The men needed to understand that their leader was held high in their king’s esteem. “Your plan worked perfectly.”

  Flores bowed his head. “I thank you,” he said. “And we’re heading straight for the rendezvous point now. After that, we’ll start looking for more targets.”

  Havant nodded. Prince Reginald would find out about the attack within two days, perhaps less. It was impossible to be sure. Havant had taken care to scatter a handful of pickets on both sides of the enemy camp, hoping to intercept a fleeing horseman, but he was too experienced a soldier to be certain they’d keep word from reaching Allenstown. Prince Reginald would find out. And then ... he’d have no choice, but to double and redouble the escorts. That alone would make it harder for him to push northwards.

  And they’re planning to head straight for us, he thought, grimly. We have to keep them off-balance until winter arrives.

  Silence fell as they moved further and further into the forest. The men stopped talking and glanced around nervously, hands falling to their weapons as they saw things moving in the shadows. Havant felt nothing, not even a hint of concern. The forest was sinister – almost alien – but he knew, on some level, that it wouldn’t hurt him. It was almost part of him.

  The camp loomed out of nowhere, a small collection of tents buried deep within the forest. A Red Monk stood at the end, bowing deeply to Havant as he passed. Some of the soldiers stared at the monk in awe, others looked away in fear. Havant felt a flicker of disgust for the latter, a flicker that seemed to come from somewhere far outside his mind. There would be no room in the new world for those who refused to open their hearts to him ...

  Hark was standing in front of him. Havant blinked in surprise, realising – slowly – that he’d blanked out again. It was hard, so hard, to remember anything after they’d entered the forest ... where was his horse? When had he dismounted? What had happened? But it didn’t bother him, either. Slowly, he forgot that it had even happened.

  “Your Majesty,” Hark said. “All is prepared.”

  Havant glanced around the campsite, making sure that the pickets were in place and a handful of soldiers were ready to defend the camp while their comrades slept, then followed Hark out of the campsite and down a grassy path. It felt eerie, almost as if he were in a dream. Strange shapes moved overhead, gliding through the night; he looked up, but his eyes refused to focus on them. The moon was larger, somehow. Its pale radiance seemed to belong to another world.

  It was quiet, so quiet. Havant could hear nothing, not even his own breathing. Things flickered through the trees, then vanished again; he welcomed their presence, even as he feared them. They are part of the natural order, something seemed to whisper. This was how the world was meant to be. The moonlight grew brighter, driving back the shadows and illuminating a giant clearing. Strange ruins stood at the edges, remnants of a building long since lost to the ages. A single altar stood in the exact centre, glowing with a faint unearthly light. It called to Havant, welcoming him ...

  His limbs moved forward, practically of their own accord. He was a passenger in his own body, watching helplessly as someone else took control. It should have panicked him, but it felt ... it felt normal. He strode up to the altar and stood, waiting. The world seemed to grow even quieter, as if it were holding its breath. It was waiting for something to happen.

  A girl stepped out of the forest and walked towards him, removing her white dress as she moved. Another followed, and another ... they were young and old, their bodies shining white under the moonlight. A faint sound echoed through the air ... it took him a moment to realise that they were singing, singing so softly that he could barely make out the words. He certainly couldn’t understand them. But the presence within him understood. He could feel anticipation flowing through his mind as the girls climbed onto the altar and lay down.

  Havant felt his body move forward and touch the altar. Power rose up – or down – into him, directed by ... by something. His mind expanded, as if his body was suddenly too small to contain his thoughts. He was suddenly very – very – aware of the young women, aware of every last cell in their bodies, aware ... aware of the power flowing through them. They were connected, connected to the land, connected to the sky ... great thoughts sang through the air, welcoming him. It was suddenly so easy to just reach out and touch the world ...

  His eyes snapped open. He was kneeling in front of the altar, tired and drained. He’d blanked out, again. And yet ... he fought to recover his memories. Something had happened, but what? He forced himself to his feet and looked at the altar. It was covered in dust and ashes. The girls ... the girls were gone. His instincts warned him not to even think of touching the altar.

  He turned, slowly. Hark was standing behind him, his face hidden behind his cowl. And yet ... Havant could see him. Hark was ... Hark was ... he looked away, quickly. There was something about him that was very far from human. It was ... it was ...

  “It is done,” Hark said. “The first Great Working in centuries.”

  Havant forced himself to remain standing. The world ... the world had changed. It was dark, yet he could see ... things. Flashes of light darted through the trees, blurring together into something else. It wasn’t magic, he knew, although he wasn’t sure how he knew. It was something else, something more fundamental ... something more right. The presence within him seemed to grow stronger, the more he looked around with his new awareness. He carried a seed within him ...

  The thought should have worried him. But it didn’t.

  He managed, somehow, to speak. “What happened?”

  “You performed a Great Working,” Hark said, calmly. He turned and walked back towards the path. “And now the land itself will serve Our Lord.”

  Havant followed him, somehow. His legs felt odd, as if they weren’t really his. He had to look down to convince himself that he still had his legs. The dream had faded, but ... but it had been replaced by something else. Everywhere he looked, he could see ... things ... creatures ... right at the edge of his awareness. It felt as though he’d been blind all his life, yet now he could see. A whole new world was opening up in front of him.

  The path was straight. The path was twist
ed. It made no sense, yet ... it was natural and right. They were outside the camp. They were inside the camp ... he found himself entering his tent with no clear memory of how he’d passed through the perimeter. The guards would have to be whipped for letting him through ... no, somehow he knew the guards hadn’t had a hope of seeing him. He’d been walking the path.

  A great tiredness overcame him. He lay down on the blanket – even for a king, there was no bed – and closed his eyes. And he dreamed ... storms were moving, spreading over the waters. He could hear the winds howling, feel the waves as they lashed against the shores, forcing fishermen to flee to the nearest harbour. The storms were growing stronger and stronger, driven by ... driven by the forces he’d awakened. There were faces moving within the storm ...

  He jerked awake again, one hand grabbing for his dagger. Flores was standing by the side of his bed, looking down at him worriedly. Havant felt a hot flash of rage, mingled with an odd unconcern that puzzled him. Flores could have cut his throat ... no, somehow he was sure that Flores could not have cut his throat. Death wouldn’t touch him as long as he opened himself to his lord.

  “You were crying out, Your Majesty,” Flores said. “Are you alright?”

  Havant glanced at the flap. It was light outside ... midmorning, by his estimate. He rubbed his forehead as he sat upright, realising – grimly – that his body was caked in sweat. He’d been dreaming ... everything had a lucid dreamlike quality, leaving him wondering – helplessly – how much of it had been real. The presence was sleeping. And yet ...

  “It was just too much cheese,” he said, slowly. Something told him not to tell Flores the truth – or anything resembling the truth. “I ate too much before we set out on the raid.”

  He stood on wobbly legs. “Did they try to find us?”

  “Not as far as we can tell,” Flores said. He still looked worried. “We are pretty deep within the forest.”

  No one will find us here, Havant thought. He wasn’t sure if it was his thought or something from the presence. The forest itself will protect us.

  He stripped off his shirt. There was no way he could have a proper bath, but he could wash himself. And yet ...

  Flores lifted an eyebrow. “When did you get tattooed?”

  Havant looked down at himself. His chest was covered in blue tattoos. They were a strange series of circles and lines, drawn together into a cat’s cradle that made no sense, yet felt natural and right. He had no memory of getting them ...

  “It’s something my brother and I devised,” he lied. He walked over to the bucket and splashed cold water on his face. “Are you ready to take the offensive?”

  “We’ll start heading out again at nightfall,” Flores said. “How about yourself?”

  “I’ll head back to the main camp,” Havant said. Flores could handle the raiding, at least until Prince Reginald brought in enough troops to shut the whole operation down. “I have a feeling I’m going to be needed there.”

  “Very good, Your Majesty,” Flores said. “We’ll keep in touch through the Red Monks.”

  “Make sure you snipe at Racal’s Bay,” Havant added. “And feel free to snipe at any passing troops too.”

  He’d be surprised if Flores actually managed to take the city, but riding past and harassing the defenders would remind Prince Reginald that he actually had to defend it. Forcing him to tie down a thousand or so men several days from Allenstown would be worth it, even if it meant there was no hope of recapturing Racal’s Bay. But then, the city could be recovered after Prince Reginald had been forced to surrender. There was no point in wasting men and time taking a city when it wouldn’t need anything like as much effort to neutralise it.

  “Of course,” Flores said. They shared a vicious grin. “We can’t have them getting too comfortable.”

  Havant finished washing, pulled on a new shirt and strode out of the tent. A dozen men were kneeling in front of a Red Monk, muttering prayers in a strange language; others were sharpening their weapons or patrolling the edge of the campsite. Flores followed him, noting the names of a handful of men who’d performed well. Havant felt almost normal again. In the bright sunlight, everything that had happened felt like a dream ...

  But he could still see things in the shadows ...

  And, in the distance, he could sense the thunder.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “What the hell happened?”

  Reginald glared down at the report, then up at the hapless messenger. “What the hell happened?”

  The messenger looked as though he was about to faint. Reginald would have felt sorry for him, if the army hadn’t been heading north for the last two days. Five thousand men – on foot and on horseback – spread out over a wide area, flanked by pickets watching for signs of enemy activity. Everything had been going so well, too. A handful of towns had surrendered, the moment his forces had arrived; a number of local dignitaries had bent the knee as soon as they realised their former patrons could no longer protect them. Reginald had been on the verge of breaking camp and heading further north when the messenger caught up with him.

  “A convoy was attacked, Your Highness,” the messenger whispered. “Did you not get word?”

  Reginald shook his head, impatiently. “Details?”

  “I was sent back to Racal’s Bay,” the messenger said. “And then I was ordered to ride to Allenstown and find you. Didn’t you hear from the other messenger?”

  “No,” Reginald said. He gritted his teeth. If the messenger had had to go the long way around, his report was at least six days out of date. Perhaps longer. “What happened to the convoy?”

  “It was destroyed, Your Highness,” the messenger told him. “And ... and ... Your Highness ...”

  “Spit it out,” Reginald snapped. He was not about to kill the messenger. “What happened?”

  “Storms in the channel,” the messenger said. “Shipping has been curtailed.”

  Reginald swore. The weather was dangerously unpredictable, but he’d been assured it would be at least a month before the autumn storms really began. If they’d started now ... he forced himself to think, hard. He’d brought a vast amount of supplies with him, when he’d landed on the Summer Isle, and more had been shipped over since, but if they could no longer sail between the island and Andalusia ...

  “I see,” he said, finally.

  He cursed under his breath. The absence of the other messenger was telling too, in its own way. The man must have met a violent end somewhere between Racal’s Bay and Allenstown. It was possible, he supposed, that some of the villagers had killed him, but he doubted they could be that lucky. No, there was an enemy force operating somewhere in his rear. And that meant that all of his plans had been based on a false premise.

  They can’t fight us directly, so they hit our supply lines, he thought. If nothing else, future convoys would have to be given heavier escorts, sapping his deployable forces. And that will make it harder for us to stay on the offensive.

  The messenger cleared his throat. “Would you like me to take a message back to Allenstown, Your Highness?”

  “Not yet,” Reginald said. He pointed to the mess tent. “Grab yourself something to eat, then wait. I’ll have a message for you later.”

  He watched the messenger scurry off, then waved to Gars and Jones. The two men hurried over to join him. Neither of them looked very confident, he noted sourly. By now, rumours were probably already starting to spread through the camp. The messenger would keep his mouth shut, Reginald was sure, but it wouldn’t matter. An announcement would have to be made before the army came to believe that the enemy had moved in behind them and recaptured Allenstown.

  “We have a problem,” he said, stiffly. He ran through the details, such as they were. “What does this mean for us?”

  “In the short run, nothing,” Gars said. “We weren’t planning to resupply the army any time soon.”

  “Yes, but we do need supplies,” Jones countered. “The Summer Isle is short
on food.”

  Reginald nodded, curtly. The serfs weren’t very efficient farmers. He’d bet half his estates that the peasants hid at least some of their produce, just to keep their lords and masters from starving them, but finding the caches would be difficult. And if they couldn’t find the food ... he cursed, again. Keeping his men from slaughtering sheep, cows and goats for food – or eating the seed corn – would be impossible.

  And that will ensure famine next year, he thought. We won’t even be able to replace what we take.

  Jones was counting on his fingers. “Assuming we don’t lose any other convoys, we should be able to keep the army fed throughout the winter,” he said. “But it will be very tight.”

  “Too tight,” Gars said.

  “I know,” Reginald said. Jones was a good man – he’d been on campaign, unlike his father’s beancounters – but his estimates of how much the troops would need were still too low. Any serving officer knew that armies consumed more supplies than predicted. And even if Jones was correct, there was no way to guarantee that they wouldn’t lose any other convoys. The estimates might have to be revised if new reports reached the army. “And we still have a war to fight.”

  He looked down at his map, grimly. The scouts had made it clear that Earl Goldenrod had joined forces with Lord Havant, bringing his forces south to block Reginald’s march to the north. It made a certain kind of sense, Reginald acknowledged, particularly in light of the reports that Lord Havant had married Roxanne Goldenrod, but it was frustrating. He’d hoped to crush Havant and intimidate Earl Goldenrod into submission. The upside was that Goldenrod’s lands could be seized and parcelled out to Reginald’s supporters, he supposed, but the downside was that those lands would have to be taken first.