The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  “In temples, people worship false gods,” Mother Lembu said, very quietly. “And now, the real gods are coming back.”

  Isabella stared. “False gods?”

  “False gods,” Mother Lembu confirmed, curtly. She picked up the jar and held it in one hand. “Come. Let us go out into the night.”

  “I don’t understand,” Isabella said, as Mother Lembu opened the door. “What gods?”

  “A very long time ago, they were banished,” Mother Lembu said. She walked into the darkness. “And now they are returning, granting powers to those who embrace them ... who appeal to them.”

  Isabella stared. “In exchange for what?”

  Mother Lembu said nothing. Instead, she glanced down at Big Richard and then turned to peer into the darkened forest. There was no sign of anyone in the gloom, not even watchful animals or owls gliding through the night. But the sense of being watched was growing stronger by the second.

  “I’m going to put some of this ointment on your eyes,” Mother Lembu said, holding up the jar. “Open them and stay still.”

  Isabella hesitated. Cold logic told her that the ointment would do her no harm, but she wasn’t sure cold logic meant anything any longer. Mother Lembu let out a sigh and waved a hand at Isabella. She couldn’t move, no matter what she did. Her mind felt disconnected from her body. Mother Lembu dipped her fingers in the ointment, touched them to Isabella’s eyes and then stepped back, out of Isabella’s line of sight. A moment later, Isabella could move again.

  “Look into the forest,” Mother Lembu ordered.

  Isabella gritted her teeth, but did as she was told. Her eyes weren’t stinging. They were ... she wasn’t sure how to describe the sensation. It was as if they were slowly opening, even though they were open. Flashes of light darted through the trees, as if they’d always been there; things sat on branches, peering at her through unblinking eyes. She couldn’t make out the details – it was as if her eyes refused to see more than a blur – but they were there. Larger things moved silently through the trees, pulses of energy moved through the ground ... tendrils of ... something ... slid in directions beyond her comprehension. The forest was so much bigger than she’d realised.

  She looked down at the hex sign and saw ... an impassable barrier. It was just a line of ashes on the ground, yet it was also a solid wall ... her head swam as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing. They couldn’t both be true, could they? But ... she thought she understood, just for a moment. There was nothing stopping a chess piece from making an illegal move, save for a shared understanding that doing so would ruin the game. The newcomers – whatever they were – followed rules that no human understood, yet.

  The horseshoes keep them out, she thought. No wonder the villagers were being so wasteful. The horseshoes – the cold iron – was the only thing keeping their homes safe. And the Red Monks were trying to get rid of pure iron blades ...

  Isabella turned, slightly. “The Red Monks,” she said. “What are they?”

  “I can’t answer that question,” Mother Lembu said. “Not yet.”

  “I need an answer,” Isabella said. She turned to look at the old woman. “I ...”

  The world went white. Mother Lembu blazed with light, light so bright that it burned through Isabella’s eyelids even though she’d squeezed them closed. She could feel the light burning into her mind, slicing through her thoughts ...

  “You made one mistake,” Mother Lembu said. Her voice echoed through the air. “And your time to recover is short.”

  The light seemed to grow brighter, just for a second. And then it was gone. Isabella found herself on her knees, staring down at the muddy ground. She looked up, expecting to see the hut, but there was nothing. The hut was gone. Mother Lembu was gone. Big Richard was lying on the ground, groaning. And, in the distance, she could see the first glimmers of dawn breaking over the horizon.

  She slumped, nearly landing in the mud before she caught herself. Dawn? It couldn’t be dawn. It had been midnight, only an hour or so ago. Her head spun as she tried to understand what she was seeing. She’d been in the hut, hadn’t she? If her eyes hadn’t been dripping with ointment, she would have wondered if she’d dreamt it all. The world no longer seemed to make sense.

  The rules are different now, she thought, grimly. Mother Lembu had been ... what? It was hard to believe that the old woman was human, not after the light ... she rubbed her eyes, feeling the remnants of the ointment drying rapidly. Maybe, just maybe ...

  She forced herself to stand upright. She needed time to sit down and think, then ... then what? She had no idea how to proceed. Go back to Reginald and tell him ... tell him what? Or write to Alden? Alden wouldn’t know any more about the distant past than Isabella herself, unless there were long-forgotten truths buried in the Black Library. The old gods were coming back? Isabella wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen the new world for herself. Something had definitely changed.

  It started here, she told herself. But it won’t stop here.

  Big Richard groaned, again. “What happened?”

  Isabella frowned. “How much do you remember?”

  “Girls,” Big Richard managed. “There were girls. And they were ...”

  His voice trailed off. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” Isabella said. If all Big Richard remembered were girls ... she shook her head in annoyance. “We have to get back to the village.”

  She glanced up at the lightening sky, then glanced around. Were they lost? No ... a pathway led down towards the village. She nodded to Big Richard, then started to walk. The world felt eerie the moment they stepped over the hex sign, even though the ointment was no longer affecting her eyes. She made a resolution to brew more ointment for herself – there wasn’t much to the recipe – and see if she could get it to work. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would allow her to understand how the new rules actually worked.

  There was no one moving in the village as they walked down the path, not even a chicken or a pig. She was sure that people were watching them from hidden slits – the huts didn’t have windows, let alone glass – but she saw nothing. A chill ran down her spine as she realised that the villagers were afraid to walk out at night, save for the girls who’d joined the sabbat. They might well be safe in the darkness ...

  Lord Robin met them at the door, his face anxious. “What happened? Where have you been?”

  Isabella and Big Richard exchanged glances. “It’s a long story,” she said, finally. She still wasn’t sure why Big Richard had followed her. If the call had reached all the way to the village, why had Big Richard been the only one affected? “We have to leave, sir, and catch up with the army.”

  “I see,” Lord Robin said. He whistled loudly, waking the other mercenaries. “What happened?”

  “This place isn’t safe,” Isabella said. She made a mental note to gather ingredients for the ointment before they left. “And we have to warn the prince about the Red Monks.”

  “He knows about the Red Monks,” Big Richard sneered.

  “How nice to see you back to normal,” Isabella snapped. “Why did you follow me?”

  Big Richard leered. “They were calling me,” he said. “And I could not deny their call.”

  Isabella felt her temper snap. “If someone wanted to capture you, all they’d have to do is parade a naked whore around with her tits thrust out so far ...”

  Lord Robin cleared his throat, loudly. “We’ll discuss the matter later,” he said. “Right now, grab your bags and some hardtack. We’ll eat on the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Isabella said. Her body felt weird. Her internal clock kept insisting that it was midnight, even though she could see the sun in the distance and hear the sounds of the village waking up. A thought struck her and she turned to the door. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”

  She hurried out and down towards Mother Lembu’s hovel. It was gone. There wasn’t even any sign it had been there, only yesterday. Even the herbal
garden was gone. She stared for a long moment, then turned and started to walk back to the hut. The villagers didn’t seem surprised that the hovel was gone, even though one of them had pointed her there. She shivered, helplessly. She’d heard of mass compulsion spells, but this ... this was different.

  And terrifying, she thought. What was she?

  It wasn’t a reassuring thought. She’d assumed Mother Lembu couldn’t possibly have taught Emetine – they’d lived hundreds of miles apart – but if Mother Lembu wasn’t human ... could she have visited the Hereford Lands? What was she? A god? Or merely someone very skilled in the new-old ways? Isabella could imagine ways to create the illusion of a hut, yet she couldn’t see a way to do it without tipping off anyone with even a hint of magical sensitivity. The hut should have been drenched in magic.

  And she gave me some of the answers, she thought, as she hurried towards the nearest garden to collect some supplies. And maybe she gave me enough to allow me to figure out the rest.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Lord Havant snapped awake.

  He was sitting in his chair, looking at the map on the table. Someone had covered the map with notations in a language he didn’t recognise, indicating the enemy’s path northwards from Allenstown and suggesting possible countermeasures. He rubbed his forehead, cursing under his breath. Intellectually, he knew he should be worried about the blackouts; emotionally, it was hard to feel much of anything. They were becoming as natural as breathing.

  A faint light was starting to glimmer through the open flap, suggesting that the sun was starting to rise in the distance. How long had he been out? He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember ... he couldn’t remember anything, beyond a brief discussion with Hark and a marathon drinking session with several of his most trusted followers. They’d had questions, he recalled vaguely ... he’d answered them, hadn’t he? He wasn’t sure of anything any longer.

  The enemy is coming and we will beat them, he told himself firmly. And that is all that matters.

  He glanced at the bed as he heard a faint rustling sound. Roxanne Goldenrod was waking up, looking around blearily. No doubt she was surprised he hadn’t paid much attention to her, even when they’d shared a bed. She’d been raised to believe that she would be expected to conceive a child as soon as possible – a child would bind the alliance together permanently – but Havant had barely touched her. Hark had warned him, several times, that getting Roxanne pregnant would offend their lord and have all sorts of repercussions. Havant believed him.

  And besides, her father is not long for this world, he thought, as he nodded to the young woman. There will be time to sire a child later if she survives.

  He held her eyes until she looked down, her face barely showing any trace of emotion. He’d told her, firmly, to stay in the tent and, somewhat to his disappointment, she’d obeyed. Aristocratic wives were meant to be obedient, but that just made them boring. His lips quirked at the thought. King Edwin’s ghost, wherever his soul had gone after death, was probably rueing his wife’s lack of obedience. But then, Emetine had certainly pretended to be obedient. The act just hadn’t fooled anyone, least of all her husband. He’d tried hard to put her aside before his untimely death.

  Reaching into his pocket, he took a scrap of bloodstained cloth and closed his eyes. It was suddenly easy, very easy, to see the links between Roxanne and her father, just waiting for him to put them to use. Hark had barely scratched the surface of the possible, Havant thought. The presence within him was pushing further forward than the Red Monks appeared to believe possible. Or maybe they were trying to limit him. There might come a time when he and Hark would find it necessary to part ways.

  He pulled on a robe, then strode out of the tent. The chilly morning breeze greeted him, but he ignored it. He’d grown up further to the north, where snow lay on the ground even in autumn, and summer was a rumour no one believed. Prince Reginald and his men were likely to have problems continuing their campaign in the winter, he told himself as he headed for the command tent. If worse came to worst, he had every intention of melting into the hills and carrying out an insurgency until the invaders became tired of fighting and went back home.

  A servant greeted him as he entered the tent, holding out a jug of mulled wine. Earl Goldenrod stood at one end of the table, drinking and talking with two of his trusted retainers; Hark and a handful of other senior officers stood against the wall, waiting for their superior. Havant took a mug of wine – it warmed his heart in the cold air – and paced over to the table. The latest reports from the scouts – and the Red Monks – were prominently displayed on the map.

  “Three new scouts came in this morning,” Earl Goldenrod said. He’d insisted on taking command of the conventional side of the war, an insistence to which Havant had offered no more than token resistance. It wouldn’t have done to accidentally talk the earl out of taking command. “The enemy army will be on Rupert in two days.”

  Havant nodded, tartly. Unless Prince Reginald thought a mere show of force would be enough to bring the north to heel, he wouldn’t stop at Rupert. He’d keep moving northwards until he reached the Hereford Lands. It was possible, he supposed, that they’d try to invade the Goldenrod Lands instead, but there was no way to know how much Reginald knew. Did he know that Hereford and Goldenrod were now allies? Or did he still believe he could convince Earl Goldenrod to remain neutral?

  “We’ll meet them just past the town,” Havant said. He looked at one of his generals. “The region has been stripped?”

  “We have driven everyone out of the area,” the general confirmed. “And anything that might have been used to support the army has been removed.”

  Havant nodded. The locals were going to suffer – they’d be lucky if they survived the winter – but it was a minor price to pay for stopping the invaders. Besides, there was nothing stopping them from heading north or south in search of succour. Someone would take them for serfs, if nothing else. Prince Reginald might even take them as porters.

  Until he runs out of food for them, Havant reminded himself. His army isn’t going to be able to live off the land.

  “Very good,” he said. He looked at his father-in-law. “You are ready to meet them?”

  “Most of the combined army is already in position,” Earl Goldenrod said. “We’ll advance forward once the enemy scouts have been turned back and meet them on the moor.”

  “Be careful,” Havant advised. “Prince Reginald is known to be devious.”

  “He also will have to charge our positions or leave us in his rear,” Earl Goldenrod assured him. “Either way, we win.”

  Havant nodded, shortly. Prince Reginald couldn’t get anything larger than a raiding party up north without moving across the moors, not when the road network was an absolute nightmare. Havant silently blessed his father as he studied the map, even though the old bastard had cursed the roads himself when he’d been trying to move armies south. His delaying tactics, when King Edwin had wanted to construct new roads, might well save his son’s lands from invasion.

  “Very good,” Havant said. “And you are ready to depart?”

  “I’ll head south this afternoon,” Earl Goldenrod said. “And yourself?”

  “I’ll be going south too,” Havant told him. He’d be staying in the rear, again. It was an unsubtle insult – and a snide reminder that Havant’s brother had lost the only pitched battle of his career – but he didn’t mind. It played right into his hands. “Once the enemy has been defeated, we can go to Allenstown and settle accounts with Oxley.”

  “Of course,” Earl Goldenrod agreed. “He has always been too big for his boots.”

  And now you’re measuring my back for the knife, Havant thought, as he turned back to the map. And once your daughter is pregnant, you intend to kill me.

  He listened as the assembled officers ran through the details once again, making sure that everyone was caterwauling off the same song sheet. Earl Goldenrod seemed to take an inhuman delight in th
e details – he insisted on discussing each and every single detail – but Havant supposed it made a certain kind of sense. The north hadn’t really gone to war in decades, save for raids and brief charges southwards when the earls had made bids for the throne. Prince Reginald, by contrast, commanded a well-oiled battlefield machine. The north needed to make sure it was ready for anything.

  But Prince Reginald doesn’t know what he’s facing, Havant told himself. The presence within him thrummed with anticipation. Or just how bad things are about to become.

  “We will win,” Earl Goldenrod said, when the long and exhaustive list of details was finally concluded. “And then we will have our island back.”

  “Of course,” Havant agreed. He knew perfectly well Earl Goldenrod had no intention of sharing ... not that Havant did, of course. One way or the other, Earl Goldenrod wouldn’t leave the coming battlefield alive. And then, with his daughter married to another earl, his lands would be absorbed into the new kingdom. “The gods will be with us.”

  The meeting broke up as the officers headed for lunch. Earl Goldenrod had given orders to slaughter vast numbers of requisitioned cows, pigs and sheep, just to make sure that every man had a good repast before setting out to march to the battlefield. Havant privately admired the man’s determination to be a good commander, even though Earl Goldenrod had learned his trade from books. The man hadn’t commanded anything larger than a raiding force heading into the Northern Realm. And experience was often a hard teacher.

  Hark fell in beside him as they walked around the camp. “I have received word from my brethren,” he said. “The storms have cut all contact between the island and the mainland.”

  Havant let out a long breath. He hadn’t quite believed it possible. Magic on such a scale was beyond anything he’d ever dreamed of, outside fantasies and fairy stories. The Grand Sorcerer, for all his power, had never been able to control the weather. But the Red Monks had somehow brought the autumn storms early. Prince Reginald would neither be able to bring in supplies nor retreat. There was no way home unless he wanted to court death.