The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Very good,” he said. “How long will the storms last?”

  “There’s no way to say,” Hark said. “We pleaded for them to last for a long time, but ...”

  “Prince Reginald will be having problems,” Havant finished. “I wonder just how many of his transport convoys have been attacked.”

  He allowed himself a tight smile. Prince Reginald had to attack northwards, if he didn’t want to lose his momentum, but he could no longer trust that his rear would remain secure. Worse, if he did lose his momentum, his new allies and clients would no longer see him as the certain victor in the ongoing conflict and start to edge away. Prince Reginald needed time to consolidate his gains, yet he didn’t have time ...

  “He’ll push right into our trap,” Havant said. Everything he’d heard about Prince Reginald made it clear that the prince was a man of action. The idea of shifting his forces onto the defensive would be unthinkable. “And then we’ll best him.”

  “The sacrifice is ready,” Hark assured him. “We can perform the ritual at any time.”

  “We’ll wait until the main body of the camp has departed,” Havant said. “We don’t want too many questions.”

  “There is no shame in serving Our Lord,” Hark said, reprovingly. “They will all come to us in time.”

  Havant shrugged. He felt no shame himself – now – but he was all too aware that not everyone liked the Red Monks. His men were becoming believers, but not all of them were prepared to put the false gods aside and worship Dusk. And destroying temples and shrines – even personal icons – was something most soldiers regarded as bad luck, even if they didn’t worship the gods in question themselves. The presence in his mind shifted in disapproval, sending sparks of anger through his thoughts. The heretics had to be removed before the army went into battle.

  “Once we win the war, we can impose worship right across the kingdom,” Havant promised, seriously. “And then the false gods can be removed.”

  He wasn’t sure if he intended to keep the promise or not. On one hand, he knew the Red Monks had access to power. The presence inhabiting his mind was proof that they could do remarkable things. And yet, on the other hand, he was aware of the dangers in allowing a single religious faction to become too powerful. The Red Monks might find themselves in a position to influence policy, even – perhaps – to dictate to him. It could not be allowed.

  They joined Earl Goldenrod and his men for lunch, enduring a succession of bawdy jokes about sowing one’s seed from the earl’s loyalists. Havant kept his annoyance from showing as best he could, knowing that he’d made the same jokes himself when he’d dined with newly-wed men. There wasn’t any time to waste, normally, in siring children. Earl Goldenrod would certainly be insulted if he knew that Havant wasn’t doing his best to impregnate the earl’s daughter. The gods knew the Herefords had seen King Edwin’s apparent lack of interest in Emetine as a cause for war.

  “We’ll see you on the battlefield,” Earl Goldenrod said, when the last carcass had been picked clean and the last bawdy joke told to howls of drunken laughter. “And the gods will be with us!”

  Havant watched the earl and his men ride out of the camp – the men singing a song about the north rising again – and then followed Hark back towards his compound. The Red Monks had established a camp within the camp, walled by a wooden stockade and heavily guarded by their followers. It wasn’t uncommon for soldiers to set up small shrines while they were in camp, but the Red Monks had taken the concept to a whole new level. He couldn’t help shivering as he passed the two cowled figures guarding the gate. It looked as if there were more and more Red Monks every time he entered their compound.

  “The prisoners are ready,” Hark said, as they paused outside a large tent. “Are you?”

  Havant looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “The time has come for you to make a sacrifice,” Hark said.

  “Another one?”

  “Oh, yes,” Hark told him. “Perhaps the most important sacrifice. You must make an offering to Our Lord.”

  He pushed the tent flap open. “Come.”

  Havant noticed the smell, first, as his eyes slowly grew accustomed to the darkness. The stench of piss and shit ... and quiet, helpless desperation. He could hear men moaning in pain ... he peered into the gloom, trying to see through the haze. Hark snapped his fingers and the tent was illuminated, suddenly, by an eerie white light. Twenty-one naked men knelt on the solid earthen floor; their mouths gagged, their hands and feet bound so tightly that their extremities were turning purple. They weren’t common villagers, Havant realised in dull surprise. They were soldiers.

  “These men contradicted the teachings of Our Lord,” Hark said. “And so they were removed and held until the time came for their lives to be offered to Him.”

  Havant stared at them for a long moment. The men looked back at him, desperately. It wasn’t common to kill someone for refusing to worship a particular god, but he knew – now – that Dusk was real. He wanted – he needed – the power to win the coming battle. And he couldn’t sacrifice volunteers any longer. Dusk demanded blood. The presence in his mind thrummed with impatience, pushing him forward. It wanted him to make the choice to kill his own men.

  Traitors and heretics, something whispered inside his head. His thought? Or something else? They are worthless. They will betray you if you give them a chance.

  Hark passed him a ritual blade, gleaming silver. Havant looked down at it, then up at the helpless men. He liked to think he was a good lord, in his way. Loyalty should always be rewarded, just as disloyalty should always be punished. And yet ... he remembered the power he’d touched, the power that – just for a few minutes – he’d bent to his will. He needed that power to win. He had to offer their lives to Dusk.

  His lips moved soundlessly as he advanced forward. It was his decision, he knew on some level. The presence in his mind wasn’t trying to force him to take it. It was his decision. It had to be his decision. He weighed it up, carefully. Their deaths would strengthen his army, guaranteeing victory. It was worth it. And yet, part of him recoiled in horror from what he had become ...

  There’s no choice, he told himself, firmly. He couldn’t tolerate religious dissent, not any longer. Not when it might cost him victory. And religious dissent could easily become mutiny, given time. He couldn’t tolerate a mutiny at the best of times. Now, when his army was held together by spit and baling wire, he couldn’t tolerate even the slightest hint of mutiny. There’s no choice at all.

  He slit the first throat with practiced ease, watching through calm eyes as blood spilled onto the ground. Power flared through the air, building up slowly as he slit neck after neck. It was intoxicating, burning away all his doubts and fears. He could feel the presence welcoming it, greeting the power as if it were an old friend. Something was going to happen, when Prince Reginald began the battle. The invader had no idea what he was about to face.

  The last prisoner slumped to the ground, dead. Havant stood alone in the midst of the power, feeling it ebbing and flowing around him. It was his power, all his ...

  “It is done,” Hark said. “Welcome, My Lord.”

  The world went black, just for an instant. And then he was outside the tent.

  “Our victory is now assured,” Hark told him. “Our Lord has promised it.”

  “Very good,” Havant said. He felt dazed. He’d done something wrong, yet ... he felt no guilt. No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t done anything wrong at all. “I look forward to our victory.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Witches,” Reginald said, slowly. He didn’t disbelieve Isabella, not really, but ... he wasn’t sure what to make of her report. “Witches and ... and gods?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Isabella said. She had the air of someone who knew, all too well, that she wouldn’t be believed. Reginald had seen it before, too many times. “The world is changing.”

  “I already knew that,” Reginald muttered. “
But changing like this ...?”

  He shook his head as he looked around the commandeered office. His men had secured Rupert without a fight, if only because the entire population had seemingly vanished into thin air. The enemy had done an excellent job of stripping the wretched town bare, he conceded ruefully. Everything that might have been even remotely useful, from food to tools and supplies, had been removed. The scouts hadn’t even been able to find traces of the townspeople, although he hadn’t had the time to search the vast forests. If Isabella was correct, even trying might be dangerous.

  “If this is true,” he said slowly, “what do we do about it?”

  “I don’t know,” Isabella said. He could tell the admission cost her. “But the Red Monks are clearly unfriendly.”

  “You don’t say,” Reginald said. He wanted time to think. Fighting an unknown force of great power and potency was dangerous, all the more so because its power was unknown. He could devise plans to counter an enemy army two or three times the size of his own, but gods? How did one handle gods? “And what happens if we pull back?”

  He shook his head in annoyance. He had to press forward, now the autumn storms had come early ... Was that a coincidence? Or was it the first sign of godly intervention? He cursed the enemy under his breath, savagely. There was no way to know what he was facing. He’d understand an enemy force appearing in his rear, even though it would have bottled his army up and forced him to try to break out before the noose tightened, but gods? He was going to be spending the rest of his life second-guessing himself if gods were involved. How was he supposed to evaluate the threat when it steadfastly refused to obey known laws?

  “We can’t pull back,” he said. Quite apart from the dangers of abandoning the campaign – and allowing Hereford and Goldenrod time to build up their forces for a march south – there was no way to withdraw the army. “And even if we do, what happens when the threat jumps the channel?”

  He met her eyes, silently willing her to say something reassuring. The Summer Isle had never been a threat to Andalusia. None of its kings had ever managed to master the island to the point where they could muster the force for a little overseas expansion. There had been no reason to think the now-dead usurper would have been any different. King Rufus wouldn’t have been able to solidify his control over the island either. But now ... with strange gods and creatures and magics ... who knew what sort of threat his homeland would eventually face? He didn’t think the gods would choose to remain confined to a single small island.

  “They have to be stopped, Your Highness,” Isabella said. “But the problem may already have jumped the channel.”

  Reginald scowled. “How so?”

  “We encountered a strange creature before we joined your invasion force,” Isabella reminded him. “And there were reports of other strange encounters too.”

  “And rumours of more,” Reginald said.

  He looked down at his hands. His scouts had reported odd things, from an ever-present sensation of being watched by unseen eyes to weird creatures that had flickered in and out of existence. The further one went from civilisation, such as it was on the Summer Isle, the stranger the reports. And some of his scouts had never reported back. He’d assumed the enemy had caught and killed them, but now ...? He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “The Red Monks have to be stopped,” he said, flatly. “And we cannot allow our enemies time to build up their forces.”

  “And master their new powers,” Isabella added.

  Reginald frowned. “But ... but that old woman taught you some of hers?”

  “She wasn’t human,” Isabella said, flatly. “Whatever she was, she wasn’t human.”

  She took a long breath. Just for a second, she looked vulnerable. It stirred Reginald’s protective instincts, even though he knew that trying to protect her was a very bad idea. She didn’t need his protection. And yet, the urge to take her in his arms was suddenly overpowering. He pushed it down, hard. It had been a long march along bad roads and through muddy fields and he was tired. Too tired.

  “The recipe she gave me should be useless,” Isabella said flatly. She looked down at the earthen floor, her face unreadable. “I was never a Potions Mistress – I never had the patience to master brewing, still less alchemy – but I know enough to tell you that the recipe is completely useless, alchemically speaking. It’s more of a folk cure than anything more ... more useful. And yet, it worked! I watched her brew it!”

  “Have you tried brewing it yourself?” Reginald leaned forward. “Or perhaps asking someone else to brew it?”

  “I have the ingredients,” Isabella said. She looked doubtful. “I know the recipe shouldn’t work. And yet, it did.”

  Reginald gave her a smile. “I know that pointing your finger at someone shouldn’t turn them into a frog,” he said. “And yet, it did.”

  Isabella looked up at him. “Point taken.”

  “Try and brew it yourself,” Reginald said. “And ask Kingsley to track down other folk cures.”

  Isabella gave him an odd look. “That’s ...”

  She broke off. Reginald understood. Folk cures were technically forbidden, but commoners – who couldn’t afford to go to a druid for healing – used them whenever their betters weren’t looking. He’d never seen the point of folk cures, but he’d never been particularly interested in hunting down the people who turned herbs into makeshift potions. If they helped, they helped ... it wasn’t as if they were practicing magic. His soldiers used them all the time. But if Isabella was right, the commoners might have been playing with magic – or something worse – without ever knowing it.

  “I might have to go myself, or find another woman,” Isabella said. “I doubt most of the practitioners will talk to a man.”

  “See if you can find someone,” Reginald commanded. “I’m going to need you here.”

  There was a sharp knock on the door. Reginald raised his voice. “Come!”

  Gars stepped into the room, followed by Lord Robin. “Your Highness,” he said, as Lord Robin and Isabella greeted one another. “The scouts have returned. They have located the enemy army.”

  “They’re dug in along the moors,” Lord Robin added grimly, as Gars held out an annotated map. “We apparently outnumber them, but they have a tough position.”

  Reginald looked at Isabella. “Try and brew the ointment now,” he ordered. “We may need it for the battle.”

  “Understood,” Isabella said. She nodded to Lord Robin, then saluted Reginald. “I’ll do it now.”

  Reginald watched her go, then looked down at the map. “A tricky position,” he said, thoughtfully. “Are we facing both of the earls?”

  “Both sets of banners have been reported,” Lord Robin said. “Earl Goldenrod’s are apparently in the superior position.”

  “I see,” Reginald said.

  He contemplated the problem for a long moment. Had Havant conceded command to Earl Goldenrod? Or had Goldenrod insisted on taking it? Or ... he shook his head in annoyance. The absence of actionable intelligence from the enemy’s inner circle was quite frustrating. He’d assumed that someone would defect, but so far no enemy nobleman had taken advantage of the chance to better himself by switching sides. It spoke volumes about something. He just wasn’t sure what.

  Of course, being in the van isn’t always a good place to be, he thought. His father had always cautioned him against putting himself out in front, even though it was a good way to command loyalty. Men followed leaders who put themselves at risk too. Earl Goldenrod might be exposed deliberately.

  He looked up. “Do we have any idea how many men they have?”

  “Roughly five thousand, if we go by what we’ve seen,” Lord Robin said. His finger traced out a line on the map. “We’ve sent scouts past here, Your Highness, but none of them have returned. The enemy flankers are apparently very good.”

  “Or the land itself got them,” Gars said, pessimistically. “The moors are supposed to be boggy.”


  And we don’t have a native guide, Reginald thought. He’d planned to take a local from the town, but the enemy had made that impossible. We’ll be marching forward blind.

  “Not that boggy,” Gars said. “It’s apparently stable all the way to the enemy lines.”

  Reginald tuned them out as they argued, choosing – instead – to concentrate on the map. The enemy position was simplistic – suggesting that their commander had studied books rather than fighting actual wars – but good. There was no apparent way to turn their position, let alone force them to withdraw in disarray. He wasn’t even sure he could slip cavalry through the forest to take them in the rear. Whatever had killed his scouts might still be lying in wait.

  “We can’t delay,” he said, more to himself than to either of the men. “There’s no way we can stay here.”

  “No, Your Highness,” Gars agreed.

  Reginald gritted his teeth in frustration. The thought of leaving a force to hold Rupert and pulling back was tempting, but the enemy wouldn’t have any trouble bypassing the town and striking south. He could try to lure them onto a battleground of his choosing, yet the enemy presumably knew the land better than him. They could keep marching and evading combat until he ran out of supplies. And they’d have plenty of time to build up their own forces ...

  He scowled as he studied the map. The earls had worked hard to build up their forces over the past few years, if the reports were to be believed, but they had to be careful. Too many men trained in arms was an open invitation to revolt, particularly if their lords and masters looked weak. The chance to smash most of their trained men in one battle was almost impossible to resist, which worried him. They could be bait in a trap.

  And with strange powers involved, he thought, the trap could be anything.

  “We prepare to attack,” he said, savagely.