The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  He saw me use the ointment, she reminded herself. The Red Monk was ... he was standing still. But he was also moving. Her brain hurt as she tried to process what she was seeing. He was going away, but in a direction she couldn’t comprehend. He knows I can see him.

  She turned and picked up Big Richard’s axe. It was heavier than she’d expected, even for a swordswoman with fourteen years of experience. Big Richard had boasted, once, that he’d been given it by a young woman in exchange for services rendered, although Isabella hadn’t believed a word of it. The axe was crude, yet functional. And it was made of cold iron.

  Gritting her teeth, she drew on her magic and thrust the axe at the Red Monk. The spell started to splinter at once, of course, but the axe was already flying through the air. It buried itself in the Red Monk’s side, sending him crashing into the real world. Blue light flared around the axe, shining brightly for a long moment before it flickered and died. There was no visible wound, as far as Isabella could make out, but she knew – on some level – that the Red Monk was dead.

  No blood, she thought numbly. A human who’d been struck like that would be bleeding helplessly, if their guts weren’t spilling out of the wound. The shock of the impact alone would prove fatal. What are they?

  She walked forward, carefully. The body was pinned down by the axe ... she couldn’t escape the feeling that removing the axe would be very dangerous. Up close, the Red Monk looked ... odd, as if there was something about him that didn’t belong in the mundane world. A fish out of water couldn’t have looked stranger. She no longer needed the ointment to see the creature.

  He’s not human, she told herself. She was sure of that, even if she wasn’t sure of anything else. Whatever he is, he’s not human.

  She slowly walked around the corpse, drinking in the details. But there was very little to see. The Red Monk’s cowl covered him from head to toe, somehow managing to flow around the axe to make it harder for her to see what the cold iron had actually struck. The cowl was covered with sewn runic patterns that meant nothing to her, patterns that matched the ones she’d seen in their temples. And it seemed to be repairing itself ... She remembered the swords that had been marked for destruction in Allenstown and shivered. If cold iron was the only thing that could kill the monks ...

  And most of our swords are made from forged steel, she thought, as she knelt beside the body. Iron swords were relatively rare, although she could understand why they might have been redeveloped on the Summer Isle. Steelmaking wasn’t easy, particularly now international trade had collapsed. Those iron blades might be the only weapon we have.

  She looked up as she heard the sound of battle being joined. Prince Reginald was fighting the enemy then, under a darkening sky. She peered at the clouds for a long moment, then turned her attention back to the Red Monk. There was no way she wanted to know what was under the cowl, but she had a feeling she had to know. Wishing there was a witness, she touched the cowl – it felt almost liquid under her hands – and pulled it back to expose the head. The Red Monk looked human ...

  ... And then the face changed.

  Isabella stared, unable to look away, unable even to blink as the Red Monk became something else, something utterly inhuman. Her thoughts juddered to a stop as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing, but it was impossible. She had to look away ... yet her eyes refused to let her go. Pain flashed through her head, a sudden wave of nausea assailing her ... she had to swallow hard to keep from throwing up everything she’d eaten over the past week. The universe seemed to be spinning around her ...

  ... A series of impressions slammed into her mind, jagged edges ripping through her thoughts and tearing them apart. She’d been praying ... no, he’d been praying. He’d called on a god by name. And ... the world had opened up around him and ... he’d gone into the light and ... he’d changed, somehow. He’d become something different, something better ... he’d become a servant of his god and ... he’d been moulded like clay, turned into something new. He’d been human once, but he was different now ...

  ... Things scuttled along the outer edge of reality, wanting in. He’d seen them ... she could see them. The universe was so much bigger than she could comprehend. Her mind kept trying to bind it to something she could understand, but it was defying her. It was a web ... no, it was a house ... no, it was a village, a town, a city ... She opened her mouth to scream ...

  ... And then the world plunged into darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “The enemy is on the move,” Captain James reported. “They’re moving precisely as you predicted.”

  “Excellent,” Earl Goldenrod said. “Order the troops to stand fast. We’ll greet them in the trenches.”

  He smiled to himself as he peered through the telescope. There was a risk in getting too close to the battle, but it was one that had to be endured. He needed to show the men – his men and Lord Havant’s men – that he was willing to share the danger with them, if only for a single battle. It would do wonders for morale and, more importantly, make them more inclined to support him when Havant had an unfortunate accident or two. As soon as the younger man had sired a son, he’d die ... leaving Goldenrod in command of the joint earldom, perhaps even the kingdom itself.

  And Roxanne might already be pregnant, Goldenrod thought. He’d made it clear to his daughter that she had to keep her husband in her bed, at least until her monthly courses stopped. And that she had to behave herself in all ways. There could not be the slightest doubt over his grandson’s paternity. Once she gives birth, her husband can be pushed down the stairs at will.

  He smiled again, then turned his attention to the oncoming troops. Prince Reginald was starting to mount a frontal assault, instead of picking his way through the boggy moor or trying to outflank the defenders by sneaking through the forest. It wasn’t a good move, Goldenrod noted, but it was pretty much the only move open to the invaders. He could no more outflank the defenders than he could withdraw and leave the northern earldoms alone.

  And he cannot show weakness, Goldenrod noted. The mainland might claim to be more civilised than the Summer Isle, but at base all men were the same. He dares not show weakness or his allies will desert him.

  “Order the archers to open fire when the enemy troops cross the line,” he said. “And then prepare the reserves to move forward and seal any gaps in the trenches.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  Goldenrod nodded, curtly. The enemy would charge into the teeth of his archers ... they had no choice. They had to charge. It would cost them badly ... and then they’d hit the trenches, where his infantry were waiting for them. Prince Reginald’s men were good, but they’d never faced northerners on their own soil. Goldenrod’s men wouldn’t break, not when they knew they held the cards. Prince Reginald’s men, on the other hand ...

  And then the future opens up before me, Goldenrod thought. Joining Havant instead of betraying him immediately had been a calculated gamble, but it looked as though it had paid off. The invaders would be broken, there would be a joint heir ... and Goldenrod, as the sole survivor, would be poised to rule the kingdom in his grandson’s name. The world awaits me.

  He felt dizzy, just for a second. The world seemed to fade ...

  He shook his head, dismissing the sensation. He was old, by the standards of the Summer Isle, but he wasn’t that old. He’d live long enough to see his grandson become a man, ready to take the throne. And then ... who knew? The Summer Isle wouldn’t be enough for a boy who shared two of the noblest bloodlines in the world. Perhaps his grandson would take an army to Andalusia ...

  The world faded, again. He gritted his teeth, biting his lip until he tasted blood. He didn’t have time for weakness, not now. He had too much else to do.

  “And pass the word to the men,” he added. “No quarter.”

  ***

  Havant sat in the middle of a runic diagram, drawn with blood, and concentrated.

  It wasn’t easy, even with the presenc
e gently pointing him in the right direction. Even now, it was hard to push his thoughts down the bloody link. He could feel his wife ... and, beyond her, her father. The Red Monks already had Roxanne in their custody, ready to kill her if matters spiralled out of control. Whatever her father thought, she wasn’t pregnant.

  He felt Earl Goldenrod’s thoughts as he pushed through the link. The Earl didn’t seem to be aware of the mental intrusion, but he did know that something was wrong. Havant caught a flicker of concern about age, of all things ... Earl Goldenrod was old, he supposed. The man was actually ten years older than Havant’s father, if he recalled correctly. Earl Goldenrod was technically old enough to be Havant’s grandfather.

  Not that it matters, he thought, as he peered through the Earl’s eyes. No doubt the earl had anticipated treachery – it was practically a tradition – but he couldn’t imagine the power Havant had learned to master. He’d surrounded himself with loyal bodyguards, a precaution that was completely useless. It won’t be long now.

  The presence inside Havant thrummed with anticipation. He could see the battlefield, as if he were peering down from a vast height. The skies were darkening, forces gathering for the great working that was soon to take place ... he could feel it, great powers returning to the world that had banished them along ago. Prince Reginald and his men had no idea what was waiting for them ...

  ... And they would merely be the first to die.

  ***

  “The archers are in position,” Gars said. “Your Highness?”

  Reginald nodded, curtly. He’d sent men into danger before – he’d even sent men to their deaths before – but this felt different. It felt ... wrong. His instincts were telling him to pull back and find another way to march north, but he knew there was no other way to reach the northern earldoms. His last attempt to send a message to the Northern Realm had apparently failed. The messenger had certainly not returned.

  He gritted his teeth. Withdrawal was not an option. And yet ... losing too many men in battle might be disastrous too, even if he emerged the winner. There would be no reinforcements from Andalusia as long as the storms raged in the channel ... there wouldn’t even be the chance to abandon the invasion and sail home. He was caught in a trap. He knew he had to attack and yet ... he also knew that attacking could be disastrous.

  “Order the archers to open fire,” he said. The enemy archers would be forced to duck, if nothing else. “And tell the first line to advance on my command.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Gars said. “With your permission, I’ll take command of the first companies myself.”

  “Granted,” Reginald said, reluctantly. He knew he’d need someone he trusted in the thick of it, particularly when it became impossible to direct the battle from a distance. But he didn’t want to lose his friend. “Be careful.”

  “They have to be careful, Your Highness,” Gars assured him. “They’re standing in our way.”

  ***

  Lord Robin had no illusions about the coming battle. He would never admit it to anyone, but part of him had been tempted to quietly desert the prince and make his own way back to the mainland. Only loyalty to his band – and the prospect of getting a real lordship – had kept him close to the prince. The first kings had just been lucky warlords, after all. Robin wasn’t aiming that high, but he wanted enough power and prestige to ensure that he would never be poor or hungry again.

  He knelt in the trench as enemy arrows started hissing over their heads. The enemy seemed to be shooting at random, although – with so many men assembled nearby – the odds of hitting someone were actually quite good. He winced – hiding the reaction quickly – as an arrowhead cracked into the makeshift shield and shattered, pieces of wood falling to the ground. The enemy had designed their arrows to break apart on impact, making it harder for them to be removed from the wound. Worse, perhaps, it prevented the archers from reusing them.

  And Isabella isn’t here to help, he thought, grimly. He’d grown used to having a personal druid, someone who could use magic to help her comrades heal. If we get hit, we’re fucked.

  He felt a thrill of anticipation, despite himself, as the first whistle blew. This was war. This was what he loved. No supernatural creatures, no magic ... nothing, but the clash of cold steel on cold steel. Maybe he would never be able to walk away from it, even after winning his lands and title. Maybe he’d start attacking his neighbours, just for the thrill of it ...

  “Keep your shields raised,” he ordered, raising his voice. Most of the men were hardened mercenaries, but a handful were raw recruits. They’d learn by doing – or soak up arrows and blades that would otherwise kill good men. “And keep moving. Don’t let their archers get a clear shot at you!”

  His eyes swept over the group as they took their places, ready to advance. The hardened men were bracing themselves, the newcomers were terrified ... Robin moved from man to man, offering words of reassurance and diplomatically ignoring the evidence that some of them had lost control of their bowels. They hadn’t understood what a battle was like when they’d joined ... they still didn’t, really. None of their comrades would make fun of them, if they survived. They’d all wet themselves in terror when they’d started too.

  The second whistle blew. “Go!”

  There was no longer any time for thinking. He ran up the ramp and onto the moor, cursing under his breath as his feet threatened to slip. The damp land was hardly ideal battlefield terrain. He kept moving, holding the shield out in front of him as he ran towards the enemy lines. His men followed him, howling their defiance at the universe. Arrows flashed over their heads, smashing into shields and disintegrating. He heard a man cry out in horror as an arrow struck him, screaming that he was unmanned. The thought was enough to make Robin wince. He’d sooner die.

  “Move, move,” he bellowed, as more and more men joined the charge. “Get into their trenches.”

  The ground turned muddy under his feet, an instant before he reached the trench and plunged down. An enemy soldier had no time to react before Robin slammed his shield into his face, then beheaded him with a swift blow from his sword. Two more stumbled out of their hiding positions and lunged at him, lashing out with their blades. It was laughably obvious that they were raw recruits, waving the swords around as if they were on the practice field rather than in a real battle. Robin felt a moment of pity for their sergeants as he sliced both men down, then turned to look for other targets. The untrained men hadn’t thought they needed to defend as well as attack.

  More men jumped into the trench, ducking low into the mud as enemy arrows started to hiss towards them. The enemy commander had ordered his men to fire into the captured trench, despite the possibility that some of his men were still alive and fighting. But then, the untrained troops were probably considered expendable. Robin certainly wouldn’t have put his best troops to meet and greet the enemy’s frontal assault. Better to have them break against men who were easy to replace.

  A body crashed down next to him, an arrow sticking out of his gut. Robin glanced down, noted that the poor bastard was already dead, then dismissed the matter. There would be time to cremate the bodies and mourn later. Instead, he had to focus on the charge.

  “Get reinforcements up here,” he bellowed. They’d overrun the first trench, but there were five more. The enemy archers, damn them, didn’t appear to be on the verge of running out of arrows anytime soon. “We need to press onwards!”

  ***

  The messenger barely had time to salute before he started to gabble out his message. “Your Highness, Captain-General Gars has overrun the first line of defences,” he said. “He requests reinforcements!”

  Reginald nodded, doubtfully. He’d expected to take the first trench, but it had been suspiciously easy. Hundreds of dead bodies lay on the field, yet ... he’d expected a harder fight, somehow. But then, it was just the first line. The enemy wasn’t foolish enough to put all their soldiers in one trench.

  “Order the second line
to advance,” he said. The enemy archers were concentrating on the captured trenches now, thankfully. It would be hell for the men under their fire, but it would give him time to get reinforcements into position. “And send in the caterpillars.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  ***

  “That’s clever,” Earl Goldenrod admitted. He could see why Prince Reginald had such an impressive reputation. “Do you think he carried the turtles north or had his engineers make them here?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Captain James said. “But they are a serious threat.”

  Goldenrod nodded. The turtles were really nothing more than giant, inverted wooden boxes, but they would each protect a platoon or two of men as they moved towards the occupied trenches. Worse, with the enemy already assaulting the second set of trenches, the archers didn’t have time to do anything about the turtles. Prince Reginald could move his defences forward in relative safety.

  “Order the archers to light their flaming arrows and try to set the turtles on fire,” he said, curtly. “And then ...”

  He frowned as he heard a Red Monk haranguing the reserves as they formed up, ready to go into battle. Havant had insisted on the Red Monks accompanying his men, even though they gave Goldenrod the creeps. There was something about the cowled figures that bothered him on a very basic level. But he hadn’t seen it as being worth an argument, when they’d been planning the battle. Now, watching the Red Monks slowly converting more and more of his men to their cause, he wondered if that had been a good idea. He’d seen them as harmless, just another religious sect willing to take advantage of soldiers who wanted to believe that the gods were looking out for them. Now ...

  Captain James cleared his throat. “Sir?”

  “Never mind,” Goldenrod said. “And prepare the horsemen to charge.”