The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Go,” the voice ordered.

  The earthquakes grew stronger. She looked north and saw ... the hidden world rolling towards her, a sphere of light and power and energy, directed by something so vast she could barely make it out. The world was changing, warping ... she heard more buildings crashing to the ground as their time ran out. Gritting her teeth, she turned and looked at Big Richard’s body. She knew she should try to take it home, but she doubted she could carry it. A levitation spell failed to work ...

  She gave him one last look, then turned and ran. The ground shook, time and time again, as she fled towards the south gates. A handful of men were already passing through them, running so quickly that it was clear they were terrified. This was no retreat, she realised in horror. This was a rout. Behind her, she heard the remaining buildings shatter as the world warped around them. It was hard to escape the sense that doom was following her, right on her heels. How could one fight against such forces? How could one ...?

  If we give up, we’ve lost already, she told herself, firmly. She’d faced opponents stronger that her in the past. But they’d also been understandable opponents. She understood muscles or magic or simple cunning. Godly power? She didn’t understand that. I don’t even know where to begin?

  The remains of Prince Reginald’s army were streaming past as she ran through the gates; some crying out to their gods, others concentrating on putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the forces that the enemy had unleashed. Tears ran down their cheeks, tears that bore mute witness to just how badly the army had been routed. Strong men didn’t cry ...

  We will find a solution, Isabella thought. Somehow ...

  She turned and looked behind her. Rupert was collapsing, the entire town crashing down into a sinkhole. Trees – walking trees – were tearing up the ground, destroying the fields that had once kept the population alive. And behind them, looming over the battlefield, was a giant humanoid figure that chilled her to the bone. She hoped she was the only one who could see it ...

  ... But she knew, all too well, that that might not be true.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It was a battered, dispirited army – a mob of men, in so many ways – that slowly made its way back into Allenstown.

  Reginald cursed under his breath, again, as he watched his men return to the city. He’d failed them. A defeat was one thing, even a defeat that threatened to undo everything he’d achieved, but gods ...? He’d heard the rumours spreading through the ranks, despite everything the officers could do to keep them under control. The soldiers were wondering if they were on the right side after all. And the mere fact that they’d lost a battle ...

  He rubbed his forehead as he turned to look around the war room. His senior officers – his remaining senior officers – had gathered, as he’d ordered, but he was damned if he knew what to tell them. Gars had survived, thankfully, but Lord Robin had died in the trenches and Captain-General Stuart had died ... no one was quite sure where he’d died. They certainly hadn’t found a body. It bothered Reginald, more than he cared to admit, that he hadn’t seen his trusted friend die. Too many others had died, but Stuart’s loss nagged at his mind. In hindsight, trying to scout the forest had been a mistake.

  “We will impose strict discipline on the city, of course,” he said. When in doubt, fall back on the basics. Allenstown might rise up against the occupiers if its population knew what had happened up north. “And we will also impose it on our men.”

  “Distribute iron swords,” Isabella said. She sat at one end of the table, her face haunted. She’d made a very brief report, when they’d met after the retreat, but since then she’d kept herself to herself. She was, as far as Reginald could tell, the last survivor of her mercenary band. “It might give them a fighting chance.”

  “See to it,” Reginald ordered Gars. “And get the blacksmiths forging more.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Gars said.

  “I think we should reconsider our approach,” Lord William said. “Our army has been broken.”

  Reginald gritted his teeth. Captain-General Stuart was dead, Lord Robin was dead, countless men he didn’t know were dead ... and Lord William had survived? The man had been at the rear, of course. He’d probably fled the battlefield the moment the dead had started to rise. It just seemed terribly unfair. Lord William deserved nothing from him.

  “The men have had a shock,” Gars said. “They ...”

  “A shock,” Lord William repeated. He looked at Reginald, his eyes conveying an unspoken challenge. “They saw magic, Your Highness. Magic on a vaster scale than any of them – any of us – have ever seen before. And they don’t know how to fight back against such power.”

  He paused, waiting for Reginald to say something. But Reginald said nothing.

  “We should withdraw immediately, Your Highness,” Lord William added. “The invasion has failed. Your father’s investment ...”

  “My father’s future is at stake here,” Reginald growled. “We cannot be seen to withdraw!”

  “And we cannot be seen to throw good men after bad,” Lord William said. His tone was achingly reasonable. “How do you propose to defeat gods, Your Highness? How do you propose to capture the land you need to pay the men? How do you propose to keep this island ...?”

  Reginald met his eyes. “So you’re suggesting we run away?”

  Lord William’s eyes flashed angrily at the unsubtle accusation of cowardice. But, somehow, he managed to keep his voice calm.

  “There is nothing on this wretched island worth taking,” he said, calmly. “It rains all the time and the women ... they are ugly.” He laughed, unpleasantly. “We have encountered an enemy we cannot defeat, Your Highness. It is time to withdraw to the mainland and ...”

  “And what?” Reginald felt his anger start to flare. “I don’t know what’s been unleashed here, but I do know we cannot allow it to spread to the mainland.”

  “And how do we stop it, Your Highness?”

  Reginald met the older man’s dark eyes. “And even if we do decide to run, have you forgotten the storms? There is no way we can get a single boat across the channel, let alone an entire fleet!”

  “They summoned the storms,” Lord William said. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement ...”

  “So you’re suggesting we surrender,” Reginald said, flatly. “Do you really think we can bargain with them?”

  He drew his sword in one smooth motion. “I cannot abide spinelessness,” he said, as Lord William stumbled backwards. “And we cannot surrender.”

  His blade flashed, once. Lord William’s body tumbled to the stone floor.

  Reginald drew in a long breath. He’d wanted to do that for a long time, but now ... Lord William would have worked to undermine Reginald’s position, if he’d been allowed to live. Most of the senior officers were all loyal to Reginald personally, but the ones who weren’t might have sided with the older man ... and even the loyalists might well have doubts, after the rout. Killing Lord William would make it harder for the bastards to challenge him.

  He wiped the blade and returned it to its scabbard, then looked around the room. “We will find a way to fight back,” he said, firmly. “Until then, we will prepare the men to fight to hold the city.”

  His voice hardened. “Or do any of you see a way to escape?”

  There was no answer. He hadn’t expected one. They couldn’t move the army to Racal’s Bay, let alone cross the channel and get home. The combination of enemy attacks and storms – storms directed by the enemy – would see to that. And they all knew it too.

  He allowed himself a cold smile. “Isabella, remain behind,” he ordered. “The rest of you, dismissed.”

  The room emptied rapidly. Reginald took one last look at the dead body, then made a mental note to have the servants take the corpse and burn it before it reanimated. He had no idea if the ... power ... could reach so far south, but there was no point in taking chances. Too many reports of dead
men walking had reached his ears.

  “We need a solution,” he said, once they were alone. “Can you think of anything?”

  Isabella said nothing for a long moment. Her face was pale and worn. Reginald guessed she hadn’t been sleeping properly over the last two days, just like the rest of them. And she’d lost her friends ...

  “I have to speak to Emetine,” Isabella said. “She might have a few answers for me.”

  “Do whatever you have to do to get answers out of her,” Reginald said. He’d never ordered a woman tortured before, certainly not a woman of noble blood, but he was prepared to do whatever it took to keep the army alive. “Did your ... ointment ... help?”

  Isabella shrugged. She looked smaller, somehow ... she was sitting upright, but he had the impression that she was hugging her legs against her chest, like a little girl who’d been given some very bad news. He felt a surge of protectiveness that surprised him with its intensity, all the more so as part of the reason he’d been attracted to her was that she didn’t need his protection. But she’d had her worldview torn apart as much as his own.

  “It was useful,” she said. “I saw ... things ... that I might understand, one day. But right now we’re just fumbling through the dark.”

  “Then perhaps you should take some rest,” Reginald said. He glanced at the window. The sun was already starting to drop below the horizon. “You can interrogate Emetine tomorrow.”

  He wondered, suddenly, what she’d say if he invited her to share his bed. A courtly woman would have been honoured, if the Crown Prince had made the offer. Becoming his mistress would have given her high status, particularly if she bore a natural-born son ... even after he tired of her. And no one would have questioned her, afterwards ...

  ... But he had the feeling it would be different for Isabella.

  “Get some rest,” he ordered, gently. He knew he should take some himself, but he was too keyed up to sleep. Down below, his men would be trying to rest themselves. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Isabella said. “Good night.”

  “Hah,” Reginald muttered.

  ***

  “But what is happening?”

  Roxanne Goldenrod looked terrified, Havant noted, as he stepped into the temple. Being guarded by the Red Monks – and tied down, when Havant had been using her blood to control her father – would have been terrifying, but being stripped naked and marched into the temple had to be worse. The Red Monks had tied her hands, then drawn blood runes on her bare skin. The whole experience had to have scared the girl to death.

  “You will serve a greater cause,” Hark informed her. His face was hidden completely now, his form starting to shift in ways human minds couldn’t comprehend. “The Ascension is at hand.”

  Roxanne stared at Havant. “What are you doing?”

  Havant ignored her. He was aware, on some level, that her treatment should have bothered him – she was his wife, whatever else she was – but it was hard to feel anything beyond anticipation. The presence within his mind was growing stronger, far stronger, feeding on the power he’d channelled through the sacrifice. He felt almost as though he was dreaming, seeing things that couldn’t be there, yet there was a hard edge to the dream which made it impossible to let go of the world. The presence wouldn’t let him let go.

  “Let go of me,” Roxanne said. “Please ...”

  “Be silent,” Hark ordered. He looked towards the moon, casting an eerie light over the temple. “We begin.”

  He snapped his fingers. Two Red Monks appeared behind Roxanne and frog-marched her towards the altar. She began to scream and fight, struggling desperately to get free, but it was futile. The Red Monks hoisted her up, placed her on the altar and pressed her down. Hark pressed a knife into Havant’s hand, then nodded curtly. It was time.

  Roxanne screamed louder as she saw Havant walking towards her, crying and pleading with him not to hurt her. Havant ignored her, even after she offered to help him overthrow her father and take the Goldenrod Lands for himself. She didn’t know that her father was dead, nor that her husband already owned the Goldenrod Lands ... or, after the battle, that the remainder of her father’s troops had pledged themselves to him. The Red Monks had seen to that!

  He stared down at her naked body for a long moment, feeling as though he was seeing double. In one view, Roxanne was naked and lovely and very human; in the other, she was a glowing ball of energy, just waiting to be tapped. He stepped forward, feeling the energy reaching up towards him as he brought the knife down. Roxanne’s screams cut off abruptly as the energy surged forward, dancing up the blade and into his body. The power rose ...

  NOW, a voice said.

  The presence grew stronger with terrifying speed, drawing on the power and reaching out in a direction Havant couldn’t quite comprehend. Everything seemed to twist around him for a second, as if he were straining to accomplish a herculean task, then ... then power surged back in the opposite direction. The presence grew stronger and stronger, taking on shape and form in his mind. And ...

  Havant recoiled in shock as he jerked awake, the scales falling from his eyes. The presence ... the presence wasn’t what he’d thought it was. He could see it clearly now, a vast implacable force, so far beyond him that even the least of its thoughts was meaningless to him. He was a gnat in a storm, an insect crawling over a dragon’s back, and ... he’d made a terrible mistake. They’d all made a terrible mistake. Hark and his comrades had merely been the first to lose themselves to forces beyond their comprehension. They’d been puppets. They’d all been puppets. And now they were no longer necessary.

  The power kept growing stronger and stronger. There was no longer any need for sacrifice, not now; there was no longer any need to make offerings or pledges or ... the power just kept building, pressing down on his mind. He wanted to scream, but even that was denied him as the presence pushed down on him. Dusk was all around him, imprinting himself on the universe, reaching through the blood link to touch Emetine ... Havant could see, all too clearly, just what the Red Monks had brought into the world.

  We were fools, he thought, numbly. What have we done?

  He could see it now, in hindsight. They’d been offered what they wanted, in exchange for allowing the Red Monks to flourish. And they’d got what they’d wanted too. But it had never occurred to them to worry about the price ... perhaps they’d been manipulated ... no, he knew now they hadn’t been controlled or influenced. They’d merely made the mistake of believing what they wanted to believe. The pressure grew stronger ...

  ... And then his thoughts just ... went away.

  ***

  Isabella couldn’t sleep.

  She lay in her comfortable bed – too comfortable, if the truth be told – and tried to meditate, but her thoughts were too uneasy for her to concentrate properly. The sense of unease just kept growing stronger, no matter what she did. Guilt and shame and fear boiled through her mind, numbed by tiredness and the grim awareness that none of her training had prepared her for gods. She didn’t have the slightest idea how to proceed ...

  ... And Lord Robin was dead.

  The thought gnawed at her as she lay in the darkness. Lord Robin had trusted her, believed in her ... he’d kept her in the company, even after Big Richard and Little Jim had challenged her right to join them. Part of that, she’d been sure, had been him asserting himself over his men – no mercenary captain could tolerate his men trying to boss him around – but he’d also had faith in her. It had felt ... good. She’d never loved Robin, no matter what snide comments Big Richard had made, but she’d liked and respected him. It had felt nice to know that there was a place for her.

  And now the entire company is gone, she thought, morosely. Big Richard had been warped by the Red Monks, then killed in self-defence. Lord Robin and the others had died on the moor outside Rupert. I’m the last of the company.

  She sighed. Normally, enlistment and service monies – and bonuses –
would be doled out to the survivors, but she had a feeling that both would be lacking. Reginald hadn’t quite given up on conquering the entire island, she thought, yet they both knew that even keeping control of the south would be difficult. Earl Oxley might not believe the stories from the north – she had trouble accepting that anyone would believe them without question – but he’d known that Reginald had suffered a dreadful defeat. He’d have to start thinking about switching sides again, if only to keep himself alive.

  Bastard, she thought.

  She rolled over, closing her eyes. Perhaps, if she concentrated, she could sleep. But her thoughts were so jumbled ...

  ... Her eyes snap open. She is standing in the middle of a clearing, beside a glowing pool of light. Mother Lembu stands on the other side of the pool, a pair of black ravens perched on her shoulder. She is looking down at the water; her face grim, her eyes pooled in shadow ...

  ... Isabella knows that she is dreaming, somehow. The dream feels real, yet unreal. Mother Lembu is changing, her face growing older and younger ... it is hard to believe that the three faces are the same person, but Isabella knows it to be true. Mother Lembu’s hands and feet are bound by chains, iron chains. She cannot move ...

  ... The chains weren’t there before, Isabella thinks. But in the dream, it seems perfectly logical that Mother Lembu should be chained up without warning. The strange woman – the entity – keeps shape-shifting, her face moving from a young girl to a motherly figure to a terrifying old crone and back again time and time again. She tries to speak, but a gag rests over her mouth. Isabella wants to walk around the pool to remove the gag, to free the entity, but her body cannot move. Her arms and legs are frozen, yet she is unbothered ...

  ... She looks into the pool. A monster is moving below, deep within the water. It is immense and free and ...

  Isabella jerked awake, sweat running down her brow. A dream. It had been a dream. And yet, it had been so real. She sat upright, feeling a conflicting series of emotions. She was angry, she was sad, she was horny ... she took a long juddering breath, trying to calm herself before she could act on any of her feelings. How long had she been asleep? She glanced at the window and made a face. The sun was glimmering into existence on the horizon.