The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  A thought struck her. It was dangerous, it was risky, but ... it might just work.

  And we’re dead anyway, she thought, as she reached for a sword. We might as well go out with a bang.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Reginald blanched as he saw the monster.

  It had been human once, he was sure. And yet, now, it was so inhuman that it was hard to see it clearly. He could see snapping teeth and weirdly-elongated arms and legs, but his mind refused to pull the impressions together into a clear picture. The only human thing about it was the eyes, which were silently screaming in agony. Reginald slashed out at the creature, the iron blade slicing through its head. It collapsed to the ground and turned to dust.

  Sweat ran down his back as two more creatures burst up through the chokepoint, claws lashing out at his men. They’d already discovered, the hard way, that armour didn’t provide any protection against the creatures. Reginald had kept his armour, but most of his men had ditched theirs as soon as they realised it was useless. Being hit, even once, was often enough to kill. He didn’t want to think about the prospect of the bodies being reanimated and turned against their former comrades. He’d given orders to make sure that no dead body could walk again, afterwards, but his men had been reluctant to carry them out. It felt too much like turning on their own.

  He cut the first creature down instinctively, then blocked a blow from the second. Gars killed it a moment later, covering his prince’s back. Reginald glanced around for Isabella, seeing her muttering charms over a blade. He shifted slightly, moving into position to protect her if the creatures mounted a charge. The chokepoints hadn’t lasted long, no matter how hard his men had fought to hold them. The creatures could appear out of nowhere.

  Something – it looked like a flying brain – flew right towards him. He sliced it out of the air instinctively, then swore in horror as he saw a similar creature land on top of one of his bodyguards. The man’s body twisted, his head bulging in unfamiliar directions; his skull exploded a second later, blood and bone fragments flying in all directions. Reginald had to swallow hard to keep from vomiting. He’d thrown up after his first battle, after he’d come face to face with the bloody reality that war was not all honour and glory, but this was different. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

  The ground shuddered, once again, as a guard shouted out a warning. Reginald turned to face the wall, bracing himself. A creature materialised a second later, claws already extended towards its target. Reginald stabbed it instinctively and watched the creature die, then cursed again as blood splashed in all directions. As much as he hated to admit it, the castle was rapidly becoming undefendable. But retreat was likely to be equally dangerous.

  And we have no way of knowing how the civilians will react, he thought. He’d seen retreating armies savaged by peasants and commoners who’d been keen to ingratiate themselves with their new masters. Or, perhaps, to extract a little revenge. Reginald had hanged rapists and thieves, but he wasn’t naive enough to believe he’d managed to prevent all abuses. They might side with us or they might attack us.

  He swore as he saw a line of tiny spider-like creatures making their way through the former chokepoint, scuttling along the stone floor in a manner that made him feel physically uneasy. They were moving faster, attacking his men from below ... he brought his sword down on one, but the others kept coming. They were tough too, tougher than they looked. He had the feeling that anything less than smashing them to a pulp would be completely ineffective.

  “Get back,” Caen shouted.

  Reginald saw what Caen was holding and jumped back, an instant before his old friend splashed lantern oil over the spiders. The creatures seemed shocked, scuttling around in confusion; the oil appeared to disorientate them in some way. And then Caen lit a firelighter and dropped it on the spiders. The oil caught fire, burning the creatures alive. Reginald could have sworn he heard screaming before they died.

  “Good work,” he said. “Did you get everyone out of the upper levels?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Caen said. The building shuddered once again, underlining his words. “The castle is empty, save for the defenders and ... and them.”

  Reginald made a face. There was no way to keep the enemy from materialising in the outside world – or from bringing an army to Allenstown and storming the walls while the defenders were distracted. Even if they didn’t, he was too experienced a soldier to believe they could keep the invaders back indefinitely. They seemed to have limitless manpower, throwing creature after creature at his men ... he was all too aware that it was only a matter of time before his forces were worn down to a nub. His arms and legs were already aching. It had been far too long since he’d fought such an extended battle.

  He looked around the chamber as another row of creatures appeared out of nowhere. His orderly lines were long-since gone. Men fought with whatever partners they found, watching each other’s backs as they struggled to survive. The defensive position was steadily coming apart at the seams ... one good push would be enough, he suspected, to crush the defenders completely. He thought rapidly, trying to think of a way out, but nothing came to mind. If he’d been fighting a regular opponent, he would have run up the white flag by now. There was nothing to be gained by throwing away lives on a pointless last stand.

  But we can’t even surrender, he thought, grimly. He’d seen one of his men throw away his weapon and hold up his empty hands, only to be eviscerated by one of the nastier-looking monsters. Surrenders were not accepted, it seemed. He supposed it made a certain kind of sense. Why bother taking prisoners when you could reanimate their dead bodies and turn them into slaves. All we can do is fight.

  He glanced at Isabella. She was holding a silver sword in one hand, a sword that glimmered brightly under the light. It didn’t look dangerous, not really. He’d seen his men attack the creatures with steel or wooden weapons, but neither had had any visible effect. Cold iron was the only thing that seemed to hurt them and even that had its limits. He’d watched one creature keep moving even after losing most of its limbs.

  The ground shook, once again. This time, pieces of dust and debris started to fall from the ceiling.

  “Sound the retreat,” he ordered. “We’ll take this fight to the courtyard.”

  ***

  Isabella wondered, as she held the silver sword in one hand and the iron sword in the other, if it was possible to overuse the ointment. The two worlds seemed to be blurring into one, confusing her senses until she felt dizzy. The walls were solid; no, the walls were translucent, completely insubstantial. The creatures were human, or had been human; no, they were monsters through and through. And the floor was both solid and starting to crack open as something forced its way upwards. She hoped she was overusing the ointment. The alternative – that the two worlds were actually blurring together – was far worse.

  And the iron sword only seems to belong to one, she thought, as she followed the others through the entrance and into the courtyard. It was weird. She could see the iron with her right eye, but her left eye couldn’t see the sword at all. It was as if her hand was empty, even though she could feel the sword. I wonder what that means.

  Reginald barked orders as they emerged into the grey half-light. Allenstown was wreathed in fog, blowing down from the north ... it felt profoundly unnatural, even when viewed through her right eye. Her left eye saw faces within the gloom, little entities that controlled the fog ... or were part of it. It was hard to be sure. Water droplets stung her eyes, mocking her. They could win the battle, but not the war.

  She felt the world screaming as the castle started to collapse, walls buckling inwards as if they were being twisted and warped by a powerful force. She’d never seen anything like it, not even when she and the other trainees had been taught how to cast immensely powerful destructive spells in their second year. Properly warded, a castle should have stood up to those spells, but now ... the entire building was collapsing in on itself. She want
ed to pray that the debris would crush the creatures, burying the gateway Emetine had opened under a mountain of rock and stone, but she had a feeling that it wouldn’t. The ground shook, one final time, as the castle disintegrated. Something big was moving in the ruins.

  Someone caught her arm. She pulled herself free, spinning around ... she almost bisected Reginald before she realised who he was. The prince looked determined, but she thought she saw hopelessness in his eyes. There was no way to retreat, not now. They were trapped on the Summer Isle.

  “You have to go,” Reginald said. “You’ve got the best chance of hiding somewhere until the storms fade. You have to warn my father ...”

  Isabella shook her head. She was damned if she was going to run, not now. And besides, it was pointless. By the time the storms faded – if the storms faded – the Red Monks and their master might have already walked through the other world and invaded Andalusia. King Romulus wouldn’t know what was coming his way until it was far too late. She lifted the sword, bracing herself. Havant – and the creature imprinting itself on him – had to be stopped now. There wouldn’t be any chance to stop him in the future.

  “Take this sword,” she said, as the debris began to move. “Stab him with it.”

  Reginald stared at her. “It’s silver!”

  “Trust me,” Isabella said. “And give me your iron blade.”

  The prince stared at her for a long moment. She knew he wouldn’t be happy about handing his blade over to anyone, particularly as it was the only effective weapon he had. And she didn’t dare tell him the truth, not when she had no idea who – or what – might be listening. If he hadn’t been a better swordsman than she was a swordswoman, she would have wielded the weapon herself.

  Reginald reversed his blade and held it out to her. Isabella took it, feeling touched. He trusted her enough to surrender his blade, to allow her to watch his back ... she wanted to kiss him, all of a sudden. Very few people had ever shown her that level of trust, not even her long-dead mother. She wondered what would happen if she did lean forward and kiss him ...

  The debris exploded. Brilliant white light flared up in front of them. A ... creature ... was standing within the light, a creature so strange that it was beyond her comprehension. Her spine crawled as she looked at it, trying not to peer too closely. The creature was so fundamentally wrong that she thought she’d go mad if she stared for too long. Energy flared over its form, rushing backwards and forwards as it grew stronger. She could see the creature through both eyes, but the energy was only visible through the ointment ...

  I’m right, she told herself. I have to be right.

  “KNEEL,” the entity said.

  Isabella’s legs wobbled. It took all of her determination to keep from falling to her knees and begging for mercy. There was power in the entity’s voice ... no, more than just power, an unbearable rightness that tore at her mind. She didn’t just want to fall to her knees, she should fall to her knees. The compelling voice her rivals at school had used when they’d wanted to make her do things, for a joke, was a pale shadow of the entity’s voice. She supposed she should be grateful to those little bitches. They’d stiffened her defences against mental manipulation long before she’d left the city for good.

  She forced herself to look away. Reginald was standing – she’d expected no less, even though he didn’t have a magic bone in his body – but the others were either on their knees or looking as though they were on the verge of surrendering. She could see tendrils of energy moving from the kneeling men to the entity, as if it was feeding on their worship. It wanted them ... no, it needed them. She looked back at the creature and shuddered, trying to parse out its secrets without getting too close. It was wrapped around a human soul, a trapped and helpless human soul ...

  Havant, she guessed. The Herefords had played with fire. Eventually, inevitably, they’d been burnt. She couldn’t help a flicker of sympathy, despite their crimes. There were some powers that were never meant to be touched. She’d had that lesson drilled into her, time and time again, at the Peerless School. Poor bastard.

  She touched the iron blade. The compulsion vanished, as if it had never been. The entity seemed diminished somehow, although it hardly seemed to matter. She gritted her teeth and raised the swords, ready to distract the entity. Very few people dared try to wield two swords at once, certainly not in a real battle. But it might just distract the entity ...

  Power shimmered around the entity as she moved closer. She could see it clearly now, although she still didn’t want to look too closely. It was surrounded by a halo of light, a light that called to her even though her instincts screamed in protest. A trick ... she couldn’t help thinking of it as a trick, although she knew all too well that it wasn’t. The entity was powerful enough to bend reality to its will.

  “KNEEL,” the entity said. “KNEEL AND I WILL GRANT YOU MY BLESSINGS.”

  The words crashed into her head with terrifying force. It was telling the truth, she knew; its voice was so powerful that it was impossible to doubt it. The entity existed outside the rules of reality – and magic – as she understood them, rewriting them at will to make anything possible ... as long as it had the power. She shivered as she remembered the old stories about omnipotent genies that had the power to grant wishes, wishes that inevitably left the poor fool who’d tried to cast them worse off than ever before. Perhaps, just perhaps, there had been something in the stories after all, a warning about a threat from the distant past ...

  ... But magic didn’t make a person all-powerful. They’d just been stories.

  “No,” she said. She moved forward, circling the entity. “I ...”

  Power lashed out at her, slamming into her body with all the force of a tidal wave. She flew backwards ...

  ***

  Reginald had always had a very high impression of himself. It was inevitable, really. Save for his father, who rarely seemed to have anything like enough time for his children, there was no one with the power to tell him no, let alone discipline him. Fear of his father’s discipline – and a steady march towards adulthood and real power – had taught him maturity, but he’d still thought highly of himself. It was enough, just enough, to keep the entity from forcing him to kneel.

  He stumbled forward, feeling naked. A silver blade didn’t strike him as very effective at the best of times and certainly not when cold iron was the only thing they’d found that could harm the creatures and their master. He could tell the creature was laughing at him, even as it slapped Isabella away with effortless ease. It didn’t see him as a threat. And yet ...

  Reginald felt a flash of pure rage as Isabella’s body hit the ground and lay still. How dare the creature hurt her? He lunged forward, stabbing the silver blade straight into the light. The creature laughed – he felt the sound, rather than heard it – as the blade stabbed into the halo, then turned to iron. Reginald stared. What? The blade had turned to iron? No ... it had been iron until Isabella had turned it to silver. And the creature had drained the magic, reverting the blade to its natural shape.

  The creature screamed, a sound that echoed through the air and tore at Reginald’s ears. Raw power flared over its body, but it couldn’t remove the blade. Reginald let go of the handle as the creature buckled, then hit the ground hard enough to trigger an earthquake. The bright light was fading rapidly ...

  ... And then it was gone.

  A body hit the ground. Havant’s body. A moment later, it crumbled into dust. Reginald couldn’t help thinking, just for a moment, that Havant was glad to die.

  He turned and hurried over to Isabella as his men returned to life. The entity was gone. Its control over their minds was broken. They looked stunned and horrified, but at least they were alive. Reginald barely cared. Isabella was all that mattered.

  She was alive, barely. He helped her to sit upright, holding her gently. Her body was bruised, but she didn’t seem to have broken anything. The entity might have wanted to take her alive, he thought. Or
maybe she’d just got lucky. There was no way to know.

  “It’s gone,” he said. The remains of the castle were unmoving. Anything left under the debris had been crushed. Even the fog was rapidly blowing away. “We won.”

  “For the moment,” Isabella said. She staggered to her feet, leaning on him just long enough to stand upright. “But there are more of those ... things ... out there.”

  “And we know how to beat them now,” Reginald reassured her. “We can do it.”

  Isabella, somehow, didn’t look convinced.

  Chapter Forty

  “The storms have yet to clear?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Caen said. He’d just returned from Racal’s Bay. “The sailors said they’d try to get a ship across the waves, but they didn’t think you should try to make the crossing.”

  Reginald nodded, shortly. It wasn’t as if he had time to make the crossing – he had too much work to do on the Summer Isle – but it would have been nice to know he could go home for a brief spell. If nothing else, his father had to be updated on the status of their latest principality. With the death of two earls – and the third pledging his full support – the Summer Isle was his. No one could take it from him.

  Unless the Red Monks get reorganised, he thought. No one had seen a Red Monk since Lord Havant’s death, but Reginald was too seasoned a campaigner to think they’d got them all. No, the bastards had gone underground to bide their time. They’d be back when the thrill of being a principality wore off and his new vassals started chafing under the bit. And then they’ll start to regain their power.

  “If they get the letters across the channel,” he said, “it will be sufficient.”

  “One would hope, Your Highness,” Caen agreed. “Can I set out for my lands tomorrow?”

  “I think so,” Reginald said. “You’ll be taking a strong force with you, of course.”

  He studied the map carefully, noting where he’d placed his garrisons. He’d parcelled out the forfeited lands to his survivors, making sure to put the core of the Hereford and Goldenrod Lands in the hands of his most loyal supporters. Hereford’s clients might have renounced him – rumours about blood rites and human sacrifices had made their way northwards with a speed a mounted courier might envy – but it wouldn’t be long before the north rose against the south once again. Caen had a hard job ahead of him, yet it would be worthwhile. His lands would put him among the highest of the nobility.