The Truthful Lie
The Unwritten Words III

SAMPLE

Christopher Nuttall

Copyright © Christopher Nuttall, 2020.  All rights reserved

ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER NUTTALL

The Mind’s Eye

Bookworm series
Bookworm
Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling
Bookworm III: The Best Laid Plans
Bookworm IV: Full Circle

Unwritten Words series
I: The Promised Lie
II: The Ancient Lie

Dizzy Spells series
A Life Less Ordinary

Royal Sorceress series
The Royal Sorceress
The Great Game
Necropolis
Sons of Liberty

Inverse Shadows Universe
Sufficiently Advanced Technology

Prologue I
Imagine … imagine two worlds.
One of them is human, as common and comprehensible to us as our own.  People are born, grow up, marry, have children and die … a pattern we understand, even if we do not slavishly follow it.  The rules are universal, binding everyone; they are relatively simple, understandable and have few loopholes.  The rules themselves are unbreakable.
The other world – realm, really – is so inhuman as to be beyond our comprehension.  It is a single point that is both infinitely large and impossibly tiny at the same time.  It does not, in fact, have time, not in any sense that humans would understand.  The inhabitants of the alien realm are eternal, bounded within their universe and yet unbounded by cause and effect, by the harsh and unsentimental rules of the human world.  They are, in effect, patterns of energy shaped by ideas … ideas that are so inhuman, we literally do not have words to describe them.  They are – they were – so different from us that their world and ours were never intended to meet.
But they did.
Historical records from that time have been lost in a haze of pain, horror and simple incomprehension, but certain things are clear.  The direct contact between humans and the idea entities was utterly devastating.  Human minds shattered under pressure from entities so powerful as to defy understanding, human society bent and broke as the laws of the known universe twisted and warped through the presence of the entities.  The entities themselves were exposed to cause and effect for the first time in eternity, to the loves and lusts and hates they found utterly incomprehensible.  Both sides recoiled, tearing at themselves in a fruitless bid to save themselves from madness.  The universe screamed in pain as the Old Gods took form.  They ruled for an eternity.  
And then the New Gods arrived.  Born of contact with human minds, shaped by human thought and belief, they united the power of both races.  They turned on their parents, sealing them back into the realm of ideas.  They sought to rule as the God-Kings of Eternity, to command both races in a quest for glory everlasting.  Everyone would bow and praise their names.  Their rule, it seemed, would never end.
But the New Gods had underestimated their human allies.  Determined to free themselves, the humans united their world and turned on their former masters, using powers and knowledge they’d gleaned from the New Gods to lock them out of the human realm.  The New Gods howled in frustration as they fell back into the realm of ideas, the Godly Realm, and watched helplessly as all knowledge of them was erased from the world.  What could not be destroyed was sealed off, left to rot until time and tide removed it from living memory.  The purge was terrifyingly complete.  Little knowledge of the entities lingered for the Bookworm, many thousands of years later, to absorb when she triggered an ancient trap and started the chain of events that brought the Empire down.
All that time, the New Gods were waiting.  Timeless, they could wait for eternity.  Humans being humans, they didn’t have to.  The Fall of the Empire shattered the barriers keeping the New Gods from returning to the human realm.  They could only advance slowly, at least at first, but smaller creatures – shadows that had haunted humanity’s nightmares since the New Gods were driven out – went ahead.  The New Gods made contracts, offering power and prominence and everything else the humans wanted … in exchange for worship and unthinking servitude.  And, on the Summer Isle, they made their first beachhead.  The death of the former monarch ensured their tool, Lord Havant the Usurper and his sister, Queen Emetine, were in position to take control.  It looked as though they could not be stopped.
They couldn’t have known that Crown Prince Reginald of Andalusia would mount a bid for the Summer Isle himself.  Claiming that the former king had left his kingdom to King Romulus XIII of Andalusia, Reginald and his ally, Isabella the Sorceress, led an army to the Summer Isle.  There, they encountered the entities and their pawns in open battle, winning through a combination of luck, guile and exploiting rules they did not – yet – understand.  Their victory, however, came at a price.  The entities – and Queen Emetine – made the jump to Andalusia and took control.  Thinking themselves safe, they reached into the heart and souls of everyone in the kingdom … and began to secure their power.
Reginald returned, to discover his father a broken shell of a man and his sister in servitude to the entities.  Forced to fight for his kingdom, Reginald drove the entities back to one of their old haunts in a final, desperate bid to stop them.  There, the entities performed a ritual to bring one of the most dangerous New Gods back into the world.  They succeeded … 
… And now, the entire world is in dreadful danger.
This is, of course, the truth.
But … it is also a lie.

Prologue II
Kings didn’t shake.
King Forsyth of Zycrest sat in the tower and shook.  It was undignified, to say the least, for an absolute monarch to shake, but he couldn’t help himself.  The fear – the fear of everything – had pervaded his mind for years, well before his father had died in glorious battle and Forsyth had inherited the throne.  He’d been cursed, perhaps.  His father had been a brave man, a man who’d been easy to follow if not to like, but Forsyth was a coward.  He could barely get out of bed each morning, let alone make the hard decisions.  He was so afraid of everything that he’d shut himself up in the tower and hidden from the world.
He knew, intellectually, that there was no reason to be scared.  He’d inherited a powerful kingdom, with a council and bureaucracy that existed to make his every whim law, but he was too scared to use it.  The fear was just too strong.  He wished his father had had more children, a younger son who could take the throne instead of a crippled king.  He wondered, sometimes, if he really had been cursed.  It was possible.  The fear seemed to have no focus.  He wasn’t scared of the dark, or spiders, or assassins … he was scared of everything.
Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes.  The councillors were already plotting.  He knew, although he couldn’t have said how he knew.  They were trying to find a way to legally remove him, to put a distant relative on the throne.  Forsyth feared the council, as much as he feared everything else.  It was just a matter of time before they declared him incapable of ruling and packed him off to a country estate.  Why not?  He was too scared to stand up to them, let alone rally the people and lead them in war against the usurpers.  The worst of it – he admitted to himself, if no one else – was that he’d be relieved if he was removed from power.  Who wanted a king who was afraid of the dark?
Bitter resentment welled within him.  It wasn’t fair.  It just wasn’t fair.  He had male cousins who were strong and manly and performed great feats of daring … all, no doubt, with one eye on the throne.  He had female cousins, so cunning that their guile far exceeded the councillors themselves, nudging their husbands towards the throne.  A strong king would have no hesitation in slapping them down, in reminding them who was boss, but Forsyth couldn’t so much as bring himself to issue a mild reprimand.  His weakness shamed him.  His weakness humiliated him.  And he was too afraid to do anything about it.  There was no doubt, in his mind, that he would be removed.  It was just a matter of time.
His hands shook, again.  He willed them into stillness.  Maybe he had been cursed.  The fear was so strong that nothing, not even alcohol or potions, could quench it.  Drunkenness only made the fear worse.  The potions … he shuddered, recalling the one time he’d tried to use magic to overcome the fear.  The results had been horrific.  He’d shamed himself in front of the entire court …
… And something was behind him.
Forsyth knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that something was there.  He could feel it pressing against his personal space.  A strange sense of calm washed over him as he stood and turned, one hand dropping to the sword he didn’t know how to use.  The air seemed … twisted somehow, as if whatever was there wasn’t truly there.  Forsyth eyed it as it took on shape and form, a humanoid figure that looked as if it couldn’t decide if it were male or female.  He knew he should be scared, he knew he should run, but … for once, he stood his ground.  The feeling was so wonderful he wouldn’t have cared if the figure had come for him, if he could take the feeling of being brave into eternity.
“I greet you.”  The words seemed to appear in Forsyth’s mind without ever passing through his ears.  “I greet you, Chosen of the Gods.”
Forsyth felt the fear start to return.  He’d heard tales of the chosen ones, of men and women honoured by the gods and sent on quests … quests he knew, all too well, he could never handle.  His old nursemaid had told him tales until his mother had overheard and told the woman never to speak of such matters again.  She’d been dismissed shortly afterwards, without a single bronze coin to her name.  It was funny how he’d forgotten her, until now.
“I greet you,” he managed.  He was king, yet … a god or a god’s messenger was so far above him he might as well be scrabbling in the dirt.  It never occurred to him to doubt the entity.  It was just so real.  “I … what do you want from me?”
The entity seemed to come closer, without actually moving.  “Lead your troops,” it said, the words hanging leaden in Forsyth’s mind.  “Restore us to the world.”
The fear grew stronger.  “I cannot,” Forsyth admitted.  The shame overwhelmed him as he sank to his knees, crying like a child.  He hated the fear, hated himself … hated himself with a self-loathing too powerful to be ignored.  He wanted to stumble to the window and throw himself out, but he was scared of death as well as everything else.  “I’m … I’m scared.”
“You do not have to be scared,” the entity said.  It loomed over him, millions of miles tall even though cold logic told him it couldn’t possibly fit into the chamber.  “Accept me into your heart, King of Kings, and all will be well.”
Forsyth swallowed.  He was suddenly aware, very aware, that the council had made its decision.  He was to be removed from power and … removed.  Killed, he knew.  They were going to murder him.  The new monarch could hardly keep the old one around, just in case he decided to retake his throne.  He felt a sudden surge of pure rage, overpowering in its intensity.  He was sick, so sick, of being scared.  He wanted to be free!  He wanted to rule as he pleased, to exert his power, to do whatever he wanted.  He wanted to be the man his father had been, the man everyone had served …
He looked up.  “I accept.”
The entity moved forward.  There was a flash of insight as it flowed into him, a sudden awareness that he might have made a terrible mistake, then nothing.
***
Xhafer, High Chancellor of Zycrest, made his way up the steps towards the king’s chambers, feeling oddly unsure of himself.  The council had debated for days and weeks over precisely what they were going to do with a monarch who started at shadows, a coward who was too afraid to do anything … even protect himself.  They would never have dared to even consider the issue when the last king had been alive – he’d had a temper that had cowed even brave men – but the current monarch was a nightmare.  The kingdom had too many problems to risk leaving a coward on the throne.  Xhafer regretted having to turn against a man he’d known since childhood, but there was no choice.  Better for everyone, including the king himself, if he was quickly removed from power and banished.  He was no threat.
The air seemed to shift around him, a faint air of unreality brushing against his awareness as he reached the top of the stairs and stopped for breath.  The king’s ancestors had designed the tower for defence, ensuring that anyone who climbed the stairs would be exhausted by the time they reached the top.  A brave man with a sword could hold the landing indefinitely, as long as his courage and stamina held out.  There was no way to escape, as far as Xhafer knew, but who cared?  A king who fled, back in those days, would be king no more.
He told himself he was seeing things as he straightened.  He was too old, really, for such malarkey.  It was why the council had chosen him to bear the message.  If he was arrested for high treason – as if the coward-king could muster the will to do it – he would be dead well before the torturers started their work.  Or so they’d said … Xhafer snorted at the sheer absurdity of the thought.  The poor king would go into a gilded cage without a fight.  There was nothing to be gained by killing him.  It wasn’t as if he posed a threat.
The antechamber stood empty.  Xhafer frowned.  Where were the guards?  The king needed to be protected at all times, but the guards were gone.  His eyes narrowed, then he shrugged as he walked into the bedchamber.  He had a flicker of unease as he passed through the doors, a sense that something was wrong … he dismissed it, effortlessly.  The king was a coward and a fool and …
His thoughts seemed to slam to a halt.  His mind was assailed by a series of disjointed impressions.  The throne, looming large … impossibly large.  The guards, standing beside the throne, their faces so cold and hard that it was no longer possible to believe them human.  And, sitting on the throne, a king … a true king.  Xhafer felt his knees buckle as he met the king’s eyes.  They were so … so certain that he found himself dropping to his knees well before his conscious mind caught up.  The man in front of him was no coward.  Fear washed through him as he remembered the council’s debates, remembered how the king’s father had treated traitors.  And now … resistance was inconceivable.  They’d plotted against a true king and his wrath would be terrible.
“Look at me,” the king said.
Xhafer looked up.  It was like staring into the sun.  The king was Forsyth … and yet it wasn’t.  He had a presence so strong that Xhafer quailed, unable to muster the will to do more than follow orders.  The king’s eyes bored into his, leaving him feeling naked and helpless.  He thought the shadows were closing in, reaching out for him … he couldn’t look away.  The king had him in his thrall.
“You will serve us,” the king said.  “And this kingdom will be the core of a whole new empire.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Xhafer managed.  His mouth was dry.  He stumbled over the words.  “I am your loyal servant.”
“Indeed.”  The king’s voice was amused, vastly amused.  He knew what they’d been planning.  “Summon the remainder of the council.  It is time they pledged themselves to me.”
Xhafer stayed on his knees as he inched backwards.  The king … the king had suddenly become a true king.  He couldn’t rise, let alone turn his back … the door slammed the moment he passed through, but he couldn’t so much as consider any thought of defiance or resistance.  He’d been the king’s man from the moment he’d entered his presence, all thoughts of a palace coup melting like snowflakes in the fireplace.  The king was a true king who’d lead the kingdom to glory, who’d reunite the empire under his banner …
… And nothing, Xhafer knew with a certainty that could not be denied, would ever be the same again. 

Chapter One
He was bored.
Sergeant Theodore Ashworth stood outside the door and tried to look eager, even though the boredom was killing him.  He was used to action and adventure, to marching with the army and fighting with the foe, not standing on guard outside a simple iron door.  The Queen Sorceress had given him his orders personally, and he was ruefully aware she could turn him into a frog – or worse – if he disobeyed, but … he was bored.  He peered up and down the corridor, wondering if anyone would so much as dare to enter the dungeons.  The Queen had taken them for herself, when she’d married King Reginald and moved into the castle.  She’d issued orders to keep everyone out of the very lowest levels, unless they had her permission.
Theodore snorted.  The castle had only been reoccupied and cleansed six months ago.  The prisoners who’d been held at the king’s pleasure had been dead well before the Crown Prince had reclaimed his throne.  There was no reason for a queen, even a sorceress, to secure the dungeons for herself.  It was just a matter of time before the king started filling the cells with new prisoners, with men who’d defied his will or … Theodore snorted, again.  King Reginald was out fighting a war with men who’d defied his will.  Theodore doubted any of the aristo bastards would last long enough to grace a prison cell.  The king wouldn’t leave any of them alive, no matter how much they grovelled.  They were just too dangerous.
I should be out there, Theodore thought.  He wasn’t blind to the trust the king – and his family – had placed in the guards, but he wasn’t a fancy-pants palace guardsman.  The uniform felt itchy and unpleasant, as if whoever had designed it hadn’t wanted the guards to move freely.  I shouldn’t be here.
He allowed his eyes to roam the stone walls, silently counting the bricks and stones.  The queen was in residence, as were both surviving princesses, but … they were in no danger.  It would take a brave or foolish man to challenge a sorceress, particularly one in her place of power.  Theodore knew the advantages and disadvantages of magic as much as anyone else.  He knew what would happen to anyone who tried.  It would take time and effort to break the wards, time the sorceress could use to best advantage.  Theodore shivered, despite himself.  He was a brave man, but magic still made him weak at the knees.  The entities who’d infested the kingdom were worse.  He’d sensed enough of their power to fear it.
And they’re still out there somewhere, he reminded himself, sharply.  They could be anywhere …
He forced himself to stand up straighter.  There might be an inspection at any moment, although he doubted it.  The officer commanding was an experienced man, smart enough to put competence ahead of appearance.   He wouldn’t punish Theodore for having a button out of place, but if Theodore happened to fall asleep on duty … the beating would be savage, and the demotion would be worse.  Theodore sighed as he returned to counting bricks.  He would be relieved shortly, allowing him to get back to the barracks and catch some sleep.  Or go into the city for some fun.  The city was slowly returning to normal.  The local sellers were happy to open their wares to the king’s personal guard.
Help me …
Theodore blinked.  He’d heard … he’d heard someone calling for help.  His hand dropped to his sword as he listened intently, wondering if he’d just imagined the cry.  It could be another maid, being harassed by an aristocratic buffoon.  Or an innocent village girl … Theodore smirked, coldly.  The Crown Prince had issued strict orders against harassing the villagers and given his guardsmen permission to do whatever they had to do to stop it.  Theodore had enjoyed those days.  It wasn’t often he got permission to manhandle aristos, and he’d made the most of it.  And he’d been careful not to let himself be identified.  The vengeful assholes hadn’t known who to punish.
Help me …
The sound echoed, brushing against Theodore’s mind.  He tensed, turning his head from side to side, as the call came again.  It seemed to come from a great distance, yet he was hearing it … it was coming from behind him.  He turned to look at the iron door.  He’d been given strict orders not to open the door without permission, let alone permit anyone to enter or leave the chambers beyond, but … someone was crying for help.  His orders warred with the increasing desperation in the voice, with the certainty of punishment competing with the desire to help the person on the other side.  The world itself seemed to dim as his fingers moved of their own accord, grabbing and twisting the iron knob.  The door clicked open.  He practically fell into the chamber.
He stared.  The giant chamber had been turned into a workshop.  Two wooden tables were placed against the walls – a third wall was covered with half-full bookcases and potions supplies – but they didn’t catch his eye.  His gaze was locked on the iron cage in the centre of the room.  A young girl sat in the centre of the cage, wearing a simple white shift.  Her eyes were modestly downcast.  Theodore felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, even though he was aware – at some level – that something was wrong.  The girl … the girl looked strange, almost inhuman.  She was his ideal bride given shape and form.  He knew she couldn’t be real, yet he refused to believe it.  He didn’t want to believe it.
She looked up.  His resistance melted away.  She was a prisoner … it was outrageous she was a prisoner.  Whoever she was, whatever she was, she could not be held prisoner.  Theodore stumbled forward, his eyes searching for the lock.  He’d open the cage, free her and … he wasn’t sure what he’d do then, but it didn’t matter.  All that mattered was letting her out of the cage.  His hands touched the iron padlock and pulled at it, trying to get it free.  It was useless.  Desperation overwhelmed him at the thought of failing her.  He wanted to die … he tried to tell himself not to be silly as he looked around for tools.  He’d pick the lock and free her and let her go, and all would be well.
Blue sparks flashed.  He found himself flying across the room, slamming into the far wall without any clear memory of what had happened.  His fingers hurt, as if he’d burnt them on a hot stove or picked up a superheated rock without thinking.  The pain was so intense he was completely unmanned, screaming so loudly he was sure the entire castle could hear him.  He thought he saw, just for a moment, something utterly alien within the cage, something so alien his mind couldn’t even begin to grasp what he was seeing.  And then it was gone and the girl was looking at him with despondent eyes and …
Something blocked his gaze.  He looked up into the queen’s eyes.  “I …”
The queen stared back at him.  “Why did you enter the room?”
Theodore hesitated.  He wasn’t sure himself.  There’d been a voice calling to him and … his memories were a jumbled mess.  He’d disobeyed orders and he wasn’t even sure why.  He cursed himself under his breath, as thoroughly as he knew how.  The very least he could expect was being summarily demoted and sent off on a suicide mission.  King Reginald was known and respected for being fair, but … there was no way he could let the matter pass.  No one would blame him for ordering Theodore’s execution.
“I … I heard a voice,” he said, finally.  “It needed help.”
“I see,” the Queen said.  “And you listened to it?”
Theodore forced himself to look up, into her eyes.  Queen Isabella was … odd, by the standards of the princesses and aristocratic ladies and even the maids who’d once swanned around the court.  Her dark hair was cut short, defying fashion; she wore a simple leather shirt, a jerkin and a pair of trousers rather than the dresses the other ladies wore.  Theodore knew she’d been a mercenary as well as a sorceress, hired when Crown Prince Reginald had invaded the Summer Isle to claim his patrimony.  He felt a flash of admiration that had nothing to do with her stern face, muscular arms and magic.  She had the position and power not to have to care what the ladies of the court had to say.  She didn’t follow fashions.  She set them.  The next summer was going to be interesting …
He put the thought aside.  He was wool-gathering.
“I had to,” he managed.  The voice was a fading memory.  He felt an urge to look past the queen, to look at the girl in the cage … he suppressed it, ruthlessly.  “It called to me.”
The queen studied him for a long cold moment.  “Go outside and wait,” she ordered, curtly.  “And don’t come back inside, whatever you see or hear.”
Theodore stood and bowed.  “Yes, Your Majesty.”
***
Isabella watched the sergeant go, closing the door behind him.  It had been sheer goddamned luck – her lips quirked at the thought – that Sergeant Ashworth been unable to open the cage and release the entity.  He was a good man, with a splendid record of loyalty and devotion to his monarch, but he’d nearly been seduced into disobeying orders and doing something incredibly dangerous.  No, he had been seduced.  Isabella had worked as many protective hexes and charms into the chamber as she could, designing them to make it difficult for her to operate without being aware of the entity’s every movement, yet they’d nearly failed.  The entity had called the sergeant into the chamber, manipulating him effortlessly.  And, somehow, it had bypassed most of the protective spells.
She turned, already knowing what she would see.  A young woman knelt in the cage, looking innocent and helpless and frighteningly pure.  She looked like Isabella herself, but a version of Isabella that had been washed clean of all taint and corruption and the scars of a troubled childhood, a magical education and years as a mercenary.  Isabella wondered, idly, what the sergeant had seen.  The entities were shaped by human thoughts, emotions and desires.   It was, in some sense, what they were.  The sergeant would have merely been the first to die – or be warped beyond recognition – if he’d opened the cage.
Maiden Lembu looked up.  Her eyes were utterly inhuman.  Isabella forced herself to stand her ground, even though finely-honed instincts were screaming at her to run.  The entity was no longer pretending to be anything other than a monster.  Isabella shivered, remembering her first meeting with the three-in-one.  She’d tutored Isabella, showing her how the new rules worked.  And she’d offered more, for a price.
“I have eternity,” Maiden Lembu said.  “It’s just a matter of time.”
Isabella said nothing.  The entities were bound by strange rules, governed by logic so alien that she could barely comprehend it.  And yet, some of those rules were clear.  As long as the cage remained locked and sealed, as long as there was no way out, the entity was caught like a rat in a trap.  The other entities couldn’t try to free her either, not directly.  But if they did something that accidentally damaged the cage or opened a path for the entity to leave …
“I offer what you most desire,” Maiden Lembu added.  “It’s just a matter of time.”
“So you keep saying,” Isabella said, curtly.  She knew the entity was right.  Lembu – Mother, Maiden or Crone – was timeless, effectively immortal.  It was just a matter of time before she seduced someone long enough to compel her victim to free her, or for something – anything – to happen that might let her go free.  “And yet, right now, you’re my prisoner.”
“A prisoner you cannot contain for long,” Maiden Lembu said.  She stood, her dress spilling around her as if it were made of shimmering light.  Perhaps it was.  “You have only the barest fraction of understanding.”
She stepped up to the iron bars.  “And I will teach you, if you pledge yourself to me.”
Isabella shook her head.  She understood, now, how the entities really worked.  They traded power – miracles, really – for worship.  They demanded servitude and respect and, in exchange, they promised to grant wishes and … everything.  And, the more they manifested on the human plane, the more damage they did.  She didn’t think they were malicious, not in any sense a human might understand, but it didn’t matter.  Their motives didn’t matter.  The results were horrific and that was all that mattered.
“Your husband may stray,” Maiden Lembu said.  “Do you not wish to bind him to you?”
“I know a hundred love spells,” Isabella said, tartly.  “And they are all banned, with good reason.  Do you think I would gain anything by crushing his free will?”
“You wouldn’t be breaking his will,” Maiden Lembu said.  “He would just never stray from you.”
Isabella snorted.  “One cannot remain faithful and have it mean something if one doesn’t have the option not to be faithful.”
Maiden Lembu smiled.  “And you don’t want to fit in here?  I could make it happen …”
“Really?”  Isabella snorted, again.  “You promise the world, but the price is too high.”
She waved her hand, dismissively.  She had no doubt the entity could – and would – keep whatever promise she made.  It was one of the rules.  The entities had to make a good-faith effort to keep their side of the bargain.  But the price was just too high.  Isabella had to admit, at least to herself, that she didn’t enjoy being regent in Reginald’s absence.  She didn’t like having to alternately cajole and threaten the king’s councillors to make them follow orders, even though the princesses were both in her corner.  And she didn’t like the sneers the women of the court aimed at her back … she rolled her eyes in disgust.  If sneering was the worst they could do, she could endure.  She would even feel sorry for them.
“You can’t keep me here forever,” Maiden Lembu said, again.  “And you may come to regret not pledging yourself to me.”
“We shall see,” Isabella said.  “You’ll be trapped here until long after I’m dead and gone.”
She allowed her eyes to wander over the entity.  The human seeming was starting to collapse into something many-angled and dangerous.  Her head hurt just looking at it, as if the entity existed in realms and dimensions the human mind was not designed to comprehend.  The appearance of a harmless maiden was just the smile on the face of the tiger, the hints of knowledge and the promise of something more a lure to draw her into pledging herself.  She’d worked out some of the rules, through trial and error and observation.  She’d work out the rest for herself, given time.  And she wasn’t alone.
“Your husband will return changed,” Maiden Lembu informed her.  “And you will regret it.”
Isabella said nothing as she turned away.  The entities claimed to be able to predict the future, and to offer their insights to their human servants, but she’d never been convinced that the future was fixed.  And the insights could be twisted, until they were neutralised.  Princess Sofia’s prediction might have promised trouble, but Isabella had outthought it.  There’d been a price to pay …
“We shall see,” she said, again.  There was no point in debating with the creature.  She couldn’t afford to let herself forget, now or ever, that she had a dragon by the tail and that the slightest mistake might get her killed.  Or worse.  “Goodbye.”
She glanced at the workbench, where she was brewing a mind-expanding potion, then turned and walked through the door, replacing the damaged or destroyed charms as she moved.  The chamber was surrounded by cold iron, the one metal the entities couldn’t bend to their will, but Maiden Lembu had clearly managed to get a message through the gap.  Isabella scowled as she closed the door firmly, muttering another charm in hopes of keeping the metal in place.  She’d thought the design was airtight – it wasn’t as though the entity needed to breathe – but there had to be a gap somewhere.  She would have to find it, sooner rather than later.  The maiden had been right.  It was just a matter of time until she found a way to break free.
“Your Majesty.”  Sergeant Ashworth knelt, clumsily.  “I offer my life, and …”
“Don’t worry about it,” Isabella said.  It wasn’t the queenly thing to do, she was sure, but it was practical.  Sergeant Ashworth was a good man.  It was how the entity had crawled into his mind.  Besides, she’d felt Maiden Lembu’s power for herself.  She’d been tempted with knowledge.  It had been sheer luck she’d pulled back before pledging herself to the entity for evermore.  “Just … be careful.”
She turned and headed down the corridor, wondering if she’d done the right thing.  She couldn’t serve as Queen Regent and guard the prisoner, not indefinitely.  She wasn’t even sure she was safe, when alone with the entity.  Maiden Lembu was the least of the three-in-one.  The mother and the crone were far more dangerous.
And we still don’t know what happened to Emetine, Isabella thought.  She still had bad dreams about the ritual, when Sofia and her father had both met their deaths.  She knew Reginald had them too.  Or the entity she called into the world.

Chapter Two
“Fire,” Reginald ordered.
He stood by the catapults and watched as they hurled giant projectiles towards the enemy castle.  Baron Braddock had sent King Romulus his formal defiance well before Reginald had returned to claim the throne, but refused to stand down, submit and pledge himself to the new king.  Reginald hated to do it – he was painfully aware he was wasting time he needed for other projects – yet he had no choice.  He had to squash the baron before his defiance turned into a general uprising and outright civil war.
Sofia weakened the ties binding us to the aristocrats, he thought, morbidly.  But it wasn’t as if those ties were very strong to begin with.
The projectiles smashed against the castle walls.  Pieces of debris rained down, splashing into the moat.  Reginald smiled, coldly, as fountains of water rose up and fell to the ground.  The castle was tough enough to stand off a horde of angry peasants, but nowhere near strong enough to deter a large and experienced army.  Reginald could have laid siege to the castle and waited, patiently, for the defenders to starve.  They simply couldn’t have crammed enough food into the fortress to hold out long enough for Reginald’s army to weaken and eventually melt away.  But he knew he had to win quickly.
And besides, there’s no way to know what is really inside the castle, he reminded himself, grimly.  The army had passed – and destroyed – a dozen shrines to the old gods, to the entities that had come far too close to overshadowing the entire kingdom.  There was no way the baron would not call on their help, if he thought he could.  We might run into anything.
He allowed his heart to harden as the next round of projectiles smashed into the castle battlements.  He disliked the thought of killing the baron’s wife, mistresses and children, but they’d had their chance to surrender.  Baron Braddock hadn’t even taken the precaution of sending his wife and children to her parents, even though it would have been relatively straightforward before the army arrived and blocked the roads.  Reginald knew what that could mean, although he didn’t want to think about it.  The baron might have ambitions that ranged far beyond merely defying his monarch.
A shout rang out as a handful of defenders appeared on what remained of the walls.  Reginald’s archers opened fire at once, arrows striking home with terrifying force and sending the defenders tumbling to their doom.  Reginald grimaced, feeling a flicker of sympathy no matter how much he tried to remain composed.  The poor bastards hadn’t stood a chance.  They’d probably been forced out by their master in a desperate bid for … for what?  The whole sally had been worse than useless.  They hadn’t even bought the castle a few short minutes of life.
The archers cheered, then hastily prepared to fire another salvo as they argued over who had killed whom.  Reginald listened with half an ear, knowing that it was already impossible to tell who’d struck the fatal blow.  It didn’t matter, he told himself.  The archers would be feted when the castle finally fell, as would the rest of the men.  Reginald prided himself on the common touch.  No matter how baseborn, a man could rise high in his army.  He knew from bitter experience that loyalty had to be rewarded or soldiers stopped being loyal.  And a disloyal army was only one bad campaign – or battle – away from disintegration.
“Your Majesty.”  Captain-General Gars hurried up, looking eager.  “The walls are about to topple.”
Reginald nodded as a dull rumble echoed through the air.  The bombardment was reaching its final stage.  There was little hope of the walls lasting much longer.  The moat wouldn’t prove a barrier any longer, not now the debris provided all the footing his men could possibly want.  It wasn’t quite the flying men of legend, the soldiers who’d scaled an impossible height to bring death to their enemies, but it would do.  The baron was running out of time.  Reginald wondered, idly, if one of his men would put a knife in his back.  The turncoat might just think he could get away with it …
“Send the ironmen forward as soon as the walls collapse,” he ordered, stiffly.  “I’ll be accompanying them.”
Captain-General Gars frowned, then nodded.  Reginald understood – the king should not put himself in personal danger, not until he had an adult son and heir – but there was no choice.  Not really.  The men had to see their leader sharing the danger.  It did wonders for morale … as long as the leader remained alive.  Reginald smiled, drawing his sword as the walls and castle started to collapse.  The crumbling building looked like a honeycomb.  He saw a handful of people running, looking for cover that no longer existed.  The archers shot them down before they had a chance to escape.
Reginald raised his sword.  “Attack!”
The ironmen ran forward, the archers covering them with practiced ease.  Their weapons and armour looked primitive, and were dangerously weak in places, but cold iron was the only weapon they’d found that weakened and killed the entities.  And their servants.  Reginald shivered, despite himself, as he moved forward.  The baron might be an idiot – he’d certainly acted like an idiot – or he might have something up his sleeve.  He had to have had some reason to think his little revolt would succeed.  Men like Baron Braddock didn’t have the nerve to throw their lives away for nothing.
A handful of bodyguards fanned out around him as he ran towards the remains of the moat.  The ironmen were ahead of him, scrambling over the debris and securing the pile of rubble that had once been a gatehouse.  It would have been impregnable in happier times, but now … Reginald shook his head.  The next baron, whoever won enough of his favour to earn the position, would have to rebuild.  It wouldn’t do to have the castle vulnerable to commoners and peasants.  The kingdom had quite enough problems.
He landed in the courtyard, trying to ignore the sound of crashing debris as his men plunged into the castle.  The scene was a madhouse, a handful of defenders making a desperate last stand that could only end in their deaths.  And yet, they kept fighting.  They made no attempt to surrender.  Reginald frowned as he raised his sword, watching the figures as they died one by one.  They were acting oddly and that bothered him.  Smart men – particularly mercenaries – would be trying to surrender by now.  Reginald intended to make an example out of their master, but he had no particular dislike for the bastard’s followers.  They’d sworn an oath to follow the baron long ago.
The ground shook.  Reginald felt the world twist, as if the rules had suddenly changed.  Green shoots appeared between the cobblestones, growing with impossible speed.  The ironmen shouted, jumping back as plants threatened to wrap around their legs and bring them to their knees.  A couple of men were immobilised long enough for the creepers to tighten and crush them, their blood staining the cobbles and feeding the mutant plants.  Reginald cursed under his breath, then snapped orders.  There was an entity – or at least one of their servants – within  the castle.  And time was no longer on his side.
“Slice it down,” he shouted.  The iron swords would cut the roots free, breaking the bond between the plants and their eerie mastermind.  “And set fire to the roots!”
He leaned forward, even as the creepers grew stronger.  It was a nightmare given shape and form, the ground shaking so badly it was just a matter of time before the remainder of the castle collapsed into rubble.  He wondered, as his men splashed fuel on the creepers and tossed torches into the morass, if the baron knew what was going to happen.  The fool didn’t realise that he and his followers were little more than food for the entity, nothing more than cattle or sheep or … 
The creepers seemed to recoil, a strange howl echoing through the air as the flames spread rapidly.  Reginald gritted his teeth, trying not to show how badly the sound affected him.  It threatened to unman him, despite his having encountered the entities before.  The air grew hot, then cold, then hot again.  The entity was trying to ward off the flames, he guessed.  It was time to take the fight to the enemy.
Isabella’s going to kill me, he thought.  And so will my sisters.
He put the thought out of his mind as he shouted for his men, then led the charge into the smoke and flames.  The air stank of burning creeper, but it was surprisingly easy to breathe as they raced into the remnants of the castle.  The entity was bending the rules, again.  A handful of bodies lay on the ground, seemingly dead.  He beheaded them anyway, just in case.  He’d seen the entities at work.  Reanimating the dead – even bringing them back to life – was not beyond their power.  A shiver ran down his spine as he led his men towards the centre of the castle, the baron’s throne room.  It was all too easy to understand how so many had fallen under their spell.  Reginald himself would give everything he had to have his father back, and he knew the price.
The stone walls darkened, becoming weirdly … translucent.  Hooded figures stepped out of the walls, as if they were nothing more than … Reginald refused to think about it, refused to even allow the entity the tiniest grip on his mind.  He cut the lead figure down, then threw himself at the next.  An inhuman sound echoed through the air, once again, as it died.  The third raised a sword, striking at him with a savage fury that belied an apparent lack of training.  Reginald smiled to himself and took the offensive, battering his sword against his enemy’s defences.  His old swordmaster would have beaten him for such folly.  He supposed it made a certain kind of sense.  The Red Monks and their counterparts were largely immune to conventional weapons.  And yet, they had to know that his swords were cold iron.
He stabbed forward, cutting off his opponent’s arm.  The creature stumbled and collapsed to the ground.  Reginald had a dizzying sense of impressions, of strange shimmering things moving in all directions, as the body crumbled to dust.  A human wouldn’t have died so quickly … he shook his head as he forced himself to press onwards, his bodyguards bringing up the rear.  The baron couldn’t be allowed to escape.  If he did, everything Reginald had done would be for nothing.
The doorway opened up in front of him.  The baron – or one of his ancestors – had clearly had a high opinion of himself.  The hall looked disturbingly regal, the sort of thing that tended to upset kings and emperors.  Reginald glanced around, noting the strange banners decorating the walls and the oversized chair – it hinted at being a throne – placed at one end of the chamber.  The entity lounging on the chair was very far from human.
Reginald shuddered.  The baron, if it was the baron, had given himself completely to the entities.  They pervaded him, to the point it was hard to look at him.  Reginald found his gaze constantly slipping past the baron, as if the baron were not truly there.  And yet, he was.  There was something sickeningly wrong about him.  Reginald felt his stomach churn as he stepped forward, his bodyguards fanning out behind him.  The baron was beyond salvation.
Sofia could have wound up like that, he thought, numbly.  His sister had betrayed the family to the entities … it was still a raw wound, even though he’d tried to tell himself – time and time again – that it wasn’t truly her fault.  She’s lucky she died before they really got their hooks in her.
His feet touched liquid.  He looked down.  The stone floor was covered in blood.  Reginald glanced up, sharply.  He wasn’t squeamish – he’d seen men wounded and killed from the day he’d first taken up the sword – but the sight horrified him on a very primal level.  People hadn’t just been killed, he thought.  They’d been drained of blood … he shuddered, helplessly, as the baron looked at him.  Who’d been sacrificed to cover the floor in blood?
“Little King.”  Baron Braddock’s voice was cold and hard and alien.  He spoke in words of burning ash.  “Bow before me.  Open your heart to me.”
Reginald forced himself to straighten.  The entities were powerful beyond imagination, but there were rules.  They couldn’t force him to open his heart to them.  Sure, they could twist things to the point he’d feel he had no choice … but they couldn’t cross that line.  Or so he’d been told.  He smiled, remembering Isabella’s warnings.  His wife knew the entities better than anyone.  She’d prepared him and his men for the war.
“Leave that body,” he ordered.  There was no hope of trapping the entity, not here.  There’d been no time to prepare the ritual.  They didn’t even know the creature’s name.  “Leave this world.”
The entity gestured.  Reginald glanced down – again – as he felt blood lapping against his boot.  The stench was suddenly intolerable.  He forced himself to breathe through his mouth as the liquid bubbled, then rose into a roughly humanoid form.  Reginald recoiled as the shambling mass lashed out at him, blood splattering against his armour.  He cut out with his sword, to no effect.  The cold iron passed through the blood as if it was nothing more than … blood.  It didn’t seem to slow the entity’s power.  Reginald had no time to think about it before a tidal wave of blood slammed into him, picking him up and throwing him back against the wall.  His sword was torn free and tossed away.  He couldn’t even see where it had fallen.  One of his bodyguards yelped, then fell silent.
Reginald cursed as warm liquid washed through his armour, soaking his undergarments and pressing against his mouth.  It was suddenly very hard to breathe.  He didn’t dare open his mouth, not when the blood would cascade into his body.  He wasn’t sure what that would do, but he didn’t want to find out.  The entity was cheating.  It was trying to drown him …
“Open your heart to me,” the entity said.  “Open your heart and the pain will stop.”
No, Reginald thought.  He could hear the creature perfectly, despite the roaring in his ears.  No, you …
He gritted his teeth and stumbled forward.  His eyes were tightly closed, but he could still see – or sense – the entity lounging on the throne.  It was weirdly more comprehensible on the throne, although he had the sense that he was looking at the tip of a giant iceberg.  The entity itself was still resting firmly within the godly realm, having extruded a tiny protuberance into the human world.  Isabella would have understood what he was seeing, he was sure.  She had the sorcerous education to make sense of it.  Reginald himself didn’t particularly care.  All that mattered to him was killing the entity before it did any more damage.
His fingers found the dagger on his belt.  He drew it.  The entity snickered as Reginald stumbled forward.  The dagger was no threat, or so it seemed.  It made no move to defend itself as Reginald raised the blade and plunged it into the entity’s chest.  A howl rent the air as the dagger returned to its natural form, an iron blade.  The entity seemed to freeze, then snapped out of existence.  Blood splashed to the floor.  Reginald opened his eyes, blinking away the remnants of the liquid.  The baron’s body slipped off the throne and landed in a crumbled heap at his feet.  For a moment, Reginald wasn’t sure he’d killed the right man.  Baron Braddock had only been a decade or so older than Reginald.  The dead body looked old enough to be his grandfather.
The entity probably drained his life as well as everything else, Reginald thought, as he recovered the dagger and sword and returned them to his belt.  Isabella’s gift had more than proved its value.  The entities seemed to drain mundane magic from the world, undoing merely human spells.  They hadn’t realised – yet – that their very nature could be turned against them.  Not yet.  Poor bastard.
Sergeant Yodel stumbled into the room.  “Your Majesty!”
“Secure the castle,” Reginald ordered.  The blood on the floor was draining rapidly, but his clothes were still drenched.  His bodyguards didn’t look any better.  “If there’s anyone left alive, male or female, offer them the chance to surrender.  If they do” – his eyes narrowed – “make sure you bind them with cold iron.”
“Aye, Your Majesty,” Sergeant Yodel said.  “It shall be done.”
“And then send a message to Havelock,” Reginald added.  “Inform them the castle is ours.”
The sergeant saluted, then hurried off.  Reginald nodded and turned away from the throne, leaving the body behind.  The castle wasn’t safe any longer, even though the entity was gone.  Better to have it pulled down completely, rather than risk leaving traces of the entity’s power.  He’d seen too much to feel comfortable repairing the castle.  The forbidden zones still influenced the unwary, centuries after the entities had been banished from the world.
He rubbed his forehead as they headed for the door.  And that was a relatively small and weak entity, he thought, morbidly.  He’d seen nastier and more powerful creatures on the Summer Isle.  Who knows what’ll happen when we run into one of the bigger ones?

To read more, buy on
Kindle, iTunes, Kobo, Google Play, etc.

Paperback coming in December 2020

Visit http://bit.ly/TheTruthfulLie

About the author
Christopher Nuttall has been planning fantasy and sci-fi books since he learnt to read.  Born and raised in Edinburgh, Chris created an alternate history website and eventually graduated to writing full-sized novels.  Studying history independently allowed him to develop worlds that hung together and provided a base for storytelling.  After graduating from university, Chris started writing full-time.  As an indie author he has self-published a number of novels, but this is his twelfth fantasy to be published by Elsewhen Press.  The Truthful Lie concludes the story of Isabella and Reginald in The Unwritten Words, set in the world of his bestselling Bookworm series.  Chris is currently living in Edinburgh with his wife, muse, and critic Aisha and their two sons.