Page 81 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

One of my ravens catches a glimpse of our enemy shortly before being shot down. Its death burns across my skin.

“There! Along the cliffs to the right!” a soldier announces. Specks of red glow along the jagged ridge. A distant howl sends a chill down my spine—one I haven’t heard in a very long time. One I’ll never forget.

Daglomon. Hounds as tall as horses, their fur green as grass with sharp spines between their shoulders, and a bite ten times as poisonous as nightshade. These beasts, notorious for abducting faeries and humans, strike terror into the hearts of all who encounter them. Summoners exploit their aggressive nature to do the unrighteous biddings of their lords or ladies. They break treaties by using them to torment the humans, hiding behind their unpredictable and unruly nature. There’s no proof of their control, and so there can be no prosecution, but I’ve seen it happen too many times to know it’s no coincidence.

Another howl.

I step out from the line of trees, looking at my men as I pace the open space before them. “When I was given command of this battalion, our king thought he was punishing me, setting me up with a band of rejects. He was wrong! After tonight, the king will command us no longer. His reign passes down to his son. A son we have pledged no oath to. Tonight, we fight our last battle under the old oath. Tonight, we will teach them to fear the colour black, for tomorrow we are free. Stand with me in our last battle in the name of King Darragh. Tomorrow we return home!”

A third howl echoes through the valley.

Without hesitation, I raise my sword high and bellow, “Let the ravens feast tonight!” My battalion snaps into action, their weapons gleaming in the rain.

Daglomon emerge from the shadows, charging toward us, their eyes burning with a feral hunger.

“Archers!” I call out, turning my back to the valley to see silver arrow tips glint in the night. “Fire!” Arrows whistle through the air, finding their mark in the beasts’ hides, but they keep coming, undeterred. Some daglomon, as large as horses, fall into the muddy valley. The majority pick up their pace, charging at us with arrows in their backs.

“Summoners! At the back of the pack controlling them!” Sheridan says, gasping for breath as he joins me at my side. Summoners are the only ones strong enough to manipulate the beasts. They contaminate the magical realm with their self-centred use of it. “Brogan’s men are approaching.”

“Sloan! Have riders flank the beasts! Attack the summoners at the back!” There’s no time for Sloan to respond. The hounds are almost within reach. A line of soldiers kneels before me, planting their spears into the dirt, angled at the daglomon as they draw close. I’m ready, my shadows forged into weapons.

Hooves pound like thunder. Giving the beasts a wide berth, I raise my snare, trapping the beasts before they collide with the front line. Yelping and growling. Snarling and gnashing. My men charge, taking advantage to kill as many as they can. A soldier falls to my left. I run toward him, the youngest member of our battalion. I don’t even know his name.

The fallen soldier’s chest is cleaved wide open. Torn by sharp claws and scorched by their venom. I clench my jaw, dropping to my haunches as Sheridan fights alongside me. My heart pounds heavily in my chest.

“You fought bravely,” I tell him, standing in time to bury my blade into the shoulder of a beast. Blood spills, mixing with rain and mud as I defend my ground. Teeth sink into my shoulder, spreading their venom in a searing pain. I can’t see my friends. The valley is flooded with chaos. Daglomon tear men to pieces, their screams deafening. Mounds of green and black fur line the valley, unmoving and lifeless.

Every swing of my sword is met with a snarl, every strike parried by razor-sharp claws. The scent of fear and adrenaline fills the air, driving me forward. My shadows spread out before us, gripping the legs of the monsters to slow them, but I can’t hold on long enough to keep them grounded, to give my men the advantage they need.

Drums of war pound behind us, sounding out from between the trees we’d abandoned. I look back to see orange cloaks and copper armour joining us on the battlefield.

THIRTY-NINE

BRYNDIS ASHGLO

Faeries, once blessed beings, elevated to near godlike status, are cursed to feed like animals in order to pay for their vanity.

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper

“I’m not under anyone’s compulsion, Declan,” I say, my gaze unfocused as I take in the dimly lit room.

“You wouldn’t know…” Declan murmurs with unwanted sympathy swimming in his eyes that causes my frustration to grow. “But I know you, Bryn. This isn’t you.” He reaches for my hand, but I pull away, unable to even bear his touch. The room is suffocating, as if the walls are closing in on me.

“My Bryn would never be so cold.”

Something is wrong. “What did you do, Declan?” I demand as everything inside me seems to vibrate with angst.

“I did what needed to be done.” His voice is firm and resolute. He straightens, his expression hardening to match my own. A sense of dread washes over me. Our letters. The map I drew. My mission to free Laoise…

“No, no, no,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. The room suddenly seems colder, the air thick as water. I can’t breathe.

The room spins around me. I desperately and senselessly search for Odhran’s face in the only place that ever felt like mine, the Great Room. He isn’t there. It’s completely empty save for me and Aed. His wings cast a massive shadow across the wall. “Get the mirror!” he snarls, but I leave my mother’s room and close the door behind me, locking Aed inside.

“Bryn, this isn’t you. I know you,” Declan repeats, his voice softening. His fingers twitch at his sides, longing for the connection we once had.

I shake my head. My mouth opens and closes, unable to find the right words to say. A lone tear rolls down my cheek, its warmth contrasting with the cool air. A drop of fire followed by a trail of ice.

“You know me?” I croak, my voice strained and shaky. “You say you know me better than anyone else.” Without further hesitation, I turn my back to him, the thin strap of my dress sliding down my shoulder, revealing the silver lines that mark my shoulder blades. We’ve been intimate before, but I’d always hidden them, either with clothing or position. I didn’t want him to see, but now he needs to. The scars of my upbringing are etched into my skin, vivid as the light of day.