Always contrary. Azlin smiled slightly and shook her head. Have you ignored everything I just said? Do as you’re told, Zerill.
Zerill hesitated, but she knew there was no point in fighting. Azlin had made up her mind, and the grandmother’s orders had to be obeyed. Fine, she signed. But be careful.
Gripping the branch beneath her with one hand, she swung down and grabbed hold of the heavy vines that twined up the trunk. She slid down silently, and as she neared the ground she slowed her descent with the inch-long bone spurs Maker-fused to the instep of each of her boots.
As soon as her feet touched earth, she unstrapped her shortspear from her back—a habit ingrained as deep as instinct, when she was in the west and her hands were free. Its weight felt right in her grip, balanced, familiar. The spear was five feet of stone and wood blended together without break by the Makers, with a foot-long, double-edged head of blue slate. Hardened by deepcraft, the haft could even hold against highlander steel without shattering. For a blow or two, at least.
Spear in hand, she veered off the road, sprinting across the damp swamplands beyond. She looked over her shoulder once to see Azlin’s dark form creeping into the marsh behind the patrol, and then she was out of sight.
Zerill gave the knights a wide berth, bearing west until their lantern-light was no stronger than spiritmoss before turning northward. Going out of her way was no great concern; she would still reach Verik and the others before the highlanders did. No one born above the mist could move through the Swamp as quickly as she could. She was no Shadowfoot—she didn’t know every secret path by heart—but she knew from experience how to read the signs of the Swamp. How to tell where the marshes were impassable, where the mistcats and longmouth lizards lay waiting for prey. The fastest route took her through shallow pools and shin-deep muck in some places, but the mud slid off her longmouth-hide boots like water, barely slowing her down.
It was dark beyond the reach of the knights’ lanterns, but Zerill’s eyes found what light she needed: spiritmoss and lightworm cocoons, marsh-spider webs and the luminous eyes of lure-eye toads. The Swamp was filled with ghostly luminescence, too dim to see by for any but those who dwelled there. Highlanders found it unnerving, but to Zerill, it was just home—comforting and familiar, though she still longed for the sun.
Thinking of the sun brought her mind back to the last time she had felt its warmth—back to the day she had met Prince Josen. She hadn’t told Azlin about him; she hadn’t even told Verik, and she told Verik everything. She’d wanted to, though. She’d wanted to tell everyone that the heir to the highlander throne was different than the rest, that he had helped her, that just maybe he wouldn’t order another thirty years of purges.
But how do I tell them? The Abandoned would not want to listen; they hated the highlanders. Zerill had to struggle just to put aside her own hatred, ingrained since birth and strengthened with every raid on her people. But he wasn’t like the others. He saw me and he helped me anyway. If he inherits the throne, there could be a chance at peace. She wanted to believe that, even if it fought against every instinct she had. But she didn’t know if anyone else would.
At full sprint, it took her no more than a few minutes to reach the ambush site—not much time to dwell on the highlander prince. Stay focused, she told herself as she neared the place where Verik and the rest of Azlin’s band were hiding. Peace won’t come in the next hour, no matter how much you think about it.
The spot was well chosen, a bend in the road surrounded by rocks and vine-draped trees. She couldn’t see anyone, but that was expected; it wouldn’t be much of an ambush if she could. Plenty of places to hide. She let out a low croaking noise—the call of the lure-eye toad—and a nearby pile of fallen leaves straightened and stood up.
That’s a handsome look, she signed.
Verik was painted in mud and draped in boggrove leaves nearly as broad as his torso; lying flat he had been near-invisible. He grinned. I think it suits me.
A patrol is coming this way. Eleven knights, three squires. They won’t be long.
Verik’s grin disappeared, and he signed, Not the tidings I’d hoped for.
Where are the others?
Verik pointed at several places on both sides of the road; most behind trees or rocks, a few in the high branches above. All around. Quickly, down here. He pulled her to the ground and spread some of his leaves over her, then let out two short croaks—signalling the others that a fight was coming. Zerill pressed herself low against the muddy earth, checked her spear to make sure it was free and mobile, and settled in to wait.
It was another quarter hour before she saw any sign of movement. The light came before the men, a bright tide rolling down the road, washing away the dark. The knights rounded the bend moments later, mud caked to their boots, tabards stained and wet. Few of them spoke, and most were scowling; it seemed the walk through the marsh had dampened their spirits.
Zerill’s muscles tensed, but she forced herself to stay silent and still. Any noise or movement could alert the knights, and Verik needed them to come nearer before he could act. She hated the seconds before an ambush—no matter how long she’d waited beforehand, the last moments always felt longer still. Finally, when she thought she could hold her breath no longer, Verik stretched out one hand, and closed it into a fist.
Three lanterns exploded into fragments, and the Swamp went dark.
“Swamplings!” yelled one of the knights; another bellowed, “Deepcraft!”
Amid the knights’ shouts of pain and surprise, the Lighteyes attacked in silence; the darkness was all the signal they needed. All thoughts of peace and princes left Zerill’s head then—there were highlanders in her Swamp, and they had to die. She sprang to her feet, hefted her spear, and darted forward. The knights were still blind, and her first kill never saw her coming. She slipped up behind him in the dark and put the point of her spear through the back of his neck. Four others fell as quickly, pierced by Maker-forged arrows and blades.
But the Knights of the Storm were not easy prey. They were trained to fight in the dark; it did not take long for their vision to adjust enough to defend themselves. Even as the first of them died, the others drew their sabers.
“They have us surrounded!” the knight-captain shouted. He was an imposing figure with his sword out, broad-shouldered and a half-foot taller than the rest. “Spears out, backs in!”
One man still held his steel-plated halberd, and another snatched up the one that had fallen from the hand of a dead comrade. They swung the heavy polearms in wide, clumsy arcs to create space as the rest formed a circle. Even the squires shed their heavy packs and drew their swords, though they stood slightly behind the more heavily armored knights, mostly shielded from attack.
A circle like that, Zerill knew from experience, was hard to break. Dangerous to close with hand-to-hand, and even the best Maker-fashioned shortbows couldn’t reliably pierce highlander armor. Bows were useful from ambush, or when hunting, but not for this. Someone tried anyway—an arrow struck the knight-captain low on one side and stuck between links in his mail. It didn’t go deep; if it reached flesh at all, the man gave no sign as he pulled the shaft free and tossed it aside.
A stocky Lighteye called Batok retreated a step too slow from the sweeping halberds; one sank between his ribs, and he fell with blood flowing over his lips. Zerill knew the man, as she knew every Lighteye in her kin. A jovial braggart with an easy smile. He would have hated being the first to fall. When I tell this story, I will say you fought like a man guided by the ancestors, she promised silently. She’d liked Batok, but even if she hadn’t, he had been family. Every man, woman, and child of the Lighteyes was her family. Her kin.
And now one of her kin was dead. That required an answer.
She pointed her spear at Batok’s killer, and darted forward. Ducking inside the reach of the man’s sweeping halberd, she aimed a jab at the space just under his chin, unprotected by helm or mail. He twisted away, and her spear sc
reeched against the mail links on his shoulder. The knight beside him swung wildly with his saber, and she barely had to move to avoid it, but she knew she was in real danger now—they were covered almost head to foot in metal, and she wore only her hides. Her vision was better than theirs in the dark, but where she had to find the vulnerable spots in their armor, the knights’ blows needed very little accuracy to find flesh.
The backswing of the halberd nearly caught her by surprise, and she dropped to her stomach, narrowly avoiding the blade. It was too heavy for the knight to quickly reverse its arc, but the man beside him slashed down with his saber before she could get her legs back under her; she rolled sideways onto her back and the blade cut the air inches from her neck. Pushing herself up on her hands, she scrambled out of range of the sword, but by now the halberdier had recovered his balance—his polearm swept down at her chest.
A hand gripped her arm and pulled her back; the halberd lodged in the earth where she had just been. Zerill looked up to see Azlin standing over her, spear in hand. Her sister helped her back to her feet, then signed, I thought I told you to be more careful.
Maybe later, Zerill replied. Help me with this. She stepped forward and caught the knight’s halberd as he tried to heave it up again; Azlin grabbed the haft from the other side. Together, they wrested the weapon out of the man’s grip and threw it aside. Across the circle the scouts Uvik and Sava followed their lead and did the same.
The knights had only their swords now, but their formation still made closing in dangerous. Zerill feinted several cautious strikes with her spear, staying just out of reach of the knights’ sabers, but she couldn’t find an opening—each man guarded the men beside him. Several more arrows deflected off mail or caught between steel rings, but did little good.
Finally, Kaza—the youngest and most reckless of Azlin’s band—charged the circle, knocked one saber aside with her axe and dodged another, then buried her weapon in the neck of one of the knights. Before she could pull back, the men to either side struck—one saber sliced down into her shoulder, the other thrust through her stomach and emerged from her back. Zerill added the woman’s name to the list in her head—another sister dead, another death to avenge. The knights shoved Kaza back as she fell, then tightened their circle to close the gap the fallen man had left.
“Savages!” The knight-captain let out a bitter laugh. “We’ll have two of you for every one of us you kill!” Though it only made Zerill hate him more, he was probably right. The knights were outnumbered, but they were too disciplined to break ranks themselves, and breaking them with force would cost more lives than the Lighteyes could afford.
We’re not getting anywhere until that circle breaks, Azlin signed.
Zerill nodded her agreement. Keep them busy, she signed, then turned and ran to the spot where Verik was hiding.
He was still there, crouched in the mud and leaves. His face was pale and there was a light sweat on his forehead. The Makers most often used their abilities to forge weapons with their hands; using the deepcraft at a distance was always difficult, especially on moving targets like the lanterns. Zerill hoped he had enough left in him to do what she needed him to do.
She knelt beside him and gripped his shoulder. We need to scatter them, she signed, and tapped the ground at Verik’s feet. Can you do it?
He smiled weakly and nodded. I can try. He laid both of his hands against the ground, and closed his eyes. The deepcraft worked best on the inanimate, Zerill knew; the spirits of living things fought against being shaped or changed. The earth under the knights was a better target than the knights themselves, and it was easier for Verik to shape something he could touch.
She felt a tremor pass under her feet, and turned her head to watch. The earth beneath the knights began to shake.
“What is this? Show yourself, witch!” the knight-captain demanded.
The shaking intensified; many of the knights had to shift their feet to keep balance. Zerill could feel Verik trembling, and she squeezed his shoulder. He tensed under her grip, digging his fingers into the earth.
The ground erupted.
A fountain of damp earth exploded from beneath the knights, sending several of them sprawling; others were forced to shield their eyes, or wipe away blinding mud. “Stay together!” their captain ordered. But it was too late. The circle was broken, and the Lighteyes advanced.
Verik’s shoulders slumped. His eyes were still closed, and his breathing was labored. The earth-burst was one of the simpler tricks of the deepcraft, but he’d been too weak already. She knelt beside him, gripped his shoulder; he shrugged her hand away. Go, help, he signed. You can’t do anything for me.
Zerill knew he was right; the only thing that would help him now was ending the fight as soon as possible. She sprang to her feet and sprinted into the fray.
In the middle of the melee, she saw Azlin fighting the knight-captain. Her sister parried the man’s saber with the blade of her spear; he pushed back, locking his weapon against hers. Struggling against the captain, Azlin couldn’t see the squire approaching behind her, saber poised to strike.
There was no time to warn her, even with the loudspeech, and no purpose to it—if Azlin turned to face the squire, she would be turning her back on the knight. Zerill hated to let go of her weapon, but she couldn’t see another way. She drew back her arm and hurled her spear.
The boy was armored only in boiled leather, like the other squires, but he was smaller than the rest; he held his sword like he was afraid to use it, and his smooth dark face lacked even the first sign of beard. The spear sank right between his shoulder blades—a perfect throw. He had barely begun to cry out when the blade severed his spine. And as he fell, all of Zerill’s hate and fury parted for just an instant to let through a single thought: He can’t be any older than Azra.
The captain saw the squire slump to the ground. “He was just a boy, you swampling bitch!” he snarled, and shoved hard against Azlin’s spear. Azlin stumbled under his weight, and he pushed her aside, charging at Zerill with rage in his eyes. She leapt out of his path, rolled to her feet, and ran for her spear, yanking it out of the dead boy’s back.
“Zerill!” Azlin shouted. Her sister never used the loudspeech except in Kinmeet; Zerill knew what it had to mean. She whirled and raised her spear like a staff, her haft intercepting the knight-captain’s saber just in front of her face. Chips of wood flew through the air. Before she could fix her grip, he struck again. The spear splintered, flexed, and broke; the captain’s saber cleaved toward her head. She spun aside at the last instant, and felt the blade graze her shoulder. She barely noticed the pain.
Zerill thrust the butt of her broken spear at the knight’s face, forcing him back, then flipped the bladed half of the weapon and swung it like a sword. He batted it aside, and Zerill’s fingers couldn’t keep their hasty grip on the broken haft; it flew from her hand and landed several feet away. He struck again, but Zerill was already moving. Dodging around the blow, she drew her knife and stabbed at his exposed armpit.
The captain twisted away, and her knife struck mail. He caught her wrist when she stabbed again, slashed one-handed at her side with his sword. It was an awkward blow, too close to have any strength behind it; she caught his hand and shoved the blade aside. But he was stronger than she was—if she didn’t break the grapple, he was going to overpower her.
She kicked at his leg, and her boot spur found flesh. He grunted in pain, his breath hot and foul against her face. She tried to pull away, but his grip didn’t weaken. With another grunt, he shoved her down and back before she could regain her footing from the kick. Her leg buckled, and she went down to one knee in the mud. The captain stepped back to get the space he needed, and his lips curled into a terrible smile as he drew back his saber to strike.
Azlin’s spear went in one side of his neck and out the other. With a look of disbelief, he dropped to his knees, clutched at the wound, and died.
Azlin bent down to retrieve the blade of
Zerill’s spear. Try to keep hold of this.
I’m sorry, was I being reckless again? Zerill grinned at her sister and took the blade. It was in poor shape, only a hand’s length of haft left below the spearhead, but it was the best weapon she had. The Makers could repair it later.
She looked around to see where she was needed next, but the fight was already over. Counting herself and Azlin, fourteen of twenty Lighteyes still stood, against one knight and two trembling squires who had just watched their captain die. The squires fell to their knees and threw down their sabers, and after a brief hesitation, the last knight did the same.
“We surrender,” the knight said. “Have merc—” Before he could finish speaking, Sava kicked him onto his back and opened his throat with the end of her spear.
“Wind of Grace, Wind of Grace, please, please, Wind of Grace,” one of the squires chanted frantically, over and over, looking up into the mist. The other simply stared forward, wide-eyed and silent. They were older than the one Zerill had killed, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, the first hints of beards on their brown-skinned faces. Uvik and a muscular woman called Yana stepped forward, spears drawn; the boy’s shrill prayer was about to be cut off forever.
Zerill looked down at the corpse of the youngest squire. She had never much noticed the faces of the highlanders she had killed before; when battle was hot in her blood, they were just the enemy. But this boy, she had noticed.
“Wait,” she said. All eyes turned toward her—the loudspeech was only used when it had to be, and it was never ignored—and then, a moment later, to Azlin.
Azlin held up one hand. Leave them for now, she signed. What is it, Zerill?
We don’t have to kill them. The Shadowfeet will have passed by now.
Azlin frowned. No mercy for highlanders, you know that. They fought beside the knights, and they have seen us. They know how we staged the ambush.
They are… very young. She remembered how angry the knight-captain had been when the boy died; she thought she might have reacted much the same way if she had seen a child of the Lighteyes killed. Seen Azra killed.
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 9