The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

“Does my voice bother you so much, little brother?” Josen was forced back under Rudol’s advance, his defense just barely keeping up with the assault. He blocked a heavy blow, slid back a step from the force of it, and nearly fell, throwing his left foot out behind to steady himself.

  He knows I hate it when he calls me that. He’s trying to goad me to distraction. And in any other circumstance, it would likely have worked. But things were different when Rudol had a sword in his hand. He was in control, and he could see through Josen’s tricks. He didn’t bother to respond aloud, just kept up his offense with a series of strikes at Josen’s chest and shoulders.

  Josen shifted, bracing his feet and drawing back his blade to receive Rudol’s blows. Just as Rudol had hoped he would. It was a common mistake, even among the knights—the instinct to protect oneself was strong below the mist. Men died when the black fever crept into wounds taken in the Swamp, died raving and hallucinating while their lips and fingernails turned black as a swampling’s eyes. And worse still was the risk of infection from a Deepling’s blood, and the madness and killing rage that always followed. It was no surprise, then, that so many knights put defense first.

  And it never came as a surprise to Rudol when those knights fell. Killing blows win fights, not parries. He sliced hard at Josen’s chest, and when the attack was blocked, Rudol put all of his weight against the blade. He knew his brother couldn’t match his strength.

  Josen didn’t even try. Instead, he threw himself backward and out of Rudol’s reach, breaking the bind. Rudol’s blade swung suddenly through empty air; he stumbled forward a step before catching himself. Josen fell onto his rump in the mud a yard away. From one vulnerable position to another. A desperate mistake.

  Rudol advanced as his brother struggled to get back to his feet. “It’s over. Yield.”

  “Sorry, little brother,” Josen said. “Not just yet.” His left hand whipped up, spraying a handful of mud at Rudol’s face.

  Rudol flung his arm in front of his face just a bit too late; he felt the mud splatter across his eyelids. Growling, he wiped it away, and brandished his sword in front of him to keep Josen back. But when he opened his eyes again, his brother wasn’t attacking—he was gone.

  Rudol spun one way, then the other, but he couldn’t see Josen in the darkness. “Where are you? Running away again?”

  He heard a slurping sound behind him and whirled just in time to see Josen erupting from the mud like a pouncing mistcat, flinging dirt in every direction and swinging his sword two-handed in an overhead blow. Understanding dawned—he was flat in the mud, couldn’t see him in the dark—and Rudol wrenched his sword up just in time to catch Josen’s blade. Again, their swords locked against each other. Rudol didn’t try to force through the bind this time. He waited, feeling for his brother’s next movement. Whatever it was, he would be ready for it.

  “Damn it, I would have bet anything that was going to work,” Josen said. Muck coated his body and face, falling off of him in drops and clumps as he strained against Rudol’s sword. “You really are too fast.”

  Rudol felt him start to slip his sword upward, and recognized the maneuver—sliding the blade into position for a clear head thrust. He increased his pressure on Josen’s blade, pushing it down; his brother relented and fell back a step. In that moment, Rudol saw his opportunity—the slightest waning of force against his sword as Josen replanted his feet. Time to end this.

  In the space of a blink, he grabbed the two wooden swords at the point where they crossed. Before Josen could react or pull back, Rudol brought his hilt up in a fluid twist and levered the practice sword from his brother’s grip. Hurling the extra blade aside, he grabbed a fistful of Josen’s filthy tunic, lifted him from his feet, and threw him onto his back. Rudol gave his brother no time to stand; he had his sword against Josen’s chest in an instant, pushing him down into the muck. “You lose.”

  “Yes,” said Josen, letting his head fall back into the mud, “I suppose I do.”

  “Nicely done as always, Prince Rudol,” Cer Eldon called down. “The half-sword disarm is a risk, but your technique was perfect—you’d have kept your fingers even with real blades. And Prince Josen, I hope you were watching closely. Your footwork in particular could benefit from your brother’s example. It’s easier to land a blow when you’re striking from a solid stance.” He looked to the squires on either side of the pit. “Open the lanterns.”

  Once more, the room was illuminated by weak firelight. Rudol glanced at Josen’s mud-smeared face, expecting the light to reveal an expression of anger, or defeat. Instead, his brother was grinning again, and when he saw Rudol looking, he began to laugh.

  “What is so funny?” Rudol narrowed his eyes. “I beat you. What reason could you possibly have to laugh at me?”

  Josen shook his head. “Not at you. At myself, for thinking this might end any other way. Look at you! You’re as big as a mountain, and you’ve been training at this for years. What was I thinking?”

  Rudol let himself relax, and moved the tip of his training sword from Josen’s chest. “Were you thinking? Do you ever?”

  “You’re repeating your insults, little brother. I’ve heard that one before.” Josen pushed himself up onto his elbows. “I did leave you the opening, though, didn’t I? Can’t blame you for taking advantage. I probably would have.” He extended a hand coated in muck. “Come on, help me up.”

  Rudol hesitated for just a moment, then reminded himself, People are watching. He pulled Josen to his feet and wiped his hand off on his leg. “You weren’t so bad,” he said gruffly. “I’ve seen worse.”

  Josen looked down at his mud-soaked clothes and laughed again, shaking his arms to fling off some of the filth. “Maybe, but I’d wager you’ve seen a lot better. I’ll need about five baths before dinner with the Falloways.” His grin turned rueful as he looked back up at Rudol. “You always could best me with a sword. Do you remember the first time we fought with practice blades?”

  It took a moment, but Rudol found himself nodding. “The banquet hall at the Keep. I was only… ten? Eleven?” The memory started to come clear in his head; he hadn’t thought about it for a long time. It had been years ago, when Eian Gryston had still commanded the Royal Swords, and had just begun to teach Rudol and Josen the art of swordplay. “Eian gave us those wooden swords to carry, so we could get used to them. ‘Wear them until they feel like part of you,’ and all that.”

  “I still say it wasn’t our fault,” Josen said, grinning still. He wiped a hand over his face, then flicked the mud off his fingers. “You don’t give a boy a toy sword and expect him not to fight with it.”

  “It didn’t help that you kept prodding me with yours.” Rudol couldn’t help but return his brother’s smile.

  “They were new! I wanted to use them.”

  “Well, we did do that.”

  “I never had a chance—you were already getting bigger and faster than me. You drove me right into Father’s chair.”

  Rudol let out a short laugh, surprising himself. “His soup went everywhere.” He tried to restrain himself, but another chuckle forced its way out at the memory: Josen lying stunned across their father’s lap, King Gerod’s serious face dripping with thick broth. “He was so angry. And you…” His smile faltered. “You told him he should be proud. You said I’d be the finest knight in the realm someday.”

  That had been the first time he’d beaten his older brother at anything, and he had been so scared that Josen would be mad, or jealous. But Josen had just grinned and laughed like nothing was wrong, and bragged to everyone who would listen that his little brother was going to be a Knight of the Storm one day.

  “And I wasn’t far off the mark, was I?”

  “No,” said Rudol. “Not far. About some things.” But you didn’t predict that a few years later you’d be gone from the Keep more often than you weren’t, and I’d be left to clean up the mess. Rudol exhaled angrily through his nose and cursed himself for letting his guard down. Whe
n Josen was being charming, it was easy to forget to be angry at him—and it always hurt to remember again. “Come, there are others who need to use the pit.” Rudol turned away and strode toward the stairs.

  Josen caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder. “Rudol, stop.”

  Rudol turned, glaring. “People are waiting.”

  “I’ll be quick. I know you don’t want me here, and you know I don’t want to be here. But I swear by the Above, I’m going to be on my best behavior. I don’t have much choice. I won’t embarrass Father, or you. Let’s call a truce. We can get along until Aryll’s Rest, can’t we, little brother?”

  Rudol looked at him for a moment, studying his face. He seemed sincere, though it was hard to tell with Josen. Maybe he’ll try to behave at dinner, if nothing else. If Josen kept his mouth shut, the meal might actually be bearable, or at least easier on Shona. Still awkward, perhaps, but Carissa would fill in the silences. She always did.

  “Fine. A truce.” He could hardly refuse, anyway—this was what their father wanted. He glanced up at the knights watching them from above, and lowered his voice. “But stop calling me that. I am not your little brother here. I am a Knight of the Storm.”

  “I didn’t mean to…” Josen’s voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “Well, I suppose I did. I know you don’t like it. No more ‘little brothers’. Just promise you’ll look out for me when they take us into the Swamp. I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  Rudol nodded curtly. “I promise. But you had best pray for the Deepwalker to drag you under if you do embarrass Father again.”

  “I’d find more mercy with Dalleon than with King Gerod, no doubt. At least trust that I know that, if you can’t trust my word.”

  “I trust you to do whatever serves you best. That never changes. Can we go now?”

  Josen gestured him forward. “By all means.”

  Rudol pulled off his muddy boots at the foot of the stairs and threw them into the pile left by the other fighters. Josen did the same, despite the mud that covered him head to foot—dirty boots or no, he was going to make a mess. When they emerged from the pit, Duke Castar was waiting for them, with Falyn Morne beside him.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Castar, spreading his arms wide. “Cer Falyn and I were just talking about you two. You both did well. Prince Josen, you fight a bit like a swampling, all that trickery.”

  Josen raised an eyebrow. “Thank you?”

  Duke Castar laughed. “It was a compliment. The swamplings are savages and heathens, but they are also canny fighters. In the Swamp, one must do whatever it takes to win.”

  Rudol bristled at that. Truce or no, he didn’t like to hear Duke Castar praising Josen. But he pushed it aside for the moment—Falyn Morne’s presence was of greater concern. She wouldn’t have come without reason; she was Gryston’s right hand, and she rarely had time to watch recruits train in the darkroom.

  He nodded to her. “Cer Falyn. What brings you here?”

  “Highnesses.” Morne bowed, rather pointedly more toward Josen than Rudol. Rudol clenched his fists. She rarely showed him the respect due a son of the king, but she might have at least pretended in front of his brother. “The lord general sent me to fetch you. He wants the two of you and Duke Castar in his chambers.”

  “Tell Cer Eian that we won’t be long,” said Duke Castar. He glanced at Josen’s muddy clothes. “I don’t think he’ll mind if we clean up first.”

  When Morne was on her way, Rudol looked to Duke Castar. “Well? What is this about?”

  Castar tapped the side of his nose. “That would spoil the surprise. Come, the lord general awaits.”

  8. Memory and Faith

  Josen

  “Eight days?” Josen’s heart sank into his feet. “I was told the purge wouldn’t be until Aryll’s Rest!”

  “I’m sorry, lad,” said Eian Gryston, and he truly sounded like he was. “Very few knew the truth. Your father, the commanders of the inner duchy Stormhalls, myself and Duke Castar. We couldn’t risk any rumor of our true intent.”

  Eian sat across from Josen and Rudol, behind the large oaken desk in his chambers; Duke Castar leaned against the wall beside him. Eian had clearly furnished the room with practicality in mind over comfort—the plain desk and the two chairs before it were the only places to sit, and they were no great luxury. The rest of the space was largely devoted to shelves full of neatly arranged papers and records and journals. Josen could see into Eian’s bedroom through the doorway on his right; it held little more than a small cot to sleep on. The lack of ornament reminded him of King Gerod’s chambers. It was not a welcome memory.

  Castar took a mollifying tone, though it didn’t serve its purpose very well. “You must understand, Prince Josen—the swamplings have somehow been forewarned of our purges in the past. By spreading word that we intend to move at cycle’s end and then striking early, we might take them off guard. Any advantage we can get means fewer lives spent.”

  “Well you could have told me. Or do you think I’m the one warning the swamplings?” Josen knew that his indignation was perhaps a touch ironic, considering he had rescued a swampling girl barely a full turn past. But they don’t know that. They should have told me. God Above, I thought facing Shona at dinner was going to be the worst part of my day. And Castar’s attempts to soothe him just annoyed him all the more. The man acted sincere, but the knights he had been recruiting—easily swayed idiots with wealthy fathers—told a different story. He’s an opportunist, and he thinks I’m an opportunity.

  “Don’t throw a fit, Josen.” Rudol cast an annoyed glance in his direction. “You knew this was coming eventually, why not now? What’s the difference?”

  The difference is that it’s now instead of later. But Josen held his tongue and considered his reply. He had proposed a truce, and he didn’t think getting into an immediate argument with his brother would be the best way to keep it. “I’m not ready for the Swamp yet. I haven’t trained enough.” There, that sounds reasonable.

  Rudol dismissed the argument with a wave of his hand. “You don’t need training to watch. You aren’t going to do anything. We’ll keep you safe.”

  “Your brother is right—you’ll have nothing to fear,” said Castar. “I will have men protecting you at all times. The king doesn’t want you placed in any real danger. Your presence is meant to be symbolic more than practical.”

  “I’m not worried about the danger,” said Josen. Which was not entirely true—he wasn’t ready to test if the dead really were reborn just yet—but it wasn’t his first concern, or at least he didn’t think it was. He really had too many concerns to be sure. All he knew for certain was that he couldn’t stop thinking about a particular swampling girl, dying at the end of his sword.

  “What, then?” Rudol impatiently tapped his finger against the arm of his chair.

  “I don’t know, I just…” Josen quailed under Rudol’s gaze. What could I possibly say? That I’m worried about hurting a swampling? Rudol would throw me out the window. Shrugging helplessly, he looked up at Eian. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can do this. I thought I would have more time.”

  Eian regarded him silently, his brown eyes thoughtful. After a moment, he said, “Lenoden, you should discuss your plans with Prince Rudol, if he’s to be your second. I would like to speak with Prince Josen.”

  “Of course, Cer Eian.” Castar straightened from the wall and headed for the door. “Let’s leave them be, Rudol—we have much to talk about.”

  Rudol grunted his assent and got to his feet, but before he left, he leaned in close to Josen and whispered, “Don’t be a fool about this. You know what Father wants.” Then he followed Castar from the room.

  As soon as the door had closed, Eian leaned forward and asked, “Do you understand why this raid is necessary, Josen?”

  Josen smirked. “So Castar can add another of the king’s sons to his list of followers?”

  Eian snorted at that. “I’m sure he thinks so. Bu
t it is more than that—we cannot withstand another assault. If we do not retaliate before they send more Deeplings, Greenwall could fall. This is important, lad.”

  Josen nodded. “I know that. I’m not trying to be difficult, Eian. I’m just not…” Not what? Not interested in protecting my own people? How do I explain it when I hardly understand myself? He shrugged. “I’m not a knight. I don’t know if I have it in me.”

  Eian stood from his chair and walked around his desk, seating himself on the edge in front of Josen. “What’s wrong, lad?” Josen recognized the concern in Eian’s eyes—he’d seen the same look many times when he was a boy. “I know you’ve had your troubles with some of our newer recruits lately, is that it? They will treat you with respect in the Swamp and out of it, or I promise you they will answer to me.”

  “No, it’s not… I’m sorry that Father ever brought you into that. I never meant to—”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. Those boys…” Eian shook his head sadly. “They should never have earned their colors. They weren’t ready. It’s political—Castar has his way as often as I do. He isn’t lord general just yet, but he has the favor of the younger men, and there are more of them every turn.” Sighing, he spread his hands. “And he may be right. Under my watch our numbers have dwindled, and our coffers have run low. Seeking out men with money who would buy prestige for their sons addresses both problems. King Kaleb made it fashionable for kings to grant their supporters counthoods; selling knighthoods isn’t far from that, I suppose. Perhaps I am wrong to fight it.” He paused then, and a slight smile turned up one corner of his mouth. “But right or wrong, I would like to have seen Cer Horte’s face when he realized who you were.”

  “It was something to behold. I… I thought you would be disappointed with me.”

  “For defending those who cannot defend themselves? That is what the Knights of the Storm are sworn to do, Josen. I am disappointed in Horte and his ilk for shaming our order. I am proud of you.”