The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Before her hand even moved, he raised his in surrender. I know. We aren’t going anywhere.

  I’ve already let her go once today, Zerill signed. I’m not doing it again. She isn’t thinking clearly. If she’s going to do this, she needs a Maker—leaving you to protect me will get her killed.

  She isn’t going to be very happy with me, you know. Verik smiled slightly. I suppose this means I’m more scared of you than of her. Do you have a plan?

  Not much of one. She shrugged. We wait and watch. When Azlin and the others attack, you might be able to create a distraction, help them escape alive after they kill Castar and… the prince. Her eyes were drawn back toward Josen, toward the highlander who had saved her life when he’d had no reason to. The man she’d hoped might represent a chance for peace, there in the Swamp beside the knights who had come to kill her people. And even now, the thought of watching him die summoned up a cold weight in the pit of her stomach.

  Verik touched her shoulder, pulling her attention back. Zerill, is something wrong?

  No. Nothing. She breathed in deep and pushed her doubts aside. She couldn’t afford them, not now. Azlin wasn’t going to get out of this alive without help.

  And if she had to choose between Prince Josen’s life or her sister’s, it was no choice at all.

  Josen

  The swamplings crept out of the darkness like wraiths, silent and vengeful.

  Josen didn’t hear them draw near; his ears were full of the battle taking place just a few hundred yards ahead, its boundaries marked by floating globes of lantern-light. His eyes flickered from one lantern to another, occasionally uncovering some dim movement or flashing sword. It was hypnotic, in a terrifying sort of way. He didn’t even know he was in danger until he heard Bellic Goodwyn shout from behind.

  By the time he turned, Cer Bellic lay on the ground with an arrow through his cheek. Josen knew the man—son of Count Berric Goodwyn, whose family had earned title and fortune sending gas-trappers into the Swamp to supply fuel for the baskets. He’d never liked him, but he’d known him. And now a man Josen had spoken to and eaten with lay dead right in front of him.

  And the swamplings were coming.

  He had seen swamplings before—once, at least—and he hadn’t been afraid then, but in the shadows of the Swamp they were like creatures from another world. They wore garments of dark hide, and their faces were mottled like snake-skin, some dye or mud smeared over pale flesh. Large black eyes caught the orange glow of lantern-light and reflected it back like some inner magic, like the witchcraft they were so often accused of. And these eyes held none of the fear and doubt that had captured his sympathy when he’d helped the girl; all he could see in these eyes was rage.

  God Above, how did they get so close? No one is that quiet. He jerked his saber into a defensive position, but panic made him clumsy—the hook at the blade’s end came dangerously close to his eye. Stumbling back, he fell in behind the knights’ closing ranks.

  “They must have snuck past the line,” said Castar. “They have some cunning, these dark-eyes—there’s no denying that. Ormond, sound for aid. There might be more.” He held his saber left-handed in a relaxed mid-guard, and he’d drawn a long parrying dagger in his right. His voice held no trace of fear. “Stay back, Prince Josen. This shouldn’t take very long.”

  Josen just nodded. He had no intention of going any closer. Even if the swamplings didn’t kill him, the smallest wound taken beneath the mist could become infected with the black fever, and less than half of the afflicted survived that. Dying in the Swamp would be bad enough; rotting away above the mist for days, with black lips and fingernails and a generous portion of fever-induced insanity would be much worse. The only saving grace of the fever for the Knights of the Storm was that those who lived through it rarely contracted it again, and for Josen, that was meaningless. Once he left the Swamp, he never intended to come back.

  As Ryon Ormond sounded a series of horn blasts, Castar strode into the fray. His knights parted just slightly to let him in. Not all of them were terribly skilled, but each man protected those near him. The swamplings’ spears and axes met steel far more often than flesh. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the Knights of the Storm became a wall of mail and blades.

  But the way Lenoden Castar fought, he might have held the line alone.

  His sword moved so quickly it was hard to follow, and he used his dagger as effectively for offense as defense. With a casual stroke he deflected a stone axe-head, and on the backswing of that same motion, caught the haft of a thrusting spear with his saber’s hook. The bladed hook bit into the wood, and Castar wrenched the weapon and the woman who held it toward him, plunging his knife between her ribs. Keeping the knife in her gut, he heaved her to the right, using her body as a shield to catch another blow from the axe-wielder. The entire maneuver happened in the blink of an eye; Castar was shoving the dying swampling aside before Josen entirely understood what he had seen.

  Spirit of All, I’m glad I didn’t try to spar with him. The frivolity of his own thought surprised him. His knuckles were still clenched around the hilt of his sword, and he could hear his heartbeat pulsing in his ears, but the fear was… less than he’d expected. Watching the fight from behind with the squires—two boys of perhaps fifteen, neither of whom looked nearly as concerned as he was—Josen could almost make himself believe that he was safe. That the swamplings couldn’t hope to best Castar and a dozen Knights of the Storm.

  A dozen knights against… Five. It was hard to get a sure count through the knights and amidst swinging swords and spears; he tried again, and again reached the same result. Only five, and that was counting the woman Castar had already killed. Five against a dozen. Why attack with so few? Suicide. Breaking through the dull fear that still swirled in his head, a suspicion surfaced. This isn’t right.

  The swamplings were called savages and worse, but at the Stormhall he had been instructed time and again not to underestimate them. They were canny, Castar and Cer Eldon and a dozen others had told him, and cunning, and a dozen other words that all meant they used their silence and their knowledge of the Swamp to their advantage. They didn’t attack a dozen knights head-on with only five warriors.

  That moment of intuition was all that saved him. The swamplings were as silent as the mist—he wouldn’t have noticed the whisper-quiet rustling in the boughs overhead if he hadn’t been looking for some sign of trouble. He leapt back as the first vine dropped from above, and instinctively raised his saber to block the spear-blade that swept down at his head.

  “Help!” Not the most informative cry, but he had no time to think of better. The dark figure—a woman—released the vine she had ridden down from the treetops and lunged at Josen; he barely shunted the jabbing spear aside.

  More figures fell from the trees above, at least three others, sliding down on vines and landing nimbly on their feet. They were absolutely silent—not so much as a grunt when they landed, no battle cries when they attacked.

  The light dimmed suddenly as a squire cried out and fell, his lantern tumbling into the mud. Josen heard shouts of alarm from the knights, but he fought the desire to glance toward them, to see if help was coming. The swampling attacking him was fast, vicious, and far more skilled than he was—staying alive required his full attention.

  She feinted a jab at his chest, and when he took the bait and moved to parry, swept at his legs. He jumped back too slowly, felt the blow against his left shin. The tip of the spear didn’t pierce his mail, but the force swept his foot out from under him.

  As he tumbled over backward, Josen blindly thrust his left hand out behind him, catching himself before he hit the ground. The woman’s spear leapt for his throat with appalling speed; Josen pushed off and rolled to the side, cold muck seeping through his clothes and armor. He scrambled to his knees, holding his sword out in front of him.

  Somewhere behind, a lantern shifted, and the woman’s face caught the light.

  Recognition hit Josen
like a gust of mountain wind, sharp and cold. “You.”

  He knew this woman; he knew her face, even with mud smeared all over it. The pale yellow-white hair, the wide forehead over black eyes, the sharp chin and cheekbones. He’d only seen it once, briefly, but it hadn’t left his thoughts since. And yet it was different here in the Swamp—older, somehow, and angrier. Cold fury etched lines of shadow around her eyes and deep furrows in her brow.

  “Please, stop,” Josen begged. “I… I helped you once.”

  He’d been wearing a mask when he met her in the Plateaus, and there was no earthly reason for her to recognize him, but he hoped she might at least know his voice. He wasn’t so lucky. She leapt at him, swinging the long blade of her spear at his chest. He blocked once, and again, but her next thrust came too fast; his arms felt slow, like they were moving through water. Instinctively he twisted away, clenched his eyes shut.

  The killing blow never came.

  Josen heard stone scrape metal, opened his eyes in time to see the spearhead deflect off Lenoden Castar’s long dagger, missing by inches. The duke’s grey tabard was torn across the chest, half of the blue lightning blade flapping free; sweat plastered his black hair to his forehead. But he was as fast as ever. He stepped in front of Josen, feinted with his knife, and swung his saber in a tight arc that would have opened the woman’s neck. She threw herself out of the way with a backward leap, and landed in a crouch with her spear outstretched.

  A horn blast from behind nearly deafened Josen. Still on his knees, he twisted to see Ryon Ormond, sounding his horn again with a panicked look on his face. The neat line of knights was no more; men were crossing swords with swamplings all around him now. Bodies from both sides littered the ground, Storm Knights in grey, swamplings in their hides—but more of the latter than the former. The ferocity and skill of the swamplings meant little, outnumbered two to one by armored men. Their misdirection had been effective, but it hadn’t been enough.

  “Prince Josen!” Castar’s voice. Josen turned back at the sound. “Don’t just stand there—this one is yours!” The duke batted the woman’s spear aside with his saber, jabbed with his knife, and met empty air when she dodged away.

  Josen stood, raised his sword, and started forward. The swampling woman’s eyes darted in his direction.

  His step faltered. “I can’t.”

  It didn’t matter. He’d stolen her attention for an instant, and that was all Castar needed. The moment her eyes moved, the duke lunged inside the reach of her spear and hooked its haft with his saber. The swampling twisted away from his thrusting dagger, tried to pull her spear free in the same motion. But the weapon stuck fast, and in turning away from the knife blade she left her side unguarded.

  Castar thrust out his foot in a brutal kick, catching her low in the stomach. She didn’t cry out, but Josen heard the breath leave her lungs. She staggered back a step, and Castar heaved at the trapped spear, wresting it from her hands. With a sharp jerk, he freed the haft from his saber and tossed it aside.

  The woman was defenseless now, holding her side, still fighting for air. Castar raised his blade for a final blow.

  “Wait!” Josen was barely aware that it was him speaking. She tried to kill me. What am I doing? But he was already moving forward, reaching out to grab Castar’s arm.

  He was halfway there when the ground beneath his feet exploded.

  Zerill

  Zerill watched from hiding as her Kin-mates gave their lives, one by one. They’re losing, she signed to Verik. We can’t just sit here and watch.

  Verik nodded, pressed his hands against the ground, and closed his eyes. They needed the deepcraft, and there was no time to waste. The Lighteyes were failing fast, and Azlin wouldn’t last much longer against Duke Castar.

  Zerill had never seen Castar in battle before, but she knew of him. The worst of the Abandoned’s enemies, some said; others put him second, after the white-haired general. The duke was supposed to be strong as a Deepling, fast as a mistcat—a warrior without peer. She’d never quite believed the tales.

  She did now.

  Azlin was one of the best fighters Zerill knew, and Castar deflected her spear as if brushing away a stinging insect. His own attacks were unpredictable, quick and without discernible rhythm; Azlin retreated step by step, forced onto the defensive, clearly struggling to turn Castar’s blades aside.

  “Prince Josen!” Castar called out. “Don’t just stand there—this one is yours!” He doesn’t even respect her enough to finish the fight himself.

  Prince Josen started forward, then hesitated. “I can’t.” Zerill had seen the recognition in his eyes earlier, heard his plea for mercy—he’d mistaken Azlin for her. And for some reason, he didn’t want to kill her.

  But Castar didn’t need help; he’d just needed a distraction. Zerill watched as her sister’s spear was torn from her hand, watched as Castar stepped forward and raised his sword for the kill. Hurry, Verik! she signed in a panic.

  “Wait!” Prince Josen’s voice surprised her. He stepped forward, hand reaching toward Castar. He’s trying to save me again. She didn’t have time to consider how she felt about that; at the same moment, the earth beneath her started to rumble and convulse, as though something was passing by below.

  With a wet tearing sound, the ground burst open underneath Prince Josen, hurling him into the air. A wave of mud and earth surged in all directions, knocking Azlin and Castar from their feet. Sediment rained down everywhere; for a moment, Zerill lost sight of her sister and the highlanders. She looked at Verik—his hands were still on the ground, but his eyes were wide, scared.

  Was that you? she signed, hoping for the answer that the queasy feeling of wrongness in her gut told her she wouldn’t get.

  Verik shook his head. No. I think it was…

  She saw it then, a glossy black monster clawing its way out of the hole in the earth, and she signed, Deeplings. There was blood on the ground, and the battle ahead was dying down—now it was time for the carrion beasts to feed.

  Another surge of motion underfoot, a second geyser of mud, and another beetleback surged out of the ground amidst the knights and her sister’s warriors. The black blades at the ends of its arms flashed; the nearest highlander parried the first blade with his saber, but the second separated his head from his shoulders.

  Behind the beetleback, a horde of the rotborn spilled forth, misshapen golems of sloughing flesh and shattered bone and oily earth crawling with centipedes and maggots. No two of them shared the same shape. As numerous as they were deadly, they were the closest thing the Deeplings had to footsoldiers—though only some actually had feet. One of them, a hunchbacked, vaguely humanoid thing, leapt upon the nearest highlander and held him down. Another—this one little more than a huge mass of greasy sludge dragged along by three rotting legs of some clawed beast—squelched over the man, crushing him alive.

  Another burrow-hole burst open, and a pulsing white grubling pulled itself forth on a hundred writhing legs; the corpse of a Lighteye woman fell into its razored maw, and it swallowed her whole. A nearby knight stumbled as the ground fell away, and his foot dropped into the beast’s mouth, dissolving into a spray of red mist. His wild screams rent at Zerill’s ears, but the worst part wasn’t the sound—it was that he reached his hands toward the monster instead of away. Whatever training the Storm Knights undertook to resist the pull of the Deeplings, it fell away at the end; the man died trying to embrace the thing even as it dragged him down.

  By the All-Kin, she signed, horrified. We have to do something. Azlin was on the ground in the midst of the carnage, still dazed. Come on. She darted out from behind her rock and sprinted toward her sister.

  The canopy above was saturated with mud, and clumps pelted down around her like the sleet that sometimes fell through the mist farther north. A thick clod of dirt struck her shoulder; she ignored it, kept running. Knights and Lighteyes scattered and fled in every direction, shrieking and flailing as they were caught and ripped
apart.

  The sound of earth tearing repeated once, and again. More Deeplings. Too many. In the side of her eye she saw deeprats and rotborn pouring out of a new hole in the ground, but she didn’t turn, couldn’t spare the attention. As long as Verik was near, she was safe enough—Deeplings tended to go after highlanders first if they had the choice, and especially avoided the Makers unless there was no untainted blood nearby.

  She couldn’t see Azlin. The first beetleback stood between her and her sister like a fragment of midnight, so dark that even the eyes of the Abandoned couldn’t pierce it. Pieces of noise and movement came from beyond the creature: a gloved hand, a sliver of grey fabric, a muffled grunt. Nothing that told her Azlin was safe.

  A knight staggered into her path, looked at her in confusion and terror—he obviously wanted to flee, but couldn’t seem to decide if he had to go through her or not. He lifted his sword.

  Zerill ducked down and thrust hard with the butt of her spear, taking the man in the gut. He doubled over; she clubbed her haft down on the base of his neck and shoved him out of the way as he fell senseless. She could have killed him, like she had dozens in the purge, but something stayed her hand. Maybe it was that the highlander prince had chosen not to kill Azlin; maybe she was just impatient to get to her sister. She didn’t have the time just then to make sense of what she felt.

  A sound from her left, just behind; she knew the footfall of a knight’s heavy boot without looking. Just run, fools. I don’t have time to kill you, but the Deeplings do. She whirled. The second knight was already swinging his saber. She couldn’t raise her spear fast enough, tried to lean away instead, but he was too close. The sword arced toward her head.

  Just before it struck, the blade folded in the middle and bent back on itself, metal groaning against the sudden force. With a harsh ring, the saber shattered in half. What was left attached to the hilt whistled by Zerill’s face, missing by inches; the upper half of the blade whirled at the knight’s shoulder, struck chain, and tumbled into the mud.