The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “What in the… Deeplings!”

  Loudspeech. Not the Abandoned. Not Korv.

  Highlanders.

  She checked her pace, ducked behind a boggrove, and peered in the direction the sound had come from. She could see them now through the trees—three men with a small wagon. Gas-trappers, if the torso-sized glass cannisters peeking up from the back of their wagon were any indication. They captured gas from vents in the bogs to take back above the mist, though Zerill had only a vague understanding of why. One of the trappers perched atop the wagon, lantern held high; he was shouting orders at two mail-clad men wielding highlander swords.

  The Deeplings were already on them. A pack of deeprats. She counted five, and five burrow-holes to match. One of the beasts was bigger than the others, nearly the size of the mountain ponies drawing the cart.

  The ponies didn’t last long. One was already dead, the big deeprat tearing into its meat; the others swarmed over the second, ripping it to shreds. “Do something,” the man atop the wagon shrieked, but his two guards stayed where they were—Zerill didn’t know if it was fear that held them, or the unnatural compulsion the Deeplings could instill.

  She heard Josen coming before he spoke; his footfalls were heavy and his breath loud. “You have to help them!”

  “They are highlanders.”

  “So am I! If you truly want peace, prove it!” Josen’s face softened. “Please, Zerill. You need the Deeplings anyway, for Verik, right?”

  Zerill looked to the highlanders and sighed. “They are lucky it is only deeprats.” She glanced over her shoulder at Josen. “Stay here.”

  Moving from tree to tree, she crossed the distance swiftly and silently. She took the first deeprat by surprise as it gorged on pony-flesh; her spear pierced the back of its neck just above its grey insect carapace. Even as it fell, she was picking her next target.

  Two more of the creatures were circling a heavy-set highlander swordsman, taking turns lunging at him; the second man was barely holding off the snapping jaws of the largest beast. The last deeprat was clawing its way into the wagon to get at the screaming man on top, tearing long gouges out of the wood with claws like spearheads. The fighters could defend themselves, at least for a moment, but the man atop the wagon was unarmed. Zerill made her choice.

  She vaulted over the side of the wagon and landed amid a mess of metal tubes and funnels and corked glass cannisters the size of her torso. In the same motion, she swung her spear overhand, slashing at the deeprat’s head as it clambered up. The creature twisted and half-curled. Her spear bounced harmlessly off its shell.

  The deeprat uncurled, dug its claws into the floor of the wagon, and hurled itself forward, gnashing at her face with its long pink snout.

  She swung her spear against the creature’s armored side, knocked it off target; it struck her right leg, and she staggered back into a glass cannister. The cannister tipped and rolled—the deeprat dodged aside as it passed—and then fell from the wagon, shattering on the ground below. The man cowering behind her let out an anguished groan at the sound, but Zerill paid him no mind.

  The beast advanced, already inside her reach. Zerill drew her knife and dropped her spear. They were too close now for the longer haft.

  The deeprat snapped at her arm, and she swayed to the side, wrapped an elbow around its neck. Her stomach heaved at the feel of the thing, at the whisper in her head that urged her closer, but she held on and rolled over her left shoulder, heaving the creature across her body and onto its back.

  Glass rattled all around her at the impact. Her knife cut an arc through the air; the deeprat tried to curl into its shell.

  It wasn’t fast enough.

  Zerill’s shoved her blade through the thick hide around its throat, sending a gout of black blood gushing over her arm. The creature fought her hold, claws spasming in the air, but Zerill held tight until its struggles ceased. When she pulled her forearm out from beneath its neck, her sleeve was sticky with ichor. Have to be careful now.

  She snapped up her spear, ignored the man gaping at her, and jumped back down from the wagon. The big deeprat was tearing at the corpse of one of the guardsmen—nothing she could do for him now. The other man had slain one of his beasts, but now he was on his knees, black blood spattered up his chest and across his face. His sword fell from his fingers, and he reached toward the second deeprat, his jaw slack and his pupils wide.

  Before Zerill could stop it, the deeprat leapt, knocked the man onto his back. Its jaws fastened around his black-drenched shoulder, crunching against the steel links of his mail. The man screamed.

  The deeprat didn’t even know Zerill was there until the blade of her spear chopped halfway through its skull. Always easier when they’re distracted. If the highlander was very lucky, she might have killed the beast before it reached flesh under the steel of his mail—nothing else would have stopped a Deepling’s teeth for long.

  One left. She turned to face the largest beast, got halfway around before she saw it.

  Hurtling straight at her.

  The force of it knocked her entirely off her feet; her spear flew from her hand, landed in the muck a yard away from her reaching fingers. The huge deeprat straddled her, saliva dripping from its slavering snout to fall against her chest. One massive claw pressed against her belly, holding her against the earth. She kicked at its hind legs, opening gashes with her boot spurs, but it didn’t flinch, hardly even seemed to notice. The slightest pressure and it could have gutted her.

  It didn’t. Instead, its eyeless gaze found her left arm, soaked in black blood up to the elbow. Ancestors, no. The Deeplings ate what they killed, but they nearly always left survivors too. Survivors like Verik. Kill me, devour me, but not that.

  The deeprat snapped at her arm with terrifying speed.

  Something struck it hard in the side, knocking it off balance.

  Its claw lifted off her stomach for just a moment, and Zerill rolled free, jerking her arm out of harm’s way. She grabbed her spear and pushed herself onto her feet, readied herself for the deeprat’s next attack—but it wasn’t interested in her.

  It was facing Josen.

  He shouldn’t be here. It took her a beat to realize that he was the thing that had struck the deeprat. He knelt on the ground nearby, doubled over and gripping his side, his face contorted with pain. No weapon, no way to defend himself—and he had an open wound on his hand. Idiot. You’re no good to me dead or cursed. All he could do was raise one arm in a futile attempt to shield himself as the deeprat lunged.

  There was no time for anything but a blind leap. Zerill threw herself into a dive, rolled to her knees in front of Josen, and thrust her spear with both hands.

  The deeprat’s teeth closed on her spearhead.

  She slid back in the mud under the weight of the impact, but held her spear fast; the beast’s momentum did the work for her. Maker-forged stone split the corners of its mouth, sheared through bone and cartilege toward the center of the skull. The deeprat’s lower jaw flapped open wide, almost entirely severed; dark ichor poured over its lolling tongue. It took a last halting step, shuddered, and slumped over, dead.

  She levered herself to her feet with the haft of her spear and looked back at Josen. “I told you to stay.”

  He was still staring at the deeprat’s corpse. “You’re lucky I’m not more obedient.”

  “Swamplings!” The man in the wagon seemed to have recovered his composure, and now he was pointing a trembling finger at Zerill, holding his lantern in front of him as if it might ward her off. “They must have brought the monsters! Get up, Cadill!”

  This is what I get for trying to help a highlander. Her muscles tensed, and she tightened her grip on her spear.

  The heavy-set swordsman pushed himself to his knees, gripping his bloodstained shoulder. His sharp whiskers and large upturned nose, taken together, made him look very much like a wild boar. He tried not to let his fear show, but she could tell he was probing for wounds; he didn’t a
ppear to find any. She took a step toward him, and he brandished his sword at her one-handed.

  “Get back, dark-eye!”

  Zerill closed the distance faster than he could stand, and batted the sword from his hand. The blade of her spear was against his neck before his weapon hit the ground. He froze, instantly understanding the threat—the smallest nick on his bloodied throat would be worse than death. The Deeplings’ curse was not kind to highlanders.

  “Wait!” Josen struggled to stand, his legs shaking as he straightened. “Wait.” He was obviously in agony, swaying on his feet. “We don’t have to fight. My name is Josen Aryllia, and I promise that we mean you no—”

  “Liar!” The man on the wagon squinted at Josen, holding his lantern out in front of him. His brow furrowed slightly at what he saw: highlander skin, far too dark for one of the Abandoned; highlander eyes, not nearly dark enough. Uncertainly, he said, “Prince Josen is dead.”

  Josen shook his head. “No. I was… betrayed. Lenoden Castar left me for dead. This woman saved me. And now she”—he grunted in pain—“now she’s saved you, too.”

  “I think he’s telling the truth, Tuck,” the boar-faced swordsman—Cadill—said. He was looking at Josen wide-eyed, barely paying attention to the spear at his neck. “I… I saw you once, at a tavern in Cliffside. You stopped a knight from beating the girl who’d spilled his drink. You didn’t have the white in your hair, but the face, the voice… Lord of Eagles be praised, it is you.”

  “There you have it,” Josen said. “I’m probably me. Good to… have that settled. Now, everyone just needs to calm down. Your friend is already dead. Isn’t that enough for one day?” He winced; talking still pained him, even if it seemed to Zerill like he never stopped. “Put your… put your sword away and let us help you. You didn’t intend to come so far east, I’d guess?”

  “Lost our way,” the man named Tuck admitted hesitantly. “We were taking these cannisters back to the road, but it must have been flooded out—we didn’t find it. And then…” He shrugged. “Well, you saw.”

  Josen half-turned toward her, winced, and gripped his side again. “Zerill, we have to help them.”

  Zerill clenched her jaw and shook her head. She didn’t like speaking in front of highlanders, and they had no time to guide these men home even if she’d wanted to.

  But Josen was persistent. “We can at least point them in the right direction. Where’s the road from here?”

  Zerill hesitated still, but after a moment she jabbed a finger southwest.

  “She understands you?” Tuck asked, bending slightly and holding his lantern toward her. “Did you… train her?”

  Zerill snorted, and said, “I am not an animal, highlander.”

  Both men took a step back at that, and Tuck stumbled on one of his gas cannisters and fell on his rump. Almost worth it. It went against all of her instincts, but she had already broken rules for Josen—at least there was some satisfaction in breaking this one.

  “She can speak?” Cadill stared at her open-mouthed. “They’re… not supposed to speak.”

  Zerill ignored the question, and pointed toward the road again. “You’ll find your road if you keep southwest. If you lose your bearings again, look at the vines. Thicker on the south side of the tree.”

  Josen looked up at Tuck, who as still gaping at Zerill. “Is that enough to prove we mean well?”

  “You expect us to walk?” Tuck objected, tearing his eyes from Zerill to peer into the darkness in the direction she had pointed. “The ponies are dead. We’ve got six cannisters”—he looked down at the shattered glass at the back of the wagon—“well, five, now. Five full cannisters of gas, do you know how much those are worth? We can’t carry it all.”

  “You can carry enough food to get home,” said Zerill. “Leave the rest.”

  “I’m not leaving—”

  “You’d better listen to her,” Josen interrupted. “I sympathize, really. I always wondered why some vapor from the Swamp cost so much—now I don’t know why you’d bother doing this for anything less. But your lives are worth more.”

  Tuck looked like he was going to argue, but he glanced at the bodies on the ground, and his shoulders slumped. He kept his mouth shut.

  “It is ten days’ journey at most,” Zerill said. “Less if you travel straight. If you are lucky, you may find a patrol of your knights on the way.” She approached a boggrove and slashed one of the skyseeker vines wrapped around its trunk with her knife; clear liquid started to drip slowly into her palm. “The water in the vines is safe. Drink nothing else. You will make it.”

  “What about Howell?” Cadill glanced toward his fallen companion. “We can’t carry him, and if he stays down here…”

  “We’ll see to the burning,” said Josen. “It might be enough to set him free, even here, if we don’t bury him. The chastors say it’s the earth that weighs the spirit down.”

  It sounded like a waste of time to Zerill, but that seemed to make the difference. Cadill nodded, his eyes lingering on the body. “I suppose that’s the best he can hope for now. I’ll pray for him.”

  She removed her spear from his neck. “Then we are done talking. Go.”

  Cadill stood, glanced at his sword. “Can I…”

  Zerill nodded. “But know that you will die if you do anything but sheathe it.”

  Cadill retrieved the blade and slid it into its scabbard. “Get what we need, Tuck.” He rubbed a sleeve over his face, wiping away spattered droplets of black blood.

  “But—”

  “Long walk. We’d best get started.”

  Tuck clambered down from the wagon, still eyeing Zerill suspiciously, and the two men started gathering supplies into a pack. When it was full, Cadill slung it over his shoulder and turned to Josen.

  “Thank you, Prince Josen,” he said, with something very like reverence. “I always believed that you were the best of them. The only Eagle who cares what happens to people like us. I’d heard the stories, even saw a bit of it for myself that one night, but this… I won’t forget it.” He glanced sidelong at Zerill and frowned. “What do you want us to tell people in the Plateaus?”

  “You mean, do you say I’m a prisoner? Send the Storm Knights to save me?” Josen smiled. “No. I don’t need rescuing. Just tell them… tell them I’m coming back. Tell them a swampling saved my life, and yours. Tell them that they don’t have to be afraid.”

  His back was to her, so he couldn’t see Zerill watching him intently. She didn’t know this man. Until now, she’d doubted that Josen could do what she needed him to do, feared that she’d saved her sister’s killer for nothing. In her dreams, Azlin’s voice whispered that she’d broken her promise already. But this man…

  Maybe he can change their minds. Maybe this can work.

  Josen watched the two men disappear into the trees until only the faint glow of their lantern remained. He was swaying on his feet when he turned back to her; he looked like he could barely stand. “That… went better than expected.” She caught him as he slumped sideways, gripping his side.

  “You’re hurt. You need to rest.”

  Josen’s eyes went to the body the highlanders had left behind. “What about…” He didn’t finish—it must have been painful to talk. Running into the deeprat, she suspected, had done some sort of damage to his injured side. His eyes went to the body the highlanders had left behind.

  “We’ll see to him later,” Zerill said, though she had no intention of wasting time with highlander rites. She slung Josen’s arm over her neck. “Come. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

  Josen

  Josen woke to witchlight and silence. He felt like he’d been beaten with a mace up and down his left side, and every breath scraped at his lungs like he was inhaling shards of glass. He didn’t recognize his surroundings, and his memory was hazy.

  “What…”

  He saw the fist first, fingers rolled into an upturned palm. Quiet. Followed the arm up to Zerill’s face. Verik was
beside her, clutching a long object in one hand that Josen couldn’t make out.

  “You needed to sleep, after the deeprats,” Zerill said, so softly he could hardly hear. “You wouldn’t wake when it was time to move on, so we carried you.”

  Verik, as usual, said nothing.

  But Zerill’s words were reminder enough. Josen’s memories returned all at once—the wagon, the men, the Deeplings. Particularly vivid was the one in which he tackled a giant deeprat. That explains the pain. Why it’s worse, anyway. “Did you do something with that man’s body? I promised we’d burn it.”

  “I didn’t. The light would have drawn attention, and we have no time for highlander superstitions.”

  “But I…” He lowered his head with a sigh. “You’re right, I suppose. It probably wouldn’t have made any difference.” He tried to push his fingers through his hair, but they just caught in the matted curls. “I just… I didn’t know I was lying when I promised.”

  “As far as they know, you did as you said you would. Peace of mind is all you had to offer. That is better than nothing.”

  That was almost encouraging. When Josen looked up, Zerill was watching him with a furrowed brow. What’s wrong with her?

  She stared for a moment longer, frowned, and then motioned to Verik. The Maker knelt and pressed the mystery object into Josen’s palm.

  It felt like a sword. Josen instinctively took it by the hilt, held it up to examine it in the light of the witchmoss. It had the basic shape of a knight’s saber without the hook at the end, but it was crafted of wood and stone, not steel. And it was lighter than steel, too—perhaps not as strong, but well balanced and comfortable in his hand. A blade of sharpened slate curved along one side, melded seamlessly to a wooden core. His eyes slid along the boundary between the two materials, looking for flaws, unable to comprehend how they blended so perfectly. But it was flawless. The weapon was disorienting, impossible—and oddly beautiful for it.

  Verik reached down with two fingers to grip the blade at the back of its broad head, and pulled down. The wood and stone flowed between his fingertips like soft clay. When he removed his hand, a sharp, graceful hook arced down from the tip of the blade. Clearly he’d regained his strength, and his deepcraft with it; the skin at his hip was fat with the blood of the deeprats Zerill had slain.