The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Lenoden and Shona helped the duke and duchess down from their wagon and into one of the coaches; Morne and Chastor Fairstone took the seats opposite the Falloways. The rest of them clambered aboard the second coach once the first was away. Lenoden entered last, and before he sat down, he leaned out the door and waved to catch Furlew’s attention.

  “My men know which wagons are to follow us and which are supplies for the wall,” he said. “Make sure everything gets where it ought. I want the injured brought to the Stormhall without delay. They might yet be spared the black fever if their wounds are cleaned swiftly.” And it wouldn’t do for my prisoner to end up somewhere she isn’t supposed to be—or to talk to someone she shouldn’t. He didn’t like to have her out of his sight, really, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once.

  “Of course, Duke Castar.”

  “Good man.” With that, he motioned the driver onward and pulled the door closed.

  Lenoden sat beside Benedern at the front of the coach, looking back toward the gates. Through the rear window, he watched the crowd disperse, robbed of their entertainment. Some few remained to watch the seemingly endless line of soldiers and wagons pass through the gates, but most had come to see the highborn and dream for a moment of being one of them. Now, the closest thing left to a noble was Furlew, rushing about to check destinations and direct men and vehicles down this road or that.

  Benedern exchanged banal pleasantries with the others as the gates shrank away behind them, but Lenoden held his tongue. The high chastor clearly had no idea whether he could speak freely in front of Shona and Gryston; his increasing discomfort at their brusque responses and the furtive glances he kept casting in Lenoden’s direction were an amusing diversion. No harm letting him squirm for a while.

  Disappointingly, though, it didn’t take long for Benedern to tire of the game. “Duke Castar… as pleasant as it is to be in such distinguished company, when you asked me to meet you in Greenwall, I took it to mean that we would be able to talk privately. Perhaps when we reach the Stormhall?”

  “Say whatever you need to, Ulman. They know as much as you do.” The corner of Lenoden’s mouth quirked upward. “My compliments on your spy-craft, though.”

  Benedern’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t waste time on embarrassment. “Why did you summon me here? Are you ready to finally make a claim to the throne, or do you mean to continue making ridiculous pledges of loyalty to Gerod in front of your own people?”

  He hadn’t expected Benedern to like that; Lenoden had hardly savored the experience himself. But having his decisions questioned annoyed him even more. “I did what was necessary. Very soon Gerod will be dead, and any pledge I may have made to him will be rendered void. The important thing is that when that happens, Rudol still believes in our friendship. I can convince him to do the right thing, when his father is out of the way. But until then, we bide our time. If it has to be war, I won’t be the one who starts it.”

  Benedern frowned. “So you called me here to sit and wait. You know, this desire of yours to be loved by the people you conquer is dangerous. Delaying only leaves more time for plans to fall apart.”

  “Have some faith, Ulman. Isn’t that what chastors do best? I know what I’m doing. Let me remind you, it didn’t go well the last time someone attempted open rebellion. I don’t mean to be the next Deoma Luthas. But if Rudol does force my hand, I will be ready to act—and that means having you here to proclaim me the Sky-God’s chosen king. Ceremony matters, and you’re no good to me in Skysreach.”

  The high chastor didn’t look happy, but he gave a grudging nod. “Fine. But I won’t just wait idle. I can work from Greenwall’s eyrie if I must. I mean to have every chastor in the Peaks preaching about the last Windwalker.”

  “Good. Just remember, subtlety is key. We lose nothing by taking our time. Rudol fumbling about in his father’s place only makes me look better by comparison, and I am happy to let him be the aggressor if it comes to that. The people already think him a brute—going on the offensive won’t win him any favor.”

  “And whatever accusations he makes, we can answer them with eagle’s eyes,” said Benedern. “Where is the boy?”

  “He and the old man are in their own wagon,” said Lenoden. “I thought it best to keep them out of sight until we’ve settled in. They’ll be along shortly.” He didn’t mention the swampling woman under guard with the wounded—Benedern didn’t need to know about her yet. After Lenoden had heard what she had to say, he would decide if sharing it might be useful.

  “Do you think it is prudent to let them out of our sight?” asked Benedern.

  Lenoden raised an eyebrow. “What would you have me do, dandle the boy on my lap everywhere I go? He is well looked after, by men I trust.”

  Benedern drummed his fingers against his ample stomach. “I hope that trust is well placed. All it would take to ruin us is for the wrong person to see him with a clean face and start screaming about swamplings. Perhaps then you would reconsider whether we have anything to lose by waiting.”

  “So you do know.” Eian Gryston’s voice was hoarse and hollow; the sound of it surprised Lenoden. The old man hadn’t had much to say since the attack in the Swamp.

  Benedern crinkled his great slab of a brow. “What do you—”

  Gryston cut him off. “I knew Castar didn’t care, but I thought… I hoped he’d lied to you. If you know the boy comes from the Swamp, how can you keep it secret? How can you justify letting more of them die?”

  Lenoden rolled his eyes. “Come off it, Eian. You’ve killed more swamplings than anyone. Don’t pretend anything has changed.”

  Gryston’s head snapped toward Lenoden, and it was hard to say if it was despair or rage in his eyes. “Everything has changed! A swampling bears the mark of the Sky God! How can that not matter?”

  The high chastor leaned forward and laid a placating hand on Gryston’s arm. “Cer Eian, you must understand that I am only doing what the Lord of Eagles wishes of me. Yes, he chose this boy, and delivered him from the savages who banished him and his grandfather. Such is his mercy. But this does not mean that we can relax our vigilance. You yourself led the defense of Greenwall against the Deeplings some short cycles ago—if the swamplings have been redeemed, why do they still send these monsters against us? You know as well as anyone that they are no innocents. How many of us have died at their hands? How many must, to prove to you that they are the enemy? You are needed now more than ever to protect the Sky God’s chosen people. This is no time to falter in your faith as you have before.”

  “So I should just ignore what I know? It isn’t that easy, Your Eminence. You know how much the lives I’ve taken have… weighed on me. The lives I’ve commanded others to take. When I came to you for guidance back then, I trusted you to know what was right.” Gryston pulled his arm away. “But now…”

  “Now I tell you the same thing I did then: you are a good and pious man, but the corruption of the flesh weighs on even the strongest soul. Even the holiest of chastors knows that struggle. But never forget what the Word tells us: Veren aunyn brelad anir ce miasyn. ‘True faith shines brighter through the darkness.’” Benedern’s voice deepened, taking on the authority of the high chastor delivering a sermon. “You are stronger than your doubts, Cer Eian. Be firm in your conviction.”

  Gryston barked out a single raw note of laughter. “What conviction? How can I believe anything with conviction anymore? How can I believe that only these two swamplings deserve the Sky God’s light, and not a single other? How can I believe that I haven’t murdered thousands of people I should have tried to save?” His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “How can I believe anything you say, when you’ve lied to everyone in the Peaks about the boy already?”

  “Eian…” Shona touched Gryston on the shoulder, and when he turned to face her, she drew him into an embrace. The old man’s arms wrapped around her almost convulsively. She might have whispered something in his ear, but Lenoden couldn’t hear it if she did
. Whatever she said or didn’t say, though, when they parted, Gryston slumped back into his seat and was silent.

  “Well. That was dramatic.” Lenoden studied Gryston for a long moment before he continued. “I sincerely hope you find a way to control yourself, Eian. I thought you of all people would understand why we need the swamplings. Without a common enemy, what holds the Peaks together? What keeps some idiot duke from demanding higher prices for grain, or meat, or water, if he no longer needs the protection that made it worthwhile to give them away cheaply? What keeps the duchies that rely on those outside goods to survive from deciding that force is their only recourse? Consider this: the Outer Duchy Rebellion came after a decade of very little conflict in the Swamp. We cannot have peace with each other and with the swamplings. When the crown is mine, I intend to call on the Stormhalls to redouble the purges. I would prefer to have you lead them, for consistency’s sake, but if you aren’t willing, I can always find someone who is.”

  Gryston glowered at him, and said nothing.

  Though his seat faced the rear window, Lenoden recognized the street alongside the Stormhall well enough to know they were approaching their destination, even without seeing it. “Ulman, I’ll tell the driver to take you on to the eyrie. The rest of us will be getting out ahead.” He looked meaningfully at Shona. He’d intended to let her continue to the Falloway manor while he took care of his business at the Stormhall, but he had another use for her now.

  The coach came to a halt before the huge slab of stone that was the Stormhall. There were two knights standing guard at the landing before the great wooden doors; they moved to help the passengers disembark, but Lenoden waved them off.

  When the coach was on its way with Benedern still inside, he turned to Gryston. “Eian, I’m sure you have work to do after being away so long. I only need Shona for a moment.”

  Gryston hesitated, looked at Shona.

  “It’s fine, Eian,” she said. “I’m sure Duke Castar didn’t bring me all this way just to murder me in the street. It wouldn’t be useful to him.”

  “I suppose not.” Gryston shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t pretend to understand how a mind like his works.”

  Lenoden couldn’t help but smile. “Is my mind so unique? You flatter me, Eian. I promise you, Shona will be along shortly. Don’t worry.”

  Shaking his head, Gryston turned away and strode up the steps. The men at the door saluted and pushed it open for him, and then he was through and out of sight.

  “I suppose you want me to talk to him,” said Shona, watching the doors creak closed.

  “After that display with Benedern? I should think so. I can’t have him doing anything unexpected. Some noble, ill-conceived attempt at rebellion would have unpleasant consequences for everyone involved. He’ll listen to you—convince him that no one benefits from bloodshed in the streets of Greenwall.”

  “You don’t benefit, you mean. I’m not entirely sure that’s true for the rest of us.”

  “That is the sort of talk that makes me very uneasy, Shona. That can’t be what you want, can it?”

  Shona snorted. “Gracious, no. Your peace of mind means everything to me.”

  She really was making him nervous now, though he had to admire her backbone. “Come now, be reasonable. You know what will happen if he—”

  She held up a hand to cut him off. “I’ll talk to him. I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.” The look she gave him suggested there might be at least one exception to that statement. “Is that all?”

  “For now. When you’re done here, you can make your way home. I’ll expect to find you there if I need you.” There was no purpose in putting her under heavy guard; it would be noticed, and if she decided to betray him, she would find a way. Lenoden didn’t think she would. She knew what the cost would be.

  Shona glanced over his shoulder and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t suppose I need to ask what you’ll be doing.” There were wagons approaching; he could hear their wheels against the dirt road. The wounded, along with Eroh and his grandfather.

  And the swampling woman.

  Lenoden had known her face the moment he’d seen it: the same swampling he’d warned against following him after she’d watched Josen kill her friend. It might have been simple coincidence that she was here, but only fools trusted in coincidence. By the account of his men, she seemed to have come looking for Eroh; there weren’t many people who could have told her about the boy. Only one person, really. And if she had followed, she might well have found Josen in the Swamp where Rudol had left him. Maybe there is some truth to the rumors after all. Maybe there was enough life left in him to tell her something he shouldn’t have.

  “She has nothing to fear but a simple conversation,” he said to Shona. “I’m looking forward to it, really. I expect she will have some very interesting things to tell me. Now go on; Eian is waiting.” He turned away, and heard Shona’s footsteps receding behind him. The wagons were nearly upon him now, and the swampling woman with them.

  Just a simple conversation. Unless, of course, she doesn’t have the good manners to hold up her end.

  Zerill

  Someone pulled the sack from Zerill’s head, and a bright light stung her eyes.

  She knelt on a floor of cold, rough stone, and her arms and legs were bound. The gash across her collarbone had been cleaned and sewn roughly closed in the wagons, just enough to keep her alive, but the way her arms were tied behind her back pulled her skin painfully taut against the stitches. The back of her neck pulsed with a low ache where she’d been struck.

  The bright light, she saw as her vision adjusted, was only a candle-flame held by someone standing over her. Bright to her sensitive eyes, but hardly enough to see by for her captors—the room was otherwise utterly dark, wherever it was. And then she saw the bars across the front of her cell, and realized exactly where she was. The dungeons beneath Greenwall’s Stormhall.

  This is where it ends, then. When the Abandoned were taken prisoner by highlanders, they didn’t live to tell of it.

  She was content to die. She’d done all she could. She would have liked to see Verik again, and Azra—to talk to her without a spear between them—but she couldn’t do anything about that now. If her life was the price of an end to the highlanders’ purges, she could accept it. She’d promised to do whatever it took, and she had.

  She only hoped she’d taken Josen far enough that he could go the rest of the way without her. And that he’d honor his promises if he did.

  “This will be much easier if you just answer my questions. Did you speak to Josen Aryllia? Is he alive? What did he say to you?”

  Zerill blinked at the man speaking; she knew his voice, but it took a moment for his face to become clear against the light. Groomed black hair and beard, brown highlander skin. Lenoden Castar. And the man holding the candle just behind him was the old man from the Swamp, the one who had helped Castar carry Josen from the cave. His skin was darkened now, and he wore the robe of a highlander holy man, but she knew him by the blindfold over those empty eye sockets.

  She said nothing. The Abandoned didn’t break under torture. That was the reason the highlanders rarely bothered to take prisoners anymore, the reason the dungeon was empty save for her. It was easy to stay silent when silence was your language; when your first instinct was to sign instead of speak.

  “I would take no pleasure in hurting you,” said Castar. “Torture is… a distasteful necessity. But if you won’t give me an answer, I will do what I must. I can hardly trust the task to someone else when I don’t know what things you might say.”

  Zerill didn’t answer. Instead, she glanced about her cell. It was small, perhaps five steps across, and utterly bare, with steel bars at one end and cold stone on the other three. Not the place she’d have chosen to spend her last days.

  Castar’s hand struck her hard across the face. The inside of her cheek slid across her teeth, and she tasted blood. She looked up at him once more, gritting her teeth agai
nst anger and pain, but still she didn’t speak.

  “Don’t pretend at being some mute storybook swampling,” he said. “I know better. I’ve spoken to one of your people myself, and my men heard what you said to the boy. Answer me.”

  She didn’t.

  He hit her again, a hard blow with the back of his hand that snapped her head to one side; the ache in her neck exploded into agony. She didn’t let out so much as a whimper.

  Castar turned to the old man. “Maybe she’ll respond to you. Ask her.”

  The old man stepped forward with his candle in hand. She had to squint against the light of the flame. His hand moved. So, he signed. You are the one who found him.

  He could only mean Josen—there wasn’t anyone else. But even if she’d wanted to, Zerill couldn’t sign back with her hands bound.

  He didn’t seem to care. His head was cocked to one side, and though she knew there was nothing behind his blindfold, she felt as if he was examining her, looking for something. You have come a very long way, he signed. I wonder how far you might have gone, if things were different.

  “How long does it take to ask a simple question with these signs of yours?” Castar asked, watching with crossed arms.

  The old man didn’t turn away from Zerill. You know the question. I know you won’t answer. But we both know that you have seen the prince. He twitched one finger very slightly toward Castar. He suspects, but we know.

  Zerill stared at him, and held her face as still as she could. There was no way he could know that she’d saved Josen. He was only trying to trick her into showing some reaction.

  I admire your strength of will, the old man signed. It reminds me of… someone I once knew. I think it will serve you well, in the end. What he meant by that, Zerill didn’t know; he didn’t sign anything more. Smiling as if he knew something she didn’t, he turned to Castar. “She won’t answer, Your Grace, and I have no other way to ask.”

  Castar shoved him aside. Zerill tensed, ready for another blow, but none came.