The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “That woman, from the purge. She looked like you. Your cousin? Your sister?”

  Zerill fought to control herself, but this time something slipped out. Only a hint of a snarl at the corner of her lip, but Castar noticed.

  “Your sister, then,” he said. “Answer me for her sake. You watched Josen kill her. Why protect the man who did that?”

  There was something in the way he said it that told Zerill a different truth than he wanted her to hear. In that moment, she knew—not just suspected, but knew—that Verik had been right. Josen had held the sword, but this was the man who had killed her sister. And now he was trying to use Azlin’s death as a tool to make her talk.

  She gave him nothing.

  “I can help you, if you help me. There must be others you care about. I can offer them protection.”

  That might have been tempting, from anyone else. But there was no trusting this man, not after what he’d done. She kept her silence.

  Castar sighed. “Why must everyone force me to play the villain?” He closed his fist, and hit her again, harder than before. She bent back from the force, and rough thread tore flesh as several of her stitches opened. A burst of red filled her left eye, and she saw nothing but a blur of movement out of it for a long time. By the way it throbbed, she knew it would be swollen closed before another day passed. A slow trail of warm blood trickled down her chest.

  He drew back his hand to hit her again, but before he could, there was a sound from behind. A door opened somewhere across the room, and faint light spilled across the small cell.

  Castar turned on his heel. “I said I wasn’t to be disturbed!”

  “Your Grace it’s… it’s the boy. We’ve lost him.”

  “Again? Spirit of All, how does a child keep getting the best of you?” Castar glanced back at Zerill, frowned, and beckoned to the old man. “Come. She can wait.”

  Zerill spat blood onto the stone floor and clenched her fists where they were bound behind her back. Her eyes stayed fixed on Castar until the door closed behind him.

  She’d been content to die, but not anymore. That had changed the moment he’d tried to use Azlin against her. It might be that she had no choice but death, and she could accept that, but if there was a way to leave this place alive, she meant to take it.

  And then Lenoden Castar would die by her hand.

  Shona

  “Enter.”

  Shona turned back at the sound of Eian’s voice—she’d been about to leave. He hadn’t answered when she’d knocked the first time, or the second.

  Tenatively, she pushed the door to his quarters open, just a crack. “Eian? I can come back later, if you—”

  “No. Best do this now.”

  “If you’re sure…” She entered fully, closing the door behind her. Eian was nowhere to be seen. The office was familiar, strictly ordered and free of ornamentation, as always, but the familiar head of white hair she was so used to seeing bent over the desk wasn’t there.

  “In here,” he called. The voice came from the next room, his bedchamber.

  He was sitting on the edge of his simple cot, head in his hands. He looked up when she peeked her head around the corner.

  “Eian, are you…” She cut herself off before she asked him if he was well. Stupid questions aren’t going to help. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t know that there is.” Eian heaved a long sigh. “I’m tired, Shona. I’m tired of feeling old and useless. I couldn’t help Josen, and now all of this with Castar… this is not a world I know. I’ve never been skilled at politics. I took command during the rebellion because there was no one else. I was named lord general because the people made a hero of me, and Gerod thought that could be useful. I never asked for any of it, never traded any favors or struck any bargains. What I know how to do is fight, and lead others to fight. And you’re here to tell me I can’t do that.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to. Spirit of All, if I knew how to use a sword, I’d want to kill Castar myself.” Shona knelt in front of Eian and took his hands in hers. “But if we start that fight, we’ll lose it, Eian. We both know that. We need to find another way.”

  “And I believe that you will. I just don’t think I will be of much help to you.” His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Do you know, the most vital I’ve felt since… since Josen… was coming here? As Castar’s prisoner. Pathetic, isn’t it? But I know the Swamp and what lurks there. I could be of some use, even if it was only comforting the duchess when she was afraid. And then when we were ambushed, all I could think to do was pick up a sword. Because it felt right. Familiar. Even knowing what I know now, knowing that the Sky God chose a swampling boy…” He pulled his hands away and clasped them to his forehead, burying his fingers in his hair. “I’ve killed so many of them already. Lord of Eagles, why was I allowed to kill so many?”

  Shona didn’t know how to answer him; she wasn’t sure that the question was even meant for her. This was a crisis she’d never faced, even when she’d learned the truth about Eroh. She’d never put much stock in faith. Her father had observed all the proper traditions when she was growing up, but at home he’d valued his education at Orim’s Tower over the teachings of the Convocation, and taught her the same. She believed in the Sky God in a vague way—even the scholars of the Tower didn’t deny his existence—but not with the passion and devotion that Eian always had. And she’d never killed a swampling. Losing Josen was hard enough on him. To learn the truth about Eroh, and that the Convocation lied about it, right on the heels of that… It’s eating him alive. I have to tell him.

  “Eian, listen. I… I saw something in the Swamp. When I was with Eroh.” She hadn’t had a chance to tell him outside Castar’s hearing until now, wasn’t even sure if she should tell him yet. If it was fair to give him hope. She’d been so certain at the time, but all she’d seen was a familiar shadow; all she’d heard was a voice that didn’t even sound quite right. And if she was wrong… But I don’t think I am. And he needs something to cling to right now. Maybe I do too. “I think I saw Josen. I think he’s alive.”

  “What?” Eian gripped her shoulders, painfully tight. “Are you certain? Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “I can’t be sure. It was dark. I saw a silhouette. The right height and build, curly hair. And I heard a voice. It sounded like him, but… hoarse, not quite the same. He was speaking with the swampling woman, the one I followed. And she spoke back, as odd as that sounds. Told him to get to safety while she distracted the knights. He didn’t want to let her.”

  “But you didn’t see his face.” Eian’s grip loosened, and then his hands fell away. “It might have been—”

  “Who? Who else could it have been? I’m sure he wasn’t a swampling. The way he spoke—it was different than the woman. Her accent was… strange, clipped. His wasn’t.” She rose, and sat beside Eian on the cot. “And it just… it felt like him. I don’t know how else to explain it. What other man of the Peaks would care what happened to a swampling? Or be there with her at all, for that matter?”

  “That’s why you stopped them from killing her. You have questions.”

  “Yes,” said Shona. “I don’t know why, but she risked her life for Josen. Whatever she knows, it must be important. This is how we stop Castar. We find the truth. We prove that he lied, that he left Josen for dead. We don’t have the resources to fight him. Greenwall is all farmers, not soldiers—what militia we can muster, most pick up a sword once or twice a year. Castar has trained fighters and the money to arm them. But he doesn’t want a war, not even one he’d win, and as long as he still thinks he can do this his way, we have a chance. With the right fuel, we can start a fire he can’t put out.”

  “Surely the truth about Eroh…”

  Shona shook her head. “It’s something, but it’s not enough. If it’s just that, the Convocation can confuse the issue with some convenient interpretation of scripture, and it will work. No one cares about saving swamplings. But Josen
was their storybook prince. He walked among them, stood up for them, defied his father for them—or so they like to believe, true or not. If we prove Castar betrayed him, we force the people to choose, and a great many of them will choose Josen.”

  “Is that all he is to you?” There was a frayed edge to Eian’s voice now. “A token to use against Castar?”

  “Of course not!” Shona pushed herself to her feet and turned on him. “How can you ask that?”

  Eian winced under the force of her indignation, turned his tired eyes downward. She immediately regretted the flash of anger. He’s struggling already. Shouting at him won’t help anything. He had given his life to faith and duty in place of family; Josen had been the closest thing he’d had to a son.

  She took a breath, and lowered her voice. “Please believe me, Eian, I will do whatever I can to help him. But if I can use him to stop Castar at the same time, I’m not going to ignore the chance. Someone has to be responsible for the people of Greenwall, and my father… he would want me to do what he can’t anymore. I won’t apologize for being practical about this.”

  Eian sighed. “No, I… I am the one who should apologize. I know that you care about him. It was unfair to suggest otherwise.” He gave her a weak smile. “Forgive a foolish old man?”

  “I’d sooner forgive the lord general of the Knights of the Storm. That’s who I need right now.”

  Eian nodded his head slowly and swallowed, visibly gathering himself. At last, he sat up straight. “You’re right. If there is even a chance it will lead us to Josen, we must speak with this woman. I will do what I can to get us into the cells, but Castar will have his own men on guard.”

  “Can I come?” A voice from behind. Shona’s stomach twisted upside down, and she whirled on her heel.

  Eroh stood in the doorway, watching them with impassive golden eyes. As Shona turned, Goldeyes hopped from his shoulder and alighted upon the edge of Eian’s wardrobe.

  “Eroh?” Her heart was still beating fast. “What are you doing here?” She moved quickly to the doorway and ushered him in, peeking behind him into Eian’s study. No one was there; the boy had come alone, and closed the door behind him. “Isn’t anyone… looking after you?” She knew Eroh could move quietly, but she would have expected Castar to keep him under closer guard.

  “Everyone was just talking to each other, so I left,” Eroh said, as if that was explanation enough. “I want to see her. The woman who fought all those knights. Everybody else tells me I’m a Windwalker, but she said I was… one of the Abandoned.” He frowned slightly. “People keep telling me what I am, but they won’t tell me what it means. Do you know?”

  Shona and Eian looked at each other, and Shona shrugged helplessly. She didn’t know what to tell the boy—it seemed too big a question to answer. She hardly knew what any of it meant herself. Before the swampling woman had said it, she had never heard of the Abandoned, and no one living knew what it was to be a Windwalker.

  “I thought the Abandoned might be what the swamplings call themselves,” she offered. “You haven’t heard it before?”

  “I just remember being in the Swamp with Grandfather. It was only us, by ourselves. We didn’t have a name.”

  “You mean you never saw any other swamplings?” Something seemed very strange about that, even if the old man’s story was that he’d raised his grandson in exile.

  “I never heard that word either, until we left the Swamp. I thought they were bad? Is that what I am?”

  “It’s what we call the… the Swamp people. As for whether they’re bad…” Shona spread her hands.

  Eian leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees so that his eyes were level with Eroh’s. “I don’t think either of us have many answers about your people, lad, but you don’t seem bad to me.” He gave the boy a gentle smile. “I can tell you about the Windwalkers, if you like. The Convocation—”

  “What is that?” Eroh asked.

  “It is the name we give the order of chastors, our… holy men. Only they can read the book of our god, the Word of the Wind, but they tell us its story in their sermons. Most of it is about the Windwalkers, but it has to do with the swamplings too. Would you like to hear it?”

  Eroh answered by sitting crosslegged on the floor and looking up at Eian expectantly. Shona considered interrupting—if Eroh suddenly started citing scripture, Castar would know where it came from—but decided to hold her tongue. There might be consequences, but the boy deserved to know what he was being used for. She sat beside Eian on the cot, and listened.

  “Well, where to begin?” Eian ran his fingers through his hair as he thought. “Do you know anything of the Sky God? The story makes little sense without that.”

  Eroh shook his head. “Grandfather never told me anything about a god in the sky. The big man with all the feathers talks about him a lot, though.”

  “I will start from the very beginning, then.” Eian glanced at Shona with a wry smile. “Stop me if I become too long-winded. I don’t want to bore the lad.” He cleared his throat and began, “Before there was anything else, there was only matter below and spirit above.”

  “Matter?” Eroh frowned.

  “Hmm. It means… it is a word for what we’re made of.” Eian rapped his knuckles against the frame of his cot. “What everything we can touch is made of. Do you understand?”

  Eroh nodded, if a bit hesitantly.

  “But in the beginning, matter had no such shape or function. In its natural state, it was foul and formless and corrupt. The natural essence of the spirit, on the other hand, is purity and purpose. Self-awareness. In the endless time before time, it was inevitable that this great spirit would become aware of itself. And so it did. In that moment, it became the Sky God. He looked down on the corrupt matter below, and was displeased by what he saw. But he also knew how to make things better.

  “The Sky God gave pieces of himself, and bonded them with matter. Each of these spirits carried a different purpose, and they shaped their matter to that end. This is how everything we know was given form—the stones and dirt we walk upon, the plants we grow, the animals we hunt. Even we are no more than bodies housing a piece of the Sky God—a soul that gives us thought and awareness and form, that makes us alive. These souls, all together, make up what we call the Spirit of All: the first aspect of the Sky God, the soul inside all things.”

  “Even me?” Eroh asked, wide-eyed.

  “Of course, lad. The same as anyone else, or you wouldn’t be able to ask that question.” Eian paused a moment, trying to recall his place, and then continued. “The Sky God saw that the world he’d made was stagnant, so he gave another, greater part of himself to animate it, so that life could flourish. He is present in the turning seasons and the blowing wind, the nourishing soil and the falling rain—the cycle of life, and growth, and death. This second aspect, we call the Wind of Grace. And when all of these gifts had been given, what remained was the Sky God’s last and greatest aspect, the embodiment of his will and judgement: the Lord of Eagles. The gatekeeper of the Above, who speaks to kings and queens and watches over his creation with one great eye that is the sun.

  “But the world the Sky God had created wasn’t perfect. Deep down in the earth, there remained a core of primal matter, a foulness too deep for the gift of spirit to reach. It found the purity forced upon creation to be painful, and gained a sort of awareness born of hatred and indignation. That consciousness grew into the being we call the King in the Deep—the essence of corruption. And his power was terrible. Following the example of the Sky God, he gave of his own essence to birth creatures of pure corruption: the Deeplings. He sent them to the surface to destroy the Sky God’s creation.

  “The people then were nomads, and they had few defenses against such monsters. They hadn’t yet learned to build fortresses like we have now, and there were no mountains to flee into—the world was a place of grasslands and rolling hills, called the Great Plains. The Sky God needed to defend his creation, so he chose
his most favored souls and came to them as the Lord of Eagles. Nine men and women he chose, three for each of his three aspects. And to each of them he gave his mark—the eyes of an eagle. Just like yours, Eroh.”

  The boy touched his cheek just below his right eye. “What does that mean, three for each aspect?” He barely paused before his next question, and more followed in a breathless rush. “Did they have different things they had to do? Do I? What were their names?”

  Eian smiled and held up his hands. “Slowly. I can’t keep that pace.”

  Eroh nodded obediently, and waited, silent and rapt.

  “As to the aspects, it doesn’t necessarily mean any more than that they were nine in number. Some chastors group them based on the aspects of the Sky God they might have represented, but most agree the Word says little on the subject.”

  “Tell me,” said Eroh. “I want to know everything.”

  Eian hesitated, and then said, “I suppose it won’t hurt. It can be a useful way to remember all of their names, at least. But keep in mind that this is hardly gospel.

  “These titles have been argued over for a very long time, but it is generally agreed that the Walkers of the Spirit would have been Terene the Stern, Elica Braveheart, and Dalleon the Golden—the Windwalkers’ most courageous warriors, strong in body and soul. Berial the Tamer, Carris of the Fields, and Luthas the Bright were the Walkers of Grace, who showed the people how to master beasts and grow crops, how to build and create and heal. And Aryllia the Wise, Dasson the Pious, and Orim the Scholar focused on higher pursuits, on guiding mankind toward the Sky God’s will, so they are sometimes called the Walkers of the Eagle.”

  “Then… which one do you think I am?” Eroh asked. He looked from Eian to Shona, golden eyes wide.

  “I don’t think we can tell you that, Eroh,” said Shona.

  “Maybe all of them,” Eian said. “Or none. After all, there is only one of you, where they were nine. And remember, the Convocation doesn’t recognize any such divisions at all. Shall I go on with the story?”