The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Eroh’s expression was solemn, his mouth a straight line—more serene than uncertain. He seemed to be waiting for more. When Zerill didn’t go on, he signed, Is that what you think I should do?

  I can’t tell you that. I can only tell you what you are. Whatever anyone else tells you, you are one of us.

  I’ll go, he signed. If you’ll come with me. You can teach me about the Abandoned. He tugged at Shona’s tunic. “Let her out. She’s going to come.”

  I can’t, Zerill signed. It wasn’t the answer she wanted to give. What she wanted was to watch Castar die with her own eyes. To get out, and find him, and return every bit of the pain he’d put her through. But Eroh’s very existence meant hope for her people, and that had to be more important than vengeance. She turned to Shona. “Leave me. I’ll only slow you down. You must get him to Josen. It’s the only thing that matters.”

  “Eroh, we can’t stay here much longer.” Shona placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder to lead him away. “I don’t know how long we have before someone comes.”

  Eroh pulled away from her grasp, still looking at Zerill. “Not without her,” he said. “I don’t want her to get hurt anymore.”

  Zerill was surprised—and touched—by his insistence. “You have to go,” she said, if not as firmly as she’d meant to. “I’m not—”

  But Shona was already unlocking the cell. “I’ll have to drag him out of here if you don’t come. I don’t have the time or the desire to do that. And he’s right. You saved Josen’s life. I’m not leaving you here to suffer for it.” She opened the bars and offered Zerill her hand. “If you don’t want to slow us down, don’t argue.”

  This woman was a highlander and a stranger, but right then Zerill could have embraced her as a sister, just for taking that choice away. She hesitated only a moment before taking Shona’s hand. “How, then? I think I will be noticed strolling through a highlander city.”

  “I thought things might go in this direction. I made arrangements, just in case.”

  Shona slung Zerill’s left arm over her shoulder and started toward the exit. Zerill found that she could move well enough with the other woman’s support. It hurt, but she could do it. With a bit of time to get used to it, she thought she would be able to walk on her own.

  On the other side of the door, someone was waiting for them, dressed in Storm Knight grey. Zerill stiffened; every instinct she had screamed at her to run.

  Shona felt her tense, and motioned for the woman in grey to step back. “Zerill, this is Cer Falyn Morne. She’s an ally. There’s nothing to fear.”

  Zerill didn’t relax, but she nodded, once, and kept her eyes on the Storm Knight.

  Looking over Morne’s shoulder, Shona asked. “Is our way clear?”

  “Most of Castar’s men are still searching for the boy,” said Morne. “Cer Eian is already waiting with the carriage up the road. We’ll still have to be careful, but if we take one of the back halls and keep to where they’ve already looked, we should get out unseen.” She glanced at Zerill, and frowned. “I don’t like this, Lady Shona. Trusting a swampling is a mistake.”

  Zerill met Morne’s eyes defiantly and said nothing. She probably needed the woman’s help, but she wasn’t about to grovel for a Knight of the Storm.

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Shona. She held out her hand. “The robe.”

  Reluctantly, Morne handed Shona a garment of brown highlander wool and a pair of plain leather boots. “Just don’t let your guard down around her. I’ve seen what her kind do to innocent people they find in the Swamp. Whatever you think you know about them, it doesn’t make that any less true.”

  “If we can’t trust her, I think Castar has won already,” Shona said, and passed the garment and the boots to Zerill. “Put these on. Eroh’s grandfather usually wears a chastor’s robe, and he is close to your height. If Castar’s men see you, they might think you’re him, as long as they don’t catch sight of your face.” As she spoke, she reached out and tugged Eroh’s hood over his head. “Of course, it would be even better if no one sees either of you at all, but it’s good to be prepared.”

  Zerill struggled into the robe with Shona’s help, and pulled the boots over her bare feet. She’d snuck Josen out of the Kinhome in a similar way not long ago, and she almost said so, but held her tongue—it didn’t feel right to trade stories with highlanders. By the All-Kin, I miss Verik. She pulled the hood low over her face, and wordlessly gestured the other women onward. They started up the stairs with Morne in front, followed by Eroh, and Shona helping Zerill along at the rear.

  “What about your grandfather, Eroh?” Shona asked quietly as they moved. Zerill could hear in her voice that she didn’t want to be asking. “Do you think… would he come with you?”

  “He is a Delver,” Zerill said before Eroh could answer.

  Shona glanced at her with a furrowed brow. “I don’t know what that—”

  “It means he can’t be trusted. He stays.”

  “I don’t trust him, but we might need him. If we take Eroh away from everyone he knows, it’s going to be harder to—” Shona stopped herself short, but Zerill guessed the last words would have been something approaching make him do what we want. “I just thought he might feel more comfortable with his grandfather. Eroh?”

  Eroh considered it for a moment, and shook his head. “I don’t think he would want me to go.” The possibility didn’t seem to concern him very much. “If Zerill says we shouldn’t tell him, I don’t think we should.”

  That seemed to satisfy Shona; she didn’t ask anything more. As they neared the top of the stairs, Morne put a finger to her lips, peeked around the corner, and motioned for them to follow.

  The four of them moved quickly through the halls, Morne checking around each corner to see if it was clear before leading them on. The back hallways she took them through seemed to be primarily for servants and laborers; Zerill caught a few glimpses of men or women turning far away corners, and they were always dressed in the plain garb of highlander lowborn.

  Once, they were almost caught. They were halfway down a short hall when a man in a brown robe—identical to the one Zerill wore—walked by the far end. Morne came to a sudden halt and turned to grab Eroh by the shoulder, pulling him close and placing a hand over his mouth.

  The robed man hesitated half a step, and turned his head in their direction. He was white-haired, with a highlander’s brown skin, but when she saw the blindfold over his eyes, Zerill recognized him immediately: Eroh’s grandfather. And though he was blind, she felt certain somehow that he could see them. A shiver ran through her body in that instant, as his face turned toward her, and she had no doubt that he was going to call for help, to bring dozens of knights down upon them.

  Instead, he kept walking, as if the half-second pause in his step and brief turn of his head had been coincidence. But Zerill could have sworn she saw a slight smile tease at the corner of his mouth.

  They waited until they couldn’t hear his footsteps any longer, and then Shona finally exhaled. “God Above,” she whispered. “I was sure he’d caught us. I hadn’t thought… of course Castar would give him a room back here, to keep him out of sight. I should have thought of that.”

  “He’s a blind man,” said Morne, as she released Eroh from her grasp. “How would he have seen us? Or stopped us, if he had? He’s nothing to worry over. Come, Eian is waiting.”

  Zerill wished she could be so certain, but if he was a Delver, the old man might well have had some way to overcome his blindness. He saw us. I don’t know how, but he did. Why did he let us go?

  She didn’t have time to wonder long. Around the next corner, Morne led them down a set of stairs, and through a door, and then they were outside, in the small aisle between the Stormhall and the wall. It was cramped and narrow, but to Zerill, after two days believing that she would die under a ceiling of highlander stone, it felt free. She nearly cried as the first breath of outside air filled her lungs. Wiping a hand across
her eyes under the cover of darkness so the highlanders wouldn’t see, she swallowed the noise with the ease of long practice.

  It was night, near completely black in the small alley, but they lit no torches or lanterns. Zerill found herself whispering guidance to the highlanders, helping them to pick their way around the stones and debris that had gathered in the cramped space. After a short time, they emerged from the alley onto an open, grassy field. A chill wind stirred Zerill’s robes as she stepped out from the cover of the Stormhall, and she shivered. Not from the cold—she was used to cold—but the unfamiliar sensation. In the Swamp the air was always still, and she had only ever snuck into the mountains during rests, when the winds ceased.

  The highlanders hardly seemed to notice. This was the world they lived in: one of wind and sky, stars and sunlight. It was hard to fathom taking those things for granted. But I suppose they would say the same about the things I’ve become used to. Josen certainly hadn’t taken to darkness and danger with any kind of ease.

  Shona pointed at the far side of the field, where a wagon waited a short distance down the road. There was no cover but the dark here; they crossed quickly, and Zerill forced herself to keep pace, though her injuries cried out in protest with every awkward step. At one point, she heard something pass by very close overhead, and she stumbled in surprise, but it was just a bird gliding low. It came to rest atop the carriage and started preening its feathers, as if it was waiting for them to catch up. An eagle, Zerill thought, though she had only ever seen images of them on highlander banners. It had to be the bird that she’d seen with Eroh in the Swamp. The one that had saved her life.

  The carriage was the height of highlander excess, detailed with ornate carvings and colorful highlander arms. There were even glass windows, distorting her view of the interior through a hundred tiny imperfections. Someone threw open the door as they approached. Zerill climbed aboard, and settled back onto a heavily padded seat in the back left-hand corner. Eroh scrambled in after her and sat very close; she was surprised to feel him take her hand. She didn’t pull it away.

  The man who’d opened the door for them was an older highlander with a dark, deeply lined face. He watched Zerill with curiously sad eyes as she sat down. His hair was white, short but not recently trimmed, and he had several days worth of white stubble on his cheeks. Like Morne, he wore stormcloud grey, and he had a sword at his hip—not one of the swamp-sabers Zerill was used to, but a straight blade.

  Gryston. It had to be him. They’d said he was waiting. It felt like a dream—or a nightmare—to be sitting in an opulent highlander carriage across from one of the greatest enemies of the Abandoned. But no worse a nightmare than being tortured by Lenoden Castar. It was a nightmare she could live with, if that was what she had to do.

  “You made it,” Gryston said. “I was starting to worry.” He avoided Zerill’s eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. Good. Let him feel guilty—he deserves much worse.

  “You didn’t need to,” said Shona, sitting down beside Eroh. “It went almost exactly as planned. I just hope the rest of the night goes so well.”

  “We’ll see that it does,” Morne said, climbing in only after everyone else was aboard. Before she sat down she pulled her Storm Knight tabard over her head and tossed it to the floor. Underneath, she was dressed all in black. She took the seat beside Gryston, who Zerill noticed wore the same black beneath his own tabard. Zerill knew why immediately, from long experience—whatever they had planned, they wanted to blend into the dark.

  “Your knights are ready, then?” Shona asked, leaning forward in her seat.

  “One hundred and nineteen men and women, ready at my command,” said Gryston. “None of Castar’s recruits. Only those whose loyalty and skill is absolutely certain.”

  So they’ve planned for… what? A battle? Are we fighting our way out? Zerill didn’t know how well she would do in a fight, with her injuries and without her spear. But she said nothing. The Abandoned were frugal with the loudspeech, and her proficiency with it didn’t erase that instinct. She was content to listen and see what she could learn.

  “Tell them I don’t want them to take any more risk than they have to,” said Shona. “All we need is a distraction, and then they should get out if they can. Castar won’t want a massacre, but his men aren’t going to make any great effort to spare lives either.”

  “If it distracts from what you’re doing, it will be worth it,” said Gryston. “But we won’t give up our lives easily, I promise you that. I’ll lead as many of them through the wall as I can.”

  Morne shook her head. “You won’t be the one leading them,” she said. “I will. You’re going with Lady Shona.”

  Gryston snorted dismissively. “Nonsense. I have to—”

  “You have to come with us, Eian,” Shona said. “I don’t know how things are going to go in the Plateaus, but if Rudol listens to us, it very likely means war. And if he doesn’t… We are going to need men, either way. No one can draw as many knights to our side as you can. If you don’t oppose Castar, he’ll have them by default.”

  “So,” Gryston said slowly, looking back and forth between the two women, “you had this planned between you already. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I knew you’d fight it,” Morne said. “I didn’t want to give you the time. You have to see that it’s the only way. You are far too important to risk your life for a distraction. Whatever support Castar has raised here, the men in the Plateaus will choose you over him. Knight-Commander Farrel is loyal to you, and you’ll draw other loyal men from across the Peaks. None of that happens if you die here. Let me do this for you. I owe you much more.” She didn’t sound like she was going to take no for an answer. Zerill had some respect for that kind of self-sacrifice, even if she didn’t like the woman. But respect wasn’t the same as sympathy. If Storm Knights had to die for her to escape, she agreed with Morne—they owed much more.

  “You owe me nothing,” Gryston said with surprising vehemence. “How many times do I have to tell you that? All I ever did was notice your worth, and that was obvious. You’ve earned your place a hundred times over.”

  “Maybe,” said Morne. “But how many others would have wasted time on a lowborn girl with no sword to her name? A girl as angry as I was? Very few, I think.”

  “You are set on this, aren’t you?” Gryston ran his fingers through his hair, and his shoulders slumped. “Fine. The command is yours. Have any who escape meet at the Toadthroat, and from there make for the Plateaus. Get there alive, Falyn, with as many others as you can. None of you should die for your loyalty.”

  Morne hesitated, and then suddenly embraced the old man. “Watch for us. I will see you again, if the Wind wills it.” With that, she pushed open the carriage door and stepped out.

  Gryston watched her go, and under his breath he quietly repeated, “If the Wind wills it.” It didn’t sound like a prayer. It was too bitter for that.

  “It has to be this way, Eian.” Shona extended a hand, but he didn’t take it—he didn’t even seem to notice. “This is the best chance we have.”

  “I know,” Gryston said, still staring out the window after Morne. “She will make it work, if anyone can.”

  Zerill didn’t know exactly what their plan was, but she had enough details to guess. Morne and some number of knights loyal to Gryston meant to try to escape Greenwall through one of the broken sections of the wall. It was intended as a distraction, but they hoped to get out alive, to meet with Gryston again later. Simple, but serviceable—Zerill had always appreciated the value of a good distraction.

  There was one thing she didn’t understand, though. “If they are a distraction, what are they distracting from?” She addressed the question to Shona—she was willing to share a carriage with Eian Gryston without trying to kill him, but she wasn’t about to converse with the man.

  Shona struck the wall of the carriage with her fist, and they started to move. “We can’t risk trying to get Eroh
past the wall on foot,” she said, and gestured vaguely upward. “We’re going over.”

  32. Sword of the Storm

  Josen

  Josen was halfway up the wall when the shouting started.

  Clinging to the Greenwall just below Verik, he held his breath and tried to flatten himself against the mossy stone.

  Have they seen us?

  He and Verik had spent the last day watching pairs of knights patrol back and forth, so Josen knew that the passes were no more than ten minutes apart, and often less. It had to have been close to that long already—he wasn’t moving very quickly. The handholds Verik had carved with his deepcraft should have made it easy, but Josen’s left arm still couldn’t bear his weight, and it was hard to find his grip in the dark. The fifty-foot climb felt agonizingly slow with only one good hand; even before he’d reached the halfway point, he’d started to worry that he wouldn’t make it in time. So he wasn’t surprised when he heard cries of alarm from above. Terrified, but not surprised. Damn it, I knew this was taking too long!

  But the voices were distant, and didn’t seem to be getting closer. There was no telltale torch-glow in the darkness overhead, and when the horns started to sound a moment later, it was from farther east along the wall. Something had drawn the guards’ attention, but it wasn’t him.

  Verik looked down and signed something. Josen didn’t know much of the sign-speech, and the same darkness that hid the swampling’s face also hid his hand, but the relevant question was fairly obvious.

  “Keep going,” Josen whispered. “I don’t think that’s for us, but it might be for Shona, or Zerill. They might need help.” And if we turn back now, I’m only going to be slower the next time. As much as the noise worried him, at least it would distract attention—he was never going to make it up the wall between patrols otherwise.

  The horns stopped after a few moments, but the other noises only grew louder. By the time Verik helped Josen over the top of the wall, the sounds from the east painted a clear picture of a fight: angry yells and shouts of pain, bellowed orders he couldn’t quite make out. He looked east, blinking against the wind—it was strange to feel the air moving again after so long below the mist. He could see the spot, marked by a faint orange glow like firelight. Isn’t that near where the Deeplings broke through the wall? Are they attacking again?