The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Whatever it was, the timing felt important. It had to have something to do with Zerill or Shona or Castar, and that meant he had to know what it was. There was no point sneaking into Shona’s bedroom if she wasn’t going to be there. He motioned for Verik to follow and started toward the sound and light.

  There was little below them along this stretch but empty windmills and broad expanses of farmland in varying shades of grey under the moonlight. Staircases led down into the fields at regular intervals along the inside of the wall, but Josen decided against descending. Faster this way. Before the climb, he’d put aside his swampling robe and draped the Storm Knight tabard he’d worn into the Swamp over his gambeson; it was tattered and dirty, but at a glance he’d look like a knight patrolling the wall. Anyone who might have gotten close enough to say differently appeared to have other things to worry about just now.

  When he drew nearer, he saw that he’d been right. It was the one of the holes where the Deeplings had broken through the wall. Around the wooden palisade that covered the gap, some sort of struggle was taking place. The wooden stakes were aflame, casting enough light to see by. Men in stormcloud grey fought against black-clad figures, and those in black were outnumbered, some one hundred against nearly twice that.

  The strange thing, though, was that the conflict was on the wrong side of the wall. The men and women in black appeared to be trying to get out, not in. The palisade was the best place for that—much lower than the Greenwall, with debris and scaffolding climbing much of that height, and no guards patrolling along the top. And wood burned easier than stone.

  Figures in black were already clambering up the scaffolding and over the wall where they could, though it made them easy targets, and more than a few fell to wingbow bolts before they made it. Others held torches against a oil-soaked swath of the palisade, and when the cords holding stakes in place blackened and split, several men hefted a log as a makeshift battering ram and heaved it against the weakened section, trying to make a hole. But the bulk of the black-clad figures weren’t climbing, or burning; they were trying to hold back the knights in grey. Josen couldn’t tell who was who yet, but there were more of the men in grey arriving every moment, while those in black were pressed against the palisade, cut off from reinforcement.

  An escape. But who’s escaping? Josen’s first instinct was to try and help the black-clad figures. He’d never felt much inclined to join a winning side, and he had a feeling that the escape attempt was Shona’s work. She’d never have been with Castar willingly—she would have been plotting a way out from the moment she fell into his grasp.

  He slowed down as he drew nearer. Not twenty yards away a woman in black fought a knight in grey, beside a thunderbolt mounted on the wall just over the breach. The woman was facing Josen, but he couldn’t make out features from this distance. He didn’t need to. There were few enough women in the Peaks who were trained to fight like that, and by her height and build this one had to be Falyn Morne.

  That was good enough for Josen. Morne would never have betrayed Eian. It was only because of him that she’d been given a chance at knighthood, and her loyalty bordered on fanatical. If she was in black, that was the right side to be on.

  It looked like she was trying to keep the knight away from the thunderbolt. Maybe I can help. Josen held up a hand to stop Verik. “Stay back,” he whispered. “I don’t know what they’ll do if they see a swampling here.” Really, he was glad for an excuse to put some distance between them. He knew it wasn’t fair, but he never felt less than uneasy around Verik, especially when Zerill wasn’t there to translate. The few days he’d already spent alone with the man were more than enough.

  Josen drew the wood-and-stone saber—his witch-saber, as he’d come to think of it—from his belt and crept closer in a low crouch. Cer Falyn parried a blow from her opponent and pushed him back; her gaze happened to pass over the man’s shoulder and land on Josen. She narrowed her eyes. He couldn’t tell if she recognized him, or if she just saw another enemy in a grey tabard. Hoping for the former, he put a finger to his lips.

  She stayed silent.

  Josen reached out with the hooked end of his saber, caught the grey-clad knight by the ankle, and yanked back. He couldn’t pull very hard with one hand, but it was enough to make the man stumble forward with a confused grunt. Before he could recover, Cer Falyn stepped around his sword and shoulder-rushed him from the side. The man struck the crenellations, leaned out over open air, and reached back with one hand to catch himself. Before he could, Morne thrust her foot out in a straight kick that caught him low in the back and sent him headfirst over the wall.

  Morne didn’t even look at the man as he fell. Instead, she stared at Josen as if he’d dropped out of the sky. I suppose she recognizes me, then.

  “You’re going to make me blush, Cer Falyn,” he said, straightening and stretching his back. “Listen, I need to know what’s happening. Where are Shona and Eian? Are they down there?”

  Morne opened her mouth, closed it again, and looked him up and down. Her eyes came to rest on his witch-saber, and she followed the sweep of its strange blade all the way to the point. Finally, with a shake of her head, she said, “They… they think you’re already headed for the Plateaus. That’s where they’re going, and they’re going to need you there. They took the boy and the swampling to the basket launch. You don’t have much time.”

  So the distraction that got me over the wall was really Shona’s. She’s helping me without even knowing she’s doing it. “That’s a long way from here. How much time do I have?” Greenwall was flat and low to the mist; to better clear the wall and reach the higher wind currents, the basket launch was built into one of the upper tiers of the eyrie. And the eyrie was near the eastern wall, halfway across the duchy. I’ll never make it.

  “Not much, but maybe not none. They were going to wait for the alarm to sound.” Morne sheathed her sword and moved to take hold of the thunderbolt; it was already wound and loaded with a bolt the size of a longspear. “You won’t make it on foot. There’s a stable at the bottom of the next stair, back the way you came. They keep some ponies for the watchmen. There are usually guards, but… I think we have them occupied.” She swiveled the big wingbow on its mount and took aim—not at anyone in particular, but at a high pile of rubble where a three men in grey crouched in hiding. Whatever they had planned, it was disrupted when the spear-sized bolt buried itself deep in the mound, forcing them to dive out of the way of a small landslide.

  Josen hesitated and glanced down at the palisade, where most of the fighting was. “I don’t like this. A lot of you aren’t going to get out.” He’d seen perhaps half a dozen make it over, but too many still hadn’t, and it wasn’t going to get easier.

  “We might surprise you.” Morne drew her blade once more, and hacked the thunderbolt’s draw-rope in two so that it couldn’t be turned against her and her men. “Go, Prince Josen. There’s nothing you can do here. Get to the baskets and get out of Greenwall.” She made for the stairs leading down to the palisade; there were already men in Storm Knight colors coming up to meet her.

  Josen didn’t feel right leaving her, but Morne wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t help, especially not in his condition. Tripping a man by surprise was one thing; putting himself in the middle of a battle was another. He was in no hurry to test how his injuries might have affected his swordplay.

  “Just… don’t make this a last stand,” he said. “If you see a way out, take it.”

  Morne was already moving down the stairs; if she heard him, she didn’t answer. Reluctantly, Josen turned and hurried back the way he’d come.

  Verik was still waiting a short way down the wall. Distance and darkness turned his face into the one Josen saw in his nightmares, as pale as death with black eyes like holes into the Deep.

  “Zerill?” the swampling asked as Josen drew near.

  “Somewhere else,” Josen said, and forced himself to meet Verik’s eyes. “Shona’s helping her. All
this is just… a distraction.” Josen glanced toward the spot where Falyn and the others were fighting, and then back at Verik, and something occurred to him. There is one way to help. They could get out easier if they didn’t have to climb over. “Verik, your deepcraft works on wood, right? Like my sword.”

  “Yes. Best if dead already.” He motioned at the empty skin at his hip. “Used most climbing wall. Little left.”

  “Best put it to good use, then.” Josen pointed toward the palisade. “Those people are fighting to help us. You have to stay here and make them an escape route. The stone is probably too thick, but you might be able to bring down the wood.”

  Verik shook his head. “Go with you. Help Zerill.”

  “They’re already too far ahead. The only way I’m catching up is by pony, and I’d be very surprised if you know how to ride.”

  The look on Verik’s face told Josen he’d guessed correctly.

  “Please.” Josen wasn’t certain whether he was asking because it would help Morne or because it would get him away from Verik. He hoped it was the former, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of the latter. “This will help Zerill. Anyone who doesn’t die here could be an ally we need to fight Castar.”

  Finally, Verik nodded. “Yes. You go. I will help.”

  Fighting his discomfort, Josen clasped Verik’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “If you need to touch the palisades, best to climb back down on the far side of the wall first. Don’t let anyone see you. Even the ones who are supposed to be on our side. They… won’t take kindly to a swampling above the mist, ally or no. When you’re done, get out of here and make for the Plateaus. I’ll do everything I can to get Zerill there to meet you.”

  Verik unslung Zerill’s spear from his back and pulled her knife from the cinch at his waist. “Take these.” He thrust them toward Josen, one weapon in each hand.

  “I’ll get them to her,” said Josen. He tucked the knife into his own belt, and took the spear in his good hand. “I promise.”

  Verik just nodded, and waved him on.

  Josen started west, toward the next stair and the stable below. He’d only gone a few steps before a thought stopped him, and he turned back. “Verik?”

  Verik was already leaning over the edge of the wall, but he looked up at the sound of his name. Even that was enough to make Josen shiver.

  He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to look at Verik without seeing a nightmare, the creature who tore him apart and rebuilt him every night while he slept, but he made himself pretend he could. He deserves at least that much for doing this. Josen swallowed his fear and said, “When I thanked you just now… it was for more than just this. I never said it before. You… you saved my life, and I never thanked you.”

  A gentle smile turned Verik’s mouth upward, and for a moment he didn’t look so frightening at all. “Go,” he said. “Thank later.” And then he swung himself over the edge and out of sight.

  Josen looked northeast, toward the eyrie—it was dark, but he fancied he could see the faint outline of the monolithic temple rising against the night sky, a blank spot in the stars. It was a long way off, across miles of farmland, and he doubted the ride would be kind to his injured side. With a heavy sigh, he muttered, “They’d better not leave without me.”

  Then, jogging at the best pace he could muster, he set off for the stable.

  Shona

  “Lady Shona,” said Benedern, ushering her and the others into a well-appointed receiving room. “You didn’t mention anyone else when you asked to see me.”

  Shona had arranged the meeting with the high chastor in advance. She’d claimed to need his counselling on matters of faith, knowing Benedern would assume she had to be convinced not to expose him and Castar—and that he would be all too eager to convince her. The appointment gave her an excuse to miss the dinner taking place at Count Murren’s estate, and to get past the knights Castar had assigned to guard the eyrie. But it was more than just an excuse. She was going to need Benedern’s help.

  Whether it came willingly or not.

  “It wasn’t entirely planned, Your Eminence,” she said. “Cer Eian asked to join me at the last moment.”

  “And the others? I wasn’t expecting to see our young Windwalker and his grandfather.” Benedern smiled and kept his tone jovial, but Shona could see the suspicion in his eyes.

  “That was planned, I have to admit. I asked them to join us. The matter I wanted to discuss concerns them. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it.” In fact, she hadn’t mentioned anyone but herself, to avoid suspicion—she’d been fairly sure that the lord general and the last Windwalker wouldn’t be turned away at the door, appointment or no.

  “Well, make yourselves comfortable, and then we can discuss whatever it is you want to discuss.” Benedern eased his considerable mass into a padded armchair, arranged his robe of feathers beneath him, and then gestured expansively at the various comfortable looking seats that furnished the room.

  Shona sat in a matching chair across from Benedern, and stole a glance at Zerill. The swampling woman kept her head down and her hood pulled low over her face as Eroh guided her to a sofa on one side of the chamber. During the ride over, they’d wrapped her eyes with the blindfold Eroh’s grandfather was known to wear and hastily colored her skin where it was visible. Not a perfect illusion, but it was enough at a glance. Shona had counted on the fact that the strange old man seemed to unsettle Castar’s men, and she’d been vindicated. The guardsmen at the entrance had rather pointedly looked everywhere but at Zerill. Even Benedern hadn’t examined her closely enough to notice the trick yet, though Shona didn’t imagine that would last.

  Well, it makes no difference. It won’t be long now. She made eye contact with Eian, and he nodded and pulled his chair very near to Benedern’s before he sat down.

  “So,” said Benedern, “what is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “I’m troubled by the way Eroh is being used,” she said. “Eian and I have talked about it, and we’re of the same mind. I don’t know how to reconcile what we’re doing with the Word of the Wind as the Convocation has expressed it to me.” Scripture was perhaps the last thing she wanted to discuss, but she had to stall for now, until Cer Falyn made her move. The anticipation hummed beneath her skin, somewhere between excitement and fear.

  “Well, that is an interesting question, Lady Shona. Of course, you know what the Word says on the subject of swampli—” Benedern was halfway through his sentence when the first horn sounded. He started at the noise and half rose in his chair. “What was that?”

  Well timed, Falyn. Shona nodded at Eian; he was on his feet in an instant. In one motion, he drew his knife from his belt and put the blade against Benedern’s neck. The high chastor’s cheeks went ashen. He turned panicked eyes toward the door as if he expected someone to burst in and save him.

  No one did.

  “Don’t raise your voice,” Shona warned. “Just listen. You are going to take a walk with us to the basket-launch. You’ll act as if nothing is wrong. If there are guards, you’ll tell them to let us by. A sudden summons that we must attend. It doesn’t matter where to. Send them away, if you can. If you try to do anything else…” She gestured at the knife pressing into his neck fat. It wasn’t the most elegant plan, but she couldn’t count on Falyn’s diversion drawing every man in the eyrie.

  “So you mean to steal the boy.” Benedern’s eyes shifted toward the sofa, passed over Zerill on the way to Eroh, and then snapped back. Apparently, he’d noticed the ruse at last. “And the swampling woman? Have you gone mad? You can’t—”

  “The evidence at hand would suggest that we can.” Shona rose from her chair. “Remember, say anything to get us caught, and you will suffer for it before we do. Do you need a demonstration?” She’d thought she’d be more afraid when the time came, but instead she found that she was enjoying herself, in a strange way. It felt good to be doing something. She hadn’t been in control of anything that had happened to
her for a long while; watching Benedern squirm felt like some kind of justice. It would have been better if it was Castar, but this was the next best thing.

  She’d always believed that the high chastor was a bit of a coward behind his bluster, and he didn’t do anything now to dissuade her. “I will… do as you say.” He licked his lips and swallowed, wincing when the movement of his throat increased the pressure against Eian’s knife.

  “Good. Eian, get him up. Stay close to his back. Those feathers should hide the blade well enough. I’ll go in front, and Zerill and Eroh will cover you on the side.”

  Eian said nothing, but his jaw was clenched, and a spasm of anger twisted his mouth as he jerked Benedern to his feet. Shona hoped she wasn’t asking too much of him. His faith had been deeply shaken already, and taking the high chastor hostage would do nothing to salve that wound. But it was too late now for second-guesses—Ulman Benedern wasn’t the type to forgive and forget.

  Shona left first. No one was waiting for her; any guards had been drawn away by the sound of horns from the southwest, just as she’d planned. When she was sure the path was clear, she motioned the others to follow. The four of them surrounded Benedern closely, as much to cover the view as to block escape. The eagle feathers that made up the high chastor’s robe hid the knife well enough, but Eian’s hand didn’t look particularly natural at Benedern’s back.

  They were on the eyrie’s sixth tier, more than a hundred feet above ground. High enough that the fields spread out below like the squares of a quilt, yellows and greens and browns all cast into shades of grey by the moonlight; higher than even the Greenwall by more than its height again. Shona could see the eastern wall from here, running very near the foot of the temple, but she tried not to look. It didn’t feel right to look down on the Greenwall from this far above, as if the eyrie’s height diminished her duchy’s namesake somehow. And they had to go higher still—the basket-launch was another level up, on the seventh tier just below the aviary.