The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “You do still want to be queen, don’t you?” Auren said with a slight smirk. “It might still happen. Duke Castar is unmarried.”

  “Is that a promise?” He’d already fooled her once by suggesting things he hadn’t actually said; it wasn’t going to happen again.

  “Only a… musing, let us say. But in place of a promise, I will give you a prediction: if certain people were to find out just what you did to the previous king, I forsee your life taking a very unpleasant turn.”

  There was no bargaining against that. “Fine,” Carissa said bitterly. “I’ll do as you say. I don’t seem to have much choice.”

  “I’m so pleased we could come to an agreement,” said Auren. “I look forward to the next time we speak. I’m sure you’ll have some very interesting things to tell me.”

  With that, he turned, and without a moment’s hesitation, walked back into the wall. And through it. Again, it opened like clay before him; again, it sealed seamlessly behind.

  Carissa stared at the spot where he’d vanished for a long time.

  And then she smiled.

  She could use this. The old man had forced her into it, but she could still be queen. If she had to be Lenoden Castar’s, so be it. She would report on Josen’s plans. She would make herself indispensable. But the information she gave would be the information she wanted them to have. They would do what she needed them to do, and she would get what was hers. What she deserved.

  And that grinning idiot would pay. For refusing her, for stealing the future that she’d worked so hard to build. For taking Rudol away.

  He would pay. She would make sure of it.

  Josen Aryllia was going to die.

  Appendix: Time in the Peaks

  Years: years in the Nine Peaks are 351 days long, broken into nine wind-cycles of 39 days each. Years are measured either by number before the Rising of the Nine Peaks (BR) or after the Rising (AR).

  The current year is 511 AR.

  Wind-cycles: called cycles for short, these are 39 day intervals consisting of four nine day turns during which the wind blows in a pattern unique to the cycle, followed by a three day rest of no wind at all. The patterns of the nine wind-cycles are almost entirely predictable, and have been mapped and charted, though minor variations may occur based on other weather phenomena.

  Each cycle is named for one of the nine Windwalkers. From the beginning of the year to the end, in order, the names of the cycles are Aryll, Orin, Berian, Dass, Carrin, Luthan, Elican, Teren, and Dal.

  Turns: nine day periods that represent a complete pattern of predictable winds from beginning to end. The turns of each wind-cycle have a pattern unique to that cycle, which repeats four times before the cycle’s rest.

  Rests: three day periods at the end of each wind-cycle during which the winds cease entirely, making travel by basket impossible. Named for the cycle they end (Berian’s Rest, for example).

  Rests are often used as times of prayer or celebration. Most festivals in the Nine Peaks take place during a rest, such as the year’s end festival on Dal’s Rest or the harvest festival on Luthan’s Rest.

  Appendix: The Nine Duchies

  Inner Duchies

  The inner duchies are the four centermost duchies of the Nine Peaks, arranged in a rough diamond. Each has relatively easy and predictable access by road and basket to the other three, and all but Greenwall have at least one outer duchy that depends on them for trade.

  The Plateaus: the seat of Aryllian kings and queens, and the largest and most populous of the duchies by a great margin. The Plateaus’ farming flats are second only to Greenwall in producing food for the Peaks.

  Founded By: Aryllia the Wise

  Mountain: the Queensmount

  Outer Duchies: the Wolfshead, Whitelake

  Current Ruling Line: Aryllia

  Ruler’s Arms: a crowned one-eyed eagle, gold on sky blue

  Greenwall: named for the great wall that surrounds the entire duchy. The primary agricultural center of the Nine Peaks, with the most viable farmland. Very flat and low to the mist, making it vulnerable to Deepling attack. For this reason, it is home to the primary Stormhall of the Knights of the Storm.

  Founded By: Carris of the Fields

  Mountain: the Raised Plains

  Outer Duchies: None

  Current Ruling Line: Falloway

  Ruler’s Arms: a brown square (representing a fallow field) on grass green

  Goldstone: the wealthiest duchy in the Peaks, due to its gold and iron mines as well as its profitable trade triangle with Sunhome and Orimscourt. The only duchy founded not by a Windwalker, but by one of their disciples. Sometimes called the Deepwalker’s duchy, for the Windwalker who might have ruled it if not for his treachery.

  Founded By: Castar the Faithful

  Mountain: the Rusted Peak

  Outer Duchies: Orimscourt, Sunhome

  Current Ruling Line: Castar

  Ruler’s Arms: a golden peak on crimson

  Skysreach: highest of the duchies by elevation, and home to the High Eyrie, seat of the Convocation. Skysreach produces little in the way of livestock or agriculture, and is very reliant on the other duchies to survive.

  Founded By: Dasson the Pious

  Mountain: the Sky God’s Sword

  Outer Duchies: Seastair

  Current Ruling Line: Dasson

  Ruler’s Arms: a one-eyed eagle bearing a scroll, silver on black

  Outer Duchies

  The outer duchies are each connected to only one inner duchy by road or basket, and rely on that inner duchy for trade and travel to and from the rest of the Peaks. Though they were founded by Windwalkers just like the inner, and many of them are just as wealthy and productive, by custom their rulers are granted less status than those of the inner duchies. Many in the outer duchies resent this, and it is a common point of contention in the Peaks.

  Whitelake: northernmost of the duchies, known for the massive alpine lake in a crater at its center. Has a moderate fishing trade, and some mines, but is reliant on other duchies for a great deal. Linked to the inner duchies only through the Wolfshead, making it very isolated.

  Founded By: Terene the Stern

  Mountain: Mount Terene

  Inner Duchy: the Plateaus, via the Wolfshead

  Current Ruling Line: Terene

  Ruler’s Arms: a one-eyed eagle on a watchtower, black on white

  The Wolfshead: primarily known for its lumber trade and its ponies, the Wolfshead is also a popular hunting location for the highborn due to its forests. Because it is Whitelake’s sole link to the inner duchies, some say it is the only outer duchy with its own outer duchy.

  Founded By: Berial the Tamer

  Mountain: the Wolfshead

  Inner Duchy: the Plateaus

  Current Ruling Line: Theo

  Ruler’s Arms: a howling wolf, grey on forest green

  Seastair: the only duchy with direct access to the Endless Sea without passing through the Swamp, via a long stair down steep sea-cliffs. Seastair’s fishing fleet is the primary source of fish for the Peaks, though it still relies on other duchies for agriculture.

  Founded By: Elica Braveheart

  Mountain: Wavebreaker

  Inner Duchy: Skysreach

  Current Ruling Line: Harthey

  Ruler’s Arms: a white gull on sea blue

  Orimscourt: home to Orim’s Tower, the kingdom’s primary center of science and learning. Its vineyards produce the most celebrated wines in the Peaks. Orimscourt has viable basket routes and trade roads to Sunhome in addition to Goldstone, forming a three-way economic alliance second only to the inner duchy diamond.

  Founded By: Orim the Scholar

  Mountain: Orim’s Rise

  Inner Duchy: Goldstone

  Current Ruling Line: Perce

  Ruler’s Arms: a cluster of grapes, purple on wine red

  Sunhome: the southernmost duchy, famous for its warm climate and orchards. A popular winter retreat for the highborn.
Sunhome has viable basket routes and trade roads to Orimscourt in addition to Goldstone, forming a three-way economic alliance second only to the inner duchy diamond.

  Founded By: Luthas the Bright

  Mountain: Summercrest

  Inner Duchy: Goldstone

  Current Ruling Line: Finegrove

  Ruler’s Arms: a tree bearing six oranges on a yellow field

  About the Author

  Ben S. Dobson is a Canadian fantasy author. When he isn’t writing to indulge his lifelong passion for epic tales, he can probably be found playing Dungeons and Dragons, or watching a Joss Whedon show, or something equally geeky.

  To contact Ben or find more information on upcoming novels, check one of these places:

  Website

  http://bensdobson.com

  Facebook

  http://www.facebook.com/bensdobson

  Email

  bensdobson@gmail.com

  Sample of Scriber

  If you enjoyed The Swampling King, you’ll be happy to know that the next novel in the series, titled The Last Windwalker, is already in the works. You can get updates on my progress by joining my facebook page, or be notifed of new releases by signing up for the mailing list on my website. Until then, though, you might enjoy my standalone fantasy novel, Scriber, which chronicles the journey of grumpy historian Dennon Lark and stalwart warrior Bryndine Errynson in their quest to save the Kingsland. Turn the page for a free sample!

  The sound was deafening. It exploded through the town, a crash of thunder that sounded so close it might have come from inside my own home. Leaving the drawers of my desk wide open and dropping an armful of writing supplies that I had been about to stow in my bag, I rushed to the door.

  My hand froze on the handle. I could hear shouts and screams outside, and the panicked whinnying of horses; my fingers trembled on the cold brass, refusing to do as they were told. I was suddenly aware of a thick lump of fear in my belly; it had been growing there for some time, I think, but I had been ignoring it, telling myself that we would be gone before an attack ever came.

  I waited there with my hand on the door, listening, and after a short time, the cries outside died down. I heard muffled commands being given, but nothing like what I imagined a battle would sound like. I took a deep breath to steady myself and opened the door.

  In the darkness outside, it was impossible not to notice the fire before anything else. The town was bathed in angry light and smoke billowed thick and grey around the roof of the Prince’s Rest. The flames were spreading rapidly; a slight breeze had sprung up, and as I watched, the fire rode it across the roof of the Rest and leapt to the cottage that sat beside the inn. The horses still tied at the inn were thrashing about in panic as Bryndine’s women tried to free them and lead them away, though it looked like most had already been rescued.

  Bryndine and her soldiers were trying to maintain order: a number of them had formed a line from the well to the inn and were passing buckets of water along it to try to quench the flames; others sought to keep the terrified villagers inside their homes, packing to leave. There were more of them in the village than before—some of those who had been put on guard must have returned to help fight the fire.

  “Leave the tavern,” I heard Bryndine call, and I saw her huge form, outlined in smoke, amidst the line of soldiers at the well. As always, Sylla was at her side. “It’s already lost. Form lines to those buildings, there and there.” She pointed at the homes to either side of the tavern. “Douse the roofs, keep them wet. We need to stop it from spreading.” They immediately set to work, following her commands with trained efficiency. Whatever I thought of the woman, she clearly had a firm command of her company.

  Iayn Gerynson rushed by my door, and I grabbed his huge, hairy arm to stop him.

  “What happened?” I demanded, fear causing my voice to reach an embarrassingly high pitch.

  “Lightning, Scriber. Bolt of lightning, right out of the sky. My ears are still ringin’.”

  “That’s impossible.” I turned my eyes upwards; the sky was completely clear, not a cloud in sight. “Lightning doesn’t strike out of a cloudless sky.”

  “It’s that damn woman, they said she was cursed!” Gerynson freed his arm from my grip easily and moved away, heading in the direction of his home. I knew he had spoken out of superstition and ignorance, but the terrible dread in my gut only intensified.

  I stood just outside my house, watching as the Prince’s Rest burned to the ground. Josia’s small form was visible, rushing back and forth between the well and her home, desperately trying to save the inn even though the soldiers had given it up. I could hear her sobs from where I stood. I felt a twinge of pity for her—Josia’s relentless cheerfulness had always bothered me, but of all the people in Waymark, she was probably the only one I didn’t truly dislike. She didn’t deserve this. I took a step towards her, though I don’t know what I intended to do; as Bryndine had declared, the Rest was clearly a lost cause.

  It was then that I heard it, a low whisper coming from behind. My hands clenched convulsively and I whirled on my heel, peering into the thin aisle of darkness between my small cottage and the next. But there was nothing there; nothing but long, wavering shadows cast by the flames that were now at my back. Yet the whisper persisted.

  “Who’s there?” I asked, my voice barely audible. There was no answer, but I thought I might have seen something moving in the darkness beyond the homes that lined the east side of the road. It was difficult to tell; the smoke from the fire made my eyes water, and the constant shifting of the shadows created the illusion of motion where there was none. And still the sound of whispering drifted past my ears

  “We are the Burnt,” the whispers said, one phrase among hundreds of others, whispered by hundreds of voices speaking at once. A wave of anger and pain flowed over me, and I stumbled back in fear. Something caught underneath my foot and I fell heavily to the ground, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. I knew those whispers. It was impossible; it was nonsense; but I had dreamed of those voices.

  There was something there, in the dark. I could see forms moving in the shadows now; I was certain of it. I tried to scramble backwards, but my body was frozen. Most of the guardswomen were fighting the fire, and there was no one to sound the alert—those figures in the darkness would fall upon Waymark without warning.

  “They’re coming,” I tried to say, but it came out as a croak, unheard amid the commotion in the village, and the figures in the shadows were getting closer.

  “They’re coming.” Not loud enough, but better; a real voice issued from my mouth. The shadowy forms were nearly at the line of houses now; they would be upon the village in moments.

  “They’re coming!” I screamed. And that was loud enough. I wrenched my arm up, pointing into the dark. The ringing of some twenty weapons being drawn at once echoed in my ears.

  “I see them!” a woman yelled; one of Bryndine’s, a voice I did not recognize.

  “With me! Protect the villagers!” I heard Bryndine command. “For the Promise!”

  One of the dark forms lurched forward into a sprint, charging directly at me; the others followed closely behind, swarming into Waymark. As the first man entered the light, I almost thought I knew him—he looked like Josia’s husband Hareld, and for a moment I hoped that these were not the rebels at all. But the man brandished a heavy axe in his hand, and he was closing on me swiftly.

  I could not move. My mind screamed for my body to stand and run, but all I could do was stare in horror at the man who was moments from ending my life. I squeezed my eyes closed, waiting for the blow to land.

  Metal crashed on metal, and my eyes snapped open again. Bryndine Errynson towered before me, the Burner’s axe recoiling from her heavy round shield. She did not flinch, though her shield arm was badly wounded, and I could hardly believe she was not crying out in pain. She had said she might need to use the arm, though I had told her it would be foolish—I thanked the Mother an
d the Father that she had not listened.

  She swung her sword in a vicious riposte that tore almost entirely through the man’s neck. I flinched, expecting to be spattered with hot blood, but none came; despite his neck being almost entirely severed, the man barely bled at all as he slumped to the ground, dead.

  “Find cover, Scriber!” Bryndine barked over her shoulder, sprinting towards the oncoming attackers. They poured through the gaps between homes now, outnumbering Bryndine’s women three to one or worse. Yet they made almost no sound; no battle cries, no grunts of pain or effort. I could still hear the whispers in my head, but their mouths did not move.

  I did not seek cover. My body still refused all commands as I stared at the near-headless body that had fallen at my feet. The lack of blood somehow made it worse; it was unnatural, against everything I had ever learned. I remembered where the whispers had come from in my dream: hundreds of men and women, naked and bearing awful wounds that did not bleed. Finally a slow, thick flow of dark red blood—nearly black—began to ooze from the gaping hole at the end of the man’s neck. A warm, sticky pool began to spread, seeping under my hands and beneath the seat of my pants, and I almost cried with relief.

  The man’s head had fallen at an awkward angle, pulling against the thin flap of skin and muscle that held it to the body, and with a sudden motion, it flopped onto its side. Dead, empty eyes seemed to stare directly at me. There was no doubt now—it was the face of Hareld Kellen. A single thought raced through my mind: that explains why he was late coming home. With a hysterical giggle, I vomited the contents of my stomach onto the blood-soaked ground.

  I sank into a terrified trance then, watching the fight unfold as though it were a performance acted out with marionettes. None if it felt real. The noises of battle seemed muffled, indistinct; I could see weapons clanging together and people screaming, but in my ears there was only a dull muddle of sound. All I could hear clearly were the whispers from my dream: “All will burn… We will have vengeance…”