The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Every year, Rudol thought. And still they scream and yell as if it were all new to them.

  His attention wandered over the festival grounds. Few areas in the Plateaus above the farming flats were so devoid of any permanent structure, and it was especially strange here on the People’s Plateau—only the slums in Cliffside were more heavily populated. But this flat patch of land on the edge of the Queenslake was left untouched almost year-round, except on festival days. For Dal’s Rest, the three-day festival that marked the end of the year, the last dwindling snowdrifts were cleared away and enough tents and benches and decorations brought in to almost completely obscure the grass underfoot. The only open space left was the roped off circle where Castar and Gryston fought.

  It had still been bright out when the final duel had begun, but that had been nearly an hour ago; now the sun had withdrawn far enough behind the horizon that a few courageous stars dared to peek through the darkening blue of the sky. Men had begun to light the lanterns that hung throughout the area, illuminating a rainbow of colored pennants representing this family or that. And everywhere Rudol looked, crowded into every spare inch: people. More people than he would have thought the Plateaus could hold, pushing and squirming for a better view of the duel, faces covered by ridiculous festival masks.

  The masks bothered Rudol more than they should have. A silly tradition as far as he was concerned, born out of fear of a man long dead. Dal, the last of the year’s nine wind-cycles, was named for Dalleon Deepwalker, betrayer of the Windwalkers. The man who had freed the Deeplings and summoned the endless Swamp. The Deepwalker had died some five hundred years ago—all nine eagle-eyed prophets of the Sky God had—but for three days at the end of his cycle, the people of the Peaks still disguised themselves as swamplings to avoid his curse on all those who lived above the mist. The masks came off only at midnight on the third day, when the first of Aryll and the new year began, and Dalleon’s power supposedly faltered.

  Willful blindness. Easier to fear imaginary curses from a dead man than face the real threat the swamplings pose.

  “You look worried, Prince Rudol.” Cer Falyn Morne leaned over and raised her voice to be heard above the crowd. “I think Cer Eian has your man, this time.”

  Rudol glanced at her, already annoyed, and was made doubly so by the slight smirk on her face. Wind of Grace, what did I do to deserve this?

  Morne was a fine knight—one of perhaps a dozen women in all the Stormhalls, which certainly proved her perseverance—and he would have been glad to have her beside him in the Swamp, but beyond that he’d never much cared for her. She belonged to Gryston, through and through, which meant, among other things, that she never bothered to hide her disdain for those who supported Duke Castar to lead the Knights of the Storm. She should have been seated with the other minor knights, far from the king’s table, but she was Gryston’s second—tradition let her hold his chair while he fought. And she’d been trying to provoke Rudol since she’d taken the seat.

  He cast about for a clever response, but none came—he’d never been as fast with a retort as his brother was. It hardly mattered, though. His wife was already speaking, as usual.

  “Mind the titles of your betters, Cer Falyn,” Carissa said. “Duke Castar is hardly my husband’s ‘man’. And Cer Eian has not bested him in years. I am sure tonight will be no different. Don’t you think, dear?”

  Rudol grunted in vague agreement and looked away, casting his eyes over the tourney’s audience. Whatever he said, Morne would take it as supporting Duke Castar; it was better not to say anything at all. He had no desire to discuss such political matters.

  Few returned his gaze as he surveyed the crowd, and it was not hard to understand why. Sitting there was boring enough—it could only be more so to look at. The inane chatter from the surrounding tables made him long for the Swamp. He knew his purpose below the mist, clad in Storm Knight colors with his sword in hand, hunting the swamplings who would see the Nine Peaks destroyed. Here, he felt extraneous, a festival puppet with no purpose but to endlessly repeat pleasantries and fill Josen’s chair.

  He doubted the lowborn shared his reasons for their disinterest, though. More likely, they were just disappointed in the selection of highborn this year. Neither the Dassons of Skysreach nor the Terenes of Whitelake had made the journey, so Rudol alone represented the three surviving Windwalker families. The Eagles, as the lowborn called them.

  The noble’s seats were tiered in height very slightly, and the tiers assigned by importance. Only Carissa sat with Rudol at the highest level, reserved for the Eagles, and if not for him she would have been several steps lower—she was the daughter of Duke Theo of the Wolfshead, and the outer duchies didn’t command a particularly lofty place at any gathering. To their right and a quarter-foot down was Duke Castar’s empty seat, and to the left on that same level Cer Falyn sat in Gryston’s chair. Rudol had hoped that Shona and her family might ride the baskets in from Greenwall for the festival, but the Falloways were understandably occupied after the recent Deepling attack on their duchy, and had sent a falcon bearing their regrets. So there was no one else in the higher tiers of seating, and in the absence of even outer duchy nobility, only holders of minor offices and mid-ranking knights filled the lower tiers on either side.

  People would be looking if Josen were here. The thought did not come without some bitterness. His elder brother was slender, charming, and handsome, with a head of thick black curls; Rudol was six and a half feet of intimidating muscle, slow to smile and slower to laugh, and—at only twenty-one years of age—as bald as their father. There had never been any doubt which of them would be more popular among the people.

  And yet he couldn’t be bothered to grace them with his presence. It often fell to Josen to represent the Aryllian line at tournaments and the like, due to the king’s frequent bouts of illness—and just as often, he was nowhere to be found when the time came. “I may as well have no son at all,” their father had complained that morning, bedridden and feverish. The words had lingered in Rudol’s thoughts. Josen, or no son at all.

  “Rudol? Dear?” Carissa was peering at him. He exhaled through his nose, trying not to let it become a sigh. If he didn’t say something about the fight, his wife would never let him hear the end of it.

  He shifted his gaze back toward the duelling grounds in time to see Duke Castar parry a jab from Gryston. Castar struck back with a riposte that Gryston just barely twisted in time to avoid. The spectators roared with excitement, as they always did.

  “Duke Castar has the stronger sword arm,” he said, hoping it would be enough. Though she tried to hide it, he saw Morne roll her eyes. He didn’t care. Let her think he spoke out of loyalty to the duke if she chose—it was no secret that he supported Castar over Gryston. It didn’t make him any less right.

  “You see, Cer Falyn? Rudol has quite the eye for these things. Duke Castar tells me he’s one of the best swords in the Storm Knights. He would be a challenge for either one of them. If I could ever talk him into entering, that is.” Carissa laid a hand on his arm and smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back. His wife was entirely his opposite—small, beautiful, and talkative—and though the marriage had been arranged by their families, he didn’t regret it. He was even glad for her sociable nature, much of the time. They had been wed for near a year, and in that time he had discovered that his reticence usually went unnoticed when she was speaking enough for both of them.

  But sometimes, he wished she would let things go. She had been pestering him for a full wind-cycle to enter the tournament, and it was tiresome.

  “It would be unfair,” he said. “Who would strike the king’s son?” That was true enough. Not many would risk bloodying a descendant of any Windwalker, and least of all Aryllia, most beloved of the Sky God and First Queen of the Nine Peaks.

  True enough, but not the whole truth.

  The entire thing is a pointless spectacle, when there are real problems for the knights to deal with.
God Above, Deeplings attacked Greenwall not two turns past. But he could hardly say that out loud, not in public—no one wanted to hear the king’s son denouncing their entertainment. It was more important than ever to keep the lowborn pacified in times of crisis, his father said, and he knew best how to govern the Nine Peaks.

  “Oh, I think you would find more than a few men willing to test their swords against yours,” said Morne. “It’s not as if you’re the heir to the throne, after all. Speaking of which, where is Prince Josen?”

  Rudol scratched at his cheek to hide his grimace. “Unavoidably detained.” Needless tact. Everyone knew where his brother was: anywhere but here. Josen’s duties fell to Rudol more often than they didn’t—his disappearances were common enough at this point as to be nearly legendary in the Plateaus. And the people loved him for it. They prefer a prince who might drink alongside them in secret over one who does his actual duty. Rudol frowned at the throng of people watching the duel, and clenched his fist until he heard his knuckles crack.

  Morne nodded. “Maybe for the best. I imagine some of the knights here have not yet forgotten their recent… encounters with him.”

  Encounters. How delicate. Rudol knew exactly what Morne meant, of course. Josen’s recent difficulties with the Knights of the Storm were the talk of the Plateaus. In the past two turns, it seemed that almost every time he eluded the Swords assigned to him, he was found arguing in a tavern with some recently knighted lad visiting for the tourney.

  “Minor incidents. My brother has already made peace with those involved.”

  “It is embarrassing though,” Carissa pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose. “I do wish Prince Josen would straighten his priorities. I never know what to say when the other ladies ask about him.”

  This time, Rudol could not hide his sigh. That was the last thing he needed, his wife openly condemning his brother. Never mind that it was just what Morne was looking for—if anyone overheard and word got back to his father, it was Rudol who would take the brunt of the king’s anger. He gave Carissa a pointed look, and she closed her mouth, seemingly aware that she had said too much. If only she would realize her mistakes before voicing them.

  “It hasn’t hurt his standing among the people, though, has it?” Morne said. “Rumor has it he’s usually defending some poor barmaid from unwelcome advances or the like. Perhaps these new knights Duke Castar has sponsored are to blame? They earn their colors so quickly; it is hardly a surprise that it goes to their heads.”

  Of course, she would find a way to bring it back to that. It was inescapable of late, the schism within the ranks of the Storm Knights. Gryston or Castar; lowborn or high; experienced hero or youthful visionary. Add the fact that the two men were quite literally crossing swords a few yards away, and Rudol supposed it had been foolish to hope he might avoid the subject.

  “The knights need new blood,” he said. “Duke Castar is only trying to bolster our ranks.” It was true that he didn’t think much of some of the young men Castar had arranged knighthoods for—youths with wealth but little sense. But he trusted the duke, one of the few men in the Nine Peaks who actually seemed to care what Rudol had to say. And Castar’s arguments made sense. Their numbers had been flagging in recent years, and their coffers.

  “Knighting untrained fools helps no one.” Morne’s voice rose, and there was an edge to it. Her delicacy, it appeared, had reached its limit. “When they die in the Swamp, do you think their fathers will thank us with money and power?”

  Rudol had never been skilled at debate—another area where Josen always outdid him. “I don’t think—” he began, uncertain of where he was going.

  It didn’t matter. His voice was quickly swallowed by the rising screams of the crowd. Morne broke eye contact to look back toward the two combatants, and Rudol did the same.

  It seemed as though the fight was all but over. Duke Castar hammered his blade against Gryston’s guard again and again, forcing the older man back toward the edge of the duelling ground. Gryston simply seemed spent; he brought his sword up to parry a last strike, and then his arm dropped too low, and Duke Castar had his opening. The shouting rose to a fevered pitch as the duke aimed an almost leisurely jab at Gryston’s chest.

  A half-second before it happened, Rudol saw Gryston tense, and he realized what few of the spectators were trained to see: It’s a bluff. Despite all his reservations about the tournament, he found himself half-rising in his seat as Eian Gryston took advantage of his feint, sidestepping with an agility that silenced the spectators mid-roar and swinging his sword up inside Castar’s over-extended reach.

  Rudol had to laugh, drawing an odd look from his wife. Gryston, apparently, was not as weary as he had been pretending. Age may have weakened his body, but not his wits. He fooled us all.

  But Lenoden Castar had not won this tournament six years in a row by accident. He realized what was happening just before Gryston’s blade struck home. It was too late to bring his sword back—too late to do anything, Rudol would have thought—but Castar wrenched himself to the side, just out of the arc of Gryston’s swing. Overbalanced, he toppled toward the grass—and somehow, almost too quickly to follow, released his sword and caught it in his right hand just as his left extended to interrupt his fall. From his knees, he raised his blade in time to just barely nudge Gryston’s next strike off target, his arm visibly buckling under the force of the blow, and then pushed himself back to his feet.

  It was an impressive recovery, but Cer Eian had the advantage still. He followed up with a two-handed blow that should have been too strong for the duke to stop right-handed—Castar had always favored his left.

  Instead of blocking, Duke Castar dove nimbly to the right, rolling to his feet and swapping his sword from hand to hand once more. Like an artist with his brush, he gracefully swept the tip of the blade across the lord general’s shoulder, painting a thin crimson line on Gryston’s grey Storm Knight tabard.

  “First blood,” Castar said with a grin, and in the silence that had fallen, his voice rang across the entire festival ground.

  And then the cheers came again, as loud as the Sky God’s own thunder.

  Rudol dropped back into his chair, his heart racing. He had expected a tame fight, the same thing he had seen for the last six years. He certainly hadn’t expected that—Gryston’s feint was something new, and Duke Castar’s last-second recovery had been nothing short of a miracle. Glancing at Cer Falyn out of the corner of his eye, he saw that her mouth was drawn into a thin line; she pointedly avoided looking in his direction. Carissa’s hand was gripping his arm tightly and her mouth was moving, but he couldn’t hear her over the excitement of the crowd.

  Gryston and Castar approached, and Rudol stood to meet them, signalling the herald at the edge of the dais. The man sounded Aryllia’s fanfare on his horn—when someone of the First Queen’s blood was about to speak, it wasn’t announced with subtlety. Even so, it took a long while for the shouting to quiet into a low murmur. Longer than it should have taken, Rudol thought, for the people to heed the king’s son.

  “In the name of King Gerod of Aryllia’s line, I declare Duke Lenoden Castar the victor of this year’s tournament,” Rudol said, hating the way it sounded—he never quite felt convincing making such formal declarations. “Duke Castar, the winner’s purse is yours.”

  The crowd cheered again, and Duke Castar turned to them with a smile and a wave, then extended his hand to Gryston. “Well fought as always, Lord General. You nearly had me.” He spoke loudly, so that everyone could hear—the man knew how to play to the lowborn. “You would do me a great honor if you would accept the purse on behalf of the Knights of the Storm.”

  Another roar of approval. Gryston clasped Castar’s hand and waited for silence before speaking. “The honor is mine, Duke Castar. You are most generous.”

  It was a ritual they went through every year—the tournament winnings were hardly a fortune by the standards of either man, but the people liked it. Rudol hefted the
leather purse full of gold coins and tossed it to Cer Eian, to the sound of yet another deafening cheer.

  “The contest is ended,” Rudol said. “Go under the king’s protection, and may the Lord of Eagles watch over us all this night.” Another formality, that—as a member of the royal family, he had to officially grant the spectators permission to leave his presence. As the people began to file out of the festival grounds, Castar and Gryston circled around to the steps at the side of the platform and returned to their seats.

  Duke Castar mopped a handkerchief over his brow and beard as he sat down. “God Above, how long was that? We gave them a show this year, didn’t we?”

  “It was splendid!” Carissa enthused. “You were so graceful, Duke Castar.”

  Morne stood and pulled out Gryston’s chair for him. “You almost had him at the end, Cer Eian.”

  Gryston eased himself into his seat. “I think not,” he said, sounding very tired. With two fingers, he probed the shallow wound at his shoulder. “For a moment I thought he might be the one visiting the physician’s tent this year, but…” He shook his head and smiled at Duke Castar. “It was a marvel. I have never seen a man move so quickly. You are better than I ever was, I think, even in my younger days.”

  Morne frowned at that, but Gryston sounded sincere—he had been the best sword in the Nine Peaks, once, but he was never bitter in defeat. Rudol was, in fact, somewhat fond of the man. It was hard not to be. For a time, Gryston had been commander of the Royal Swords at the Aryllian Keep, and he had taught Rudol much of what he knew about combat. Josen was always his favorite, though.

  “I’ll feel the same way if we ever convince Prince Rudol to compete, I’m sure,” Duke Castar said, clapping Rudol on the shoulder. “I know, I know, you hate it. But the people don’t, and you’re too good to hide it like this.”