In the same position, would the highlanders spare my daughter? When have they ever shown us such mercy? There was anger in Azlin’s eyes—and more than anger. Hate. The same hate Zerill had felt so many times before.
That’s the problem, isn’t it? Zerill signed. They do something terrible to us, and we do something terrible to them. It will always be like this unless we try something else. Why not give them less reason to hate us, this once?
You are right, Azlin signed, and looked down at the squires for a long moment. It will always be like this. There is no other way for it to be. She nodded her head at Uvik and Yana. Kill them.
Zerill didn’t argue the matter any further. She didn’t even entirely disagree with her sister. It would be dangerous to spare them; it had probably been too late the moment the knights set foot on the northern fork. No highlander could be allowed to live after seeing so much. She had accepted that without question all her life. And ten days ago, she wouldn’t have cared. But today, her hate felt just a little bit less sure, a little bit less right. She knew now that somewhere above the mist there was a highlander prince who might not want the Abandoned dead. Who might someday take the throne. And she couldn’t help but worry that when that day came, both sides might already be too accustomed to war to ever make peace.
The boys died quickly; that, at least, was a small mercy. Zerill didn’t look away as the warriors cut their throats. She had seen worse. But before he fell, the silent boy met her eyes, and for just an instant his face became Prince Josen’s. I’m sorry. She didn’t say the words aloud, or sign them; they were just for her. I tried.
Bring the Maker, Azlin signed to Zerill, pointing toward Verik’s hiding place. He hadn’t yet emerged, even now that the fight had ended. The rest of you, gather the bodies. Take the best weapons and armor. Only what might have been lost—no one will believe Deeplings ate all of their steel. She pointed her spear at one of the squire’s packs, still lying on the ground where it had been dropped. Tear that up, scatter the supplies. We’ll take the others.
The warriors moved at Azlin’s command, dragging bodies together and removing chainmail. Highlander steel was too heavy to use in the Swamp most of the time, but it was invaluable in open battle. If the purge came, at least some of the Abandoned would have armor that could protect against highlander swords.
When Zerill returned to Verik, he was sitting crosslegged with his hands flat on the ground—the Makers’ meditation pose. It helped him to control the hunger when he used so much power. She had to help him to his feet; he leaned against her, barely able to support his own weight.
I heard you try to stop them, he signed. I’m sorry. I don’t have to… He didn’t finish, just gestured toward the bodies and dropped his gaze, but his meaning was clear—if she asked it of him, he would disobey Azlin.
But she could feel the feverish heat coming off him, and see the deep hunger in his eyes. She glanced at the hide bladder hanging from his belt, its mouth stained with black liquid, but she knew it was empty—he had already spent too much of himself. She couldn’t ask anything more.
She lifted his chin and offered him a comforting smile. Yes you do. It isn’t your fault. She helped him toward Azlin, holding him upright as they walked.
Azlin glanced at Verik and thrust a finger toward the bodies of the knights, gathered into a low pile. Your sacrifice, she signed. Remember, it must look like Deeplings did the killing. The highlanders can’t know we were here. You will have to wait until it is done to… replenish yourself.
I know what I have to do, Verik signed, his hand shaking. He staggered toward the bodies and fell to his knees before them, drawing his knife. Quick slashes across the wrists of the nearest corpses started the blood flowing, and then he gripped the blade himself and dragged it across one palm, then the other. Trembling, he pressed his wounds into the red puddle spreading around him.
Zerill felt the monster moving beneath them before it showed itself—below the mist Deeplings could burrow through the earth like it was air. She didn’t flinch when it burst from the ground beneath the bodies, engulfing two in its cavernous maw and scattering the rest. The grubling’s pale white flesh glistened in the witchlight of the Swamp; it looked like a giant eyeless maggot, longer than two men laid head to foot, with a great round hole of a mouth surrounded in grasping appendages. A hundred disgusting centipede legs undulated beneath it as it pulled itself from the earth. Not a pretty sight, but Zerill would take a grubling over the spoiled-flesh stink and macabre patchwork body of a rotborn any day.
It began to feast, drawing corpses into its mouth with wriggling tentacles and then tearing them apart with row upon row of teeth like knives. Again, Zerill didn’t look away. Not because she had seen worse, this time—there was nothing worse than this. She watched because she couldn’t help herself. Because as revolting as they were, there was a presence to the Deeplings that pulled at the eyes and the mind. And as she watched, she wondered for the first time what the highlanders would think, if any had been there to see.
They would call this proof of every accusation they’ve ever made against us, she thought. Maybe it is. The Abandoned were no allies of the Deeplings, not in the way the highlanders believed, but nor were they above using the creatures to their advantage. And Zerill could hardly deny that the deepcraft was a foul thing, not while the grubling gorged itself on human flesh mere yards from where she stood. But what choice is there? The Makers cannot escape their curse, but at least we can use it to survive. The highlanders drove us to this, and now they blame us for it.
There was nothing left but blood when the Deepling was finished, and not even much of that. When every last morsel was gone, the grubling skittered toward Verik and fell still, waiting. It is bonded to me, Verik signed, looking over his shoulder at Azlin. It won’t fight. The hunger Zerill had seen in his eyes before was written all over his face now; she barely recognized him. He looked ravenous, half-mad.
At Azlin’s signal, the Lighteyes with spears in hand closed in on either side of the grubling; those with shorter weapons held back. Zerill looked down at the broken spear in her hand, and stayed where she was. The knight-captain had grazed her shoulder with his blade, and she wasn’t about to approach a Deepling with an open wound, not without five feet of spear between her and it. The strange presence of the creatures could draw her eyes, but never move her feet; resisting that was a skill the Abandoned learned early and used often.
As one, the Lighteyes thrust their spears into the creature’s pulsing flesh. It shook, convulsed, and ceased moving. Blood, heavy and black, oozed from its wounds and out of its mouth. Verik threw his head back. His teeth were bared; his face was a terrifying rictus of pure exultation. Drawn by an invisible force, the black blood flowed toward him, great streams and smaller rivulets joining as one and pooling before him where he knelt.
Zerill cringed. Even knowing that he had no choice, it was hard to watch her friend do this—something they had been taught from childhood to avoid at all costs. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for what was coming.
With a shudder of pleasure, Verik thrust his wounded palms into the Deepling’s blood.
7. The Darkroom
Rudol
The Stormhall’s darkroom was aptly named. Designed to mimic conditions in the Swamp, it was completely windowless and lit only by two shuttered lanterns, one on either side of the room. When the lanterns’ shutters were lowered, they trapped all but the narrowest slivers of light—no brighter than witchmoss, though it lacked that pale green hue. Little better than absolute darkness, for the inexperienced.
The bulk of the room was taken up by a recessed sparring pit set into the floor, filled with wet dirt stirred in places into shin deep muck. It was a rite of passage, crossing swords for the first time in the dark and the damp, and a humbling one—most squires stumbled blindly into their opponent’s sword, or a mouthful of mud.
So, thought Rudol, there is no reason for Josen to be doing so well.
“He isn’t bad,” said Duke Castar, leaning over the guardrail to watch. “Undisciplined, but there’s potential there.”
Rudol grunted and shook his head. “He’ll never be better than this. He’d have to try.”
But though Josen hadn’t actually won a match yet, he hadn’t embarrassed himself either—and Rudol wasn’t certain how he felt about that. He hadn’t expected that his brother would remember so much of Gryston’s training. It wasn’t that he was hoping to see Josen fail exactly, but he wouldn’t have greatly minded seeing a bellyflop in the mud. If he was being honest with himself, a part of him would probably have enjoyed it. Especially in front of the two dozen knights who had come to watch the heir apparent polish his skills.
From above, the spectators had a substantially better view of the bouts than the fighters did. It was dark, but the Knights of the Storm were trained for darkness, and the height granted a broader perspective on the fighters’ movements. From the side of the pit opposite Rudol, Cer Eldon Demant—the Stormhall’s stocky master-at-arms—shouted adjustments and corrections. “You need to keep your feet moving, Prince Josen. Letting the mud grab you is death in the Swamp.”
At least everyone isn’t falling over themselves to praise him. Most anywhere else in the Nine Peaks, Josen was beloved—his frequent escapes and foolish exploits only served to make him a romantic figure. But not in Greenwall, and especially not at the Stormhall. And what else should he expect after harassing so many knights? After casting Shona aside? He could overlook some of his brother’s mistakes, perhaps, but not that one.
Shona had barely been able to look at Josen when she’d greeted them at the baskets the previous day, and it would only be worse for her at dinner later that night. She and Rudol were hardly close anymore—spending time with her would just prod old wounds, and besides, Carissa wouldn’t like it—but he still hated to see that hurt in her eyes. She deserves so much better. He glared at his brother, knowing it would go unnoticed in the dark.
Neither fighter was much more than a silhouette in the dark, but Rudol had no trouble discerning their movements—after years of training, his eyes were accustomed to the darkroom. Both men fought with wooden practice swords, shaped and weighted to resemble the sabers used in the Swamp, though they lacked the vine-cutting hook that curved back from the tip of the real weapons.
Josen’s opponent was a younger man, only recently granted his colors. Cer Therry, was it? It was hard to remember the names of all the knights Duke Castar had recruited in the past year, but Rudol had sparred with the man before. He was quick and had a good command of the blade, but tended to drop his right shoulder before he struck.
Josen didn’t seem to have noticed that, though. He scrambled to parry a thrust of Therry’s sword that should have been easy to see coming. His left foot stuck in the mud, and he gripped his boot, trying to wrench it clear. He was still struggling when the next blow came.
This will end it, Rudol thought. But to his surprise, Josen was already sidestepping, his left foot moving freely. He lunged inside the reach of the blade and grabbed Therry’s sword arm with one hand, placing his own sword against the other man’s neck. He was never stuck. Rudol scowled. I should have seen that.
“Well fought, Prince Josen.” Cer Eldon motioned for two squires to open the shutters on the lanterns, releasing a timid orange light that barely reached into the sparring pit. “A victory at last. Perhaps not a trick to rely upon, though.” He didn’t sound terribly impressed, but then, Josen was not popular among the Knights of the Storm. Perhaps Cer Eldon was hoping for him to fall in the mud too. “Therry, your shoulder is still betraying you before you strike. I shouldn’t have to keep telling you.”
Cer Therry’s head slumped down. “Yes, Cer Eldon.”
“It was close,” said Josen. “I was just lucky.” He clapped the dejected young knight on the shoulder. His face was half-obscured by shadow even with the lanterns fully opened, but Rudol would have bet good coin that he was grinning. Josen might not have wanted to be there, but he was fond of winning—and even fonder of looking magnanimous in victory.
Beside Rudol, Duke Castar chuckled. “Theatrical feint, the leg stuck in the mud. He’s as bad as Gryston. Clever, though.”
Rudol snorted. “Like he said: just luck. And a stupid opponent. If Therry wasn’t so obvious, it would have been far too great a risk. A swampling would have skewered him while he was play-acting.”
The duke looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “You seem… on edge, Rudol.” Duke Castar rarely referred to him by his proper title in private conversation. Rudol didn’t mind—it was nice to talk to someone who didn’t hide behind formal address, though he never felt quite comfortable returning the familiarity. “Does it bother you, having him here?”
“Of course not,” Rudol lied. The last thing he wanted was to look like a pouting child. “I just don’t see the purpose in it. But Father is a wiser man than I am.”
“It could be useful,” said Castar. “Both of Gerod’s sons wearing Storm Knight colors. It might make knighthood seem more… fashionable.”
“Josen has no interest in becoming a knight.” Rudol felt his cheeks flush, and forced himself to keep his voice quiet. “He is only here because Father requires it. Just the other day he asked if we might show the swamplings mercy, as if he was trying to protect one of his tavern maids. He doesn’t have the slightest respect for what we do.”
Duke Castar raised his hands in mock surrender. “You would know better than I would, of course.” He cuffed Rudol lightly on the arm. “No need to be upset. It’s clear to anyone with eyes that he will never be half the knight you are, or half the fighter. I was only thinking of the benefit to the Knights of the Storm.”
“I’m sorry.” Rudol dipped his head, embarrassed. Don’t let Josen make you act like a fool, he scolded himself. Duke Castar has always been on your side. “It’s only that… everyone is always so blinded by him. He won’t stay. Anyone who thinks he’ll wear the grey is only going to be disappointed. Josen is no knight.”
Duke Castar stroked his neatly-trimmed beard with his knuckles, the way he always did when he was mulling over an idea. “Why not show us that, then?” He was already shouting across to Cer Eldon before Rudol realized his meaning. “Prince Rudol would like to challenge his brother. What do you think, Cer Eldon?”
“It’s always a pleasure to see Prince Rudol fight.” Eldon glanced down at Josen. “If you have no objection, Prince Josen?”
Josen shook his head. “I don’t want—”
“Come now, Prince Josen, indulge us,” Duke Castar interrupted. “I think you’ll find that Rudol has much to teach you.”
“You’re wasting your breath,” said Rudol, leaning over the rail to stare down at his brother. “Josen doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.” Now that it had been suggested, he found that he wanted this fight more than he would have guessed. And Rudol knew no better way to get Josen to do something than to tell him he wouldn’t—or couldn’t. Above all else, Josen hated doing what was expected of him.
Josen returned his gaze for a moment, then shrugged. “Why not? Teach me something, little brother.”
“If you insist,” said Rudol, fighting to keep the smile off his face. Oh, Josen. Always at your most predictable when you’re trying your hardest not to be. He pulled on a pair of the tall mud-boots that sat in a row along the wall and grabbed a wooden sword from the rack just above, then strode toward the stairs that led into the pit.
“Show him what a real knight can do,” Duke Castar said in a low voice as Rudol passed.
And now Rudol let himself smile. “I intend to.”
When he stepped into the pit and the mud slid over his boots, Rudol felt at home in a way he rarely did anywhere else. The slight pull at his feet was reassuring, familiar. He knew how to move here, how to hold his weight and use his size; every anxiety that bothered him out in the world drained away. He kept his gaze moving, never lingering on a light sou
rce, and when he heard Cer Eldon bark at the squires to shutter the lanterns, he squeezed his eyes shut for a quick count of ten. It was dark when he opened them again, but he was not blind; he had no trouble finding his brother’s shape in the corner of his eye, where his night-vision was strongest. With his left foot forward, he gripped his wooden sword in both hands and raised it into a high guard, the tip pointing at Josen’s throat.
Josen fell into a loose stance, holding his sword at waist level. He flashed his infuriating grin, his teeth white against the dark. “Let me know when the lesson star—” His eyes widened as Rudol lunged, and he barely raised his sword in time to shunt aside a downward blow at his head.
“Here’s your lesson: stop talking and fight.” Rudol pressed his attack with another slash at his brother’s chest; up close, the darkness provided Josen little cover. Josen jumped back, but Rudol adjusted without hesitation, turning his controlled cut into a thrust to extend his reach.
Finally remembering his training, Josen darted forward and left, around the blade instead of back. He stumbled slightly as his foot caught in the mud—for real, this time—and then struck at Rudol’s side, but his footing was still clumsy and there was no power behind it. Rudol easily dodged aside.
Finding a firmer stance, Josen feinted a thrust at Rudol’s stomach, but it wasn’t his true target—he didn’t commit enough to the attack, and Rudol saw his gaze dart lower. Too obvious, brother. Rudol back-stepped, moving just out of reach as Josen swung at his legs.
“By the Above, I forgot how fast you are,” Josen panted. “Your legs are the size of my torso, how are they so quick?”
The low cut left Josen’s head unguarded, and Rudol took back the advantage with a high slash that sent his brother staggering backward to avoid it. “Remember the lesson,” he grunted.
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 10