The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  But the rustling hadn’t stopped.

  “There will be more.” Castar didn’t waste time thanking him, just struggled to his feet, grabbed Josen’s arm, and ran. “They send the deeprats to track prey and the rotborn to slow it down—something bigger usually follows after.” His arm rose and fell, chopping vines with the hook of his saber.

  The sounds behind them grew louder—there was a groan and a heavy crash, like a tree falling. Josen tried not to think about what might have caused it, tried to push himself harder, make his legs move faster, but with every stride he had to fight the dark curiosity urging him to turn and look.

  He nearly crashed into Castar when the duke came to a sudden halt ahead.

  “What are you doing?” Josen whispered frantically. And then he saw it, a humanoid form in front of them, faintly outlined by the light of the witchmoss. He stopped breathing; his heart nearly broke through his chest.

  Then, a voice. “Follow me. I can lead you to safety.” The man—it was a man’s voice—wore a hooded cloak of some kind that cast his face entirely into shadow. He might have been anyone, swampling or knight. He might have been an empty robe, except that he could speak.

  “Lead us into an ambush, you mean. Why should we trust a stranger in the Swamp?” Castar held his saber at the ready, tip pointed at the silhouette’s chest.

  “It is me or them.” The figure nodded in the direction they had come from. Another loud crash made Josen jump; it sounded so close that he feared what he would see if he looked back.

  Castar hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. “Fine. But if you mean us harm, I can promise you that you will die before I do. Lead the way. Quickly!”

  The hooded man led them through the Swamp faster than before—his path seemed clear of deep mud or thick vines. They were no longer heading in the direction they had been; it occurred to Josen that he had no idea where he was at all, or what direction Rudol and the other knights were in. He doubted Castar did either. It won’t matter if we don’t survive this, he told himself, and kept running.

  “Who are you?” Josen panted at the stranger, using up breath he couldn’t spare. “Why are you helping us?”

  The hooded man didn’t look back. “I am someone who needs your help in return. Hurry, through here.” He pushed through a curtain of hanging vines.

  On the other side was a sheer stone ridge, at least twenty feet high. Josen couldn’t even guess at its length—it faded into darkness in either direction—but it was long enough that they had no hope of getting by before the Deeplings caught them. His shoulders slumped.

  “What is this?” Castar demanded, tracing the line of the ridge with his saber. “We can’t climb that. If you mean for those creatures to kill us, know that they will not spare you afterward.”

  “You must trust me,” the stranger said, turning right and skirting quickly along the ridge.

  “To the Deep with trust!” Castar put an arm in front of Josen, stopping him fast. “Tell us where we’re going!”

  “Here,” said the hooded man. He turned and stepped sideways, disappearing into the rock.

  “Where did he…” Castar rushed to the spot where the man had vanished, running his hands along the stone; Josen followed, holding his handful of witchmoss in front of him. “There’s an opening!” He waved for Josen to follow, and then he, too, seemed to side-step right through solid rock.

  Holding the witchmoss just in front of his face, Josen pressed his hands against the rock and searched for the opening. It was almost invisible, a narrow passage that cut diagonally back into the ridge so that from the front it looked like little more than a divot in the stone. He couldn’t see very far inside—after a few feet it was just solid black that the dim witchmoss couldn’t pierce. But he could still hear the sound of the Deeplings, tearing through the trees not far behind. He twisted sideways and stepped in, praying that whatever monsters might lurk within the cave were less hungry than the ones without.

  The passage opened up enough that he could walk properly a short distance beyond the entryway, and the cavern didn’t go much farther than that—he could see the moisture on the far wall reflecting the light of his witchmoss, perhaps three yards back. There was scarcely room for the three of them to stand; Castar and the hooded man were pressed against the walls on opposite sides, no more than a sword’s length between them. And there was a second hooded figure, clinging to the man who had led them there. Its head didn’t reach the stranger’s chest. A child?

  Castar spoke in a low voice as Josen drew near. “I have seen Deeplings burrow through earth and stone like you and I walk through air. What stops them from finding us here?”

  “Blood,” the hooded man answered, one arm wrapped around the smaller figure at his side. “The earth here is marked with cursed blood.” In the close quarters of the cave, Josen could see a hint of grey hair emerging from the shadow of the hood.

  “Deepcraft, then.” Castar lifted his saber.

  The stranger shook his head beneath his hood. “Knowledge. The Deeplings tend to avoid where their blood has already tainted. I have lived in the Swamp a very long time—if I had not learned to keep them at bay, I would be dead.”

  Castar didn’t lower his weapon. “Deeplings have attacked the Greenwall where their blood has been spilled before.”

  “There is… more to it than just that. But arguing serves no purpose. When you are still alive in a few moments, you will know I speak truly.” The stranger held up a hand, tilted his head toward the cavern’s entrance.

  Something was outside, nearby. Something large, by the sound of it. Josen held his breath, listening. Slow, plodding steps; small wet splashes, like mud dripping into mud. He expected to hear some sort of growling, breathing at least, but whatever kind of Deepling it was—not a beetleback, not with those heavy footfalls—it was as mute as the rest. After a moment, the noise began to recede; the squelch of mud grew faint as it moved away from the ridge.

  “You see?” There was a certain smugness in the hooded man’s voice, but Josen supposed he had earned it. He can gloat until the sky falls, as long as he keeps us from the Deeplings.

  Castar didn’t waste time with relief. “The child. Whose is it?” He gestured at the small figure with his sword.

  “‘It’ is my grandson. The reason I brought you here. The Swamp is no place for a boy to grow.”

  “You want to come with us above the mist? That is your price?” Castar smirked. “You’ve already brought us to safety. Hardly a strong bargaining position.”

  “Oh, we have more to offer,” the hooded man said. He nudged the boy. “Show them.”

  The boy stepped forward and lowered his hood. Even in the dark, it was clear he was a swampling—his hair was sheer white, and though he kept his head down, Josen could see that his forehead was just as pale.

  “There is no need to be shy.” The stranger placed a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “Hold the witchmoss close,” he said.

  Josen did as he was told, casting green light across the lad’s hair and shoulders.

  The boy raised his head.

  “Lord of Eagles,” Castar breathed. “It can’t be.”

  Where the dark eyes of the swamplings should have been, two fierce golden irises reflected the witchlight around deep black pupils. Eagle’s eyes.

  “That…” Josen could barely make himself say the words—they sounded almost too absurd in his head to voice them aloud. “That is the mark of the Windwalkers. The Sky God’s mark.”

  Castar knelt in front of the boy. “What is your name, lad?” He looked up at the hooded man. “Does he speak? Can swamplings speak?”

  The boy looked to his grandfather, who gave him a small nod. “My name is Eroh,” he said. His movements were timid, but his voice was oddly calm, innocent. Josen couldn’t guess his age with any accuracy, but he was young. By his height, maybe twelve years old. His face was thin and delicate—with his pale skin, he looked fragile as porcelain. Except for those eyes. The eyes
of a predator, large black pupils surrounded by shining gold all the way to the eyelids. It was difficult to reconcile that face and voice with those eyes.

  “Do you know what this means?” Josen asked. “A swampling with the mark of the Sky God?”

  Castar glanced over his shoulder at Josen, then back at the hooded man. “You will come back to the Peaks with us, of course. But we… we need a moment to talk.” He stood, and drew Josen toward the mouth of the cavern. The passageway was narrower there—they were forced to stand uncomfortably close, their faces nearly touching.

  “We need to think carefully about how to deal with this, Prince Josen,” Castar said.

  “What we need to do is go out there and tell them to stop fighting!” Josen’s voice was louder than he’d intended, an excited half-whisper. “This boy is… he may be the last Windwalker.” He tried to remember the scripture Eian had quoted at him back in the Stormhall. “Another will come bearing the mark, when there is need… and he will lead us to salvation. From… something. By the Above, that sounds insane. But his eyes! If a swampling has the Sky God’s mark, how can we keep killing them?”

  “It isn’t as easy as that,” said Castar. “We have centuries of tradition and prejudice to work against. If we simply parade this boy in front of the people now… We would be putting him in danger. I can take him back to Goldstone, reveal him to the right people at the right time. It needs to be done slowly.”

  “That… that makes sense, I suppose…” And it did, everything about it made sense, except maybe trusting Lenoden Castar. But it felt wrong. And Josen already had blood on his hands. He shook his head. “No. How many more swamplings will die in that time? How can we let the knights keep killing them, now that we know? We can’t. I can’t.”

  Castar sighed. “You are the king’s son—it is your decision to make, at least until we can bring it to your father. Are you sure, though? I cannot convince you otherwise?”

  “I’m…” Josen hesitated. Am I sure? Put the boy in danger or let thousands of swamplings die. I don’t want that on my hands. God Above, I wish Shona were here. She would know what to do. But behind his eyes, the swampling woman died on his sword over and over again. He swallowed, breathed in, made himself stand up straight. “I’m sure.”

  “I was afraid you would say that.” There was something like regret in Castar’s voice; it made Josen aware, suddenly, of the way the duke’s fingers were lingering near his hip.

  Castar’s knife sliced through the witchlight.

  All Josen felt was cold as the blade entered his body, just under his left arm. His legs buckled; he fell against Castar, gripped his shoulder, tried to hold on. “You… you stabbed me.” He couldn’t quite believe it. Should have listened to Shona. Hands he couldn’t feel anymore lost their strength, and he slid down Castar’s body, his saber clattering to the ground. Cold stone pressed against his cheek.

  His vision dimmed, narrowed. The witchmoss he’d been holding lay just in front of his face, and he focused all his will on keeping that faint light alive in his eyes. It was weak and wavering and green, but it was all he had, and he knew with sudden certainty that once it was gone, it was gone forever.

  A thought drifted across his fading consciousness, and some part of him wanted to laugh at the fact that even now, he couldn’t come up with something better.

  I thought it would hurt more.

  The light faded away.

  13. Left in the Dark

  Zerill

  “How many more swamplings will die in that time? How can we let the knights keep killing them, now that we know? We can’t. I can’t.”

  Zerill tasted rage in her throat as she listened to Prince Josen’s words. That he could say those things after what he’d done to Azlin… but there was something else there, beyond the highlander hypocrisy. Something she couldn’t ignore, now that she’d seen a purge with her own eyes.

  What is it that they know? Who was it that led them here, and what did he tell them? Zerill had been forced to follow the highlanders and their hooded guide at a distance, to wait for the Deeplings to disperse before she could get close enough to eavesdrop. And now the man who had killed her sister was talking about mercy for the Abandoned, and she didn’t understand why.

  “You are the king’s son…” Castar’s voice. He spoke quietly, and she couldn’t hear all of it. She crept a little bit closer, her head nearly inside the cavern’s narrow mouth. “…cannot… otherwise?”

  “I’m… I’m sure.”

  “…afraid… say that.”

  Zerill heard the sudden motion, the sharp intake of breath. She knew what had happened even before she heard Josen’s voice again, weak and disbelieving.

  “…stabbed me…”

  Castar was speaking again, barely audible; she couldn’t focus on the words. The man she’d come to kill was dying mere yards from her, and he might know something that would save her people. Ancestors, what do I do? Reflexively, she stepped back. She didn’t know what was happening or who might emerge from the cave, but instinct told her to get far away when highlanders started acting unpredictably.

  She winced when she heard a rough scraping underfoot. Her heel had fallen on a loose rock, grinding it against a larger one beneath; the stone rolled away with a clack when she lifted her leg. Idiot. If Azlin had heard that… But Azlin was gone, and there was no time for self-recrimination. Footsteps sounded from inside, and she darted for cover behind a nearby boggrove tree, crouching into a crook between two tall roots.

  Castar emerged seconds later, holding a fistful of spiritmoss. Zerill held her breath as his eyes passed right over her hiding place; she released it only when he stepped back inside. It was torture, but she made herself wait instead of closing in to listen once more. If Castar heard her again so soon, he wouldn’t stop looking so easily. She might be able to surprise him, kill him before he saw her, but then she would never know what he and Prince Josen had been discussing. She couldn’t risk that.

  She had just begun to creep cautiously back toward the cave when she heard movement inside. She scrambled back into hiding just as the hooded man emerged, carrying something in his arms. Josen. Castar emerged next, holding the prince’s legs, and even though it meant she might never know what they had been talking about, a part of her was glad. She’d wanted to kill Josen herself, but this was… something close to vengeance, at least.

  The two men carried the body into the trees, passing within an arm’s length of the crook where Zerill hid. She didn’t dare try to crouch deeper—the noise would alert them. Keeping as still and silent as she could, she waited until they had passed, and then followed at a distance.

  It was too late to save Azlin, but if Prince Josen could be believed, there was a way to end the purges. And Castar was not going to leave her Swamp until she knew what it was.

  Lenoden

  Lenoden Castar was not pleased.

  He wiped his knife clean on Josen’s tabard and picked up the prince’s sword, sheathing the shorter blade and tucking the saber into his belt. What a waste.

  He’d been annoyed with Josen after dinner with the Falloways, certainly, had thought to scare him a bit by dragging him close to the front, but he hadn’t wanted him dead. A challenge, but I could have won him over. He’d hoped to earn Josen’s trust as he had with Rudol—fighting side by side was a quick way to forge a bond. The lad had needed some… nudging in that regard, but in the end it had been Josen’s sword that killed the swampling bitch. A shared victory. It could have been the beginning of a useful relationship, with a bit more time.

  But the fool had been unwilling to listen, and a boy with Windwalker eyes was an opportunity that Lenoden simply couldn’t allow to be squandered over some naïve ideals.

  “Is he dead? Did you kill him?”

  When Lenoden turned, Eroh was staring at him, golden eyes wide.

  No point lying now. “Yes. To protect you, Eroh. He would have put you in danger.”

  Eroh stayed half-hidd
en behind his grandfather, eyes fixed on Prince Josen’s body.

  Lenoden shifted his gaze toward the hooded man. “I have put myself at great risk, do you understand that? Now you must prove to me that I can trust you. I will find you a place above the mist, but only if you agree to do exactly as I say. If you object…” His eyes flicked down to the body on the cavern floor. “I would rather it not come to that.” Anything more overt would have been self-defeating. Eroh was already frightened; there was no need to further upset him. It would only make it harder to win his trust later on.

  Before the old man could answer, a quiet scraping sounded from outside. A faint clatter followed, a small stone skipping against a larger one. Lenoden held up one hand for silence, gestured at the hooded man to stay where he was, and crept toward the cavern’s mouth. He kept his saber at the ready. It would be a shame if he was forced to use it on one of his own men, but the swampling boy was important. No one could be allowed to see him and live to spread the tale.

  He couldn’t see anyone, but the narrow passage restricted his view, and it was scarcely brighter outside the cave than it was within. Holding his saber in front of him, he side-stepped through the opening in the ridge and lifted his clump of witchmoss high.

  Nothing. He kept his back to the stone and surveyed the area. The muck underfoot had been stirred by their feet when they entered the cave, and probably by the Deeplings afterward—it was impossible to say if anyone else had been there. It could have been anything. Some Swamp beast passing. A stone falling from the ridge. But not knowing made him uneasy. Best be quick about this, to be safe.

  When he returned, the old man was kneeling beside Josen’s body, one hand on the prince’s chest.

  “What are you doing?” Lenoden kept his voice low.

  The man raised his head, his face still hidden in the shadow of his hood. “Making certain.” He sounded almost too calm; nothing in his voice indicated any concern over Josen’s death.