The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “No, I just feel a bit silly,” Carissa said, rubbing the pink spot on her forehead where they’d collided. “Did it leave a mark?”

  “No,” Rudol lied. He got to his feet, stooping his head and shoulders to avoid the low ceiling. “I’ll go see what’s happened.” Nothing good. The carriage was escorted by a dozen Royal Swords atop stout Wolfshead ponies. It would take more than a minor disturbance to bring them to a halt—not to mention an uncommon amount of courage.

  “Wait.” Carissa gripped his arm. “Listen.”

  A clamor of voices came from outside, muffled enough that Rudol couldn’t make out most of the words, but he thought he heard his name. More than once, and not in a particularly friendly tone.

  “Make way!” Rudol recognized the voice of Cer Beston, the man leading their escort.

  An angry roar answered Beston’s command, louder than before. How many people are out there? Rudol drew back a curtain and peered through the carriage window. He saw little beyond a wall of pony-flesh; one of the Swords had drawn his mount close to the side of the carriage, guarding the door. What glimpses he caught around the animal suggested a fairly nondescript area of the People’s Plateau: single-level thatch-roofed homes alongside a poorly maintained dirt road. Not the Queensway. This isn’t right. The voices came from farther up the road, and no matter how Rudol craned his neck, he couldn’t see that far ahead through the clouded glass.

  He reached out to open the door; Carissa’s fingers squeezed tighter. “Stay with me, love. Let the Swords deal with it. Please.” Her face had gone ashen; her hand trembled against his arm.

  Scared to face your people, little brother? I never had to be.

  Rudol pulled himself free. “I… I have to see. Whoever it is, I may be able to calm them down.” He pushed open the door.

  The man on guard—Rudol didn’t know his name—reined his pony aside to make room as Rudol climbed out, but he didn’t look happy about it. “You should stay in the carriage, Prince Rudol. We’ll have this rabble cleared away soon enough.”

  Rudol looked up the street, and his fists clenched at his sides. “That seems… optimistic.”

  There were near to thirty of them, shoulder to shoulder and two ranks deep, blocking the street not far ahead. Angry-looking men, most of them armed. Not impressively armed, but armed. Staves and cudgels and pitchforks poked out of the crowd at all angles, like pins jutting at random from a sewing cushion. Some few—maybe three or four—held old swords, spotted with rust. Militia weapons, most like, distributed during the rebellion when there had been some fear that the Plateaus would come under siege. There’d never been any call to use them then, and there hadn’t been since. Rudol only needed a glance to know that these men weren’t fighters.

  One man stood a few short steps ahead of the rest, keeping ten yards between himself and the Swords. He was tall—not as tall as Rudol, but tall—and muscular in the broad-shouldered, thick-bellied way that laborers often were. Black hair grew thin atop his head, and whiskers sprouted thick and bristly on his cheeks and chin. Those whiskers along with a large upturned nose reminded Rudol of nothing more than the boars he’d hunted with Duke Theo in the forests of the Wolfshead. He was armored in chainmail, and in one hand, he clutched a sword that appeared to be in much better condition than any of the others, polished and sharp. He shouted something at Cer Beston, but Rudol couldn’t hear him over the voices of the men behind him. That must be the rabble-rouser.

  Rudol looked back at the guardsman beside the carriage. “How did this happen? Why did we leave the Queensway?”

  “It was blocked, Highness. A wagon overturned. We had to take another route.”

  “It seems this way wasn’t any faster. I’m going to see what I can do. If anything happens to my wife, I will hold you responsible. Keep her safe.”

  “Your Highness, I don’t think…” Rudol didn’t hear the rest; he was already striding toward the crowd and its leader.

  Cer Beston had six Swords with him, three on either side; the remaining six men had been left back to protect the carriage and watch the rear approach. Astride their ponies, Beston and his six made a daunting line between the mob and the carriage, but Rudol doubted that would be enough if thirty men decided they wanted by.

  “He needs to answer for his crimes!” Boar-face pointed his sword at Rudol, and the mob shouted their agreement, shaking fists and brandishing makeshift weapons.

  They seem pleased to see you, don’t they? Josen’s voice whispered in his ear. But I’m sure they’ll come to their senses if you just talk to them. You’ve always been so good at talking to people.

  Beston traced the line from the end of the sword to Rudol, and frowned. “Prince Rudol, it isn’t safe. Please, go back—”

  Rudol ignored him. “What are these crimes you speak of?” His heart felt tight in his chest, and there was sweat on his brow, but he forced himself to keep a steady pace. Just abreast of Beston’s pony, he came to a halt, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise of the mob. “I know of none, but if you tell me your grievances, I will answer as best I can.”

  His father would have done it differently, he was sure—ordered the Swords to attack, retreated to the Keep, and watched every man who’d taken arms against him stand the cliff by cycle’s end. And Josen would have charmed them with smiles and lies, if they’d ever stopped adoring him long enough to make it necessary. But Rudol wasn’t his father, and he certainly wasn’t his brother. The people didn’t fear him, and they didn’t love him. Trying to pretend they did would only make them hate him more—raise more mobs, encourage further rebellion. The only thing he could think to do was meet them head on, as honestly as he could, and hope they would at least respect him for that.

  “You conspired with Duke Castar! Betrayed your brother to steal his throne! The Lord of Eagles rejected your coronation!” Another chorus of assent from the crowd answered the big man.

  “My brother was the traitor. I know that is not what you want to hear, and I wish that it were otherwise, but it is true.”

  “Lies! Josen lives, and he is returning!”

  Behind Boar-face, men raised their fists and echoed his words. “Josen lives!”

  He’d already lost them; he suspected he’d never had them to begin with. Rudol had never been gifted with words. But he had to keep them talking, had to at least try. If it came to violence, he would be blamed—the story told in every tavern would be that he’d had them killed to silence the truth. Assuming he made it out alive at all.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I was there. My brother died in front of me. Killed by the swampling he tried to save. We all have to learn to accept that. I will do all I can to”—he had to force the words through gritted teeth—“to be as good a king as he might have been, but you must work with me. There is no one else. Josen is not coming back.”

  I thought you were going to be honest, little brother. Why don’t you tell them how you left me there, still breathing, begging for help? Rudol flexed his fingers until his knuckles cracked, but he kept his face still.

  “But he is!” Boar-face proclaimed. “The last Windwalker walks among us, and he was not sent for you, or for Lenoden Castar. Josen Aryllia is our true king, and he will lead us to salvation!” Again, the man’s words were backed by fevered cries of “Josen lives!”

  This was more than simple discontent—these people were screaming Josen’s name with near-religious fervor. They were never going to hear me. This was always going to end bloody. Rudol frowned. So why hasn’t it yet? Why are they letting me talk? But he already knew the answer. Stalling. In the Swamp, his instincts would have named it an ambush from the moment he’d first laid eyes on these men. This was no spontaneous gathering—the street was too empty, too quiet. No women, no children. Only men with weapons, waiting. They even managed to redirect the carriage. That was no accident. But Rudol hadn’t been looking, not really, not here. Not above the mist.

  By sheer habit, he looked up. Swamplings alway
s came from above. From the trees. There. The top of a man’s head peeking over the edge of a rooftop, that was all, but it was enough.

  Rudol’s hand snapped out and closed on Cer Beston’s wrist. He yanked the knight from his saddle as the first wingbow strings thrummed. Two Swords fell, one on either side, pierced through the face and chest. A third bolt took Beston’s pony in the side, and a fourth barely missed the man’s head as he fell into Rudol’s arms. The pony reared with a horrifying squeal and wheeled round, galloping back toward the carriage. One of the Swords grabbed for its reins, but the beast was too fast, and soon it was beyond reach. A twinge of instinct nearly made Rudol order someone after it, and if he’d had men to spare, he would have—good ponies were expensive, and hardly plentiful. But there was no time for that now.

  “Somebody get on the rooftops before they reload!” Rudol shouted over his shoulder, helping Beston upright.

  As soon as he was on his feet, Beston stepped in front of Rudol and drew his sword; the rest of the Swords followed his lead, baring polished steel. “Take two ponies and get Lady Carissa back to the Keep, Prince Rudol,” said Beston. “We will deal with this rabble.”

  Rudol knew even before he looked that it was too late for that. “They planned this. It won’t be that simple.”

  Sure enough, another dozen armed men were emerging from the houses in the street behind them. And there were only three Swords guarding the rear, now. Two more had obeyed his command, disappearing into buildings on either side of the street to pursue the wingbowmen, and the last—the man he’d told to protect Carissa—was still beside the carriage door, sword in hand. Good. As long as she was protected, he could focus on what had to be done. He turned back toward the mob.

  The boar-faced man locked eyes with him, and pointed his sword once more. “For Josen!” he shouted.

  “Josen!” his followers screamed. And then they charged. The leader held Rudol’s gaze as the mob surged forward around him, and his mouth curled into a satisfied smile.

  Rudol felt no fear. He’d been afraid to speak before, afraid of their judgement, but their weapons? No. He knew how to deal with weapons. His mind was clear, now; no voices, no thoughts, just instinct and training.

  Beston and his men moved forward to meet the charge, and Rudol followed. He was unarmed, unarmored, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. The mounted Swords pulled ahead, hit the mob first; a half-dozen men fell under hooves and blades in an instant. But there were more behind, pouring in to fill the gaps. One knight was pulled from his saddle, still swinging his sword as he was engulfed by the throng.

  At least a dozen men were already closing on Beston, and Rudol was at his side before he knew what he was doing. It should have been chaos, but they all seemed so slow. A pitchfork thrust at Rudol’s belly, but the slim young man behind it was so obvious, so clumsy—it was the easiest thing in the world to weave aside. Rudol wrapped his fists around the haft and wrenched it away, then jabbed hard with the butt; the man fell, his mouth a chasm of blood and broken teeth.

  Rudol put his back to Beston’s, trusting the knight to take his share of the men surrounding them. A sword grazed against his left arm, drawing blood. Without looking, Rudol thrust backward with the butt of his pitchfork, felt it connect, then jabbed the head in the opposite direction, sinking the prongs into the gut of a fat man just as he raised his club to strike. Something whistled by Rudol’s ear; a wingbow bolt stuck in the head of the fat man’s club as he sank to his knees. Close, but there was no time to worry about that now.

  The man who’d slashed his arm swung again, and Rudol caught the sword on the haft of his pitchfork. The blade bit into wood, and Rudol twisted the haft, levering the sword from the other man’s grip. The man turned to flee, but Beston’s sword took him in the back of the neck before he’d taken his first step.

  Rudol snatched the sword up from the ground with one hand, keeping hold of the pitchfork in the other. Something struck him hard in the ribs, low on his left side; he heard a crack, ignored the pain. Turned to see a broad-shouldered man with a cudgel. Rudol deflected a second blow with the pitchfork’s haft, but someone collided against his right side in the press of bodies, pinning his sword arm. Two more men approached on his left, and he threw his pitchfork at them lengthwise; it struck high, catching both men across the chest. They staggered back in tandem—right into the reach of a mounted knight’s sword. Rudol dodged into the space they’d left, avoiding another blow from the cudgel.

  And now he had enough room to swing his sword.

  The man with the cudgel raised an arm to defend himself; Rudol’s blade chopped through flesh and bit into bone. The man screamed, doubled over his shattered arm, and tried to step back, tripping up the man behind him. Both of them tumbled into a heap on the ground.

  No training. No discipline. There had been a chance, at the beginning, that sheer numbers might overwhelm the Swords, but Rudol had a clear view of the melee—he was a head taller than just about every man there—and he could see that chance fading. Clubs and staves did little against heavy chain and sharpened swords, and he hadn’t heard the clack of a wingbow winding for some time. Of the knights in Beston’s vanguard, two were still mounted, cutting men down on all sides; another had lost his pony but kept his feet, fighting back toward Rudol and Beston.

  A body fell from the rooftops above, knocking down several of the armed rabble, and Rudol looked up to see one of the Swords pulling his blade from the chest of a second bowman. And with every death, more men lost their nerve. The attackers at the back of the carriage broke, fleeing before the hooves and blades of the rear guard.

  The mob was failing.

  Still, enough of them remained that Rudol couldn’t lower his guard. A sword jabbed at his chest, and he easily parried, turning his attention to its wielder.

  It was the boar-faced man, the mob’s leader. Rudol smiled.

  A quick slash at Boar-face’s head sent him reeling back, and Rudol pressed the advantage. The big man parried a second blow at his chest, regained his balance, and caught a third strike just before it opened his throat. He was a competent swordsman, moreso than any of the others, but he lacked a knight’s expertise. A sword-for-hire, perhaps.

  “You cannot defeat me! I fight for the true king!” Boar-face pushed back against Rudol’s blade, gritting his teeth; his thick arms bulged with the effort. He was strong—that might have been enough, against anyone else.

  But Rudol was stronger.

  Bracing a hand high up on his blade, Rudol shoved hard. Boar-face stumbled back under the force of it, dropped to one knee to keep from falling. His sword drifted too low; Rudol brought his foot down on the flat of the blade, ripping it from a meaty fist. He kicked Boar-face onto his back, stepped on his chest, and pressed cold steel against his neck.

  Do it, little brother. They’ll never love you like they love me.

  A touch of pressure, a flick of the wrist, and it would be over. Rudol’s hand tensed. “No,” he muttered. A small red bead grew on the man’s throat, quivered a moment, and ran slowly down his neck. “No. That’s too easy.”

  These people would never love him; that much was true. And he wanted to kill this man. But he might soon sit the Throne of Air, and whether his people loved him or not, they had to see him as something more than a butcher. Enough people have died today.

  “Take them alive if you can,” he shouted to the Swords.

  “Do not surrender!” bellowed Boar-face. “We will give our lives for King Josen!”

  His words had little effect. The fight was already over. What men hadn’t yet been wounded or killed or driven away—not many, now—threw their weapons down the moment they heard Rudol’s order. They were not, apparently, as willing to die for Josen as had been suggested.

  “Your men don’t seem to share your fervor,” Rudol said.

  “Sparing us won’t redeem you,” Boar-face growled, squirming beneath Rudol’s boot. “You betrayed the Sky God’s chosen king! You won’t
find any redemption in this life!”

  Rudol looked down at him for a moment, and then said, “What is your name?”

  “Josen is coming! He will free us! I’ve seen him!”

  That explains it. One of the lunatics Polt was talking about. Rudol pressed down harder with his foot. “Your name.”

  “Cadill! My name is Cadill.”

  “I am not looking for redemption, Cadill,” Rudol said. “I betrayed no one. But you have, and the price for treason is death. Not here, though, and not by my sword. You will face the king’s judgement, and you will be found guilty. If you are as blessed by the Lord of Eagles as you think you are, perhaps you will be welcomed in the Above.”

  With that, he turned his back and strode toward the carriage, leaving the man in Beston’s custody.

  “Rudol!” Carissa leapt out of the carriage before he made it halfway there. She threw herself into his arms. “I was so frightened!”

  Rudol said nothing, just pulled her close, grunting as her body pressed against his cracked rib.

  She felt him wince, and pulled back. Her eyes fell on his wounded left arm. “Spirit of All, you’re bleeding!”

  Rudol followed her eyes to the cut. Worse than he’d thought—he’d barely felt when it happened. The sleeve of his tunic, once Aryllian blue, was soaked crimson; through the rent cloth he could see his own flesh, torn near to the bone. He’d been dimly aware of the pain for some time, he realized, beating against the dam of his battle-calm.

  But the battle was over now. The dam broke.

  The first wave hit him hard; he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out when Carissa’s fingers grazed the wound. But the pain made things clearer, in a way. Maybe he deserved it. He’d let things get this bad, let confusion and ignorance reign while he hid at his father’s bedside. Maybe pain was a price he had to pay.

  No more. There can only be one king, and the people need to know who it is. He had no time for the endless back and forth of subterfuge and diplomacy. This had to be settled quickly, and there was only one man in a position to help him do that. Only one man he trusted to know how to make things right. His wife wouldn’t like it, but Rudol knew what he had to do.