The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Not terribly far away, she heard a startled curse followed by a noise like a hundred tourney pennants flapping in the wind. A bit to the north a formless something shadowed the fog further still, like a cloud passing across a darkened sky. A cry of what sounded like pain, quickly strangled into silence, and then the flapping faded and the cloud disappeared into the canopy above.

  “Did you hear that?” a man called out, but Shona couldn’t tell where he was in the dark.

  And then, very near now, she heard something else. “…go… I will draw… attention…” A woman’s voice, whispered low enough that only pieces reached Shona’s ears.

  None of Castar’s knights are women. So who is that? There was a boggrove tree within an arm’s reach, and Shona pressed her back against the damp trunk. She didn’t know if she’d chosen the right side; she could only make her best guess at what direction the words had come from. She clapped a hand over Eroh’s mouth before the boy could say anything and held her breath, praying to the Wind of Grace that Goldeyes wouldn’t choose this moment to break his silence.

  Someone answered the woman, a man this time, low but emphatic. “We can’t leave you. They’ll kill you if they catch you.”

  Shona’s heart seized. It can’t be. The voice was hoarse, tired, somehow older than she remembered, but there was something in it that she knew. Or thought she did. She leaned out of her hiding spot, tried to find the source of it, but it was too dark and the fog was too thick.

  “Go, or… catch all…” The woman again, still maddeningly quiet. Shona strained to hear more, but it did little good—there was a strange, clipped accent to the voice that made the words too short and too fast. “…this fog… not last.”

  Shona hadn’t noticed until now, but the fog was thinner than it had been. At least she’d understood that much.

  The woman was still speaking. “…no haven… Greenwall. Your… Castar now… find another way… truth or… for nothing.”

  The familiar voice started to reply. “She wouldn’t—”

  Who wouldn’t do what? But Shona didn’t get an answer. Instead, a light swept across her eyes, blinding her for a moment.

  It came from the far side of the voices, a spot-focused lantern moving back toward their position. Shona squinted into the light; even dulled by mist, it cast three silhouettes into relief against the grey. A woman and two men, by their shapes. Shona couldn’t make out any features, but shapes were enough—enough for her to catch a suggestion of the thick curls that went with that voice. A voice she would have sworn to the Lord of Eagles that she knew.

  “There! Someone’s over there!” A soldier shouted, and more answered. They’d seen the same thing Shona had.

  “Go!” the woman whispered sharply, and shoved one of the men into motion; he and the other broke into a run, and then they were gone. The woman drew something from across her back and sprinted toward the light and the sound of the soldiers’ voices.

  Shona followed, pulling Eroh behind her. She would never find the two men in the fog and darkness if they didn’t want to be found, but this woman meant to distract Castar’s knights, which meant drawing attention. That would make her easy to track. And Shona was going to help her, if she could. Because there was no mistaking the voice she’d heard, even from far away through fog and darkness.

  Josen was alive, and she needed to know why.

  28. Whatever It Takes

  Zerill

  They couldn’t have expected the scream—that was what Zerill was relying on. Korv would be prepared for resistance, a noisy struggle that might attract notice by accident, but neither he nor any of his warriors could have expected Zerill to scream. To knowingly alert highlanders that the Abandoned were near was unforgivable, and to use her voice to do it? Absolutely unthinkable. It shouldn’t have even occurred to her. But it had, when she’d felt the boggrove against her back. She’d thought of the worst thing she could do, and she’d done it.

  And it worked.

  The shock of the sound made the hunters circling Zerill flinch; one woman dropped the point of her spear a fraction of an inch and glanced south toward the first bellows of alarmed loudspeech. Zerill lowered her shoulder and charged, catching the woman in the sternum with tooth-jarring force and knocking her down. Before the other two could close the gap, Zerill was past them, sprinting headlong toward Verik.

  The hunters standing over him raised their weapons by instinct, but Skala only stared in shock—Makers were not trained to fight, and Zerill’s scream would still be ringing in her ears. At the last moment, Zerill dropped onto her hip, sliding beneath their spear-points. She aimed her foot at the leftmost hunter’s knee; it connected with a sharp crack. The man’s leg buckled, sending him stumbling into Skala. Both collapsed—the hunter onto his back, gripping his knee, and Skala onto her belly in the mud.

  The woman on the right was still up, though. She stabbed her spear down, aiming to pin Zerill through the shoulder—the Abandoned didn’t kill their own, but there were no such laws about crippling limbs. Zerill rolled aside, and the spear missed its mark, but only just. Its blade split the boiled hide on her upper arm and grazed flesh beneath.

  Zerill flashed one quick sign at Verik: Move!

  Verik didn’t need the instruction. Free of Skala’s watchful eye, he was already dissolving his bonds. The cords around his wrists and ankles frayed and split under the power of his deepcraft.

  He met her eyes, gave her a slight nod of warning, and pressed a hand against the earth.

  Zerill covered her face as a geyser of mud sprayed up from the ground, pelting and blinding the Heartspears. The same trick she’d seen him use on highlanders so many times, now turned against her own people. Ancestors, how did it come to this? But she already knew the answer. Whatever it takes.

  The woman standing over Zerill staggered as a clod of dirt struck her under the chin, and Zerill jabbed her in the gut with the butt of her spear, doubling her over. The man she’d kicked was still trying to push himself up; the mud-spout caught him full in the face. His knee slipped out from under him, and he went down again.

  Zerill started to push herself to her feet with one hand, her spear up and ready. Skala lifted her head, her face painted with mud and fury, and dug her fingers into the dirt. Thick tendrils of earth rose up, wrapped around Zerill’s left wrist and her ankles where they touched the ground, and gripped tight.

  But her spear-hand was still free. Zerill clubbed the haft of her weapon down on the base of the Maker’s neck, harder than she’d meant to. Skala went limp, and so did the mud holding Zerill in place. Ancestors, let her be breathing still.

  She didn’t have time to check. The sound of highlander voices was growing louder from the south now, and distant lights swung across the Swamp, making the boggrove shadows longer and deeper. They’re coming. All around her, Heartspears stumbled and dove for cover, even as they cleaned the mud from their eyes. Get out of the light—that was an instinct as old as their war with the highlanders.

  It was just the distraction she needed. Grabbing Verik by the hand, Zerill clambered to her feet. Together, they scrambled toward Josen and Korv.

  Korv was already wiping the mud from his eyes with one hand, and he paid no mind to the distant lights. He held Josen against the ground with a foot on the chest, and bent to retrieve his club. Josen squirmed and struggled; his neck corded with the effort it took to force more than a muffled squeal through the fistful of hide shavings bound into his mouth.

  Korv’s club swept down.

  Zerill didn’t have time to find her balance. She let go of Verik and threw herself forward, stumbling to one knee as she thrust her spear with both hands as hard as she could. The weapon’s point caught Korv’s warclub inches above Josen’s head, shunting the blow aside so that it only grazed Josen’s curls before smacking into the mud.

  Verik was still moving at full speed toward his cousin; he reached out and grazed Korv’s club with two fingers. The weapon wrenched violently and tore f
ree of Korv’s grip, shearing cleanly in two as if split by an invisible axe. A chunk of thick Maker-hardened wood spun back at Korv and struck him hard across the head and chest, knocking him to the ground. Verik didn’t stop, or even slow, but as he passed by he ducked low and brushed his hand over Josen’s bonds, snapping the leather cords in half.

  Zerill took advantage of the opening, and scrambled toward Josen. She slung his arm around her neck, pushed herself up with one hand, and ran after Verik as fast as she could while supporting the extra weight. Leaning against her side, Josen tried his best to match her speed.

  They hadn’t gone more than a few dozen yards when a slight form stepped out from behind a boggrove and into their path.

  Azra levelled her shortspear inches from Zerill’s throat.

  She was waiting for me. I should have been ready for that. It was what Azlin would have done—kept someone back to take her by surprise if she got past the others.

  Don’t move, Azra signed. She was trying not to let her uncertainty show, but Zerill knew her niece. It was there behind the anger, in the slight downward shift of her eyes and the pull at the corner of her mouth. Still, her spear never wavered.

  Another distant lantern-light swept through the boggroves and cast shifting shadows across Azra’s face; a horn blast sounded from the south, and then another. Zerill didn’t know the highlander horn signals, but she’d lived through a purge—those sounds meant battle, and death. It had to be the Heartspears in the canopy, launching their distraction. The scream had forced their hand; Korv’s band would need cover to escape now.

  Azra didn’t flinch. Zerill was proud of her for that.

  Zerill released Josen; he swayed on his feet, but steadied himself against her. Please, she signed to Azra. You can’t be here when they come. She tilted her head pointedly toward the sound of highlander voices. There was no time for her to say any of the other things she wanted to. Korv wouldn’t stay down long, and Verik’s trick with the mud had been only a momentary distraction.

  She didn’t know what Azra would do, not really, but Zerill wasn’t going to fight her niece. She’d promised herself that she would do whatever she had to, and she would—except for that. The best she could do was try to go, and hope Azra would let her.

  She took a single step southward.

  With one hand, Azra pressed the cold stone of her spear-blade against Zerill’s neck. I told you not to move.

  I have to, Zerill signed, and glanced over her shoulder. The highlander’s lanterns had driven Korv’s Heartspears into hiding, but they were moving closer between the ever-nearer sweeps of light; they would be on her in moments. She laid the haft of her spear against Azra’s, and gently pushed it aside.

  Azra’s knuckles tightened around her spear; her eyes flicked to Josen for an instant, and her brow furrowed. Please, Zerill, I can’t… And then her fingers faltered. She lowered her head, lifted her spear, and signed, Go.

  Zerill took Josen by the hand, and went.

  She didn’t look back. She wanted to, but she couldn’t risk the half-second it would take to thank Azra, couldn’t risk that she might change her mind. Instead, she ran toward the sound of loudspeech, dragging Josen with her.

  Verik was just ahead. He dodged behind a nearby boggrove; Zerill followed his lead. She hadn’t thought any further, had no idea how she was going to evade Castar’s soldiers—she just knew that Korv wouldn’t follow very far. She’d alerted the highlanders, and they were coming, distraction or no. He wouldn’t set his band against such superior numbers just to chase her down.

  At least, Zerill hoped he wouldn’t. If any of Korv’s band were caught—if Azra was caught—it would be her fault. Because of what she’d been willing to do to get this far. She glanced at Josen, stumbling breathlessly beside her. If I’m wrong about him… No. I can’t be. I won’t let him make me wrong.

  Castar’s knights were very near, by the sound—their under-padding and surcoats muffled the sound of their mail, but not well enough, and their steps were heavy on the damp ground. Zerill pulled Josen down behind a massive shelf of fungus as a lantern passed through the trees just south of her. Another came after, and another, all circling northward along different paths. Before long, the highlanders would have them completely surrounded. For a moment, she was back in the purge, trapped and alone as the light closed in; she thought she could hear horns sounding in the distance. It took her a moment to realize that it was only the blood pulsing in her ears.

  Ahead of her, Verik pressed his back to a boggrove trunk to hide himself. Zerill ducked low and darted across the gap in the tree cover to join him. Josen followed close behind, as quietly as his clumsy highlander feet allowed, and frantically tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned, he indicated the gag across his mouth.

  She’d forgotten about that completely. For a moment she considered leaving it—they needed to be quiet—but she drew her knife and cut it loose. He spat hide shavings out and sucked in a deep breath. He opened his mouth, but before he could so much as whisper, Zerill held up a fist to silence him. His lips snapped shut without complaint.

  She turned to Verik and signed, We have to keep moving. I don’t think Korv will follow us toward the road with highlanders so near, but I’m not certain of it. And the knights are already cutting off escapes.

  I know, but… Verik rubbed his forehead and then swept a hand toward the advancing lights. They’re close, Zerill. If we’re caught by highlanders, we’re no better off. His gaze flickered down to her side. And you’re hurt.

  He was right, of course. She didn’t have a plan, and no matter how silently they crept from tree to tree, a lantern would catch them sooner or later. With one hand, she touched her arm where the spear had grazed her; her fingertips came back sticky with fresh blood. Blood was dangerous in the Swamp—even without the proper rituals, it could draw Deeplings, if they were near. But there was a more immediate threat in front of her, and no time to fret about what might come later.

  It’s nothing, she signed. We need more cover. Can you…

  Verik reached down to test the weight of the black-spotted skin that hung from his waist. Lighter than he liked, by his frown. There is one thing I could do, he signed, but… it won’t last long.

  Zerill understood what he wasn’t quite willing to say: whatever he had in mind, it would test the limits of his strength. The Makers learned to use the deepcraft gently, to expend small amounts of power on crafting and mending things they could hold in their hands. So much that she had asked of him lately went far beyond that. But he wouldn’t refuse, or complain. He never did. And she could see no other way.

  Do it, she signed.

  Verik drew his knife and dragged the blade over his left palm, leaving a line of red behind. After slipping the blade back into his belt, he unhooked his blood-skin, and turned it up over the wound. Ichor flowed out in thick uneven drops, black sludge splattering into and mingling with the dark red of his own blood. He tested the weight of the skin once more—saving some small reserve for later—and hooked it back into place at his waist.

  His brow furrowed slightly, and the quivering droplets on his hand started to move, squelching over his skin like black slugs to burrow into the gash in his palm. Beneath the flesh, Zerill could see the Deepling blood flowing in his veins, ugly lumps sliding up his wrist and arm. She shuddered at the sight; beside her, Josen retched and looked away. But when the last of the blood entered Verik’s body, his wounded palm sealed behind it, leaving no trace of scab or scar behind. He looked stronger, even, and stood just a little bit taller. As hard as it was to watch, Zerill knew this was a moment of relief for him, a moment of sated hunger and quieted ghosts.

  He didn’t have very long to enjoy it. He took a deep breath, and Zerill could see him steeling himself in the way his eyes narrowed and his fists clenched. He tilted his gaze up toward the mist-shrouded canopy, and set his jaw.

  The mist flowed downward to meet him.

  Zerill had once travelled wit
h a hunting band to the western coast of the highlander’s territory, near the duchy they called Seastair, where the mist thinned and the sea met land. She would never forget the way the waves broke against the cliffs there—more water than she could have ever imagined, crashing against sheer stone and exploding into spray before falling back on itself. The dark fog broke against the earth now like the water against those cliffs, a fierce grey-black tide surging down and swirling back on itself as it struck ground. A layer of thickening mist roiled like oily seafoam around her feet, and then up to her knees, and her waist, and higher and higher until the whole world disappeared in a dark haze. Thick, oily droplets condensed on her skin almost instantly, and slithered slowly down her body like worms, leaving trails of clinging fluid behind. Distantly, she could hear startled exclamations of loudspeech as the same fog enveloped the highlanders.

  She could barely see Josen and Verik, indistinct as spirits just a few feet away from her. She beckoned them to follow, and moved quickly toward the next boggrove, a towering black silhouette against the grey. Neither man moved very well; Josen’s injuries and Verik’s exhaustion forced Zerill to keep a slower pace than she liked as she led them through the fog. Still, she had an advantage now. The mist reached low at the Kinhome, and she was used to that—this was thicker and darker still, held together by Verik’s deepcraft, but it wasn’t so different. Her eyes were sensitive enough to make out hints of diffuse lantern-light from farther away than the highlanders would ever see her.

  There were a great many knights, though, perhaps two dozen groups of five or more apiece, methodically combing through the trees. Every path Zerill chose seemed to lead her closer to another lantern, and more highlander voices. Verik was visibly weakening, stumbling every other step; for all his effort, the mist was starting to thin. The smears of yellow-orange oil-light bobbing through the grey grew sharper by the moment.

  Then, from behind one of the lights, a highlander voice cursed in surprise, and Zerill heard the leathery flap of wings against the air. Bats. They nested in caves and dead boggroves all over the Swamp—one of the knights must have disturbed a colony. The sound grew rapidly; a shapeless shadow formed in the fog ahead. Instinctively, she ducked low and covered her face with one arm. It was all she had time for.