The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Shona saw Eian shift his feet at that, frowning. She caught his eye and shook her head slightly—they both knew the truth of the matter, but there was nothing to be gained by speaking up here. Eian inclined his head in response, but his frown remained.

  “Hmm. Surprising. A desperate lie, but… a surprising one.” Castar bent toward the woman for a closer look, but her head hung low and her pale hair had come unbound, falling in a curtain over her face. What is he looking for? And he did seem to be looking for something—there was a glint in his eye, like recognition. “Let me see her.”

  One of the knights grabbed the swampling’s chin with one hand and propped it up; Castar reached out and brushed her hair aside. An almost tender gesture, but watching it, Shona couldn’t suppress a shudder—and the slight smile dawning on his face did nothing to reassure her.

  Castar looked back at Shona once more. “You did well to keep her alive. Very well.” He gestured at his knights. “Staunch her bleeding as best you can until we can get her to the wagons. She’ll be coming with us.”

  He knows her. Somehow he knows her. That by itself was enough to erase whatever misgivings Shona had over sparing a swampling’s life. This woman was involved in whatever had happened between Josen and Castar. She had to be. Which made her the answer to a thousand questions.

  And all Shona could do was watch the knights secure her and drag her away.

  But she was still alive. That was something.

  Now I just have to find a way to talk to her.

  Josen

  Josen waited where Verik had left him, trying to breathe through his pain and panic.

  They’d managed to slip away while Zerill had the knights distracted, and a short while later Verik had found a place to hide—a small hollow under the roots of an old dead boggrove, barely large enough to fit one person. He’d all but shoved Josen in and used his power to meld and shape the surrounding earth until no entry was left unsealed. Josen assumed there were holes for air—he hadn’t suffocated yet, anyway—but he couldn’t find them in the dark. And it was dark in the cramped little hole, true dark, so black that it looked solid. He had to move his hand every few moments just to test that he still could, that the darkness hadn’t crystallized, trapping him there forever.

  After sealing Josen in, Verik had left without saying where he was going. It was hard to know how long ago that had been, but it was long enough that Josen was starting to worry. He has to be coming back. Just… just scouting, or something. Zerill wanted him to keep me safe—he always does what she says. He can’t leave me in here. Whatever he told himself, though, it became less convincing with every moment that passed. He had even tried to dig at the side of the hollow, but he could barely move his left arm after the fall he’d taken, and the dirt was packed solid. He hadn’t gotten very far.

  God Above, it’s been too long. Even if he meant to come back, he might have been taken by Castar’s men, or those swamplings. I have to get out of here. Taking shallow breaths to spare his injured lung—and to conserve air, if it was limited—he wrestled himself to his knees and yanked the strange wood-and-stone saber Zerill had given him from his belt. Using the hooked end as a pick, he scraped at the packed earth. To his surprise, a large chunk fell away. He prodded at the dirt again, and another huge sheet sloughed off. When he reached out again, his blade met empty air.

  Something grabbed his wrist and pulled.

  Fighting the scream that rose in his throat, Josen tried to pull his hand back, but the muscles in his left side seized painfully, and his strength failed him. A pained half-groan escaped his lungs before he could stop it. He swiveled his captured hand weakly, hoping his saber might strike something, but whatever had grabbed him just squeezed tighter and plucked the sword from his grip.

  “Let me go!” Panic made the demand more shrill than forceful.

  “Only me.”

  After all the nightmares he’d had about Verik, he hadn’t thought he’d ever be so relieved to hear the man’s voice. Josen stopped struggling and stammered in a low voice, “I… I didn’t know if you were coming back.”

  Verik didn’t answer, just waited for Josen to crawl out between the thick roots of the tree, then pulled him to his feet. Or helped him pull himself up, at least—neither one of them was exactly at the height of their strength.

  It hurt to stand, but it felt good too. To be out of the cramped blackness of that hole, to be able to see again, if not very well. By comparison, the shadows moving against the faint green moss-light seemed as clear and bright as day. He had a sudden urge to tilt his head back, as if he might feel the sun’s warmth on his face, but when he did, the air remained as damp and cold as ever. Feeling a bit foolish, he lowered his eyes again.

  Verik wordlessly handed his saber back, and Josen tucked it into his belt, his cheeks flushing. “If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have—” It was then that he noticed what the swampling was holding in his other hand: a long pole, like a staff. Or a spear. “Is that hers?” he whispered, trying not to think about what it would mean if it was.

  Verik nodded—Josen couldn’t see very well in the dark, but the movement was hard to mistake. “And this.” He held out his other hand, holding a short stone blade fused to a wooden hilt.

  There’s no way she left both her weapons, unless… “Is… is she…”

  “Alive.”

  Relief made Josen light-headed. He felt himself sway, and braced his good hand against the dead boggrove. “How do you know? What did they do to her?”

  “I saw. Took her in…” Verik hesitated, then drew a sort of box in the air with his hand and circled one finger below like a rolling wheel.

  “Wagon? They took her in their wagons?”

  Another nod.

  Josen didn’t know if that was good or bad. “So they’re not going to kill her right away. But… Castar wants something from her. He must have recognized her. That means…” He didn’t finish the thought aloud. Castar would not be gentle in trying to get the information he wanted. Josen hadn’t known Zerill long, but he knew that she had as strong a will as anyone he’d ever met—she would resist, and that would only make it worse. “What… what now?”

  “Now…” Verik paused for a long time, and then his shoulders slumped. “What she wanted. Take you home.”

  For a moment, all the fear and anger Josen felt toward Verik was gone. For just the slightest moment, he felt sorry for the swampling. “That… isn’t what you want, is it?”

  Verik was still for a moment, and then he shook his head.

  “You want to go after her.”

  Another long, motionless silence, and then Verik spoke, slow and halting. “Makers… have no family, friends. Not allowed. Not safe. Zerill… never cared. Never left me.” His voice grew thick. “My sister.”

  Josen nodded. “I understand.” A stubborn compulsion was taking hold of him—and a very familiar one. He didn’t fight it. “We’re going to help her.”

  Verik stared at him, and then shook his head. “Promised to keep you safe. What she wants.”

  “I know, I know. But what if I refused to cooperate? Why, you’d be left with no choice. No point in going to the Plateaus by yourself.” Josen couldn’t help but grin. Something about this just felt right, for the first time in a long time. Shona would have called it stupid—playing the hero, as she liked to say. And she wouldn’t have been wrong.

  It would have been safer—much safer—to run, head for another duchy, find someone else who might listen to him. If Castar controlled Greenwall now, getting Zerill out would be next to impossible. They would almost certainly be caught. But he had to try. I owe her that much. It won’t be the first time I’ve done something stupid because of a woman. And there was a more selfish reason, too: Castar probably had the boy with him. If he has the Highcraft… he could heal me. Wind of Grace, let him be able to heal me.

  Verik was still looking at him with an inscrutable expression; Josen couldn’t read those big dark eyes. But the
n the swampling nodded, just once. “No choice.” A small smile lifted the edge of his mouth, and very softly, he said, “Thank you.”

  “Let’s go, then. Castar will only keep her alive as long as he has a use for her.”

  “Need plan. Where, how?”

  Lord of Eagles, is that on me too? As far as Josen was concerned, he had a very short list of strengths, and planning wasn’t on it. But someone had to come up with something, and Verik didn’t know the duchy, wouldn’t know where to look. The cells under the Stormhall, I suppose. How are we going to get in, though? The only place I know how to sneak into in Greenwall is the Falloway’s…

  He could have laughed. “Shona.” My plans all end up in the same place, it seems. “We need to get to Shona. She can get us into the Stormhall.”

  Verik shook his head, and then aloud, “With Castar. Zerill said.”

  “Well, Zerill also said we should leave her, and we’re not doing that. I know Shona. If she was with Castar, it wasn’t by choice. Once she knows everything, she’ll help us. And without help, we won’t get anywhere near Zerill. You asked for a plan, this is the one I have. You’re going to have to trust me. Can you?”

  A slight hesitation, and then Verik nodded.

  “And do you have any… any blood, or power, or however you measure it… do you have any left?”

  Verik touched the skin hanging at his waist and frowned. “Some. Little.”

  “Then the first thing is, you have to get us over the wall.”

  29. The Conquering Hero

  Lenoden

  He’d taken Greenwall without spilling a drop of blood.

  Lenoden was proud of that. He’d be the first to admit that he was an ambitious man, and a pragmatic one. Ruthlessly so, if necessary. Prince Josen would have attested to that fact. But he didn’t like wasting lives when it could be avoided, and he certainly didn’t want to see a valuable duchy become a battlefield. He’d told Shona he wanted to take his crown without a bloody—and costly—war, and he’d meant it. And now, looking through the Greenwall’s open gates at the endless green fields beyond, he felt like that goal was within his grasp.

  As long as Shona and Gryston didn’t get in his way.

  He glanced at the two of them, riding at his left and right flank. Shona was at least forcing a wan smile; Eian couldn’t even manage that much. The deep lines of the lord general’s face outlined his scowl as if drawn there to call attention to it, and they deepened further still as he passed beneath the raised portcullis.

  Lenoden had wanted a slightly grander entrance than trundling in on a muddy cart, so he’d found the cleanest ponies he could for the three of them. They were arriving on the first day of Orin’s Rest, which would seem portentous to the lowborn—it would have been irresponsible not to take advantage of it. Just behind the ponies, the duke and duchess Falloway sat in an open wagon, looking hale enough from a distance, though it wouldn’t take a terribly close examination to notice the dark circles under their eyes.

  That was a concern. Theatricality was as important as anything in winning the kind of support Lenoden wanted, and now he had an audience. Not an overly large one, but perhaps a hundred people had gathered just inside the gate, eager—as the lowborn always were—to catch a glimpse of their betters. The curtain is up. The question is, are my performers ready?

  For now, it was too late to do anything but hope they would play their part. He looked at Shona as he reined his pony in before the gathered crowd, and caught her looking back. There was a glint in her eye that made him nervous, something that could have been defiance. Don’t force my hand, Shona. I’d prefer to keep this peaceful.

  A line of knights with halberds in hand stood on either side of the road to keep the crowd back. As the wagon bearing the duke and duchess creaked to a halt behind Lenoden, the knights stood to attention and extended their polearms over the road, each haft draped with the Falloway arms. At the end of the aisle of green and brown banners, a small welcoming party waited: Owen Furlew, Falloway’s eager young steward; Falyn Morne, left in charge of the Stormhall in Gryston’s absence; Hewell Fairstone, the sour-faced first chastor of Greenwall’s eyrie; and Ulman Benedern, towering above the rest in his robe of golden feathers.

  “You first, my dear.” Lenoden edged his pony over and leaned close to Shona so that no one else would hear. “Try to remember what’s at stake.”

  Shona didn’t answer, just spurred her mount forward. Lenoden followed, and Gryston fell into pace beside him. Behind them, the Falloways’ wagon rumbled into motion again, and farther back still Lenoden’s men resumed their march through the gates, striking an ordered drumbeat of feet against the dirt.

  Lenoden heard his name murmured here and there in the crowd as he passed, and fragments of conversation: “…brought the boy, do you think…” and “…only to the true king…” and “…new blood, not just another Eagle…” and a dozen other whispers, most about him or the boy with eagle’s eyes. Men and women craned necks and stood on tiptoes, seeking a glimpse of the last Windwalker. Lenoden smiled to himself. Perfect. The murmurings of the lowborn struck exactly the tone he’d been aiming for. He wasn’t going to actually show Eroh to them, not here, but for now, it was enough that people were thinking of the boy.

  And of the man who’d found him.

  “Lady Shona! Welcome home!” Owen Furlew stepped forward as they drew near. He was a cheerful, round-faced man of just under thirty years—young to serve as a duke’s steward, but competent enough. He looked to Shona astride her mount rather than to her father, Lenoden noticed. Pure habit, surely, but a tad indiscreet in front of visitors who weren’t supposed to know of Grantley’s decline. “I must admit, we weren’t expecting so many.” Furlew gestured toward the line of men and wagons filing through the gates, beaming broadly all the while. “Well, no matter! We’ll find room.”

  I’m sorry, Owen,” said Shona. “I… should have given some warning.” She glanced over her shoulder at Lenoden, then back to Furlew. “Duke Castar wouldn’t hear of sending anything less than an army. But the bulk of them are making camp at the foot of the mountain—most of these men are only here to see the stone delivered safely. We’ll only need to quarter the knights. No more than two hundred.”

  “It seems excessive, I know,” Lenoden said, guiding his pony beside her. “But I would rather be over-prepared than under. And it is a very good thing that I took such care, or we might not have made it through the Swamp.”

  Furlew’s eyes widened. “Wind of Grace, you don’t mean… You were attacked?”

  Lenoden nodded solemnly. “A swampling raiding party, just a day past. And if they’re so close, I think it best to bolster the guard, given the state of the wall. I intend to stay with my men until the repairs are done. Greenwall is far too important to the Peaks to take any risks.” Startled voices murmured among the crowd—the swampling threat was a serious concern in Greenwall. But he heard approval too, and saw it in their faces. Fear always made people eager for a savior. Almost too easy. Good. I’d hate to find I’d wasted all that time building my reputation here.

  “A very generous offer, Duke Castar,” said Chastor Fairstone. “If this is true, your presence is a much-needed blessing from Above.” His voice betrayed little gratitude, but then, Lenoden had never known it to. Beside him, Falyn Morne stood with her arms crossed and a skeptical slant to her brow, and said nothing. Even Furlew’s good cheer had faded into apprehension.

  Benedern, though, smiled widely enough for all of them. He clasped Lenoden by the shoulder, and his deep voice carried far across the surrounding crowd. “Your generosity should certainly be celebrated, but it is your wisdom and foresight that most impress me. The Word of the Wind tells us that the Lord of Eagles speaks only to the wise, because they are the ones with the sense to listen. I see his hand in your decision, Lenoden.”

  That elicited more enthusiastic chatter from the rabble on either side of the street, and even a few cheers. Not very subtle, Ulman. The Lord
of Eagles was the patron of kings and great leaders—a connection Lenoden preferred for people to make themselves, not to feel like it was being thrust upon them. But by their reaction, perhaps he was giving the lowborn too much credit.

  “Very well put, Your Eminence,” said Shona. “Greenwall owes Duke Castar a great debt. I hope to repay it very soon.” Her words and her smile had the feel of warmth, but Lenoden was close enough to see the ice behind her eyes. “But to more practical matters: we need to make room at the Stormhall for Duke Castar’s knights. They won’t have enough beds—we’ll need cots brought in. If you’d see to that, Owen? And make sure the stone finds its way to wherever Thorm Ollet tells you he needs it.”

  Furlew bobbed his head up and down. “Yes, Lady Shona. I’ll see it done.” He gestured to a pair of closed coaches waiting behind him. “If you and your guests are tired of riding?”

  “Thank you, Owen.” Shona smiled at him, and climbed down from her mount. “It will be nice to sit on a properly cushioned seat, I think, after the journey we’ve had.”

  Lenoden dismounted as well, and clasped Shona’s arm. “Lady Shona, there are a few matters I wanted to discuss, if you wouldn’t mind dropping me at the Stormhall on your way.”

  Shona stiffened when he touched her, but she recovered quickly. “It would be my pleasure.” She hesitated, and then turned toward Morne. “Cer Falyn, would you see my parents home directly? They are tired from the trip, and they… might need assistance.”

  Morne frowned and glanced at Gryston. He nodded, and she dipped her head in reluctant assent. “If you wish, Lady Shona.”

  She suspects something. Morne had never much liked him, Lenoden knew, and she certainly didn’t trust him. But she would do as Gryston said, and Gryston would do as Shona said. Shona was the important thing. If he managed her properly, suspicions would remain suspicions, and nothing more.