The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  The alarm had raised a commotion, and a crowd of chastors and acolytes was gathered at the edge of the eyrie, peering toward the sound of horns and the orange glow of firelight. None of them paid Shona’s little group much mind, and she thanked the Wind of Grace for that—Zerill’s robes masked her stiff gait at a glance, but it would be hard to miss under a longer look. Some few did acknowledge the high chastor, and hastily touched fingers to foreheads before turning back; most didn’t notice them passing at all. Even so, Shona set a brisk pace. The sooner we reach the baskets, the less chance that someone stops us.

  Her heart beat fast in her chest as she walked, but it still wasn’t the fear she should have been feeling. It was something closer to exhilaration. Like she’d spent too long in a cage, and the door had just been opened. She kept expecting to be afraid, but it never came.

  When they reached the stairway, it was deserted. On the way in, there had been Storm Knights—Castar’s men—at every tier of the eyrie, but protecting the wall took priority. Castar had clearly seen the guards as little more than an empty precaution, or he would have made certain they knew not to leave their posts when the horns sounded. There will still be guards at the baskets, though. Even if he’d been absolutely sure of her loyalty, Lenoden Castar wouldn’t have left so obvious an escape unsecured. He wasn’t that kind of man.

  As they rounded the curve of the eyrie’s seventh tier, the first thing Shona saw was the lumpy greenish-white bulk of a partially inflated balloon, glowing in the dark like a piece of the moon fallen to earth. It was a pale light, but more than bright enough to illuminate the basket-launch.

  The launch looked out of place against the ancient stone, a wide wooden platform that extended a dozen yards out from the side of the temple. It wasn’t part of the original construction, added to give the aviators the room they needed to inflate their massive balloons. Lanterns hung at each corner, adding their light to the green glow of the basket, and a small wooden hutch leaned against the side of the eyrie where the keepers could shelter from the weather if they needed to.

  Only one basket occupied the launch, sitting at the far end so that there was enough space to ready a second if needed. The basket-keepers wouldn’t have been expecting anyone at this hour, but they always kept a balloon partially inflated, just in case. There were still two keepers on duty that Shona could see, fussing with the ropes, and a bored-looking aviator leaning against his basket, tipped on its side by the half-full balloon.

  And she’d been right about the guards. Three men with blue lightning at the breast of their grey tabards waited at the edge of the launch. All three were looking southwest toward the flames, just like the chastors on the level below.

  Shona looked over her shoulder at Benedern, and whispered, “Just as we talked about, now.”

  The guards didn’t even turn until Shona was nearly beside them; they were preoccupied with their own chatter about what might be happening at the wall. Guarding the baskets wasn’t going to win any of them the glory that Castar’s young recruits tended to dream of. But when Shona was perhaps ten paces away, one of them looked over his shoulder, and then swiveled to face her, clearly startled.

  “Lady Shona, High Chastor.” The young man’s eyes moved past Benedern’s bulk, and widened. He stood a bit straighter, and saluted crisply. “Lord General.” The other two men turned at the sound of his voice, and went through much the same procedure.

  Shona met Benedern’s eyes and raised an eyebrow; he swallowed, and gave her a slight nod. Now we see if he’s a braver man than I think he is.

  It turned out that he wasn’t. “We have need of a basket,” he said, easily falling into his commanding preacher’s tone.

  “Oh, I…” The first knight looked back toward the others. None of them looked pleased to have to question the high chastor. “Duke Castar said—”

  “We’re here at his request, young man,” Benedern interrupted, with the confidence of a practiced liar. “Do you think I don’t know full well what Duke Castar wants? He believes that we will be safer elsewhere while the wall is repaired. And by the sound of that alarm, he is right.” He looked beyond the guards to the waiting basket, and raised his voice for the aviator to hear. “Chart a wind for Skysreach, if you please.” Then, to the guards once more, “This boy is the last Windwalker, and I mean to be sure of his safety.”

  The guards looked to Eroh, and Benedern reached down to tug his hood back. Shona’s breath caught in her throat. What is he doing? She started to raise her hand, ready to signal Eian to put a stop to it, but the sight of the boy’s eyes seemed to have transfixed the guardsmen. All three stared with wide eyes; the first man’s mouth hung half-open, and he said nothing more.

  But one of them, a larger man with a stubborn set to his jaw, tore his gaze away, shook his head, and stepped in front of the others. “We have to ask someone about this, Your Eminence. If it was just you, we’d have no problem, but we have…”—he glanced at Shona—“certain orders.”

  “Who else would you ask? Can you not trust the word of the high chastor?” Benedern sighed theatrically. “You can’t think that you’re meant to stop all travel between duchies. I assume you’ve been told to be wary of anyone leaving for the Plateaus. Well, Skysreach is not the Plateaus. And you know that Duke Castar and I keep each other’s council. That is exactly why he asked me to do this for him.” And now he looked southwest, and gestured expansively toward the wall where the horns had sounded. “You will find him down there, I should think. Go do your duty as Knights of the Storm, and if you still need to reassure yourselves afterward, you can tell him where we’ve gone. You shouldn’t be wasting time here when your swords are needed elsewhere, in any event. Should they, Cer Eian?”

  Eian didn’t look as if he wanted any part in the charade, but he shook his head and said, “No. You’d be better used at the wall. Go.”

  All three knights’ eyes brightened at that. They’d already wanted to go, and even if they were Castar’s men, the lord general’s orders weren’t something to be entirely ignored. But still the stubborn-looking man hesitated. “I’m not sure—”

  “Come on, Javes,” the third man—silent until now—said. “Are you going to call the lord general and the high chastor liars so we can stay here and guard some balloons?” He inclined his head at Benedern, touching two fingers to his brow. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Your Eminence.” He urged his companions onward. “Let’s go.”

  The other two didn’t seem inclined to argue any further. With a series of salutes and bows, they hurried toward the stairs, and were soon out of sight around the curve of the eyrie.

  “At least Castar pays some price for surrounding himself in young glory-seeking fools,” Eian muttered when the three knights were out of earshot.

  Shona nodded. “That was easier than I dared hope. Well done, Your Eminence.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” Benedern said sarcastically. “If you’re satisfied with the performance, may I ask that you let me go? You hardly need me for the basket-keepers. They aren’t going to argue with their betters.”

  “And let you bring Castar’s men right back here?” Eian shook his head firmly. “You misunderstand, Ulman. You’re coming with us.”

  “What?” Benedern tried to pull away, but Eian caught his arm and held him in place. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “I think you will,” said Shona. “Why fight back now, when there’s no one left to help you? Like you say, the basket-keepers are Greenwall men. They’ll listen to me. If I were you, I would be thinking about what to tell Rudol when we reach the Plateaus. Bear witness against Castar, and you might just get out of this with your head still on your shoulders. Now come on.” She started toward the basket.

  But Benedern didn’t follow. “Eian, do you truly want to do this?” he said, and the sound of his voice made Shona turn back. Eian shoved him from behind, but the high chastor was a big man; when he set his feet, he wasn’t easy to move. “Do you truly want to side
with the swamplings? Break your oaths?” His voice was almost pleading now. “You have always been a man of faith. Don’t betray that.”

  “Don’t talk to me about faith.” Eian’s voice broke on the last word. “I came to you for help with my faith once. You told me that the purges were a holy calling. And now you would lie about this boy to everyone, send me back into the Swamp to murder thousands. Is that what faith is? Killing who you tell me to kill?” He pushed against Benedern’s back, and Shona saw the high chastor wince in pain as the knife dug in. “Move.”

  But still Benedern resisted. “You are no more a murderer than I am. You are a righteous man. The Sword of the Storm. The Sky God chose you for this, and the blood you’ve shed has always been in the defense of his chosen people. Do not lose yourself now!”

  “The Sword of the Storm,” Eian said slowly, as if he was testing the words. “Maybe I was just that. A sword. For you or Gerod to wield however you wish, because a sword asks no questions.” His grip on Benedern’s arm tightened; Shona could see his knuckles whiten. “But I am asking now. Did you say these same things to Deoma Luthas once? Did you tell her that she was righteous?”

  There was something in Eian’s face: the way his jaw tightened, the way his pupils narrowed to dark points. He looked nothing like the man Shona knew. And now the fear she’d been waiting for swept over her like a cold wind, raising gooseflesh on her arms. If I don’t stop him, he’s going to do something we’ll both regret. Spirit of All, I should never have asked him to do this.

  She reached out to touch his arm. “Eian—”

  He jerked away and retreated several paces, dragging the high chastor with him. “Tell me!” he demanded. Too loud.

  The basket-keepers were looking now, moving toward the commotion. Zerill pushed up her blindfold and pulled Eroh back a step.

  “I don’t… I don’t know what you—” But terror had made Benedern’s tongue heavy; his stammered words weren’t nearly convincing enough.

  “It’s true, isn’t it? I’ve heard the whispers. That you talked her into it and then turned on her when she went too far. I never believed them, but if you would lie about the last Windwalker, why should anything else be sacred?” Eian twisted Benedern’s arm hard, and then his knife was against the high chastor’s neck. “You put the rebellion into motion. The rebellion that made me. You made me. Forged me into a sword, and then pointed it at the swamplings. And you would have let me keep killing them, even after you knew about the boy. Even after you’d seen his eyes. You found a miracle and your first thought was how to use it to your advantage!” His hand was shaking with rage; a ribbon of blood dripped down Benedern’s neck where the knife met flesh. “You knew about Josen too, didn’t you? He could have been… God Above, there was so much good in him. And Castar stabbed him and left him for dead in the Swamp. You had to have known.”

  “Not until after! I swear by the Above, Castar did that on his own!”

  “But you knew. You knew what he’d done, and you helped him even so.”

  “Eian, stop!” Shona advanced with her palms out. “Josen is alive. We know that now. You don’t have to do this.” The basket-keepers were beside her now, both strong men who might have overpowered Eian if they’d tried, but neither seemed to know what to do besides watch helplessly.

  “Maybe he is. I’ll believe that when I see him myself.” Eian shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. He knew, Shona. And he did nothing!”

  “I did as I had to!” A nasal whine crept into Benedern’s voice. “I had faith that the Sky God had delivered the last Windwalker to me for a reas—”

  “None of this had anything to do with faith, or righteousness! Stop using those words like they mean something to you!” Eian pressed down harder on his blade, and Benedern let out a yelp that was nearly a sob. “You knew what Castar did, and you didn’t care. Because it got you what you wanted. You talk about the Sky God, but it’s all just… just lies. I have been lied to for too long!”

  God Above, he’s going to kill him. “Please, Eian.” Shona took another step forward, still holding out her hands. “I know what he’s done, but this isn’t who you are.”

  “Listen to her!” Benedern begged. “Please, d—don’t hurt me!”

  “I am not your sword to command anymore,” Eian said coldly.

  And then he drew his blade across Benedern’s throat.

  Blood gouted from the high chastor’s neck, black as Deepling ichor in the balloon’s pale glow. It flowed down Benedern’s chest, staining his robe so dark that it might have been made of crow’s feathers. He sagged from Eian’s grasp, fell to his knees, and collapsed.

  “No!” Shona leapt forward, tried to catch him. He was far too heavy for her; her grasping hands did nothing to arrest his fall.

  Benedern fell face first against the wooden slats of the launch. The Crown of Eyes struck the wooden floor hard, and the frontmost orb of golden glass shattered loudly before the entire crown tipped off of his head. It landed in a spreading pool of dark fluid that seeped between the wooden boards, spilling down to the tier below. Somewhere behind her horror, Shona realized that meant they didn’t have much time—blood raining down from above was going to be noticed before very long.

  Clasping his throat with one hand, Benedern struggled to rise on the other, but his arm buckled beneath him. He didn’t try a second time. One of the basket-keepers gasped a shocked “Lord of Eagles”; the other just gaped wordlessly. Zerill turned Eroh toward her and pulled him close, hiding his eyes with her body.

  Shona knelt beside Benedern and tried to turn him over, but she couldn’t move him any more than she’d been able to catch him. She clasped her hands over the wound on his neck, and was shocked by the force of the blood against her palm. It spurted out around her hand and sprayed between her fingers, hot and sticky and awful.

  “Help me!” she cried, and looked up at Eian.

  He didn’t move. His expression was unreadable, his eyes vacant. All he did was stare silently as the high chastor gurgled his last breath face-down on the stone of the eyrie.

  Only then did Eian seem to understand what he’d done. “Lord of Eagles, forgive me,” he whispered. He took a step back, and his fingers fell open nervelessly. The knife clattered to the ground.

  That was when Shona noticed a slender man in a ragged Storm Knight tabard rounding the eyrie’s curve behind Eian. She knew him as soon as she saw him, and yet at the same time she might have been looking at a stranger. Dark hollows circled his eyes, and there were lines on his face where there had been no lines before; locks of lifeless white hair hung amid the tangled mess of curls on his head. And there was something wrong with the way he moved—an awkward limping gait that favored his left side. In his right hand he held what looked like a spear, but he used it like a walking-stick, resting his weight against the haft.

  He didn’t seem to have noticed anything was wrong yet. “Don’t worry,” he called out when he saw them, and half-grinned. “I’m here to save you.” Shona would have recognized that self-deprecating tone anywhere, but there was a rasp to it now that hadn’t been there before. It made him sound older.

  He came to a sudden halt when he saw the body, saw the red on Shona’s hands and the bloody knife on the ground. Leaning on his spear with both hands, he looked from Eian to Shona to Zerill, then back down to the high chastor. For a long moment, no one spoke.

  “Well,” Josen said at last, “it looks like I’m a bit late.”

  Lenoden

  Lenoden arrived at the palisade just in time to see it explode.

  A high-pitched creak came first, loud enough that those fighting nearby paused almost as one to look toward the sound. From the back of his pony, Lenoden could see over the men’s heads; he watched unobstructed as a five-foot section of heavy stakes warped and strained, bowed under some invisible force, and then exploded into splinters. A shower of wooden shards rained down, and men on both sides covered their faces or dove for cover
where they could. Voices cried out as fragments scraped skin and tore cloth, but the pieces were too fine to be a real danger. Wood-dust drifted slowly earthward, and behind the settling cloud, a breach gaped open where the palisade had once been whole.

  What bothered Lenoden was that he couldn’t understand how. It was like witchcraft. Nothing that he could see had so much as touched the palisade before it broke, and no force he knew could have shattered it so cleanly. No sliver of wood on the ground was larger than his thumbnail—nothing large enough to do significant harm. That can’t be an accident.

  The black-clad men and women rushed for the opening. His knights followed, but Lenoden could already see that it was pointless. The figures in black had already been pushed up against the palisade; they were outnumbered, but they were near enough to the hole that it didn’t matter. A few might be apprehended, but most were going to make it through. Pursuing them now would mean turns slogging through the Swamp, and in the end he wouldn’t find even half their number before they reached the Plateaus. Who do I have to blame for this? But he suspected that he already knew. Damn it Shona. I thought we had an understanding. He dismounted and grabbed the nearest knight by the shoulder.

  “Duke Castar!” The man turned and saluted. He had round cheeks and a large nose; Lenoden knew his face. Cer Dane Egard, son of a wealthy vineyard owner from Orimscourt.

  “What is this?” Lenoden demanded. “I want to know who these people are.”

  “I heard they were led by Falyn Morne, Your Grace, but I—”

  “Morne? What about Gryston? Where is the lord general?” A suspicion that he didn’t much like crept its way along the inside of Lenoden’s skull.