The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Who would miss him, really? Clearly not Rudol, and who else was there? His mother was gone. Eian was probably dead by now. Zerill had only ever cared about him as a means to an end; the rest of the swamplings would gladly see him dead. The people of the Peaks—some of them, at least—would mourn for the man they thought he was, but that man didn’t exist. Shona might still care, but Josen doubted she had many tears left to shed over him.

  Would it be better if I fell?

  Maybe it would.

  He remembered what his mother had told him about the end once, standing under the stars all those years ago: that it was a second chance, not something to fear. A new life. That doesn’t sound so bad.

  It only took a moment. The wind at his back was always there, pushing, and he wasn’t strong. He’d never been strong. When he felt his legs start to give, he took some comfort in the fact that he didn’t have the strength left to stop it.

  There was still a way, though. If he wanted it. All it would take was one movement of his hand, a quick flash of his fingers. The signal he’d promised Shona he’d give. Verik was ready and waiting to give the lowborn their sign from the Sky God; Morne and her knights could be on the standing ground in seconds. All it would take was one simple gesture, before he tipped past the point of no return.

  Behind him, the noise of the crowd rose into a loud roar. He paid it little mind. Slowly, he began to pitch forward; there was nothing waiting for him but the mist. He shut his eyes. Even now, he wasn’t brave enough to watch.

  Josen kept his hands at his sides.

  And took the only way out he had left.

  Rudol

  It hadn’t yet been an hour, but even so Rudol hadn’t expected his brother—my half-brother, he reminded himself bitterly—to last so long. Everything about Josen told a tale of weakness: the sunken eyes, the trembling arm, the white in his hair and the pallid undertone to his skin. He looked as if the first strong wind should have thrown him over the edge, but he’d faced the cliff without flinching, and he’d stood. That was… unexpected.

  Rudol still held Josen’s strange swampling sword across his lap; he glanced down at the impossible blade, wood and stone melded into one. There are a great many unexpected things about him, since he came back.

  He could feel Shona watching him. He didn’t look up. What she wanted from him, he couldn’t give, and he couldn’t stand to see the disappointment in her eyes. I can’t decide how this ends. I’m not the king. I’m not anybody. If he’d thought it would do any good, he would have tried to explain, but he knew she wouldn’t understand. She couldn’t. The same way Carissa couldn’t. How could they? Both of them knew who they were, where they came from. All Rudol knew was that his life was a lie.

  At least the crowd was quiet. For Josen, not for him, but even so Rudol was grateful for it. He couldn’t have borne it if they’d screamed and jeered the way they had at Cadill’s trial. He would have thought they’d scream louder still for Josen, but instead they were subdued, transfixed by the man standing at the cliff’s edge. And it had been so easy for him. Rudol had shouted himself hoarse for nothing; Josen had simply raised a hand, and they’d fallen silent instantly. Almost reverently. They’d always loved him, but this was more like worship.

  It’s the Windwalker boy. Eroh. In the presence of those golden eyes, it was hard not to feel that this trial meant something more than the mockery standing the cliff had become. As far as any of these people knew, Josen had returned from the dead with the last Windwalker by his side. How could the Sky God not be watching over him?

  And if he’s watching Josen… he’s watching me. He knows I’m not who I’m pretending to be. Lord of Eagles, forgive me. I should never have done this. He’d been so certain that Josen wouldn’t last, that he would retreat from the edge and show everyone the coward he really was. And Rudol had wanted so badly to see that. For Josen to feel what he felt, to feel the people who had loved him so much turn against him. He’d wanted it enough that he’d been willing to live the lie of his life for just a little bit longer, no matter how much it hurt.

  At least, he’d thought that was what he wanted. Now that he was actually here, he couldn’t find the satisfaction he’d imagined he would. Before today, Rudol would never have guessed that Josen possessed the courage to face the cliff; it made a difference. Maybe he won’t give up on this. Maybe, for once, he’ll live up to a promise. Maybe the Sky God will send a sign. An unexpected warmth kindled in his chest at the thought, a warmth he hadn’t felt for a very long time.

  Very slowly, Josen started to sway forward.

  No. Rudol’s heart dropped into his gut; it was all he could do to stay in his chair. When Josen settled back on his heels, the relief was so intense that he thought he might cry.

  And then Josen looked over his shoulder, and that relief vanished. Something was wrong.

  Rudol had seen it there from the start, that desperation hiding behind the hope in Josen’s eyes; he’d brushed it off as the fear any man would feel before standing the cliff. But it was worse, now. When Rudol searched Josen’s face, he couldn’t see the hope there anymore.

  The desperation was the only thing left.

  Did he think I would save him? Does he still?

  His fingers tightened around the hilt of Josen’s sword, but he didn’t let anything show on his face. I can’t interfere. He asked for this, and I lied to give it to him. I can’t lie to end it. He was keenly aware that he was sitting in a seat that wasn’t his, wearing a crown that he had no right to wear, but those were only the trappings of power. If he intervened, he would be exercising the power itself. The king’s judgement. And that was more than he was willing to do.

  He asked for this, Rudol told himself again, struggling not to flinch under Josen’s eyes. It’s for him to prove himself, and the Lord of Eagles to judge.

  But that didn’t do anything to dispel the memory of Cadill throwing himself over the same cliff, while the crowd screamed Josen’s name.

  That could be me, little brother. Don’t let me fall. You can stop this. The voice might as well have been real; Rudol could see the same plea on Josen’s face.

  It was almost enough. Almost. A day ago it might have been. He’d only wanted Josen to surrender; never to fall. But Rudol was no king, and he had no right to make Josen one. Only the Sky God could do that now. I can’t do this for you, Josen. But you can do it for yourself. If you want the crown, earn it.

  He swallowed his doubt, and said nothing.

  Everything happened very quickly, then. Josen glanced at Shona, and then turned away. In that moment, Rudol knew—knew, with an absolute certainty—what was about to happen. Again he saw Cadill, rising briefly into the air and then falling.

  Choosing to fall.

  No. Not again. Not like that. Before he even understood what he was doing, Rudol was on his feet, already moving. Everything he’d told himself about interfering was forgotten in an instant; nothing mattered but reaching Josen as quickly as he could.

  He crossed the distance to the edge of the dais in a sprint. The fence around the standing ground was ten feet high, but the dais rose more than half that; Rudol cleared most of the remaining height in a leap, reaching upward to grab the top of the fence. He vaulted over the iron bars just as Josen began to pitch forward.

  It was near twenty feet from the top of the fence to the floor of the standing ground, and as Rudol fell, the crowd broke their silence. A thousand screaming voices struck his ears at once, and then, strangely, a screech like metal bending, but the ground was rushing up at him too quickly to spare those things any attention. The impact slammed his teeth shut on the tip of his tongue; pain flashed red across his eyes, and he tasted blood in his mouth. His legs bent to absorb the impact, then buckled, and he fell to his knees. He threw out his hands to catch himself, releasing Josen’s sword—he hadn’t realized he was even still holding it. It spun and skipped toward the cliff, coming to rest just before the edge.

  Where Josen’s feet h
ad been, a moment ago.

  They weren’t there anymore.

  As Josen plummeted out of sight, Rudol launched himself from his hands and knees and dove head-first toward the cliff’s edge, still some five yards away. He landed hard on his belly; the air exploded from his lungs as he slid the last few feet.

  A head of black curls streaked with white disappeared over the precipice.

  Praying he wasn’t already too late, Rudol stretched his hand blindly over the edge.

  Josen

  For a moment after his feet left the cliff, Josen could feel himself falling freely, and even though his eyes were closed tight, it was terrifying. Every sound fell away but the air rushing past his ears, a wordless howl that told him there was no turning back. The reality of what he’d done struck him as hard as the ground ever could, and he realized he’d made a mistake.

  One he couldn’t take back.

  I was wrong! I don’t want this! Wind of Grace, please—

  Something wrapped tight around his ankle, and suddenly he was swinging sharply toward the cliff-side.

  His eyes snapped open to see a solid wall of rock rushing at him; he shielded his face with his left arm and extended his good right hand to catch himself. His palm scraped painfully against rough stone, leaving a bloody streak; he bounced back from the cliff, struck again shoulder-first. The ruined muscles in his side pulled tight, ignited with agony. And then he was hanging upside-down by one leg, staring into the mist far below as blood rushed to his head.

  Every movement sent pain surging through his body, but Josen craned his neck skyward to catch a glimpse of his savior. A bald brown head poked over the side of the cliff, teeth gritted, neck corded with strain.

  Wearing a crown of sky-blue glass.

  “Rudol?”

  “Don’t move.”

  “You… you saved me?”

  “Don’t talk either.” Rudol had one hand wrapped around Josen’s ankle; grimacing with the effort, he reached down with the other, grabbing hold just a bit higher on the calf. Hand over hand, he pulled Josen up like he was climbing a rope in reverse, until he had a grip just beneath the knee. “Give me your hand,” he said, and extended his.

  This is going to hurt. Josen took a deep breath, gathered his strength, and reached for his brother’s hand. A howl forced its way past his lips as he bent his broken body at the middle; white stars burst in front of his eyes until he couldn’t see at all. And just when he couldn’t reach any farther, when he was at the limit of what his body could take, he felt Rudol’s hand close around his.

  “Brace yourself,” Rudol said, and released Josen’s leg.

  Josen’s lower body swung free; his stomach rose into his throat and his feet scrabbled against the mountainside. But Rudol had his arm with both hands now, and with a grunt of effort, hauled him up far enough that he could get his elbow over the ledge. A moment later Josen was clambering up over the side, still holding his brother’s hand.

  He collapsed onto his belly, breathing heavily. His muscles throbbed and ached; hot brands of pain stabbed all along his side. And yet, as painful as it was, he felt like he’d fallen into a dream. Like he’d lost consciousness before he hit the ground, and this was just some last fantasy. Nothing about it felt real. I should be dead.

  But he was alive.

  He was alive because his brother had saved him.

  “Thank you, Rudol. Thank you.” Josen rolled onto his back to see Rudol already climbing to his feet. “I didn’t think—”

  The sight of the standing ground stole the rest of the sentence away.

  The gate was twisted and broken, like a giant had taken it in his hands and ripped it to pieces. Long swaths of ironwork hung from the cliff on either side, like bizarre, abstract ladders; only a few bent iron bars remained anchored in the ground. Huge chunks of stone had broken away with the metal, leaving sloped grooves in the once sheer edge, and a pile of rubble below.

  The crowd swarmed on top of itself for a closer look; some had pushed their way through the new gaps in the fence, and were trying to climb down to the ledge. And as sounds beyond the wind and Rudol’s voice returned to the world, Josen could hear them shouting his name.

  “Josen lives!”

  “A sign! Praise the Above, a sign from the Lord of Eagles!”

  Josen knew better. Verik’s deepcraft was responsible for bringing down the gate; Shona had planned that “sign” well in advance. But it was an impressive sight even so. If he hadn’t known better, he might have believed the Sky God’s judgement had torn the iron bars asunder.

  Falyn Morne and two dozen men in Storm Knight grey surrounded Josen and Rudol; Verik, Azra, and Eroh stood just inside the circle. That, too, had been part of the plan—to move in with the swamplings as soon as the gate came down, and take control of the standing ground before anyone else knew what was happening.

  Apparently they’d managed it, because the Royal Swords were only now closing in behind them. Some approached the circle around Rudol and Josen—hesitantly, as if uncertain whether the Storm Knights were friend or foe—while others moved to hold back the lowborn climbing through the broken fence.

  Rudol paid no mind to any of it. He bent down to pick something up: Josen’s sword, lying on the ledge very near by.

  “Rudol—”

  Rudol threw the sword down across Josen’s chest. “Take it. Stand up.”

  Josen would have been happy to lie there for another turn, but there was something in Rudol’s voice he couldn’t ignore. He took the witch-saber in his hand, and slowly—painfully—climbed to his feet. “What are you—”

  “Shut up.” In a fluid motion, Rudol drew his own saber and pointed it at Josen. “Defend yourself.”

  Morne signalled her knights; several men closed in on Rudol from behind.

  Josen forestalled them with a raised hand. “No,” he said, still looking at his brother. He saved me. It isn’t supposed to go this way. “Why are you doing this? You didn’t let me fall. I thought… I hoped that meant something.”

  “Because I shouldn’t have had to stop you!” Rudol brought his saber to a mid-guard, and shifted his feet to find his balance. “Because for a moment, I was stupid enough to think you might see this through, and instead you found a way to leave it all behind, like you always do!”

  “I had myself fooled, too,” said Josen. “If that means anything.”

  “It doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything at all.” Rudol leapt forward, swung his saber at Josen’s chest with both hands.

  Josen barely raised his sword in time to parry, barely had the strength to turn the blow. He stumbled back several steps.

  And lowered his sword.

  “Fight me!” Rudol growled. “Show me you’re more than a coward! Show them!” He swept a hand at the crowd.

  But the lowborn weren’t on his side. “Traitor!” they screamed, and “False king!” and over and over, “Josen lives!”

  “We both know I can’t beat you,” said Josen. He tipped his head toward the waiting knights. “If you keep this up, they’ll have to stop you. I don’t want that. Neither one of us has to leave here a prisoner. Don’t make me do this.”

  “Make you do what? Earn your crown? Fight for something, for once in your life? Someone has to!” Rudol darted forward again, and aimed a vicious sideways slash at Josen’s stomach; again, Josen barely shunted it aside.

  Josen didn’t want to fight, but that wasn’t why his sword dipped low. Not this time. This time, it was because he lacked the strength to hold it upright. I can’t do this forever, and I don’t think he’s going to stop. Spirit of All, did he save me just to kill me?

  “Enough.” Shona’s voice, from somewhere behind the knights. Josen knew that tone; her patience was at an end. A moment later she pushed through, and her face matched her voice, stern as a queen. “Cer Falyn, take him. The Sky God has made his judgement known—everyone here saw the sign. Josen is no traitor, and that makes him Gerod’s rightful heir.” Without calling att
ention to it, she nudged Eroh toward Josen; the boy obediently shuffled to his side.

  It was telling that Morne didn’t look to Josen for confirmation. “Take his sword,” she said, and once again, her knights moved in around Rudol.

  “I’m sorry, Rudol,” Josen said. “This… this isn’t how it was supposed to go. I didn’t want this.”

  He let his sword clatter to the ground as Morne’s men wrested Rudol’s from his hand. Rudol didn’t fight or argue, just let them pin his arms behind his back.

  Dully, Josen noticed some kind of commotion from the outside of the circle, and raised his eyes. The Royal Swords were closing in, swords at the ready, prepared to defend their king. Of course. More people to die because of me.

  But to Josen’s surprise, Rudol shouted, “Stop!”

  Startled, the Swords held fast, looking to their king for some further command.

  He didn’t give them one.

  “I won’t fight a battle no one wants me to win,” Rudol said, and looked up at the people gathered around the edge of the standing ground. “If this is the king you want, you can have him.” In answer, their taunts and jeers just grew louder. “Not one of you can see what he really is, can you? You see him fall and convince yourselves that he’s flying!” He tore one arm free, and snatched Aryllia’s Crown from his brow.

  He’s going to tell them the truth. Why keep a secret for us now?

  But he didn’t. For whatever reason, Rudol kept the question of his blood to himself. “Take him, then!” he said with a sneer. “He’s yours! Your king of cowards and swamplings!”

  And then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the crown at Josen.