The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Josen

  From the ramparts of the Mad Duke’s Gate, Josen could see the cliffs he’d scaled less than a turn before, a series of sharp rises looming high above the north side of the wall. In the daylight, it would have been near impossible for anyone to make the climb unseen, but that didn’t stop him from studying every crag. He wouldn’t put it past Castar to try to sneak men into the Plateaus under the cover of parley.

  He brushed a hand over his side, his fingers grazing uneven knots of flesh. The ever-present ache just beneath his skin was a constant reminder not to put anything past Lenoden Castar. Never again.

  Shona agreed with him on that count. Over the past few hours, she’d been diligent in arranging the wall’s defenses. With the loyalty of the Royal Swords in question, Falyn Morne had instead arranged an escort of Storm Knights to protect Josen; a man stood on either side of him, prepared to take a quarrel in his place despite his fervent protests on the subject. Like the rest of the Plateaus’ knights, they wore sashes of Aryllian blue over their grey surcoats, to differentiate themselves from Castar’s knights if it came to open combat. A hundred wingbowmen lined the top of the wall, and both of the thunderbolts mounted on the ramparts were loaded and ready, each manned by a small team to help aim and crank the huge weapons. Behind the gate, five companies of two hundred men waited to attack on Josen’s signal—or Shona’s, more likely—if the parley turned sour. Farther up the road, the remaining two gates were similarly defended, in case of need.

  None of it made Josen feel any safer. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the cliffs, couldn’t stop searching the shadows for signs of movement.

  “Josen.” Shona put a hand on his shoulder, and pointed at the road.

  He heard them even as he followed her outstretched hand. They were only silhouettes in the mist at first, a procession of shadows, more than he could count at a glance. But soon they became men, crossing into the light with tendrils of dark fog trailing from their shoulders. Marching in step so that each footfall was as loud as a hundred, they emerged from the mist-line and started up the last few switchbacks into the pass before the gate. At the head of the column, a small knightly vanguard wore red sashes over their greys; the rest were soldiers uniformed in red and gold. Castar’s banner flew at their head in the same colors: a golden peak against a crimson field, announcing the presence of the duke.

  He hadn’t sent an emissary. He’d come to speak for himself.

  And Josen wasn’t ready.

  With only a few hours’ warning, he had to invent some collection of words he could say to a man he hated to prevent a war. Three days ago he’d all but thrown himself off a cliff to avoid that kind of responsibility. He’d regretted it even as he fell, but he’d done it, and the reason behind it hadn’t gone away just because Rudol had pulled him back.

  How am I supposed to make decisions for a kingdom when I can barely do it for myself? He reached up to push a hand through his hair, and his fingers struck Aryllia’s Crown. He’d forgotten he was wearing it at all—the crown of blue glass fit him like he’d been born to it. Which was, to him, far worse than if it had chafed.

  If I’d had a little bit more warning, maybe it would be different. Shona had sent out scouts, days before, but only one had returned, riding just ahead of Castar’s force. Josen didn’t know what had happened to the others, but he had to assume the worst. If we’d only sent them out a few days sooner… But he was lying to himself. It wouldn’t have mattered. He’d known from the beginning that Castar would come, and he still wasn’t ready.

  He was never going to be. That was the cruel joke in all this. He was never going to be ready, and he was the only one who seemed to care.

  The force marching up the road certainly wasn’t going to wait. It wasn’t the whole of Castar’s army, or even close to it, but it was enough. Several hundred men looked like far more than that, arrayed in ranks down the narrow mountain road. The rest—near four thousand, by the account of the one scout who’d made it home—would be making camp at the base of the Queensmount. More than a thousand of those were Knights of the Storm, the best armed and armored fighters the Peaks had to offer; of the remaining number, most were experienced soldiers, paid out of Goldstone’s coffers to keep their skills and their swords keen year-round.

  Josen had more men, all told, but most were militia, some twenty-five hundred of them, with only piecemeal equipment and little training. Soldiers with any measure of experience were few: the Plateaus’ standing and city guard together numbered only fifteen hundred, and its Stormhall housed just over five hundred knights—nearer to six hundred with those Morne had brought from Greenwall. Morne insisted that each of her knights was worth two of Castar’s, but Josen had a feeling that numbers would tell in the end. He’d sent word to the other duchies of Castar’s treachery, entreating them for aid, but only his grandmother was sure to answer, and it was a long march from Whitelake.

  If it came to open combat, army against army, the odds were not in his favor.

  Still, no army in the history of the Peaks had ever taken a duchy from below, and the Plateaus had three strong walls to withstand a siege. That should have been a comfort. Josen wished it was more of one. How long are the walls going to stand against a man with the power to raise the dead? Holding the edge of the ramparts so tightly that his fingers hurt, he watched with growing dread as Castar’s men approached.

  The procession came to a halt some fifty yards short of the gate, and the front ranks parted, forming an aisle down their center. Through that aisle, Lenoden Castar strode into sight, dressed in a doublet of red and gold with a crimson cloak across his shoulders. He wore no mail or helm; the only sign that he’d come to wage war was the sword at his belt. Two large armored men escorted him, one on either side, and each bore a shield emblazoned with Castar’s sigil.

  A white-haired man in a brown robe followed just behind, and Josen might have mistaken him for a chastor but for the blindfold across his eyes. At this distance he was indistinguishable from a man of the Peaks, but that was a lie told in brown dye and roughspun wool. Josen had seen the truth that lay beneath: colorless skin and eye sockets that held nothing but scars.

  Both of them, right in front of us.

  “We could kill him and the old man right here.” Josen whispered, leaning close to Shona. “They’re within range.” The knots in his side felt like they were pulling tighter; he gritted his teeth against the pain. Though it went against every law of parley, he wanted nothing more than to command his bowmen to let fly at the man who had ruined his body and his life. But it had to be Shona’s choice. That was the deal they’d made. He was a figurehead, and that was all he wanted to be.

  Shona shook her head so slightly that he wasn’t sure she had. “Castar wouldn’t be so close if he didn’t know he was safe. He’s arrogant, but not that arrogant. This is a trap, and they’re the bait. I’m certain that Eroh’s grandfather can stop a wingbow bolt, but even without the deepcraft, if the shot goes wide, or one of those guards gets his shield up in time, we’ve broken parley for nothing. They get away, and tell the Peaks that we started whatever comes next.”

  “And what if they decide to tear the wall down from beneath our feet? What they say about us after won’t matter very much.” Josen didn’t know if the old man had that kind of power, but the idea was enough to make his palms sweat. He’d never considered himself particularly vengeful, but at that moment, he couldn’t picture what peace looked like if these two men were left alive.

  “It won’t,” Shona agreed. “But if they can do that, a wingbow bolt isn’t going to be enough. So we keep on as if they can’t, and hope they don’t prove us wrong.” She tipped her head toward the road, and the man in crimson and gold waiting there. “It’s customary for the king to speak first. Don’t let him take control.”

  With a sigh, Josen leaned out over the ramparts. “Duke Castar,” he said, loud enough to carry. “I would welcome you, but I think we both know I wouldn’t mean it.”
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  “I’ve always admired your commitment to honesty, Prince Josen,” Castar answered. “Although perhaps diplomacy would serve us better, in this instance.”

  “If you really believed that, you would have addressed me as your king just now.”

  “That is Aryllia’s Crown on your brow, then,” said Castar. “I thought I must be mistaken. The last I heard, your father had disowned you as a traitor and named Rudol his heir. You can understand my confusion, I’m sure.”

  “King Gerod is dead,” Shona said. “And Rudol has abdicated the throne to his brother. Josen is the rightful Aryllian king.”

  Castar didn’t look away from Josen. “My condolences then. For your loss, and your new title. I know how hard you’ve tried to avoid it.”

  “Your sympathy warms my heart, Duke Castar,” Josen said dryly. “Is that enough pretending yet? Why don’t we just say what we mean, and have done with it?” Pain throbbed along his ribs, and he marvelled at how calm his voice sounded in his ears when all he wanted to do was scream, You did this to me!

  “Very well. Then let me ask, where are your swamplings? Have you opened the gates to them already?”

  “If you think you’re revealing some shameful secret, you aren’t. Everyone knows about the swamplings who brought me here. I have nothing to hide.”

  Castar might have looked disappointed, though it was hard to tell from so far away. It didn’t stop him for long, either way. “If the people of the Plateaus still love you like they did, even knowing that you would ally with those… creatures, perhaps I overestimated them.”

  “Underestimated them, I would say. The last Windwalker is a swampling. That matters, to some.” Josen wasn’t sure how true that was, but he didn’t let himself check the faces of the men along the wall. Whatever his doubts, Castar didn’t need to see them.

  “And yet Eroh was happy to do as I asked, until you stole him away from me. He stood beside me at the High Eyrie. That is what the Peaks will remember, when all this is done. That I brought him before the people. That I am the king foretold in the Word. Don’t waste lives for a fight you can’t win, Josen. Return the boy to me, open the gates, and surrender the crown. I am prepared to offer reasonable terms. We can still resolve this peacefully.”

  Josen might have laughed, if he’d been a little bit less indignant. “Stole him from you? Is that what you’re calling it? Eroh came with us freely. He didn’t want to hide who he was anymore. The people of the Plateaus have seen his true face, and it won’t be long before our birds reach every other duchy with the same message, if they haven’t already. You’re going to need to make up some new lies. But please, do go on. Tell me these terms you think will somehow convince me to surrender the Peaks to a traitor who tried to kill me.”

  Castar raised a hand, and from somewhere amid the ranks behind him, a small escort led a man and a woman forward. Alone among Castar’s forces, these two were not dressed in red and gold, but rather in clothes of green and brown. Shona recognized them before Josen did; it was only when she surged forward to grip the edge of the ramparts that he realized who he was looking at.

  Grantley and Vera Falloway.

  The duchess looked somewhat the worse for wear in a torn and muddied dress, her black hair tangled and knotted, but there was pride there, beneath the dirt. She still carried herself like the woman she was. Grantley Falloway, though, was a different man altogether. Like his wife, his clothes were tattered and dirty, but he didn’t bear the indignity near as well; he might have been a mad hermit Castar had found in the Swamp. His back was stooped and his gait stumbling; his mouth hung half-open, giving the impression of perpetual confusion. A week’s growth of scraggly beard covered his normally clean-shaven cheeks. He swept his head from side to side, wide-eyed, like he was searching for some touchstone to steady himself upon, but if he was, he didn’t find one—he just kept searching.

  “I propose a trade,” Castar said. “Give me what I ask for, and I release the duke and duchess of Greenwall. The duchy itself, as well, to govern however you and yours see fit. Leave the Plateaus to me, and I will give you a place of your own and a promise of peace. The Sky God’s chosen king must be merciful, after all.”

  “How generous of you," said Josen. "But just for my own curiosity, what do you mean to do if I refuse? It takes the Plateaus and Greenwall both to keep the duchies fed. We can last behind these walls for as long as we have to, but a siege means no food gets out. How long do you think your support will last when the Peaks are starving?”

  “A long siege will not be necessary. I think you know that.”

  So he does mean for the old man to do something to the walls. It could have been a bluff, but Josen wanted it to be one too badly to believe that it was.

  “This is an opportunity, Josen,” Castar said. “You don’t have to be your father. You don’t have it in you to be king, and neither does Rudol. I do. Don’t force our people into an unnecessary war for a crown you never wanted. Don’t force me to do something I very much don’t want to do.” Castar glanced toward his prisoners. “There are… things far worse than a siege. I hope it does not come to that.”

  At that, the duchess could hold her tongue no longer. “Remember what you promised your father, Shona!” She got no further before the man holding her clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Ignoring the interruption entirely, Castar clasped his hands behind his back and said, “I await your answer.”

  Leaning through a notch in the battlements, Shona took a deep, shuddering breath. Josen didn’t know what to say; he just took her hand and hoped it was enough. She didn’t grip his fingers, didn’t even look at him. She might not have noticed his touch at all.

  “Shona?” he asked softly.

  She didn’t answer, just stared down at her mother and father below.

  Is she really considering this? He shouldn’t have been so surprised, he supposed. They were her parents, after all. But after Eian, Josen had stopped expecting her to hesitate over hard choices. He’d thought he’d known what she would say: that the future of the swamplings and the Nine Peaks rested on this; that it would be irresponsible to trade all of that for two people. Even for two people he knew and respected. Two people Shona loved.

  He’d thought she would decide for him, because he couldn’t do it alone. Not while she was standing there beside him. Not if she wasn’t sure.

  Castar’s voice broke the silence. “This shouldn’t be such a hard choice. I didn’t want to have to do this, but let me make it easier for you.” He gestured at the man holding Shona’s mother.

  In the space of a blink, there was a knife against Vera’s neck. Shona’s breath caught audibly in her throat.

  “Josen Aryllia,” Castar said gravely, “you have chosen the swamplings over your own people. By the word of your own father, you are a traitor to the Nine Peaks. Therefore, for conspiring with their daughter to help you, Grantley and Vera Falloway are themselves guilty of treason. And the penalty for treason is death.”

  “Wait!” Josen thrust out his hand, as if he could somehow push the blade aside from fifty yards away and forty feet up. “Wait. We have Ulman Benedern. I… I could return him to you. An exchange of prisoners. But if you do this…”

  Castar laughed. “What? You’ll kill the high chastor as some sort of retaliation? I wonder how well the lowborn would take that. No, I don’t think you will. And if it comes to that, we will already be past any chance for men such as Ulman Benedern to broker peace. If you insist on a war, I think he would gladly give his life to stop you from betraying our people to the swamplings.” He tipped his head once more toward the duchess. “Surrender, and no one else has to die for your crimes. Stop this war before it begins.”

  Vera trembled in the arms of her captor; his hand was still over her mouth. But she didn’t fight. She only looked up at her daughter, and shook her head. Josen had long suspected that the duchess was stronger than she let on, but he hadn’t known just how strong until that moment.


  He knew what she wanted, and he knew what he should do. For his people, and for Zerill’s. The only way to keep the promises he’d made. It shouldn’t have been a hard choice, for a man who was supposed to be king.

  But crown or no, Josen wasn’t that man.

  “Shona, I… I’ll make the trade, if you want me to,” he said. “Say the word, and I will. Maybe… maybe Greenwall is the best we can hope for.”

  Shona’s eyes never left her mother’s, but very softly, she said, “He’ll come after us, eventually. He won’t forget.”

  “I know,” said Josen. “But it saves their lives. We can worry about the rest later.”

  She turned to him at last, with tears in her eyes. “I made them a promise.”

  He understood, then. He’d thought that he was doing her a kindness by leaving the choice to her; the pain in her eyes told him how wrong he’d been. He wasn’t offering her a chance to save her family. He was asking her to pass sentence on them. She knew what was at stake, what needed to be done. Of course she did. She would have known before he did.

  She hadn’t ever been considering Castar’s offer. She just couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

  And he wouldn’t make her. He would spare her that, at least.

  This decision would be his.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and squeezed her hand. Then, as loud and strong as he could muster, “I can’t accept your terms, Duke Castar.”

  Castar looked to Shona, then. “You must know you can’t win this fight, Shona, even if he doesn’t. Are you going to let him sacrifice your family for nothing?”

  Tears spilled down Shona’s cheek, and her hand tightened around Josen’s until his fingers hurt. But she didn’t look away.

  And she didn’t answer.

  “You don’t know what you’re bringing upon yourselves.” There was a rough edge to Castar’s voice now—anger, or desperation. “You want to make peace with the swamplings? The Peaks can’t survive peace with the swamplings. If they don’t turn against us, we will turn on ourselves! How do you think nine isolated mountains have maintained the kind of alliances we need to survive for so long? You know nothing of what it takes to rule this kingdom, Josen. Don’t throw away a chance to save a great many lives. Don’t make me do this!”