Instead, he’d watched hundreds of men slaughtered around him as they slowly fell back toward the Queensgate, while he yet lived. He’d seen men fight on with black ichor seeping into their wounds, while his own blood remained clean. With every hour that passed, more men had fallen—good men, brave men, men who had far more to live for than he did. Men with families waiting for them, parents and wives and children. No one was waiting for Rudol. Carissa is done with me, Shona hates me, and the one man I considered a friend is leading the army marching against us. No one would care if I didn’t come home. And yet when the wall shattered behind them, raining stone down on both sides, still he had been spared. When the Deeplings advanced into the chaos, rending men apart and shattering the remains of the line, he’d survived. He was battered and sore and exhausted, but he was alive.
Why? Lord of Eagles, give me a reason. You sent the last Windwalker to save us, you gave us your eagles, and still I couldn’t protect the Plateaus from my mistake. I did all I could, and I failed. So why do I still live when so many others do not?
As if in answer to his question, an eagle’s cry rang out not far away. Rudol snapped his head toward the sound.
The swampling boy’s little eagle was already gliding away, but the Deepling it had been trying to distract—a rotborn that melded the bodies of a ghostspider and an impossibly large bog-snake—was still advancing toward its prey.
And Rudol recognized the prey.
He would have known those dark curls anywhere, even if they hadn’t been streaked with telltale white.
Josen.
Rudol saw his brother pinned beneath a heap of rubble, one arm outstretched to the approaching Deepling, and he understood with perfect clarity what he had to do. This is why. He’s the one the boy chose. Josen has to live.
He forced his exhausted muscles into motion, rushing headlong across the twenty yards that separated him from the snake-thing. With every step, the whispers in his head grew more forceful; he ignored them. He knew his purpose now, and that voice was only a distraction.
As he reached the creature’s slithering body, its spider-half began to turn toward him. He didn’t give it time to do more. With all the strength he had, he lifted his halberd overhead, and drove the spiked end down through flaking scales and rotten flesh and bone until he felt it bite into the earth beneath. Thick black fluid seeped around the halberd’s haft.
The rotborn lurched fully around to face him, its thorax rearing off the ground. At the end of two long spider-legs, the razor-blades of a beetleback lashed out in vicious crescents.
Rudol twisted the halberd deeper, lodging it firmly into the ground, and then leapt back at the last moment. A black blade cut the air just where his chest had been a moment before. The monster thrashed and struggled, but the halberd held. The haft creaked and bowed, but it held.
It wouldn’t hold for long.
Rudol darted out of reach of the Deepling’s blades, and sprinted to Josen’s side.
Josen didn’t even look up, just kept scraping his arm against the dirt, stretching his hand toward the struggling monster. He hardly looked like himself. A half-wiped smear of blood masked the right side of his face, but it wasn’t just that—the dark circles beneath his vacant eyes and the brittle white streaks in his hair made him look years older, and his body was frail and broken and spent. God Above, what did I do to him?
But there was no time to dwell on mistakes he’d already made. Behind him, he could hear the halberd haft splintering under the strain.
Rudol started throwing aside debris, trying to dig his brother free. It wasn’t enough. A stone the size of a cartwheel lay slanted across the top of the heap, and it held the rest in place. Removing loose stones here and there might make a difference, but it would take too long.
With both hands, Rudol gripped the edge of the slab, and strained upward with all his might. It shifted a little bit, but not enough. He let out a grunt of frustration.
“You have to help me,” he said. “That thing will be free again soon.”
Josen didn’t answer, didn’t give any sign he’d heard. Rudol glanced toward the rotborn. It was still trapped, but now it was carving at the flesh of its own body to get at the halberd’s haft.
“Josen!”
Still no response. A very familiar feeling of annoyance surged through him. You couldn’t listen to reason just this once? With one hand, he gripped Josen’s shoulder, and jerked him around; with the other, he slapped his brother across the face. Lord of Eagles forgive me, but that was satisfying.
Josen’s eyes didn’t clear right away; he stared at Rudol for a moment, blinking uncertainly. “…Rudol?” He blinked again, and shook his head. “You… you aren’t supposed to be here.”
“But I am. Now help me. I think we can shift this off of you if you push from beneath while I lift.”
“I don’t…”
“Josen, there isn’t time!” Rudol grabbed the edge of the slab again. “Just lift!”
Bending his knees and gritting his teeth, he pulled up on the stone. From below, Josen obediently put his hands against it and pushed upward. Again, the slab shifted slightly, then a bit farther, and then at last with a heave Rudol toppled it off the pile.
At the same moment, a great crack sounded from behind, wood splitting and breaking. The rotborn was free.
Rudol pulled Josen up with one hand, drew his sword with the other, and turned to face the Deepling. It was already slithering about to face them.
“Go!” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll distract it!”
Josen swayed where he stood, keeping his weight on his right leg; his left leg was soaked with blood. “I won’t—”
“They need you, Josen. You can’t die here. Go!”
Rudol didn’t look again to see if Josen had listened. The rotborn barrelled down on him, pulling itself on five long spider legs; its snake-body was chopped nearly through at the middle, leaving a trail of ooze and black blood behind.
Two serrated blades flashed out. Rudol twisted aside from one and stopped the other with his sword. It left a shallow gouge in the blade, far less than he’d expected. In the Swamp, a Deepling could cut through steel in two or three blows; this high above the mist, they were weaker. That was to his advantage, at least.
The thing’s bladeless lower legs grasped at his body; one found purchase. Pale and covered in fine white hair, it wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer. He tried to wrench himself free, but he couldn’t—the ghostspider leg was surprisingly sticky, and its grip held. A head covered in dead eyes lunged at Rudol’s face, mandibles opening and closing.
Rudol twisted at the waist and chopped at the leg that held him. A single blow severed it at the joint. As the mandibles closed, Rudol jerked his head down; a sharp point scored a groove across his brow.
The creature reared up again and brought its thorax down on top of him. Already unbalanced, Rudol collapsed on his back under the weight. He tried to lift his sword, but a leg came down on his wrist, pressing it to the ground.
Two black blades stabbed down. He twisted to the side, avoided the first; the second tore a long gash through the rings of his chainmail and impaled him through the left shoulder, pinning him in place. The breath burst from Rudol’s lungs in a sudden bellow of pain.
The rotborn raised its free blade for a killing blow.
And paused.
Between its foremost legs, a line of red droplets spattered across pale ghostspider flesh. It raised its head toward the source.
“Here! If you want blood, take mine!”
Rudol looked back toward the sound of the voice. Josen stood just over him, one hand thrust directly at the rotborn’s face, blood smeared across his palm and wrist.
The rotborn didn’t hesitate for long; it couldn’t resist the temptation. Its mandibles snapped at Josen’s hand.
And for just a moment, the weight on Rudol’s sword arm faltered.
Josen
Josen had tried to do as he was
told, he really had.
Counting backwards by threes to drown out the whispers in his head, he’d made it perhaps ten steps on his wounded left leg. Something tore in his thigh as he moved, sending a flash of agony across his vision like stars bursting in front of his eyes, but he limped on through the pain. He’d learned to do that much, at least, over these last turns.
He’d tried to go, wanted to go, to get away from the thing that had nearly killed him before that voice took hold again.
And then he heard Rudol cry out, and he couldn’t. He couldn’t let someone else die to save him. He couldn’t let his brother die to save him.
He turned to see Rudol pinned through the shoulder by the rotborn’s blade; in a stumbling rush, Josen hobbled toward them.
This is idiotic. What can I do to stop a Deepling? I can hardly walk. He winced as a shock of pain lanced from his thigh all the way up his twisted left side, and looked down; his footprints were red stains on the ground, colored by the stream of dark crimson that flowed heavily down his leg.
And looking at his wound, he remembered. Not something he could do, but something he had—though he was losing it considerably faster than he was comfortable with. Something that the Deeplings wanted. Something the whisper in his head was begging for.
Windwalker blood.
The rotborn raised its remaining blade to plunge it down through Rudol’s chest. There was no time left to think, so Josen didn’t give himself time, just threw himself forward, ignoring the pain screaming through his legs. As he drew near, he pressed his palm into the blood dripping down his leg, and swept his hand at the rotborn. A spatter of red decorated pale ghostspider flesh.
The rotborn lifted its head toward Josen. Its blade didn’t fall.
A final limping step carried Josen well into the creature’s reach. “Here! If you want blood, take mine!” He thrust his bleeding palm toward the grotesque spider-head. He wasn’t scared anymore—this close to the Deepling, with blood flowing from the open wound on his leg, the voice was too strong in his head to think about fear.
Yes, it said. Bleed for me.
In a surge of motion, the rotborn’s mandibles lunged at Josen’s hand.
At the same moment, Rudol pulled his sword arm free, and stabbed at the center of the rotborn’s body.
His blade sank in up to the hilt.
Josen snatched his hand away; the rotborn’s mandibles snapped shut on nothing. It reared back, trying to pull away from the steel invading its flesh. Black blood oozed from the wound in thick drops. Rudol rolled aside, pushed himself to his feet, and lurched into Josen, pulling both of them out of reach as the rotborn spasmed wildly.
Leaning against one another, they watched as the Deepling gave one last thrash and collapsed to the ground, completely still.
“You were supposed to go,” Rudol said after a moment. “I should have known better than to think you’d do what you’re told.”
Josen felt a laugh well up his throat; surprised, he let it out. “If I didn’t look after you, who would, little brother?” He sagged against Rudol, barely able to stand on his injured leg.
“You really need to get to safety. Castar’s men will be here soon.” Rudol looked over his shoulder toward the Queensgate.
At the same moment, the sun spilled over the crest of the Godspire.
Golden light washed across the farming flats, sending Deeplings scurrying down the cliffs to hide. A patch of brilliance cut through the smoke and dust, and fell full across Rudol’s chest. Torn chainmail revealed the bleeding hole in his flesh, split wide by the rotborn’s blade.
By the first light of day, Josen Aryllia watched a trail of black ichor burrow into his brother’s open wound.
“No.” The word left his mouth before he realized he was saying it. “God Above, no.” It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. The last pilgrimage was for fighting men, men without Windwalker blood, men Josen never met, never saw. Tragic, but only in a distant way that he didn’t have to think about. No Eagle since the Knight-King had ever been stricken with the blood-curse, nor any before—it didn’t happen. Not to people he cared about.
Not to his brother.
Rudol looked back at him. “What—” The sentence died in his mouth as he followed Josen’s eyes down to his shoulder. The last of the Deepling’s blood disappeared into his wound; a long lump like a worm moved under his skin toward his heart.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and then, finally, Rudol set his jaw. “I have to go.” He pulled away, took a step back.
Absent his brother’s support, Josen swayed on his feet; he grimaced as his left leg took some of his weight. “Rudol, I… I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault.” Rudol’s voice was thick, and he swallowed before going on. “You were right, Josen. You were right about everything. I should have listened. But I can’t be near you now. Not…” He looked down at his shoulder; the wound was already knitting closed as the Deepling’s blood worked its way deeper. “Not like this.”
“You can! You don’t have to be a martyr, Rudol. You aren’t the next Knight-King. The swampl—the Abandoned, they have ways to keep hold of themselves. Verik has lived with it for… for I don’t know how long. Years. He can help you.”
“What then? Spend the rest of my life fighting madness? Wondering what is real and what isn’t?” Rudol shook his head. “I… I know something about what that is like. I can’t live that way. I won’t.”
“We’ll find a way! You just… you just have to come with me, and we’ll find something.”
“If I give you the chance, you’ll only convince me to stay, or Shona will, or someone else. We’d all regret that, in the end. No. I’ll fall in with the Storm Knights somewhere, and do what I can against Castar for as long as I’m able. It will be… easier, I think, to die fighting.”
“What… what about your wife? What am I supposed to tell her?”
Rudol gave a short, sad laugh. “Carissa will find a way to go on without me, I think.”
Josen had always hated to watch his brother try so desperately to please Carissa Theo, but just then he would have given his good right arm to have that Rudol back. What did she say to him? Damn her to the Deep, she couldn’t have waited a day?
“Please, Rudol. Don’t ask me to do this. Not now. You just saved my life.”
“And once, when it mattered, I didn’t. If I had, none of this would be happening. Have you forgotten that?”
“You know I haven’t,” said Josen. “You’ve hurt me, and I’ve hurt you, and maybe we’ll never find a way to perfectly balance the scales. But I don’t care. You’re my brother. I can’t just let you walk off into the Swamp to die!”
“How would you stop me?” With a raised eyebrow, Rudol tipped his head at Josen’s twisted side and bloody leg. “This isn’t your decision to make, Josen. But if it helps, I don’t expect to live long enough to reach the Swamp. All I’m asking is that if I… if you don’t find my body, after, don’t come looking for me. Let me take my last pilgrimage. Let me die as a Knight of the Storm. It’s all I have left. Let me do that right, if nothing else.”
There was a terrible finality to the words, and Josen knew then that no argument would make a difference. He opened his mouth to argue all the same. But before he could, something caught his attention: a flash of gold in the corner of his eye, from the direction of the Queensgate.
The gold-on-crimson of Goldstone’s arms, glinting under the newly risen sun.
The first of Castar’s men were marching through the gap in the wall, barely a hundred yards away. The first outside force in living memory to breach the farming flats. And here I was worried that history might forget what a splendid king I’ve made. No chance of that now. Josen looked from the invading army to the shattered remains of a wall that had stood since the Rising; to the bodies of the dead on the blood-stained grass; to the torn earth and tattered crops of the farming flats behind him. We’re all dead already. Why not let him choose how he goes?
>
Rudol had turned toward the ruined wall himself, and seen the same thing Josen had. “You can’t be here,” he said. “Your men will need their king if there’s going to be any chance to rally a defense. We don’t have time to argue. Let me go.”
“Are you…” Josen had to force the words past the constriction in his throat. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“It is.”
Josen swallowed, and then nodded his head, once. “Then I won’t stand in the way. I just… I wish we had another chance. To get things right. To be the way we used to be.”
“In another life, maybe. Like Mother always said.”
“In another life,” Josen repeated, and wished he could believe it. “I suppose neither one of us has much chance of getting into the Above this time around.”
“I suppose not.” And then, to Josen’s surprise, Rudol grasped him with both arms and pulled him into a rough, clumsy embrace. “Goodbye, Josen.”
“Goodbye, Rudol. I… I hope you find what you’re looking for.” With tears stinging at his eyes, Josen wrapped his arms around his brother for the first time in too many years.
And then, for the last time, he let him go.
47. Promises Kept
Lenoden
Striding through the Queensgate wasn’t the triumphant experience Lenoden had hoped it would be.
For one thing, he’d imagined it would still be intact.
The way he’d pictured it, he was welcomed as a savior, not a conqueror. He was supposed to pass through open gates with a properly regal escort and the last Windwalker by his side, the lowborn cheering his name. The true king foretold in the Word. In that perfect world, Gerod had died the way he was meant to, Rudol had given over his crown peacefully, and Josen was rotting beneath the mist where his loud mouth couldn’t cause any trouble.
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 85