The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  But no amount of surprise or fury or will could make up for the sunlight spilling over the crest of the mountain. The Lighteyes were better prepared than any other kin, but even so, too many faltered under the brightness, blinded or simply terrified—the Abandoned had ever been superstitious about stepping into the sight of the Sky God’s eye. And the highlanders took advantage of that weakness. They pushed back, and there were hundreds of them to take the place of their fallen brothers. Warriors began to fall under Storm Knight blades.

  A knight with a grey-speckled black beard came at Zerill, growling as he chopped two-handed at her chest. She dodged back, but she wasn’t used to the weight of her armor; it slowed her down just enough that the tip of his blade connected, sliced through half of her grey surcoat and grated against the metal beneath. It still hurt; the strength of it drove her back and knocked the wind from her. But even so, her grin widened. On any normal day in the Swamp, that same blow would have killed her. Instead, she was alive under the open sky, standing on a highlander mountain wearing highlander steel. There was something exhilarating about that.

  “What are you smiling about, dark-eye?” The bearded knight pressed forward and struck again.

  The light reflected off his blade, and the sudden brightness burned her eyes. She fell back another step, barely caught the blow on her spear haft, and stumbled under the unfamiliar weight of her mail leggings. Her foot landed wrong, and he took advantage of the opening by bearing down hard against her spear.

  Her leg buckled beneath her. He shoved her down to one knee, and even as he did, a thought flickered through her head: Saved by highlander steel one moment, damned the next. Despite the pain and the danger, a part of her wanted to laugh—the same part that exalted in killing highlanders here under the light of their own sun, the part that was grinning the wild grin she couldn’t stop.

  But she didn’t laugh. No sound in front of a highlander. She’d broken that rule too many times, but not here. Not now. She just bared her teeth in that savage grin, and pushed back.

  He was stronger than she was, and the splinted fingers of her left hand stopped her from bracing her haft properly. Her spear fell back under the pressure, inch by inch. His blade angled toward her face. His head pushed close. She could see the pores in his dark skin, the whites of his too-small eyes. His breath filled her nostrils, foul and hot. Her arms trembled, at the limit of their endurance.

  A spear-head of dark slate flashed over her shoulder and plunged through the bridge of the knight’s nose with a sickening crunch.

  He blinked once, and then the spear pulled free and he fell, blood pouring into his beard. A hand wrapped under Zerill’s armpit and yanked her roughly to her feet. She turned to see the last person she’d expected: a sinewy woman with white hair pulled into a single braid. Jeva.

  Jeva must have seen the surprise on Zerill’s face, because she scowled and signed, You are Grandmother now. No highlander touches you.

  Nothing more needed to be said. That was the way of it, among the Abandoned. There were disagreements in Kinmeet, but once the decisions were made, they were made. Against the highlanders, they were united. Always.

  Lifting her spear, Zerill took her place beside Jeva, and together they rejoined the battle. If this entire endeavor proved to be a fool’s hope, at least she would die fighting alongside a kinmate. A sister.

  All along the line, her people fought courageously, even under the blinding light of a world they didn’t know. The Makers had used much of their power already, but now and again earthspouts opened beneath highlander feet, creating momentary openings. Not far away, Korv swung his warclub in great arcs to keep the highlanders at bay as he blinked against the light. Jeva killed a man with her spear and closed with another. Ralk dropped to one knee with a highlander sword in his throat, felling his killer with a final swing of his axe.

  But courage wouldn’t win this battle. Too many were dying. Heartspears closed in from behind to fill the gaps, but they had no armor, and they weren’t accustomed to fighting in the sun. For every highlander, three of the Abandoned fell. Please, Josen. Make this worth it. Don’t let these lives be wasted.

  Zerill looked to Gryston, fighting not far from her; he wielded his sword in one hand, held his horn in the other.

  “Sound it again!” she shouted. “We can’t do this alone!”

  He lifted the horn to his lips once more, and his call rang out clear and strong.

  Seconds later, another signal echoed over the plateau from somewhere across the fields. There was a commotion behind the battlefront, voices raised in confusion, and then another horn sounded from the midst of Castar’s ranks. The flow of battle shifted; the pressure against the Abandoned lessened slightly but perceptibly as the enemy responded to new orders.

  Zerill fell back a step; a Lighteye warrior moved in to take her place. Shielding her eyes against the light, she stood on her toes and peered toward the sound.

  Across the plateau, a force of a thousand or more joined the battle, wearing uniforms as blue as the sky. And these were no allies to Castar—steel rang on steel as they met his force from the other side.

  Zerill swallowed the laughter that welled in her throat—or perhaps the tears. Just then, it could have been both. She’d never thought she would see such a thing in her life.

  Josen’s men had answered their call.

  For the first time, an army of highlanders was coming to the aid of the Abandoned.

  Rudol

  Rudol cut his way across the battlefield, driven by his brother’s voice.

  Yes, little brother. Make them bleed.

  It was different than it had been. The same voice, still Josen, but now he couldn’t shut it out. Before, even when he’d feared he was going mad, Rudol had always been able to quiet his mind in battle—when he’d needed peace, he’d sought out sparring partners in the Stormhall’s darkroom, or simply practiced his stances and strikes alone. For him, it had been a kind of meditation.

  Now, even that had been taken from him. Like everything else.

  Two men in crimson uniforms stood before him, swords at the ready. One attempted a feint; Rudol ignored the trick, and brought his blade down on the man’s elbow. Mail links split and flew through the air, glinting in the sun like sparks struck from a flint. His blade didn’t reach flesh, but it didn’t have to. Bone crunched under the impact, and the man screamed as his sword fell from his hand.

  The second man jabbed at Rudol’s side, but Rudol easily twisted out of the way, and then slashed halfway through the soldier’s neck. A final blow crushed the face of the first man, still clutching the ruin of his arm. Blood drenched the soil underfoot, staining the remains of some crop so crushed and trampled that Rudol couldn’t identify it any longer.

  Yes, Josen’s voice exalted in his head. Show them what you really are. They have underestimated you for far too long.

  It had been like this from the very beginning. Rudol had thought it would take longer, that he had time yet before the madness took hold, but from the first moment he’d met Castar’s forces, he’d felt the pulse of tainted blood in his veins. And it was far from a bad feeling. He was faster than he’d ever been, stronger, better. It seemed as if no weapon could touch him; time and again, swords and pikes and axes glanced off his armor, but none struck flesh.

  He was invincible.

  He’d marched into battle among the Plateaus’ defenders, but he’d long since left them behind, carving a path deep into the enemy lines. And with every man he killed, the pulse in his veins grew stronger, and the voice in his head louder. There was a hunger growing in him, gnawing away at the edges of reason—it demanded blood, but blood wasn’t enough. With every drop he spilled, the hunger only intensified. He needed something more, and he didn’t know what it was.

  Across the battlefield, he could see the swamplings closing in from the other side; now and again, small eruptions of earth amid the enemy ranks opened pathways for them to press forward. Behind him, he knew t
hat his brother’s forces—what was left of them—were moving to cut off any escape, pushing Castar’s men against the sheer drop at the cliff’s edge.

  He knew these things, but only distantly, through a curtain of crimson. The only immediate thing was the killing. The voice and the blood urged him forward, and he didn’t resist. Why should he? If he died here, it would be a blessing, and the more of the enemy he took with him, the better.

  This is how you get the respect you deserve, little brother. This is how you make your mark. You have to carve it in skin and bone and blood.

  Rudol strode forward to meet the next man, and the next, and on and on. Bodies fell under his feet one and two and three at a time.

  And then, abrubtly, there were no more to fall. To his left, a gravely damaged windmill painted in faded, flaking yellows and blues separated him from Castar’s forces. A great hole gaped open in the ancient structure’s side and deep into the foundation, carved by a beetleback’s blades. To his right, the enemy gave Rudol a wide berth, unwilling to enter the reach of his blade. In the lull of that moment, he noticed with a strange sense of satisfaction that his arms were soaked with red nearly to the shoulder.

  “Impressive.” A real voice, aloud, not in his head. And one Rudol knew. One that demanded attention, even through the clamor of battle and the madness eating at his mind. “I had to see for myself who could cause such havoc among my men.”

  From around the broken windmill, a man stepped into view, wearing a crimson and gold surcoat with Goldstone’s mountain emblazoned full across the chest. Beneath a steel helm and above a neatly-trimmed black beard, a pair of keen grey eyes met Rudol’s, and widened.

  “Rudol?” said Lenoden Castar. “Is that you?”

  Blood pounded in Rudol’s ears. Lifting his sword, he took a step forward.

  “Wait. Rudol, I don’t want to fight you. I never wanted that.”

  Don’t listen to him! He has told you too many lies already, little brother. Make him pay!

  But something stayed Rudol’s hand—some part of him that wanted to listen. To believe, even after everything, that this man he’d admired so much cared for him in some way that wasn’t a lie.

  “You… you said I would be a good king.” Rudol stumbled over the words—his tongue felt clumsy, as if his body had forgotten how to speak. How to do anything but shed blood. “You used me.”

  “You have every right to feel that way. But I need you to know that I never meant for it to come to this. Our friendship was no lie.”

  “How can you say that, after what you’ve done? You betrayed me. You betrayed the Peaks.”

  “I did what I thought was best for the Peaks. You of all people must know that Josen doesn’t have it in him to wear Aryllia’s Crown. There is so much that I could do for this kingdom if I just had that little piece of glass around my brow. And there is still a place for you at my side. You could be my lord general. No man is better suited to it.” Duke Castar reached out his hand. “Please, Rudol. You know what will happen if we cross swords. Don’t throw your life away on a fight you can’t win.”

  “Are you so certain that I would lose?” Rudol’s fist clenched around the hilt of his sword. “For all your flattery, you never really believed that I could match you, did you?” When they’d sparred, Castar had always won, that was true. But sometimes it had been a very close thing. And now, with this strength surging in his blood… Show him, little brother! Show him what you can do!

  Castar frowned. “What? That isn’t what I—”

  “Let’s find out,” Rudol said.

  Some men would have been surprised by the sudden fury of the attack; Lenoden Castar was not one of them. He was already raising his sword as Rudol sprang forward, and he parried the blow with easy grace. Rudol barely deflected his counter-strike, and had to fall back a step to find better footing.

  “So be it, then,” Castar said coldly. “If you are so eager to die, let me oblige you.” He closed in, pressing his attack.

  He was better even than Rudol had believed—and Rudol had always believed him to be the best. Their swords met time and again, and Castar came away with the advantage as often as he didn’t. Even now, with power surging in his veins and in his head, the best Rudol could do was match the duke blow for blow. Whatever sparring they’d done, it had been just another lie among many; if Castar had fought like this then, it would have been no contest at all.

  There were men all around fighting battles of their own, but Rudol paid them no mind. Only Castar mattered. With every parried strike, he could hear Josen’s voice: End it! Kill him! But he couldn’t break through Castar’s defense, any more than Castar could break his. And it had been too long since he’d drawn blood.

  The need was growing.

  And then he saw his chance. A series of blows forced Castar’s back to the wall of the mill; when their blades locked, there was nowhere for the duke to retreat. He had no choice but to put his strength against Rudol’s. But when he pushed, Rudol didn’t. Instead, he pivoted, slid his sword along Castar’s, and angled the point toward the duke’s face. Castar’s own momentum did the rest—not finding the resistance he’d expected, he staggered forward a step, and the tip of Rudol’s blade drew a gouge along his cheek.

  It wasn’t good enough. Castar jerked back his head, shoved Rudol’s sword away, and lunged to one side. Free of the wall, he quickly found his footing.

  They both drew back, circled each other once more.

  “You’ve improved,” said Castar. Blood trickled down his cheek from a long, shallow gash; he wiped it away with one hand. “The last time we sparred, you didn’t put up a fight like this. A shame you’ve decided to waste your talent.”

  Rudol had no answer; the sight of blood stole away any words he might have spoken. Impatient, unthinking hunger screamed in his head. More! Stain the earth red! A crimson haze seeped in around the edges of his vision. With a roar, he charged.

  Castar spun to the side; his blade flashed out.

  Rudol felt a slight sting on the inside of his thigh, high on his leg where his mail chausses offered no protection. It was hardly more than an annoyance, a gnat’s bite, but when he looked down, a stream of dark red was flowing down his leg. He could feel the wound begin to knit even as he spun to face Castar again—the blood-curse doing its dark work. But it needed to be fed, and soon.

  “Perhaps I spoke too soon,” Castar said with a slight smirk. “That was careless.”

  He’s mocking you! Stop playing and kill him!

  Snarling, Rudol lunged once more, thrusting his sword two-handed at Castar’s chest.

  Castar danced nimbly back, and with a flick of his wrist, he scored a shallow cut across Rudol’s right forearm, between gauntlet and mail. Again, the wound began to close almost instantly, but blood pulsed furiously in Rudol’s temples, and the red was closing in, narrowing his vision to an ever-smaller circle. All he could see was the man he needed to kill.

  He wasn’t in control anymore. The curse was.

  “This is becoming pathetic.” Castar sounded almost disappointed. “And for a moment you were doing so well.”

  Near-blind with rage and hunger, Rudol raised his sword overhead and slashed down with all his strength.

  The blow didn’t even come close to landing. Castar effortlessly sidestepped, slipped his blade under Rudol’s crossguard, and with a twist, flicked the sword out of his grasp.

  “I’m sorry, Rudol. I truly didn’t want it to end this way.” Castar thrust his sword at Rudol’s unprotected face.

  Moving purely by instinct, Rudol raised his arm to block the blow. He felt a dark pleasure rise from the pit of his stomach and surge through his body, and then Castar’s sword struck his forearm.

  And shattered.

  Shards of steel flew in every direction; only the hilt was left in Castar’s hand, with a jagged stub of metal at the end.

  The duke stared at his broken sword, open-mouthed, and then at Rudol. “How did you…” Understanding lit
his eyes. “Oh, Rudol. I am sorry.”

  “No,” Rudol breathed. He’d accepted madness and death, and given himself over to them. But not this. Knights of the Storm met the blood-curse with dignity, took their last pilgrimage into the Swamp and died fighting. He’d seen cursed men preparing for that final journey, days after infection—they acted strangely sometimes, but it was never like this. They didn’t gain power over the deepcraft. That was the swamplings’ heresy, corruption made manifest, an abomination in the eye of the Lord of Eagles. “No, no, no.”

  And somehow, that revulsion pierced the red curtain that separated him from himself. The hunger and rage and darkness were still there, still impossible to ignore, but he was there, too. In control of his own body and mind, if precariously.

  “Now you know what real power feels like, little brother.”

  There was no mistaking that voice, but it didn’t come from inside this time.

  Rudol looked past Castar; just behind the duke, another man leaned against the wall of the crumbling mill.

  Josen.

  But not Josen as he was now. This was Josen as Rudol remembered him, young and strong. He was as slender and handsome as he’d ever been, and there was no white in his dark curls, no sign of his mysterious injuries. He propped himself with infuriating nonchalance against broken stone, an all-too familiar grin on his face.

  “Leave me alone,” Rudol said, his voice cracking. He isn’t there. This is the curse, this is madness. He isn’t there.

  Castar narrowed his eyes. “What? Who are you talking to?” He looked over his shoulder, following Rudol’s eyes, and then turned back with a frown. “Listen to me: whatever you think you know about this curse, there is more to it. You can take control. I know a man who may be able to help you.”

  Rudol heard the words, but they meant nothing. He couldn’t look away from his brother.

  “You don’t really want me to go, Rudol,” Josen said. He stepped forward, moving through Castar as if the duke wasn’t there at all. “I left you once before, and that wasn’t very nice, was it?”