The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “Lord of Eagles,” one of Morne’s knights breathed, from just behind Josen. “Never thought I’d see something like that.” A murmur of bewildered reverence answered him.

  Thank you, Eroh. Josen might have been imagining it, but the tension felt as if it had lessened, if only a small amount. To these men, who had seen the last Windwalker bring the Sky God’s eagles to their rescue at one of the darkest moments of a long, terrible night, no words could have said as much as the sight of Eroh embracing a swampling woman, or Goldeyes coming to rest on her upraised arm.

  The swamplings—the Abandoned, call them the Abandoned when you talk to her—were near enough now that Josen could have shouted to them, but it wasn’t time for that yet. Besides Zerill, he knew some of their faces: Eian, of course, and the big silver-haired man by his side was Korv, Azra’s father, who had ambushed them at the Toadthroat. An older man of similar size and with the same silver hair walked beside Zerill—Josen didn’t know him, but he had to be a father or uncle to Korv. The rest were pale dark-eyed strangers. Most wore tattered Storm Knight surcoats, and some of them actual hauberks and chausses of chainmail, but Zerill had shed her disguise if she’d ever had one; she was dressed only in hides like the ones she’d worn when they’d travelled together in the Swamp.

  When perhaps ten yards were left between them, Zerill stepped ahead of the others, still holding Eroh’s hand. The silver-haired older man came with her, and a small guard; the white-braided woman stayed very close to Zerill’s side.

  “Cer Falyn, wait here with the guard,” said Josen. “We won’t need them.”

  Morne shook her head. “Your Majesty, I can’t—”

  “If they want to hurt me, between three thousand of them, they’ll manage to do it. Why pretend otherwise?” He beckoned to Azra and Verik. “Come—I think it’s time we gave you two back to your people.” And then, leaning against Shona, he hobbled toward Zerill.

  Halfway between two armies, they met.

  “You came,” Josen said.

  “I said I would.” If Zerill was nervous or afraid to be walking under the sun before the oldest enemies of her people, she didn’t show it. She held her head high and her back straight, and her dark eyes met Josen’s with a kind of dignified challenge, as if to say that whatever came of this meeting, she would not be cowed by highlanders.

  To Josen, it was like seeing her clearly for the first time. Before, she’d almost always been wearing a hood or a mask, or shrouded in the dark below the mist. Here in the light, she looked real to him in a way she hadn’t before, more than just a half-realized idea put together from his own notions about swamplings. The marks of Castar’s torture were almost healed, and behind them her features were still strange—those large too-dark eyes, the too-pale skin, yellow-white hair glowing in the sunlight—but they were beautiful in their way, strong and severe, like some kind of warrior queen. When he thought of Aryllia, he pictured her as one of his own people, brown-skinned and dark-haired, but he’d always imagined her face would look something like Zerill’s.

  “Josen,” Shona whispered, and nudged him slightly.

  Zerill was looking at him with a slightly raised eyebrow, waiting.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve just… never really seen you in the light before.” And still, he found it hard to look away. Spirit of All, am I this stupid? How many times has Shona warned me about this?

  But Zerill didn’t seem overly concerned with his interest. Azra and Verik were approaching now, and she turned to them with a smile, exchanged signs Josen couldn’t understand. Azra embraced her; Verik returned her smile, but no more than that. He’d explained his oaths to Josen once, and one of them was that he wasn’t meant to be as close to anyone as he was to her.

  The rest of the swampling party was drawing near, and Eian with them. That, at last, was enough to draw Josen’s attention away from Zerill.

  “It’s good to see you alive, old man,” he said, and grinned.

  Eian smiled, but it was very sad. “And you, lad.” He didn’t leave Korv’s side, even as Azra moved to embrace her father.

  And then Josen noticed that Korv’s hand was gripping Eian’s arm, and several of the other swampling warriors kept very close to them, as if standing guard.

  Josen frowned. “What is this, Eian? Come over here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eian said. “I can’t.”

  “What do you—”

  “I made a promise.”

  “What are you talking about?” Josen turned back to Zerill. “What is he talking about?”

  “It… was the only way,” Zerill said. “Without his horn the Kinmeet would not risk coming, but they could not forgive him, either. I tried.”

  “What do you mean? Tried what?” Josen’s weak arm began to tremble. “Will one of you tell me what is happening?”

  “I promised that I would stay with them,” said Eian. “It was the price of this reprieve. While I can still be of use, I will. But after Castar is dealt with, I am theirs to punish as they see fit.”

  Cer Falyn was beside Josen in half an instant; her knights were with her. “No. You will surrender him to us this instant!”

  In response, the older man who looked like Korv made a quick sign with one hand. The white haired woman at Zerill’s shoulder stepped in front of her, and Korv pushed Azra behind him. A dozen swampling warriors raised spears and clubs and axes. Zerill pulled Eroh close and signed something to the others, but if she was trying to calm them, it did little good—they didn’t lower their weapons.

  “Josen,” Shona hissed. “Do not let this happen. We cannot fight three thousand swamplings right now.”

  Josen wanted to push her away, to ignore her, to demand that Cer Falyn and her knights take Eian back by any means necessary. But he’d come very close to disaster once already today by ignoring Shona. He couldn’t keep promising to listen only to ignore her when he didn’t like what she had to say.

  “Wait.” He took a long breath, and then he said to Zerill, “I… I understand. You came to our aid when we needed it most, and this was the pact you had to make to do that. We will honor it, for now. But we will talk about this later. Properly, and at length. I believe that is how diplomacy is supposed to work.”

  Morne looked from Eian to Josen and back again, fury blazing in her eyes. “Have you both taken leave of your senses? I will not allow this!”

  “You will,” Eian said, and his voice was stern now, the voice of the lord general. “I love you dearly, Falyn, but I will not forgive you if you break this parley. Let it be. I agreed to this of my own will. Atonement does not come freely.” He raised his voice to address the others. “Stand down. No more blood will be shed today.”

  At Eian’s word, some of the knights lowered their weapons, but not all. Cer Falyn stared at him for a long time, and then, at last, she lifted a shaking hand to forestall the men behind her. “So be it,” she said. “No more blood. For now.”

  Zerill signed again to the older swampling man, and this time, he nodded and gestured to the others. They lowered their weapons as the Knights of the Storm lowered theirs. Zerill stepped once more to the front, though the white-haired woman stayed at her side, glaring fiercely at Morne’s knights.

  “Now that we’ve decided not to kill one another, perhaps we can get to more important questions,” Shona said with a nonchalance she clearly didn’t feel—Josen could see the tightness in her jaw and neck. “Was it your Makers who caused the quake? It couldn’t have been Auren. If he’d changed sides, he wouldn’t have helped Castar escape. ”

  Zerill shook her head. “I hoped you would know. The Makers do not have that kind of power.”

  Josen and Shona both looked to Verik.

  Verik grinned slightly. “Loudspeech is not only for telling highlanders about deepcraft, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, Verik, but it’s important,” Shona said. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “Told you all I know,” Verik said with a shr
ug. “Beyond Makers’ power. Maybe Windwalker blood.”

  Josen knew what that meant. Rudol. But he wasn’t ready to say it aloud. He’d made a promise. And besides that, thinking of his brother reminded him of something else. He isn’t the first of Aryllia’s line to take the last pilgrimage.

  “The old man has power like that too, though,” he said. “He broke the Queensgate, pulled a road out of the mountain. That couldn’t all have just been from… from Shona’s father, could it?”

  “Don’t know,” said Verik. “Where else?”

  “I just thought… if Windwalker blood is what matters, maybe there is another way he could have it besides sacrifice. There was a king who had what you call the Maker’s curse. Josen the Knight-King. That’s where my name comes from. He took the last pilgrimage into the Swamp.”

  “That was more than a hundred years ago,” Shona protested. “It couldn’t be him.”

  “No,” said Josen, “but if he found a swampling woman, whether she was willing or not… Or it could have been someone else. Not another Eagle, or we’d have heard about losing them in the Swamp, but some knight with a distant blood tie, or a bastard child that no one knew about. There are a hundred ways it could have happened that wouldn’t be in any of our histories.”

  Shona’s eyes widened with understanding. “And if Auren has that kind of power in his own blood, he might not have needed my father’s—”

  “Many things might be true,” interrupted Zerill. “But right now our purpose is not to guess at things we cannot know. My people came here for a reason more important than that.”

  Josen thought Shona would argue, but she only bit her lip and dipped her head. “She’s right. We can talk about this later. We’re wasting time, and everyone here needs rest after… after everything. Let’s say what needs saying and be done with it.”

  Josen gestured to Zerill. “You first, then,” he said. “Like you said, you’re here for a reason.”

  “We are,” said Zerill. “Grandfather Tarv of the Heartspears stands behind me”—she pointed to the large older man with silver hair—“And Grandmother Nevris of the Shadowfeet has given me her voice. I am Zerill, Grandmother of the Lighteyes, and I speak for all of the Abandoned. We mean you no harm. We have come seeking an end to a war that has hurt our people and yours. In exchange, we offer our spears in your fight against Lenoden Castar. Will you hear us?” She extended her hand.

  Josen eagerly clasped her forearm; her hand closed around his wrist. “Of course we—”

  Shona coughed, and prodded him in the shin with her foot.

  Right. Have to do this properly. Josen cleared his throat and straightened his back. Loud and strong, so that it would reach the swamplings ahead and the men of the Peaks behind, he said, “There is much we must still discuss, but the people of the Peaks owe you a great debt. In Aryllia’s name, I offer a truce between my people and yours, for as long as it takes to reach terms of peace.”

  “And in the name of the Abandoned, I accept your offer,” Zerill said, just as loudly. Then, much softer, for him alone: “Thank you, Josen.”

  “How could I refuse?” Josen said with a small grin. “I have a reputation to live up to. They are already calling me the Swampling King, you know.”

  Zerill frowned. “We have no king. And if we did, it would not be a highlander.”

  Josen’s grin fell. Spirit of All, that was a stupid thing to say. “Of course. I didn’t mean to… I was only—”

  Zerill raised a closed fist, a sign he knew very well. He’d seen it from her enough times. Quiet. But a slight smile played at the corner of her mouth now.

  “You will never be our king,” she said. “But I am beginning to believe that you might be our friend.”

  50. Under the Sun

  Shona

  “Will this do?” Shona asked Zerill, and gestured across the festival grounds.

  Over the last turn, a wooden palisade had been erected around the edge of the grassy space, separating it from the rest of the People’s Plateau. Men were still working on the far end of the fortifications, at the shore of the Queenslake, but Shona had been assured that it would be done in time for Josen’s coronation. Beyond the wall of wooden stakes, a crowd had gathered, and even through the closed gates she could hear the low rumble of voices, some curious, some frightened, some angry. Hardly a surprise—a party of swamplings in the Plateaus was always going to draw attention. So far, though, no one had done anything stupid. Wind of Grace, let it stay that way.

  “It will,” said Zerill. “We will be more comfortable here than we would be surrounded by stone.”

  That had been the first offer: several well-appointed manor houses in the Countscliff. Zerill had refused. Her people would feel trapped inside highlander walls, she’d said. It had been quickly agreed that the farming flats weren’t an option—efforts had already begun to repair and replant what could be repaired and replanted, and taking away a sizable parcel of that land was no way to make the Peaks welcome this new alliance. It was only after they’d eliminated those options that it had occurred to Shona to offer the festival ground.

  Today—the first day of Berian’s Rest—Zerill had come with a small guard to look over the near-finished work. A half-dozen swamplings flanked her on both sides, watchful and wary. On the open grass a short distance away, Azra was teaching Eroh some swampling game; they appeared to be taking turns trying to sneak up on one another while Goldeyes perched atop a pile of lumber nearby, watching.

  Shona wasn’t yet accustomed to so many pale faces and dark eyes above the mist in full daylight, but she didn’t let herself stare. That, at least, was a habit she’d managed to break after days of diplomatic talks with the swamplings. She had devoted almost every moment of her time over the past nine days to proposing and arguing terms, arranging meetings between her people and Zerill’s, overseeing every detail of their alliance. Even on the day she’d burned her mother’s body, she’d been back to work within the hour.

  Grief was an indulgence she had no time for, and a part of her was grateful for that. There was always some new problem to fix, some new crisis to manage. Some new way to distract herself, if only for a moment, from the sudden, terrible hole at the center of her life.

  Just keeping the Plateaus’ army and the swamplings from killing one another took most of her attention. Both forces were encamped at the base of the Queensmount to guard against another attack while the walls were rebuilt—which would be slow work even with the aid of the Makers’ deepcraft. Relations between the two camps were tense, to say the least. Alma Terene had arrived from Whitelake with reinforcements just a day ago, and if anything the new soldiers had made things worse. At least the men of the Plateaus had to acknowledge, if grudgingly, that the swamplings had turned the tide of the battle against Castar. Whitelake’s army hadn’t been there to see that part.

  That was the purpose of today’s ceremony—to present the swamplings as allies to those who hadn’t been there in the farming flats that day. In a few short hours, Josen would formally welcome them into the Peaks to stand witness to his coronation, and offer them the festival grounds as a diplomatic outpost of sorts. A symbolic gesture more than anything—over the last several days, swamplings had walked above the mist many times, escorted from their camp to the Keep and back again whenever it was necessary. But today would be the first time they stood openly before the people of the Plateaus, under the eyes of highborn and lowborn alike.

  Shona just hoped it would make some difference.

  “As far as shelter, I wasn’t certain what you might need,” she said, “But I had some supplies brought in.” She gestured to a heap of colored canvas and stakes and poles piled against the northern wall of the palisade—the bulk of the tents and pavilions that filled the grounds during the more festive rests. “The way Josen described your Kinmeet to me, I thought you could do something with these.”

  “It will suffice,” Zerill said simply. Shona couldn’t help but admire her compos
ure. If I had to walk among thousands of swamplings, I wouldn’t be half so calm. I can hardly manage a dozen.

  “Whoever you choose to stay here will be treated with every honor as diplomatic envoys, so long as you keep to the agreed upon numbers. But Eian has to come with you. He will remain in the care of your people, but he is still lord general of the Knights of the Storm. We need him near at hand.”

  That agreement had only come after days of debate. The swamplings wouldn’t surrender Eian—nor did he much want to be surrendered, as far as Shona could tell—but he was still a hero to many in the Peaks. No alliance would survive if the lowborn thought he’d been sacrificed for it. This was an acceptable compromise for the time being. If he was seen among the swamplings, it would help the army and the lowborn to trust them, and until Shona could find a better solution, it was some comfort to have him nearby.

  “He will not be harmed while our alliance lasts,” said Zerill, and behind it, Shona could imagine the whisper of what she wasn’t saying: When this is over, I won’t be able to protect him.

  But if there was any hope of changing that, it lay in moving forward. Establishing a trust with the swamplings now could make the difference later.

  “Good,” said Shona. “Keep your promises, and we will keep ours. You may come and go as you please—you aren’t prisoners. But I have to warn you, not every person in the Plateaus will be happy that you’re here. The palisade should keep you safe enough, but I’d advise that you let us provide an escort if you want to go into the city.”

  “I understand. But if I choose to walk without your guards, I know how to move through this city unseen.”

  “I suppose you do at that.” I keep forgetting she’s been here before. God Above, I might even have seen her at one festival or another and not known it. That was a very strange thought. “Is there anything else you’ll need? Just ask.”

  Zerill shook her head. “We have only ever known one home, and even there we can never stay for very long. To have a place above the mist is… a great gift. We need nothing else.”