The Heirs of History
Book One: A Nation From Nothing
T. Josiah Haynes
Copyright © 2021 by T. Josiah Haynes
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
First Edition
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Part I
1. Enesma
2. Northwestward
3. Foundation
4. Hullahedeen
5. Marble Slab
6. Suspects
7. Sister Killer
Part II
8. Small Shields
9. Head of the Table
10. Ambassador
11. Wed
12. Supplications
13. A Dove Painted With Blood
14. Victory Tour
15. The Other Procedure
16. Sapphire Blue
Part III
17. Alien
18. Invasion
19. A Hundred of My Fathers
20. Colors Yet Undiscovered
21. Queen of Hrashhill
22. The Representative's Son
23. All In Support
24. The Rasp of an Iron Hinge
25. Banquet
Part IV
26. Honor
27. Bereft
28. Onto the Rocky Shore
29. Eradicated From Memory
30. Horns
31. Negotiate
32. Harbinger
33. A Demon In Human Flesh
34. The Other Side of the World
35. All Hail Yaangd
Epilogue
Appendix
About the Author
Part I
The New Coast
from the diary of Scribe Nudntry-bal the younger
…and he did not have the most dignified of deaths, but Fal Falhill remains one of the most memorable congressers in Hrashhill’s young history.
Only a congresser for less than one solar cycle, Falhill contributed to some of the most critical decisions in Hrashhill’sinfancy. He sought to keep the government separate from both the church and the military. And not only was he a major part of the decision to send off the ambassadors who introduced the Hillites to the Segchyhah, but Falhill was a strong voice in support of the alliance with the Segchyhah.
Now, knowing what a prosperous nation we would become — despite the myriad hardships — it’s hard not to acknowledge Falhill as a founding father. No wonder his long-haired, wide-eyed visage is carved into the walls of the Cavern of Congress, overlooking the historic Marble Slab.
Since we fled Old Coast, set sail after the slaughter at Enesma, and landed on this new coast, we have built and built and built. I count it a privilege to have been on that first fleet of ships which sailed from Enesma, for countless fell that day. And I count it a privilege to have known Falhill, even apprenticed under him for a brief time.
Many may remember Falhill for when he controversially took matters into his own hands and beheaded…
Chapter one
Enesma
It was a cool, comfortable, cloudy afternoon in Enesma, and Falhill believed he would sleep in his own bed that night and for many nights to come.
A whistle, piercing yet faint, echoed off the gray brick of the corridor walls and the aged oak of the floorboards. Past a withered portrait of parents, painted before their final plunge at the gallows. Over a clandestine compartment in the flooring, wherein hid illegal books and outlawed pamphlets and propaganda hungry for readers. In one ear of a young student, seated at his stunted counter with quill and parchment, and out the other. The pupil was only fourteen and had not been told what dire message this whistle conveyed. The shriek continued its urgent quest for an eavesdropper.
Penning an account of simpler times within his quaint bedchamber, Falhill perked up, brushed aside a lock of his long black hair. Falhill knew what a whistle meant. His heart skipped a beat, and his lungs failed to expand. His green pupils dilated, and his long feet found the floor. He was running.
Falhill fell into the room where his wife’s pupil studied. “Scribe Falhill?” the pupil asked.
His brow furrowed, but Falhill had no time to explain. “Come with me. Quickly. Bring only what you absolutely need.” The signal continued to whine. It shrilled higher and more sustained than Falhill expected, but he could ask questions later.
He rushed into the bedroom, the privy, the foyer — but Falhill could not find her. He stumbled without, to find the garden filled with only vegetation, the façade and its rocking chairs unoccupied, the gazebo utterly empty. All that mattered was Falhill’s wife, but she eluded him.
His thoughts stampeded through his head like chaotic cattle. Perhaps his wife had visited their neighbor, the widow Balgray. Suppressing a headache and a heart attack, he scurried past his study and his empty bedroom. He turned a corner and into the nook that housed their cauldron and hearth, decorated in protective relics and various pots and jars and a long glazed window overlooking their neighbor’s garden. But no Falhadn.
Through a milky window, across the yard, and into his neighbor’s house, he sought his heart’s desire. Staring back at him from across the dew-laden yard was one of his closest friends, Balgray, in her own cauldron room. She stood taller than Falhill, and her hazel eyes squinted as tightly as they always did. Her face contorted, her nostrils flared. Hers was a face of abject fear. And next to Balgray arrived Falhadn, Falhill’s gorgeous doe-eyed wife, holding a bucket of water. The whistle persisted, and all their covert preparations demanded fruition.
Falhill took a deep breath in. He conjured a memory of his parents’ faces. Their deaths would not be in vain.
He ran.
Out the door, three cramped city blocks from the main boulevard, Falhadn and Balgray met him in the street, where the whistle had ceased. Falhill guessed, “Is it the Unholy King, or his grand admiral?”
Falhadn shrugged her shoulders. “Or the Twisted Prince, or the False Priests?”
“Or,” Balgray interrupted, “all of them.” It was not a question, only a bone-chilling fear.
Falhadn fetched her pupil from inside the house. He carried a satchel and wore concern heavy on his face. The four of them rushed through cobblestone alleyways. They emerged onto Enesma’s main boulevard, where innumerable other protestants had gathered. Some tried not to look suspicious to passersby, but others could not keep up the ruse. A good two hundred men, women, and children had congregated on the main boulevard — no doubt even more outside of Falhill’s field of vision.
A hand gripped Falhill’s arm. Falhill prepared to strike back, but behind him stood Drea Drysword. “Thank Hrash you’re safe.” The wrinkled old man hugged Falhill. “There’s already fighting outside the southern gate.”
Balgray inhaled. “My son…”
Falhill interjected, “Who’s fighting?”
Drea answered with a bittersweet smile, “Three scouts reached the south gate ten minutes ago. Upon their report, I blew the whistle. They said that Kraek and Laebm marched north when the Twisted Prince chased them out of Baeldaan. And they’ve run into the False Priests.” Drea gestured towards a squat building across the street, where dozens already congregated. “Kraek and Laebm have maybe five hundred at their command — nowhere near enough to survive the afternoon. We must arm ourselves and bring them safely into the city.”
The Drysword led them to a side door of the squat building. Down three flights of stairs and past two dozen rebel guards, they all arrived a
t the rebels’ vast underground armory. Every second of the last two months, rebels secretly stood sentinel over this deceptively expansive basement. Now came the time to empty it.
One of Traamis the True’s converts, Commander Thaendemhill, organized the arming of the rebels. He ordered a longsword for every able-bodied man and a shortsword or morning star for every woman or child — at least until the provisions dwindled. Swaths of his fellow kingsmen-turned-rebels carried armfuls of weapons up the stairway to distribute into the crowds above. Falhill grabbed an ugly longsword, and his companions clutched shortswords of various sizes and colors. They struggled through whelming hordes and emerged from underground.
Clouds began to dull the afternoon sunlight. Thunder rolled in the distance. Or perhaps that was the hooves of the royal stallions, come to trample the rebels. Enesma had served as the center of rebel operations for near on seven lunar cycles. The port city had remained hidden from the vile king. Until this day.
On the horizon, Enesma’s two-story iron gates burst forth, and war flooded into the city.
Old man Drea froze in place. After a moment, he looked around. “Sharanhall!”
A young robed cleric left the riot about the underground armory and approached them. “Congresser Drea?”
“Light the fire.”
The cleric raised his eyebrows. “Already?”
“Before it is too late,” Drea answered, pushing the cleric to run towards the Northern Hrashery. He obeyed. “We must spread the word—”
“The fire?” Falhill asked, out of breath. “Are we already lost?”
“There are maybe three thousand of us. Graybeards and children included. But reports verify the False Priests march alongside five thousand fighting kingsmen. We must flee.”
Falhill nodded and took his wife’s hand. Drea Drysword scurried west to collect the child queen from his cottage, spreading the command to flee north on his way, hobbling quick as his ancient legs would carry him.
Falhill and his companions jogged south, towards the gate. Towards combat.
Falhill could make out the whites of some soldiers’ eyes when fire rained from above. They took cover. Falhill and his wife’s pupil were separated from the two women. Where a quaint cottage stood between the men and women, there was a sudden inferno. His ears still ringing, Falhill found his feet and tried to find his way around the blaze while his wife’s pupil ran into the flaming home to search for survivors.
The flames snapped their teeth, but he circumvented the remains of the cottage. On the other side, Falhill’s sister helped Falhadn off the ground. “Thank you, Primhadn.” His sister held an ornate shortsword.
Falhill moved towards them, but a royal captain jumped out from behind a scorched shrub. “Halt, ladies!” Falhill crept behind the flames.
“Captain!” Primhadn responded with a quick, confident smile. “I’m so glad you found us. We saw where the rebels are hiding their weapons. Follow us!”
The captain stood stone still. “Who are you?”
“My husband is Soldier Primhill, in the city guard,” she answered truthfully. “He is trying to quell the unrest up the main boulevard. Please help him!”
“Why are you all holding shortswords? Where did you get them?”
Primhadn’s smile faltered. Her voice quavered. “My husband—”
“Come with me for questioning.”
Balgray stepped forward. “Good captain, we are worried for our husbands and sons. We know little of war,” she lied.
“If you are loyal to the crown, then you will not be afraid of questioning.” Soldiers gathered up the crude shortswords, and others held the women’s hands behind their backs.
Falhill would have leapt from his hiding place, but seven more loyalist soldiers ambled into view as their conversation continued. He would need to follow them — wait for a vulnerable moment.
Distant hostilities drew nearer. The captain and his soldiers marched down the backstreet — Falhill their shadow. Marketplaces and hovels erupted with orange intensity, and red-splattered cobblestone grew more commonplace. Shouts and howls travelled down the tight alleys of southern Enesma, and Falhill started to distinguish articulate words.
Falhill had to stoop behind a domestic evergreen when the captain met with his sergeant. A score of armored footmen assembled near this crossroads of two thoroughfares. The sergeant took stock of his men and his position before charging north. When the captain and his men threw the three ladies at the sergeant’s feet, the royal sergeant didn’t know what to say.
“The women have shortswords, sergeant. They’re rebels, without a doubt,” the captain explained. “I’d like to question them.”
“We don’t have time for that,” the sergeant grumbled back at him. “We’ve got a city to subjugate. Do what you want with them, but make it quick.” Falhill pressed his body against the evergreen, careful not to breathe, as the sound of iron on dried mud passed him by.
“No time for questions,” he heard. “I like the sound of that.”
His stomach turned. Falhill couldn’t let this captain and his men defile his wife, his sister, his closest friend. He swung his longsword and stepped out from behind the evergreen. “Halt.” Falhill inched closer.
“Who’s that?” The captain quickly found the source of the voice. He drew his own longsword — not blighted with rust like Falhill’s. Eight men and one woman remained about the captain.
“I suggest you flee while you still have the chance.” Sweat dripped on his forehead. Falhill tried not to think about the fact he had never killed a man before. He had served as a scribe for eight solar cycles now. But his wife’s doe eyes. And his friend’s twitchy mouth. And his older sister… Primhadn would have already slain every last rival.
“Your odds of survival are pretty low,” the captain figured. “But you smell desperate enough to commit suicide.”
Falhill hoped the captain was wrong. He drew one step closer. Hrash be with me. Falhill charged at the nearest man, sword held to his right.
His rusted iron sang against the loyalist’s falchion. The loyalist pushed the longsword away and lifted his own blade overhead. Falhill met the blow and kicked at the man, but the loyalist spun away. His falchion reflected the cloud-dimmed sunlight as it whipped around to find Falhill’s arm. Falhill’s failed attempt to block the slash turned into a sharp retort, though.
The rusty longsword thrust into the loyalist’s mouth. The silver falchion fell from his fat hand, and from the loyalist’s mouth gushed red. In the crimson waterfall, Falhill could see his own reflection.
Had he just killed a man? His first taste of murder? That’s not the right word — this was in the heat of battle, to defend kin and country.
Only then did he realize the hum of iron resounded about him. His eyes refocused to find Balgray had tackled the loyalist woman, Primhadn and Falhadn had picked up new swords, and one of the soldiers had slain each of his other comrades, save the woman and the captain. Falhill’s loyalist fell with a thud, and the captain’s hands were empty.
“Jiridhill, obey your captain,” he whimpered, crawling backwards in the dust and mud. “I am your superior officer—” The soldier severed the captain’s vocal cords with a quick slash. The captain grunted, his eyes wide and his scrawny hand outstretched. He collapsed with a sigh. His final exhale.
Balgray — despite her thirty-five solar cycles — had overpowered a woman. A loyalist. Primhadn now covered her mouth while Falhadn crouched by each soldier and ensured all were slain.
The woman writhed. Balgray whispered, “Please. If we uncover your mouth, promise us you won’t scream.” The woman hesitated, then nodded.
Primhadn slowly removed her hands from the woman’s mouth. The woman looked around. “Help!” she shouted, and Primhadn replaced her fingers about the woman’s mouth. The male soldier, who had saved them all, slammed the thick of his blade against the woman’s forehead. Her chest still expanded and contracted, but she lay unconscious for now.
/> All at once, Falhill, his wife, and sister shouted, “Who was that?” and “Who is this?” and “What is going on?”
The soldier helped Balgray from the ground. Balgray kissed his forehead. “This is the second time you’ve saved my life.” Her lips returned to his forehead.
“Mother, please.” The young man’s face seemed to droop. “We’ve got to get out of here. I’m a traitor.”
“What about her?” Balgray gestured to the woman.
“She made her choice.”
“The twins? They need at least a mother or father.”
The man’s jaw clenched. “She’ll wake up eventually.” Falhill understood that the man was leaving his children behind, for his mother and the rebellion.
Primhadn was the first to thank the young man. “Our gratitude. My name is Primhadn. This is my brother Falhill and his wife Falhadn.”
“I’m Soldier Jiridhill. Balgray is my mother.” He looked to the unconscious woman. “And that is Jiridhadn.” The man shook his head. “Apologies — we should go.”
Falhill grabbed his wife’s soft hand. “We have little time. We are leaving Enesma. The ships need to depart within the half hour, or the False Priests will set them and us ablaze.”
Falhadn pulled away from her husband’s grasp. “We can still help at the gates.”
Heading towards the southern gates, Balgray’s soldier son struck down six more of the king’s men. Falhill and his wife rescued a child from a burning stable. Primhadn saved Balgray from a surprise attack when she threw her longsword into the shifty footman’s stomach.
When they arrived at the epicenter of battle, the rebel generals Kraek and Laebm had corked the northern and western corridors. The king’s footmen continued to flow into Enesma via the eastern roads inside the walls. Falhill hoped the whistle had warned the protestants of the city, but he worried that even now, murderous kingsmen kicked down the doors of unsuspecting rebel families. Children put to the sword. Fathers’ heads caved in. Mothers assaulted in the most unthinkable ways.
The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing Page 1