Primhadn and Soldier Jiridhill charged into battle, suppressing the footmen still intent on breaking through the northern wall of rebels. Falhill, his wife, and his neighbor Balgray swiped bows and arrows from three corpses draped over a vegetable stall. Balgray managed to snipe a loyalist archer who had climbed the city walls to pick off unwary protestants.
Falhill spotted a kingsman mounted atop a black destrier. The red-eyed destrier galloped through the gates, and its rider struck down unmounted rebels left and right. The kingsman sported the decorations of a general on his breast. When he headed straight for Falhill’s sister, Falhill exhaled and loosed. The arrow pierced the rancorous destrier’s ebon hide. The mount yelped as it toppled over and pinned the general to the street.
Primhadn dealt the fatal blow to the kingsman’s decorated breast.
The rebels seemed to successfully flank the gates and cut off those loyalists who ran eastward to wreak havoc on the city. Smiles painted every rebel’s face. Morale was palpable. The song of steel crept further from Falhill’s ears.
Without warning, every loyalist corpse erupted in jade flame. The explosion threw every man and woman away from its origin. Falhill landed on his back — the breath knocked out of him. Falhadn and Balgray landed against the side of a seedy tavern. The green inferno pushed Primhadn and Jiridhill onto nearby roofs. The flames continued to reach for the afternoon sun, near invisible behind the overcast.
Falhill rose and checked on his wife and Balgray. All sported minor bruises, but they ran to help Primhadn and Jiridhill off their respective roofs.
The battle had commenced though morale had burnt up. The green flame served as a harbinger of death. Many had whispered terrible tales of what the False Priests learned in the short years since they reopened the forbidden tomes, which told of arcane arts and black witchcraft dating back to dark centuries past. But Falhill had had the fortune of avoiding them. Until today.
Then, a response. To the northwest, the belfry atop the Northern Hrashery burned violet. Deep purples licked at the dense cumulus — heralding exodus.
They rushed north, for the ships.
Falhill ran alongside his wife. Balgray ran alongside her son. Primhadn led the way up the main boulevard, where fighting had made its way north.
Falhill knew some of the men and women clashing swords. His feet compelled him to charge forth and save a pregnant woman whose father Falhill knew. Falhadn called after him, but his longsword already swung at the fat loyalist attacker.
The pregnant woman held her warped shortsword like a dinner knife. Another moment and she would have fallen dead. Falhill blocked a strike from the fat loyalist’s greatsword. The low hum sent shivers up his arms. Falhill spun for another strike, but a black destrier stampeded into the loyalist, inches from Falhill’s face. Atop the horse rode Congresser Kraek, the general-turned-politician who had kept the False Priests from storming Enesma without warning. And beside him, his cousin and close friend General Laebm Lionheart, atop a chestnut stallion.
“Thank you, Falhill,” the pregnant woman said, nearly beheading Falhill with her cumbersome shortsword.
“To the ships.” Falhill pressed for her to run north. Only then did he look to the docks for himself. Fifteen ships had left port. Out of only twenty-three, he remembered. The pregnant woman rushed up the boulevard, and he looked around for his wife and sister.
Balgray dragged her son away from the fighting, towards the ships. But Primhadn had slain two loyalist footmen, his wife Falhadn a vigilant spectator. “Primhadn! Behind you!”
Primhadn spun to find a duel-wielding berserker. He knocked the iron from her grip, and Primhadn tripped backwards. Falhill ran towards the fight, but he couldn’t make it in time. An arrow pierced the berserker’s shoulder. Another in his temple as he crumbled to the cold boulevard below. Primhadn searched about to find her savior. The archer, perched atop a shingled roof, waved and smiled before turning to save some other protestant’s life.
In one instant, her bow turned to dust in the wind, her quiver of arrows into tar. Her hair lifted up and tangled into eight snakes that bit into the flesh of her face. The archer’s body exploded, and viscous gore dyed the rooftop.
“False Priests!” Primhadn shouted for all to hear, and many repeated the warning. Down the boulevard, a farmer dropped his scythe and turned to soot. A seamstress spun violently and turned to beige slush. A young boy ran for his life, but his feet turned to stone. Then his legs. Then his torso. He shrieked in agony, and his face turned to obsidian.
Falhill grabbed Falhadn and ran. For his life. For his wife. Ignoring every passerby engaged in battle, they needed to board a vessel. Before they were all undocked. Before the False Priests came anywhere near.
As of now, he had only lost his home. His parents as well, but two months felt a year when war raged on.
Another two ships left the northern piers. Only six left. They drew nearer. A stray arrow sunk into a nearby rebel’s neck and sprayed warm blood across Falhill’s mouth and cheeks. Primhadn still ran close behind. In fact, a tail of rebels, rightly frightened of the False Priests, had joined in the rush up Enesma’s main boulevard.
At the foot of the docks, two rebel leaders directed their people onto the ships while twenty soldiers stood guard. The fight had not yet made its way to the harbor. Drea was the older of the two leaders. Cleric Traamis the True was the other.
“Traamis will ensure every man is aboard a vessel before he gets on board himself,” Falhadn noted, out of breath. “It’s impractical. The man is the face of this rebellion. We have to drag him onto a ship.”
Falhill knew his wife spoke true. “Traamis is forty years old, surrounded by guards. I don’t know if ‘dragging him’ is the right option.” They had almost reached the docks. Falhill’s ankles ached, but he could smell the waves. “You speak with Traamis. I’ll go to Drea.” They parted.
“Falhill!” old man Drea Drysword celebrated. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” He kissed Falhill on the forehead. “Yours is Unagi’s Grace. You and I shall captain it, and Balhenhill shall sail her.”
“You need to board, Drea.”
“I will. Only…” He looked about. “You know my grandson. He escaped the Bloody Courtyard with Kraek. He should be here. I need to wait for him.”
“If he’s coming, he’ll come. You need to get on board.”
“We lost the girl, too.” Drea sniffled. “The False Priests — it’s like they were drawn to her. King Yaangd the Unholy shall have his child bride once more.”
Falhill didn’t know what to say. “I know how much you risked to sneak that girl out of the capital.”
Drea Drysword shook his head. “I’m not losing another child today.”
“If the girl is forfeit, then all the more reason for you to get safely on board. The people need leaders. They look up to you.”
“And you!”
“You mean, my parents. I haven’t done anything except try to fill my parents’ sandals. The people need you.”
As soon as his words convinced Drea to turn and board Unagi’s Grace, a voice called from the hordes. “Grandfather?” Falhill and Drea turned. Serendipity had always struck Falhill as devious, but when Drea’s grandson appeared as magic before them, Falhill had to smile.
“My grandson!” Drea’s mouth was buried in his eighteen-year-old grandson’s neck. “I prayed day and night for your safety.”
“As did I.”
By this time, Falhadn had persuaded Cleric Traamis the True to embark, and two more vessels left port. Now, the floods of men, women, and children rushed onto the interconnected piers. A skin-crawling creak of wood, the warping of oak and fir. The screams of a hundred innocents as they descended into the bay below. Unagi’s Grace buckled at its midpoint, and thunder cracked. Hundreds plunged into the ice-cold waters. Several smashed their heads against the pier on their descent. Traamis the True pulled from Falhadn’s grasp and jumped into the bay to rescue as many as he could. Panic
. Screaming. An old woman trampled underfoot. Blood-stained footprints.
“To the barge, there.” Drea pointed above the din. “Beautiful Yaangdhadn, the barge!”
Hundreds of rebels congested the docks, running up the closest gangplank. Falhadn had dived into the wintery waters after Traamis. Jiridhill escorted his mother and sister up the gangway to Gray Breeze, a cog — half the size of Beautiful Yaangdhadn. Primhadn searched for her husband.
The Drysword continued with his grandson aboard the barge, but Falhill jumped into the bay to rescue his beautiful wife. The salt water filled his nostrils, and the taste of blood breached his lips. He saw her. And Traamis. And the twin girls Traamis carried with him. Not Jiridhill’s twins, Falhill considered for one sad moment.
Even the weight of two babes encumbered Traamis. His head dipped underwater, and Falhadn could only keep one eye above the tide. Falhill swam until he could take one of the babies Traamis the True held. Then he hauled Falhadn along.
The pier was overrun. Falhill led them to the coast, where dry land was much more accessible. Traamis took the other twin, thanked Falhill, then hurried to one of the vessels. Gray Breeze set sail, and there were only two ships left in port. Too many people, Falhill estimated. At least two hundred on the piers. And a thousand more headed up the main boulevard.
This time, Falhadn pulled her husband along. Soaked and chilled, they headed for Beautiful Yaangdhadn. Falhadn, not a devout woman, prayed aloud. They pressed through the masses and boarded the fat-bellied barge. As they crossed the threshold, Drea let no others pass and commanded his grandson to raise the gangplank. “Take my children,” one man pled.
“The ship will capsize,” Drea retorted. “Hide from the False Priests! When it is safe, find passage north. The Untamed Continent—”
Falhadn pushed the old man aside and took the man’s two children — a baby boy and a toddling girl. “Save yourself!” she urged. “You’re going to rejoin us up north and raise your son and daughter.”
More shouted from farther down the rasping gangplank, “Take my boy! Take my girl! Take my pregnant wife! Take my sick mother!”
But Drea pulled Falhadn away from the egress and drew his grimy shortsword. “You must find another way to save yourselves.” The old man swung his blade. “You’ll kill us all!” His grandson Dreahall couldn’t raise the gangway, so he took his own rusted sword and cut at the joints. As innocents cried out for succor, Drea and Dreahall splintered the hinges, and the plank tumbled into the sea, a dozen men, women, and children with it.
Primhadn appeared next to Falhill, her husband behind her. She pointed at the dock, where a rope still tied Beautiful Yaangdhadn to the pier. The arm-thick rope attached to the barge at a juncture on the hull, only accessible to one off the boat and on the pier. She tried to shout down to the protestants still on the docks, but the palpable pandemonium swallowed her appeals. “It will be fine,” Falhill said, though it tasted like a lie. “The ship will break the post from the pier when we put out to sea.”
Tears fell down every cheek, and cries of anguish bellowed from every mother’s dry throat. A score of horsemen were stranded as well. They might be able to stand against the False Priests.
But every cry was silenced, every tear evaporated. The whinny of stallion turned into the high-pitched hum of midwinter wind. All at once, no man nor beast made any sound, and the shape of those stranded on the piers curdled, melted. Dust and mud, every last one of them.
His heart clenched in black dread, Falhill could see the silhouettes of the forsaken. Their bodies had dissolved, now effervescent. At least three hundred of his fellow rebels had boiled to ash in an instant. The final two vessels had unfurled their sails, but the onlookers aboard could only gawk in soundless terror.
On the horizon stood an arc of twelve False Priests, clad in black and green robes, hands interlocked. Their mouths moved in unison, yet silent. Together, their feet lifted from the ground, and the arc of sorcerers hovered towards the docks. Before them, a thirteenth False Priest apparated, and his feet landed delicately on the wooden pier.
Jadeflame, Falhill knew.
The Jadeflame convulsed and flailed his fingers and mouthed an incantation. From his lips shined a bright green flame, and he exhaled towards the rebels. Mothers cried out in terror, but the shallow waters licked up to meet the flame, as if a mirror image. The green blaze stopped at the edge of the docks. The twelve behind him gaped their maws, and inside flashed a shell-white light. Pillars of jade fire advanced on the slow-floating sea vessels. But the waters gushed overhead in a mirror image of the flames. No touch of heat crossed the threshold of the sea.
The hellfire diminished, and the False Priests shut their mouths in unison. The sea folded into itself. The thirteenth False Priest glided to the edge of the pier, where remained the thick rope which tied Beautiful Yaangdhadn to a post. With long fingers, he touched the rope. Nothing. Then, a black-green smolder crept up the rope. The simmer inched up the intertwined hemp.
Men swung at the rope with their dull blades, but none could reach it — halfway down the hull. Two archers released a volley of arrows down on the False Priests, but every arrow turned to ash though no fire appeared. One skinny man leapt down from the deck of the barge and grabbed the bulky rope. He slashed at the cords, even though its severing would now mean his own plunge into the winter sea. But his blade made no dent in the thick rope.
Primhadn grabbed Falhill’s shoulder. “I don’t…” She looked more terrified than Falhill had ever seen her. “I don’t know what that is, but it can’t be good.”
“He’s cutting the rope. We’ll be fine.”
“He’s not even fraying the rope. It’s coming too fast. I…” She looked at the dock, then to Falhill. “I love you.” She turned to her husband and said the same. Primhadn drew her long blade and perched on the balustrade. Before her husband or Falhill could grab her, Primhadn launched herself towards the docks.
She slashed at the black-green smolder. The rope severed, but it floated midair, and the simmer continued to creep towards the barge. Primhadn splashed in the waters, five feet from the dock. The False Priests moved to strike her down. Everything happened at once.
Primhadn emerged from the azure. The thirteen sorcerers mumbled in unison. Primhadn grabbed onto the post, legs below water. The thirteen outstretched their lustrous fingers. Primhadn yanked the post from the pier. The thirteen conjured their jade fire. The post fell into the sea. Primhadn’s flesh peeled from her sinew, and she sank beneath the tide. The post floated upon the calm waters. The smolder ceased its crawl towards the rebels. The rope turned to black dust. The False Priests gathered into a cluster at the edge of the pier. The skinny man who had jumped down reached for the lifeline Drea had tossed into the sea below.
Emerald eyes wide open, the thirteenth False Priest shouted, “All hail King Yaangd!” His voice boomed supernaturally, and the barrier between land and sea glimmered a soft blue. “All praise Hrash incarnate!” And his companions repeated the chant. “All hail King Yaangd! All praise Hrash incarnate!”
All eyes fixed on the False Priests as the sea vessels drifted from the mainland — snail-slow and swaying gently back and forth. Fists began to unclench, hearts began to pump, eyelids blinked, and lungs exhaled. The king’s conjurors shrunk out of view, and Enesma receded over the horizon.
And my sister. I have lost my sister. The sun shone through the clouds once more.
Chapter two
Northwestward
The sway of the sea woke Falhill from his nightmare. He dreamt of Primhadn, as he had for two weeks now, every night. His wife Falhadn had left his bed, frustrated with his groans and sweats. Now, Falhill had to sleep alone, plagued with thoughts of those they left behind — dead or alive.
Traamis the True had no time to collect his daughter and her husband. Drea Drysword’s grandson had courted some girl stuck in her hometown south of Enesma. Laebmhill’s wife and four-year-old son lingered in Eangd, unable to escap
e King Yaangd’s tight grip on the capital. The cost of their voyage was steep. But these pilgrims could not look back, lest they forfeit their lives.
Falhill wiped his brow. Sweat drenched his woolen bedsheets, spittle his soft pillow. So he bathed in salt water from a wide basin. Falhill guessed that Apprentice Dreahall had prepared the basin. The clean water hadn’t lost its warmth, and the stench of fear ran down his lanky frame and into a hole which drained to the outer hull of Beautiful Yaangdhadn, the fat pleasure barge named after the current king’s late mother.
Falhill donned his underclothes, then a pair of velvet breeches which clung to his upper ankle, then a loose undershirt of thin silk, then an overcoat of olive green wool lined with threads of golden silk. He looked into a foggy glass and used his bony fingers to brush out the tangles in his black hair. The sun crawled into the western window. Morning had broken.
The grand deck of Beautiful Yaangdhadn brimmed with commonfolk, protestants like Falhill. Where his station allowed him to share a room with his wife — though she chose to spend her nights deep in the cargo hold, with the old women and crippled men — most of Falhill’s comrades in flight slept above deck. Congresser Drea shared a room with his grandson. The provisional captain of this ship, Soldier Yeznahill, shared a room with his wife and daughters. Sailor Henhall, who steered the cumbersome pleasure barge, shared a room with his mother and youngest brother.
Besides those four bedrooms, half a dozen lavish halls were carved into the belly of the vessel, where a score of men and women slept per hall. The purpose of these opulent halls, complete with twenty-foot circular beds and fifty-foot cushioned benches and the lingering aromas of vanilla and lavender and lemongrass, drove some more pious families to endure the weather above deck if only to evade the ghost of immorality.
Falhill breathed in the salt and sea. The width of the barge at its grand deck spanned the height of six men, its length three times that. But the craft bulged at its middle and nearly doubled its width beneath the surface of the sea. Altogether, Beautiful Yaangdhadn held two hundred and fifty of the protestants.
The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing Page 2