The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  Falhill turned to his right and spotted Gray Breeze rocking on the horizon. Their small hold capped at sixty-two people, and seven bedrooms housed eighteen more. Balgray and her son had boarded Gray Breeze, Falhill remembered.

  To his left sailed Pride of Gaeldaar, shelter for a hundred and six. And behind it, Falhill could just make out the red sails of Bloody Bastard, the crimson-hulled warship which Congresser Denhall captained. Birds flew from one ship to another every hour, allowing communication to remain continuous, so Drea and Falhill had kept record of exact populations of each vessel that sailed north. Northwestward, in fact, Falhill thought to himself.

  He remembered on the days and nights spent planning the escape, should Yaangd the Unholy ever find the epicenter of the protestant movement. True north would serve as Yaangd’s first searching place, if he did indeed send out his dogs to enslave or kill this cluster of the persecuted. Then, if food supplies lasted, Grand Admiral Uandem would split his forces in two and sail east and west simultaneously.

  But the likelihood was slim — the Unholy King troubling himself to hunt the thousand or so men, women, and children he sought to eradicate from his kingdom anyway. Falhill trusted that Hrash would protect them. Hrash didn’t protect Primhadn.

  Falhill took a few steps onto the grand deck, where awoke some eighty survivors. Their eyes full of hope. And trepidation. Falhill’s chest twisted. He would serve as a leader to these people once their new home crept over the horizon.

  Northward winds carried the twenty-two ships towards the fabled new coast. Soldiers whispered of military outposts on some far off northern coast. Midwives gossipped about dark purple bogs that stretched for miles, where giants bore pygmies and demons made their homes. Sailors murmured of krakens. Hunters spoke hungrily of dragons. But the most respected amongst the protestants agreed that land must lay north.

  “Good morning, Congresser,” greeted a father of four.

  “Praise be — another day of fine weather,” said another.

  “My bones,” an old lady grumbled at her thimble and thread. “My bones, they ache. Southeast it was born. Northwest it travels.”

  A grizzled farmer stopped Falhill, and Falhill’s neck tensed. “Scribe, I want answers.”

  “Berut, we have all suffered loss.”

  “Don’t give that garbage to me.”

  Falhill breathed in. Farmer Berut had confronted him before. “Please, keep your voice down. I can’t do anything for you while we’re on this ship.”

  “My grandsons who survived have no parents because the gangplanks were shattered.”

  “We would all be dead if the ship capsized. Please understand these were hard decisions that had to be made to save the most people possible.”

  “Two more adults and two more children.”

  Falhill’s jaw clenched, and his eyes watered. “I have no other answers, other than my condolences.”

  Falhill tried to turn, but Berut grabbed his arm. “Why weren’t there enough ships?”

  “Kraek and the Lionheart nearly doubled our number, unexpectedly. And we couldn’t make ships appear from nowhere. Berut, we are all grieving.”

  “Your sister chose to sacrifice herself. My son had no such choice.”

  “This conversation is over. Please do not speak of my sister. You have my sincerest condolences.” Falhill shook free of the farmer’s grasp and continued about the deck.

  A much younger lady sauntered up to Falhill. “I heard your wife abandoned you to that big bed of yours. Are you all alone down there? It must get chilly.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “My name is Jeulzannabalhadn, but most men call me Zan.”

  “Nice to make your acquaintance, but I love my wife. I made my vows. And I will take offense if you continue in your advance.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” The girl leaned closer. Falhill must have had ten years on her. “Not in front of so many people.”

  “I pray there is not some poor man who thinks you are his faithful wife.”

  “Can you imagine? I was widowed at eighteen. He was much older than me.”

  “My wife has a colleague, Zannahill. Perhaps you are cousins.”

  “Fine, fine. Good morning, Congresser Falhill.” She slurred the words through pursed lips. Falhill did not want to be rude, but he turned away from her.

  “Who was that?” The voice could only be his wife’s.

  Falhill turned around on the crowded deck. The rays of dawn pushed through Falhadn’s chestnut brown locks. Falhill smiled and stepped nearer. “I miss you below deck.”

  “You scream in your sleep, and I like to be amongst the people. Do you remember these people? Who have to sleep shoulder to ankle? Exposed to the elements?”

  Few would call Falhill an intellectual man, but fewer would call him a dolt. He knew his wife resented her affluent upbringing but couldn’t resist the finer aspects of life. “Imagine what your father would say to you denying a room with your husband to squeeze between a fisher and a shepherd.”

  “He would say I’m a silly girl, and I would remind him I’m not a girl anymore, and he would say, ‘You’ll always be my Hullahedeen.’ And I would vomit up my supper.”

  “Come now.” Falhill drew his wife in for a kiss. Their breaths both smelled of onion and garlic. “I know you’re here for me when I need you.”

  She smirked, nodded. “I’ve got to go.”

  Falhill sighed and released her. He ambled about the grand deck and greeted every family before heading below to seek the old man Drea Drysword. Tomorrow, we speak on significant matters of state, Drea had said yesterday evening. Tomorrow, you and I begin our rule.

  Drea lay in bed. His most trusted soldier Shelwyn stood guard, half a century old and clad in light armor. Drea’s grandson dabbed at the perspiration on Drea’s glistening forehead. “Falhill,” the grandson said.

  “Dreahall,” Falhill replied with a worried smile. “Is Drea alright?”

  “He was coughing through the night. His flesh is hot, and his trips to the privy are long.”

  “Drea, it’s Falhill.”

  The Drysword coughed. “Come closer.” Falhill obeyed, and the old man coughed again. Drea’s dark green eyes twinkled in the torchlight. Sweat matted his long dark gray hair to his pate and down pillow. Shadows played in between his myriad wrinkles. His slender frame had shriveled even further since they departed Enesma. “We must discuss matters of state—” He held a handkerchief over his mouth and coughed up gobs of phlegm. “Who will sit in the congress.”

  “If you aren’t well, then—”

  “If I’m not well, this needs to be discussed immediately.”

  His grandson scoffed. “Don’t say that. You’re feeling better already.” Dreahall looked at Falhill and shook his head to indicate his lie, but Drea saw this and slapped him upside the head.

  Drea threw his slimy handkerchief at the boy. “Fetch me a clean handkerchief, and wine for Falhill!”

  “That isn’t necessary. I’ll have water.”

  “I insist,” he coughed. “Dreahall! Boy! Now!” And the boy scurried from Drea’s quarters.

  Falhill looked about as he approached Drea. Ornate tapestries adorned the slatted walls. Spiritual relics of the kingdom left behind hung from cords of hemp. Gold coins dotted the floor around Drea’s desk, and atop the desk sat ledgers and inkpots and thirty satchels of silver.

  Drea Drysword had just celebrated his seventy-third birthday. In those long years, he had never bloodied a sword. Against all odds, he famously won the Battle Under Red Lake half a century back. After their commander fell, Drea took up the mantle and led fifty kingsmen against five hundred Brunkofer pirates. All fifty brave men survived the long battle. The pirates retreated, and Drea rescued Princess Thamhadn, whom they had captured. All of this, and Drea never had to clean his blade.

  Yaangd XVIII — the current king’s once-removed uncle — thanked Drea for his sister’s rescue with command of a thousand men. A y
ear later, the king’s thirteen-year-old son was murdered. Drea led a march on Randeil. Though the Bay of Randlester ran red, Drea avenged the crown prince without a drop of blood on his own steel. His men named him Drysword, and the commonfolk loved a war hero with a nickname.

  Drea retired at a young age, but politics seduced him. The landowners of Uanna made him a royal congresser every two years for twenty years, until he moved to the capital and served as their congresser for another twenty years.

  When the latest King Yaangd lost his wits, Drea continued his bloodless streak. He smiled and supped with the king and his court. He showered the king’s widowed daughter with lye and incense. The child queen giggled at the rainbow-dyed horse Drea gifted her. The paranoid king was said to have cracked a smile at Drea’s dancing elephants.

  He denounced his rebel grandson by day. And at night, he wrote to his conspirators in secret code. A fellow congresser Needimhill, the neophyte Sharanhall, Kraek’s wife Fal — Drysword Drea arranged for a bloodless escape by night with his allies and household, under the Warbler’s Moon.

  While Drea rescued the king’s child bride, Congresser Needimhill and Drea’s household were caught and put to the sword. Drea barely escaped with little Queen Jeufyn, Cleric Sharanhall, and Potter Fal. What saved them was when Sharanhall pretended to be a False Priest on their way out of the capital. Fal caught word of her husband Kraek in Baeldaan and left them to reunite with Kraek while Drea, Jeufyn, and Sharanhall fled to Enesma.

  Once again, Drea had escaped conflict without a bloodied sword. Decades after his retirement, Drea Drysword had proven himself a war hero. And he saved the king’s captive child bride, winning the hearts of every rebel.

  Now he lay sad and sickly. Falhill worried his old age had infiltrated his lungs.

  “Sit by my bed, now.” Drea coughed. “The congress — in the motherland, all seventy-three tribes sent delegates to serve in the royal congress. What we should… Are you writing this down?”

  “Oh.” Falhill scrambled for parchment and quill. “‘All seventy-three tribes’. Continue.”

  “With the limited number of citizens under our prevue — fifteen hundred and eleven at last count — I propose a congress of seven.”

  “Seven?” Falhill stopped writing. “That’s not very many congressers.”

  “That’s not very many citizens. Keep writing. Of course, Kraek and myself have served in the royal congress. We stood for moral right and lawful process. We two shall continue our duty for this virgin people.”

  Falhill scribbled the words down. “That leaves five more.”

  “I know, I know.” He coughed. “Keep writing.” He coughed again. “Falhill served as congresser in Enesma for however short a time, and I believe it imperative he continue in that role.” Drea’s words forced a grin on Falhill’s face as he inked his own authority into existence. “My thoughts are the same on Balgray. She speaks for the refugees from Meireer, and her mettle has been tested by fire. And the brief governor Denhall, despite his temperament and atheism, will prove a worthy asset to the new people we set out to make.”

  Drea coughed green phlegm into his palm. “Finish it, Falhill. Ask for their nominations and copy it. Send it off to the other twenty-one ships—” The mucus started to spatter across his woolen covers.

  The door creaked open, and young Dreahall entered with fresh wine and fresher linen. He hurried to his grandfather’s bedside. “Here it is, the handkerchief you asked for.”

  “Give it here!” Drea’s temperament had declined into contempt. Typically a genial man, Drea had hardened. His dark green eyes thirsted after something. To see this new land, Falhill guessed. Or to see his only grandson marry and bear a son?

  “Drea, you needn’t fret.” Falhill assured him. “All will be taken care of, and you will be running laps above deck tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, Falhill. I apologize for—”

  “No apology needed. Get some rest.” Falhill rose and left the quarters to transcribe copies of Drea’s letter. Twenty-one more times, he considered. What a privilege to ink my ascension twenty-one more times.

  The letters had been delivered — some by arrow, some by long pole. And responses had been penned. Falhill counted it a privilege to travel aboard Beautiful Yaangdhadn at Drea’s side. The fat barge served as the hub for communications, and Falhill couldn’t help but grin.

  Falhill found himself, once again, in Drea’s quarters, seated by his bedside, rifling through crumpled replies. “Kraek wants Laebm Lionheart and Theral the Butcher of Eangd on the congress, in addition to himself.”

  Drea’s eyes remained shut as he spoke. “Both war heroes. But it gives Kraek too much power. Perhaps we can give him one more nomination. I’d prefer Theral; she lost her husband in Anang. Her husband was a war hero in his own right, and she will not sully his memory. Perhaps we can earn her a new name besides the Butcher of Eangd.”

  “Kraek also questions my qualifications. Mine and Balgray’s.”

  “What’s this? You already served as congressers, by Hrash’s grace! What objection could he possibly have?”

  “He writes that Balgray and I served as pseudo-congressers in Enesma, and not even for two whole months. He alleges we made no substantial decisions for the rebellion and that we can’t possibly know what it is to negotiate or to sacrifice. He goes on before conceding that Balgray is a war heroine.”

  Drea shifted underneath his furs. “Tell him that you are a congresser. Your parents were Traamis’s first supporters, and you helped govern Enesma’s protestants while Kraek was hiding in Baeldaan!”

  Falhill’s quill raced across the wrinkles. “I’ll leave out that last bit.”

  “What did Traamis say? He is, I hate to admit it, the kingmaker among us. Poor choice of words.”

  “Traamis does not wish for the faith to be represented in the congress.”

  “Ridiculous!” Drea spit, eyes yet unopened. “The people will revolt if Traamis the True is not given a place in government. Tell him that’s not an option.”

  Falhill scribbled on one parchment and read twenty others. “Denhall is basically up for anything. But Balgray is playing it modest. She wants her son to serve if anything.”

  “Her son cannot serve in the congress. He was a kingsman just a few days ago.”

  “Jiridhill was the one who warned his mother and father of the impending attack. He is perhaps the only reason Meireer fared as well as it did.”

  Falhill had never been to the port town Meireer on the western coast of the kingdom of Hrashmaad. A few months ago, it boasted a strong trade economy. Merchants from across the realm would venture to Meireer to purchase ores and ingots, iron and copper and silver. The Grendyrl Mountains sat north of Meireer, rich with veins of rare metals. The river Duimwater sat to the south. The well-traveled Via Duim led into the city from the east. The Sea of Crusade sprawled out to the west. Meireer was an influential port town, larger than Enesma and more prosperous by half.

  However, after Kraek betrayed the Unholy King and captured his heir, kingsmen — led by the High Prophet — descended on cities and villages searching for the Twisted Prince and Traamis the True. Their bloody quest brought bloodshed to Meireer. Jiridhill was able to scout ahead to warn his parents who resided there, and his parents organized a slipshod militia — Meireer’s only saving grace. Though Balgray’s son meant to spare his parents, his father Jirid died anyway. The scribes would name the sudden conflict the First Battle of Meireer.

  Freshly widowed, Balgray led hundreds of survivors to the western coast, where awaited merchant ships and passing cogs. The survivors were able to commandeer eight large ships and set sail. The False Priests burned one ship with jade fire, but the coastline stopped their evil spells — just like in Enesma.

  Balgray had heard rumors of rebellion in the north. She led the survivors of Meireer towards Enesma, landing miles to the west and burning the ships so they couldn’t be tracked. They trekked a short distance to Enesma in gr
oups of fifty twice a day — trying to avoid suspicion.

  It wasn’t long before Traamis revealed himself to Balgray and the survivors. Before that, Traamis’s supporters were Falhill’s parents and sister, a handful of clerics, and a scant hundred refugeees from across the kingdom. After that, Traamis the True had two thousand on his side against the king.

  Drea Drysword arrived in Enesma soon thereafter and established a rebel congress, on which both Falhill and his new friend Balgray served.

  Drea coughed. “Jiridhill will not serve in the congress, as his mother Balgray did in Enesma. There’s no one else strong enough to represent Meireer… Except perhaps Balhenhill.”

  “Balhenhill?” Falhill had to scoff. “People say his wife is a witch — used to be a False Priest.”

  “Poppycock. I happen to respect Balhenhill and his wife.”

  “But you must know how that would go down with the commonfolk.”

  “That’s a fine idea, Falhill. Tell Balgray that it’s her or the witch’s husband. She chooses.”

  Falhill regarded his former neighbor Balgray as a close friend. He did not relish manipulating her. But he obeyed. “No objections to your nomination, though. The famed Drysword. That’s certainly a good sign.”

  Drea’s face sagged. He opened his old green eyes. “I’m surprised no one has blamed me for poor little Jeufyn.”

  “That was inevitable. You said yourself — the False Priests were drawn to her. It’s a tragedy, no less. But it’s not your fault.”

  “She lived under my roof, my protection. I saved her from the vile king’s clutches in Eangd. I brought her safe to Enesma. She was a beacon of hope to our rebellion, second only to Traamis the True.”

  “Then let us pray for her.”

  “The poor girl! I was at that sacrilege of a wedding. Fifty-six years old, the king could have had any maiden he chose. And he chose an eleven-year-old girl.”