The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  “Do you believe you were poisoned?”

  “Whoever poisoned me must have resorted to a dagger for the high cleric when they saw their concoction didn’t kill me.”

  “A concoction? Who could have…? Who would have?”

  Balgray furrowed her brow. “A dagger? How did you know the assailant used a dagger?”

  The Drysword scoffed. “I have been awake for several hours now. You do not think my grandson has kept me informed? And Shelwyn keeps me informed on Kraek and Laebm’s actions.”

  “And Balhenhill keeps you informed as well?” Balgray prodded. “Do he and his wife visit you often?”

  “If you must know,” Drea answered as he pushed himself up so his feet hung from the bedside, “I respect Balhenhadn with simple kindness, which is more than she gets from anyone else. And the two of them respond to my basic decency with compassion.”

  Balgray’s son Jiridhill took a step forward this time. “Drea, I marched alongside the Brave Priests from Eangd to Meireer. She was only an acolyte, but I remember that mole on her cheek. The other Brave Priests considered her an up-and-coming one in a million. Some sort of seer-in-training.”

  Drea’s demeanor sank. “And you refer to those sorcerers as ‘Brave Priests’. Every one of us lived underneath Yaangd’s rule only a solar cycle ago. Rebellion was on no one’s lips. We must be forgiving on this side of the sea.” The old man calmed. “What of Kraek? How has he reacted to my illness?”

  Falhill sat upright and decided not to refer to him as King Kraek. “Congresser Kraek demanded the congress meet, but we demanded no law be set. He suggested we build up our defenses, and we did. Otherwise, he moans and groans and not much else.”

  “Congresser Kraek is the biggest threat to this colony. He is scheming behind your back. I pray, now I am awake, he will stop his plot to rule this people as a dictator.”

  Falhill looked to Soldier Shelwyn, who likely served as Drea’s eyes and ears amongst Kraek’s soldiers. He turned back to the Drysword. “Surely you cannot know that.”

  “Kraek and I served on the royal congress together for several years. He connives and conspires, yet thinks himself immune to corruption. The man believes the military should control the people, and would say it’s for their own protection.”

  “But Kraek is a war hero. He fought in Eangd, Anang, Baeldaan, Enesma—”

  “He is a war hero. But the war is over. And he would be a dictator just as quickly, if the opportunity arose.”

  Uncomfortable, Falhill changed the subject. He and Balgray described to Drea the new naming customs, the limits on pro-Yaangd speech, that the people call their new nation “Hrashhill” and their former home “Old Coast”. They told him about the Marble Slab in the Cavern of Congress and the Northwood and the Azure Artery.

  Drea grew tired, however, and he laid his round head back upon his down pillow. “One week. The congress will meet in one week. And I will sit at the head of that marble table.” He began to snore immediately.

  Falhill remembered back to the day his parents were hanged at the gallows. Under the Mountain’s Moon, four months back. Drea held Falhill’s hand, embraced him, wiped away the tears. Falhadn and Primhadn thought it unwise to attend the hanging, but Falhill could not stay away.

  “These two are charged with rebel activity,” the executioner had announced to the hundred gathered in Enesma’s town square, “high treason, criminal heresy, among other illegal acts. The sentence for any one of these crimes is death. Farmer Fal, Seamstress Maalnud, do you have any last words?”

  His father Fal — protestants named him “Fal the First” since he was Traamis’s first supporter — had found his son in the crowd. “Praise Hrash above,” he said shakily.

  Falhill’s mother Maalnud added, “Tell my children I love—”

  The false floor opened, and his parents’ necks broke. A sickening crunch. A blanket of silence. Two disturbing expressions. The executioner had robbed them of their dignity. Excrement ran down his mother’s leg, and his father’s breeches tightened. Where the stiffness pushed against the inside of his breeches, wetness began to spread. The executioner cut them both down. His mother’s legs broke, and her head pivoted unnaturally.

  Falhill sobbed. But Drea was there. Falhill and his father may not have had a perfect relationship, but Farmer Fal loved his children and set a good example. The perfect example. Falhill felt beyond compelled to pick up where his father had left off, leading the rebellion. And Drea made it possible.

  Falhill guessed it was for love. Drea had lost his son several years back, and his grandson clearly disappointed him. Drea wanted a son. Falhill wanted a father. Was it that simple?

  Whatever the reason, I love him. As Falhill now left Drea’s quarters, a sense of courage whelmed in his belly. But it flushed away just as quickly once he saw what waited outside the ship.

  “Justice!” one man shouted. “Go back to Hrashmaad!” another man shouted. “Who killed Traamis the True?!” shouted a young woman.

  Falhill, his wife, Balgray, and her son walked out of Beautiful Yaangdhadn to find a small mob had formed on the shoreline. Rudfynhill did not allow them to pass, but he did not stop them from shouting.

  Hrabhill the elder led the group. “There he is — Falhill the murderer! It was him what couldn’t find Traamis’s attacker! Him and the atheist!”

  “Who’s to say they aren’t all atheists?!” shouted Sailor Greishill.

  And his pregnant wife added, “When’s the last time anyone saw them pray?”

  Rudfynhill tried to yell above their demonstrations. “Quiet, you. Rabble seldom gets the job done, yes? Let’s try to get along.”

  Herbalist Gaerhadn interrupted the soldier, “Rabble? You’re calling us rabble, Slumswain? When there’s a real murderer on the loose?” Gaerhadn happened to be Kraek’s daughter and Theral’s weddaughter. “You, Slumswill? You’re no soldier. You’re a bodyguard without his pony. And a traitor to your fellow soldiers, who actually protect us.”

  Gaerhadn’s eleven-year-old son stood beside her. “My uncle could take you. He’s a real soldier. Or my grandfather. He’s a general!”

  Cheeks red, Rudfynhill answered, “Your grandfather is one of the men I protect. He respects me, and I respect him. You should learn some manners, boy.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” His remark knocked some sense into his mother, and she pulled him away from the front of the mob.

  Hrabhill the elder pointed at the four who stopped right behind Rudfynhill. “Unworthy to lead us. Unfit to serve.” The rest of the mob repeated the chant — Greishill and his wife, young Hrabhall, the widower Eadnfyhill, and Congresser Yrnhill’s younger brother Balyrnhall. Cleric Sharanhall stood near the chanting mob, but he did not participate.

  Falhill shouted above the chanting, “Come now! What’s the matter here? How can we help?”

  With a hearty chortle, Hrabhill the elder stopped the chant. “Somebody tried to kill our high cleric. You and that congress of impotent idiots aren’t doing anything about it.”

  “We are investigating—”

  “No, you investigated. What have you and Denhall the Debauched done in the past eight days?”

  “Call him that to his face,” Falhadn growled.

  “You two spent a single day asking some questions. Why is Fenhall still hunting in the Northwood? Why isn’t he in a cell? What about your friend, Denhall? Their names are close enough; perhaps the atheists did the deed together.” The crowd had sporadically agreed with the old miner with unified grumbles.

  Falhill couldn’t help but grimace. “There are eyewitnesses who claim Fenhall was in his hovel all night. And Denhall was with his mother and Farmer Shelaarfhall.”

  “And how do you know they aren’t liars? Doesn’t Fenhall have a brood of bastards who could have attacked the high cleric?”

  “They’re all accounted for. This congress is not about to conduct a sham inquisition, just to appease you.”

  “Maybe
an inquisition is what we need—”

  “If we were to throw away true justice, then we’d be a stone’s toss from Yaangd’s tyranny. Is that what you want? Would you rather us find the true killer, even if that means slow justice, or would you rather I declare myself Hrash incarnate and have every supposed atheist’s head off?” Falhill breathed quickly and heavily. His wife grabbed his hand. Is there worry in her touch?

  Sunset orange on his right cheek, Hrabhill the elder smiled. “You, Falhill, are a sorry excuse for a man with breath in his lungs. Your sister Primhadn sacrificed herself on the docks on Enesma. She would be ashamed if she could see your display, what she gave her life for. Sister killer.”

  Falhill’s vision blurred, his breathing stopped. His body felt light as sand in the wind. His desire to punch the old miner in his jaw washed over him like a sunburnt breeze. Not until his hearing returned did he realize it had left.

  Shouting. Pushing. Soldier Rudfynhill shoved Sailor Greishill to keep him from charging as Balgray held her son from drawing steel. Cleric Sharanhall grabbed Hrabhill’s pickaxe from his calloused fingers. Balyrnhall and Eadnfyhill hollered curses and vile insults at Rudfynhill and Jiridhill while Falhadn shook her husband awake.

  “Falhill?”

  “We need to get to safety.”

  “You blacked out.”

  “Get me off these docks.”

  “Falhill, you’re blazing.”

  “Stop touching me.” Falhill screamed to the others, “Let us pass.”

  Hrabhill succumbed and let Sharanhall take his axe. “What are you going to do?”

  “No, what are you going to do? Do you think Traamis would want you to fight a congresser? Violence? Bloodshed?” He turned to Gaerhadn and Balyrnhall. “Is this what Kraek wants? And Yrnhill? Congressers molested?” He gestured to Eadnfyhill. “Your wedfather is a peaceful cleric.” He looked back to Hrabhill. “Stand down and let us pass. We are doing everything we can to bring this criminal to justice. I suggest you cooperate. And pray.”

  Falhill walked past Rudfynhill, and Hrabhill stepped aside with a grimace. Falhadn swiftly followed, then Balgray, then Jiridhill.

  Some distance off, Falhill could hear Rudfynhill ordering the mob to disperse. His wife caught up with him. “Would you slow down?”

  His feet wouldn’t decelerate. “I spoke firmly. Got what I wanted. How’s that for ‘willing to act’?”

  “You spoke. You didn’t act.”

  Spear-to-the-gut abrupt, Falhill stopped. “You can’t possibly be disappointed in me!”

  “Lower your voice.” Wordless, Balgray and Jiridhill passed them, headed towards their hovels. “You should have lopped that man’s head off. Or at least put him in a cell.”

  “Like he suggested for Denhall?”

  “He’s insane — a fanatic. You are trying — yes, failing — but trying to do good for this colony. Men like Hrabhill will only get in the way of trying to accomplish something truly meaningful.”

  Falhill spotted disappointment on Falhadn’s beautiful face, but she was speaking in a different fashion than her usual condescension. Her words felt almost hopeful. Covered with a veil of mockery, but the optimism hid near the surface. “I love you, Falhadn.”

  She flinched. Her demeanor softened for the merest of moments. Then she itched at her neck. “We better hurry home. Stay out of sight for the rest of the day. Let the zealots cool off.” With a foreign sort of tenderness, she took Falhill’s hand, and they scurried off.

  Part II

  The Execution

  from the diary of Scribe Nudntry-bal the younger

  …what she had to do. Fal Falhadn was a force of nature — some would say for the good, some might say for the worse. Having known her personally, I can say she was a much harsher person than the annals recount. But who can blame the scribes for softening her persona when she was so instrumental in ending the Great War?

  Growing up as the only child of the nouveau riche Governor of Jevilk, Falhadn learned at a young age what privilege was. It came as no surprise that she developed a propensity towards education, having been exposed to such an abundance since before she could speak.

  Her particular love of linguistics might have been her most critical asset. Not only could she persuade the hardest of men with her eloquently frank turn of phrase, but her quick grasp of the foreign language spoken by the Segchyhah…

  Chapter eight

  Small Shields

  Knees on the moonlit sand, the soft waves at his toes. A crowd of two hundred gathered on the south bank at high tide. The moon smiled, and a hundred stars shone dimly onto the head of Denhall’s sharpened axe. Woken up in the middle of the night, and the crowd is still this large, Falhadn noticed.

  A hunter knelt amongst the hermit crabs, his thighs beneath the sea. Stripped bare under the moon’s blue glimmer, Falhadn could see the deep scrapes the hunter’s wife had dug into his hairy chest. Salty tears traced the scars which Balweanhadn had left her husband. Kraek’s shouting overpowered the hunter’s howling.

  “This man is a threat,” Kraek told the small crowd. “If a man is a threat to his wife, he is a threat to his community.”

  Denhall’s apprentice, the awkward-looking fifteen-year-old orphan Baljesshall, handed Denhall his headsman’s axe. Denhall’s appointment to the congress came with the caveat that he serve as the colony's sheriff and executioner. Denhall had no qualms about beheading criminals, but this was his first.

  The sharp-tempered drunk who knelt in the moonlight was named Balweanhill, Kraek’s wedson. Congresser Kraek continued, “If no one has legal objection, Congresser Denhall, do your duty.”

  His bruised daughter Balweanhadn cried out, “Let him have his last words! Father, please!” Purple enveloped the timid jeweler’s left eye, and her thin neck had turned green where Balweanhill choked her. But she still loves him, Falhadn mused, disgusted. “He deserves to have his last words!”

  Kraek scowled at his emotional daughter. “Balweanhill,” he said his wedson’s name like a curse, “your last words, boy.”

  Balweanhill’s eyes widened, and the tears stopped flowing for a moment. “Last words? I’m only twenty-two. Who here hasn’t touched his wife? Please don’t have my head off! I won’t touch her again. I’m just a coward! Kraek, you’ve always been right! I’ll leave her alone! I’ve always been a coward!”

  Kraek nodded towards Denhall, and Balweanhill’s head rolled onto the wet sands. It took no time for the tide to pull the bloody head into the sea, where Hrash could punish his earthly sins.

  “Our first execution,” Zannahill noted. “I thought it would take longer.”

  The midmorning sky shone bright pink. “Just over two weeks — with some of the crooks who live among us…” Falhadn trailed off, distracted by the song of two bluebirds.

  “I’m glad I told Zannahadn to stay in bed. She and the girls would have had nightmares.”

  “A gruesome business, starting a colony.”

  “A nation, from scratch.”

  Falhadn smiled at her friend and fellow teacher. “How sustainable is this, anyhow? With only fifteen hundred of us? And no one to trade with?”

  “Did I hear Drea Drysword wanted to appoint ambassadors?”

  “Before he fell ill, yes. He and Falhill thought it would help us to find neighbors with whom we could trade goods and knowledge. Two ambassadors in each direction — west, north, and east.”

  “It’s been two weeks.”

  “Falhill wants to wait for Drea’s recovery.”

  “Well, so far, Kraek and Denhall keep the peace. We’ve been doing fine without Drea. And Congresser Balgray has done her job well, rationing fairly. My students never complain.”

  “Mine neither. They are happy to be away from Yaangd and his vipers.” The two of them arrived at the town square, where the simpleton Rudrud played away at his little harp. Falhadn and Zannahill spotted where awaited their apprentices, but no students.

  Zannahill’s apprentice was
Rudglednhall, one of Hunter Fenhall’s bastard boys. “They never showed up.”

  Falhadn’s apprentice Ulmhall added, “We thought we both had the wrong day.”

  Now slightly worried, Falhadn, Zannahill, and their two apprentices scurried north towards the Teaching Trees, into the Northwood where their lesson had been occurring. Within minutes, Falhadn was able to follow the sound of sword against sword. Cautious, they four approached.

  But nothing ominous emerged from the bushes. A hundred children played with sword and shield. How cute, Falhadn first thought. Their swords were wooden, and their shields were appropriately miniature. But amongst the fifty or so fighting pairs of children walked General Laebm Lionheart, shouting commands. Laebm had once been strapping, but his gut had swollen in the past four years. His dry blonde hair had grown long down his cheeks and to his shoulders. Falhadn had to admit it reminded her of a lion.

  Falhadn had heard tales of Laebm’s namesake. Lionheart was a name bestowed upon one worthy warrior each generation. He had served as the last Lionheart’s apprentice — one of a dozen. But when a half-crippled bull gored the old Lionheart, General Iridahill the elder, sixteen-year-old Laebm slew the bull. Because Iridahill suffered such an embarrassing mortal wound, the title of Lionheart faced blemishment that may have lasted a century. Every one of Iridahill’s apprentices abandoned the dying general.

  But young Laebm refused to let his master die a mockery. It turned out that a band of thieves had dwelt on the abandoned farmstead where the old bull grazed. The day the old Lionheart died, Laebm rode into the capital gates, atop a white lion, holding the heads of nine wide-eyed bandits. That day, King Yaangd XX gave Laebm a hundred men to command, and the citizens cried out, “Lionheart! The young boy is Lionheart reincarnate!”

  This occurred years before Falhadn cried out for the first time. Falhadn doubted he truly rode astride a lion. Tales embellish themselves with every telling.