The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  Now this was Hrashhill’s meager force of soldiers — besides Rudfynhill, who exclusively protected the congress, and Kraekhill’s apprentice Balyrnhall, who sat in a prison cell. My prison cell, Laebm realized. Five true soldiers and four provisional soldiers sat about Laebm’s thinly furnished dining room. A basket of brown bread accompanied a pot of roasted peas and carrots, but no one wanted to eat. Sithill had emptied a big brown sack of apples and blueberries onto Laebm’s table, but it remained untouched.

  Already exhausted, Laebm shook his head. “It’s nearly time for our nightly watches. But I want each of us to swear loyalty to the good of the colony.”

  Each soldier swore loyalty to Hrashhill.

  “These are hard times. But we will see these people out the other side. Perhaps we can recruit more provisional soldiers, more apprentices. We will build our defensive strength, so if the Profane King finds us — or some other foe — we are ready.”

  As Laebm opened his mouth to command the soldiers to disperse, distant war horns chilled his spine. The room froze in an instant — soundless, motionless. Then, all at once, everyone dashed outside.

  As the pink sun fell away, and the dirt and grass turned to rock and sand, Laebm noticed he had belted his sheath and sword without a second thought. That’s why you keep it by the front door.

  The ten of them made their way to the beach, in front of the congressers’ mansions. The stars faded behind indigo clouds. Seven Old Coast ships harbored in the mouth of the Independence River. The largest among their number, Laebm knew, was the pride of the royal fleet called Harbinger, Grand Admiral Uandem’s personal warship.

  Laebm turned to his meager crop of soldiers. “King Yaangd. Or his hellhounds, at least.”

  Kraekhill drew his blade. “Hrash go with us.”

  Primhill followed suit. “I’ll be with you soon, darling.”

  The others unsheathed steel, but Laebm gestured for their halt. “There is honor to dying sword in hand. But is there sense to it?”

  Shelraadifhall scowled. “What choice do we have?”

  Laebm gestured to Eadnfyhill, Nudntryhadn, Berut, and finally Primhill. “Some of you take care of little children, perhaps by yourself.” Those four hesitated but ultimately sheathed their blades. “And what is a five-man charge against a hundred?”

  Yeznahill looked at his left shoulder, the trunk of a tree chopped down. “Suicide.” Yeznahill put back his sword, as did Farmer Sithill.

  “And suicide will get you nowhere in Hrash’s underwater palaces.”

  Kraekhill grunted, sheathed his steel, and wept angry salty tears.

  Shelraadifhall and Rudlaarhill still held their swords. Rudlaarhill closed his eyes. “What do we do, General?”

  Laebm regarded the fresh-dug sand upon which he trod. Below his feet — or near enough — lay his cousin. His closest friend. Laebm had allowed Kraek to kneel at the headsman’s block. “I have two ideas. Neither is perfect.”

  “What’s your worse idea?”

  “I try to challenge Uandem in single combat. He’s a few years older than I am. And he’s better in the sea than on land. Perhaps finding our colony has bolstered his arrogance—”

  “Stop,” Primhill uttered and approached. “If we aren’t fighting, neither are you.” He gently grabbed Laebm’s shoulder. “What’s your better idea?”

  “Ah, General Laebm, it’s been too long,” the grand admiral sang over the strumming of Rudrud’s harp. His boots dug into the rocky sand, and he spread his brawny arms wide. “It’s been just over a year since the king sent you off to Anang to kill the rebels. I presume you misheard him.”

  Grand Admiral Uandem stood taller than most men, and his thick neck always throbbed. A knowing smirk stretched across his face at all times. He had been the Profane King’s closest friend since boyhood. Uandem’s father had the foresight to foster his son in the same household as the future king was fostered. Under the famed general Thorm the Horsehide’s warding, Yaangd and Uandem — then named Yaangdhall and Uandemhall — learned of warcraft at a young age, as well as maths and sciences.

  Laebm had eaten at Uandem’s table many times while Laebm commanded royal forces in Eangd. Laebm would have considered Uandem a friend just over a solar cycle past. Laebm knew Uandem. The grand admiral was hard-hearted long before Yaangd went insane.

  Covered in blood, Laebm ambled towards Uandem, his scowling escort, and the simpleton Rudrud, all of whom stood in the moonlit shadow of the hulking warship Harbinger.

  In his hand, Laebm held a capacious brown sack. “I heard him correctly.” At the grand admiral’s feet, Laebm spilled the contents of the sack.

  Many recoiled in terror at the nine severed heads, mangled and unrecognizable. Unperturbed, Uandem simply examined the bloody heads, then Laebm. “And who might these be?”

  Laebm Lionheart’s jaw clenched. “Soldiers, Grand Admiral. These are all the Hillite soldiers who would have opposed you. I slew them. Hard work, but my blade was true.” Laebm knelt before the kingsmen.

  Chapter thirty-one

  Negotiate

  “So I have to deal with all of you?” The Cavern of Congress teemed with men, many of whom Falhill did not know. The traitor Laebm stood among their number. Uandem continued, “How do you function without a king?” Before any could answer, he grinned. “Actually, I can imagine quite clearly how that would work.”

  “Grand Admiral,” Drea began, “the six of us govern this colony. There have been seven, but we have yet to elevate a new—”

  “I don’t care,” Uandem interrupted. “Let me make sure I know everyone.” From his seat at the head of the Marble Slab, he eyed each of them. “Justice Theral. The Butcher of the Bloody Courtyard. How’s Gaer? Or did we kill your husband? I forget.”

  Theral’s every muscle tensed. She only uttered, “It was your prince Yaangdhill who killed my husband, under the shadow of Landfisher’s Keep, with his freakish arm.”

  Uandem rolled his eyes and moved on. “And is that Traamis’s little novice?”

  Yrnhill squeaked, “My name is Yrnhill.”

  Uandem turned to Balgray. “And who are you?”

  She scowled. “Balgray, wife of—”

  “Oh, yes, the Hero of Meireer. Wife of Jirid, one of the False Priests’ first victims. I’ve heard of you. I wasn’t at the First Battle of Meireer. But I was there for the Second. Traamis the Terrible tried to convince all those you left behind to follow him to Enesma, but they wouldn’t go. Your friends, neighbors — they insisted on fighting me. So I slaughtered every last of them — tortured maybe hundreds. I don’t know if you heard, but your home is a ghost town. No one left over.”

  Balgray’s eyes watered, and her voice quivered. “I had heard.”

  Uandem chuckled. “Who’s this girl?”

  Drea answered for her, “Sarahedeen — well-liked in the community.”

  “Sarahedeen, huh? Some tavern wench, I heard.” The grand admiral stifled laughter. “And I recognize you,” Uandem said to Falhill, like a question.

  “I served as a royal scribe in Yaangd’s court. I left five years ago, before Yaangd descended into insanity.”

  “A royal scribe?” Uandem made a grand gesture, as if to honor Falhill. “I didn’t know I was in the presence of such a renowned war hero.” Uandem pulled Drea close and rubbed his wrinkled balding pate. “The Drysword and I go way back. I remember when he was called Ruddreahill!”

  Drea winced. “You were a boy and myself a young man last time anyone called me that.”

  “Long, long time. This man was a congresser when Yaangd and I were just teenagers up to no good. Drea, I haven’t seen you since you betrayed your friends and stole the queen.” He looked around. “I looked forward to facing Congresser Kraek again, but I guess, in the end, you all dealt with that war criminal.”

  Theral banged her hands on the Marble Slab. “Enough with the history lesson. You summoned us here for negotiation. Then let us negotiate.”

  Uandem smiled, e
yes wide. He nudged Drea. “What? It’s her time of the lunar cycle, right? Or was she in love with Kraek?” Theral held her tongue. Uandem continued, “You’re right. Let’s get down to business. And I’ll be honest with you. Hrashmaad is low on lumber. Very low. We’ve depleted our forests.”

  Falhill raised a finger. “What about the Saarfy Rainforest?”

  “It’s still standing, but we have some fanatics who want to preserve what’s left. There’s been peace for the last seven months or so, since you all sailed away. You may understand why the crown is wary of pissing off fanatics. Gargant? You have the agreement with you?” A half-crippled soldier, grizzled and hunchbacked, hobbled to Uandem and produced a rolled parchment from his sleeve.

  “So,” Yrnhill sniffled, “you’re proposing…a trade deal?”

  “It won’t be that simple,” Uandem answered, opening the long parchment, “but yes I am.”

  Drea grinned. “So you’ll provide food for this colony? In exchange for lumber and marble and precious gems?”

  “Again, that’s oversimplifying the situation. But basically, yes.” Uandem commenced to detail the trade agreement which King Yaangd proposed. The Northwood would recede for miles, but no colonist would starve this winter. “Yaangd is happy to keep a limited presence here. This continent is cursed.”

  “What do you mean, cursed?” asked Sarahedeen.

  Uandem leaned in. “Past hundred years or so, the crown has known about this continent. Six failed colonies. Three abandoned, one starved out, one slaughtered by wild animals, and another just disappeared. Yaangd is superstitious about this continent, but you… You protestants might just have Hrash on your side after all!” Uandem’s many men about the cavern chuckled at the thought. “Though we’re not happy about the reasoning, we’re very happy that you could make this work.”

  Falhill had this morning told Drea that he didn’t think he’d be able to cease the fight against those who killed his parents — that he couldn’t forgive them. But a glimmer of optimism shined in Uandem’s gray eyes. “So you’re not here to slaughter us?”

  Uandem acted offended. “No!”

  “And you’re not here,” Balgray asked, “to make an example out of us?”

  “No!”

  Theral furrowed her brow. “So, the war is over?”

  Uandem smiled so genuinely — this man who had slain hundreds, ordered the massacre of thousands. The Slaughter at Meireer, The Rape of Baeldaan, and all the times he supported the Unholy King in his murderous and heretical madness — was this the man who could bring them hope? “The war is over. And we all have won.”

  Chapter thirty-two

  Harbinger

  The sun shone outside. Falhill grimaced at Uandem’s fat slave vessel, which cast a shadow over the mouth of the river. On its hull shone Harbinger in long red letters. A chill crept down his arms and legs.

  Balgray joined Falhill on his way out. Her smile did not convince Falhill. “That could have gone much worse.”

  “We will wait, we will see,” Falhill replied. “I trust Uandem as much as I trust Yaangd.”

  “Our colony succeeds where they could not. It was our rebellion which gave us the will to make this colony work. Yaangd and his ancestors could never sustain a population on this new coast because they didn’t have the will — the necessity. Don’t you see? That Uandem didn’t slaughter every man, woman, and child is a testament to our perseverance.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way, Balgray, I really am. I’ll tell you when this stomachache goes away.”

  “A stomachache?”

  “I’ve got this feeling in my gut that Uandem is wearing a façade, putting on a show.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open, Falhill.” She held his hands tightly. “You’re my closest friend, Falhill.”

  “And you’re mine.”

  “I trust you more than I’ll ever trust Uandem, or Yaangd, or even Baljiridhall. If you need me to maintain a cautious lookout, I’m already ahead of you.”

  “There’s still the food shortage, Balgray. Fal says neither Kraek nor Balyrnhall were behind it. It feels too convenient for a seventeen-year-old to have orchestrated the whole ordeal. Yet he sits in a cell. He was Kraekhill’s apprentice, though.”

  “I don’t think Uandem came ashore secretly, stole our food, then sailed away and back again. Baljesshall is keeping his ear to the ground.”

  “He’s a child.”

  “He’s a teenager, and almost a man grown — thrust into his role of sheriff since Denhall’s swift disappearance — and we don’t have any soldiers left, save Rudfynhill and Laebm.”

  Falhill’s voice grew softer. “And that is another matter. Laebm the Lion-In-Sheep’s-Clothes must be held accountable for his actions.”

  But Balgray interrupted him, “He will be held accountable. I know Primhill was your wedbrother. I assure you, Laebm will be held accountable.”

  Before Falhill could continue, Laborer Baljiridhall came into view. His brown tunic could not obscure the brawn underneath. At thirty-one years of age, Baljiridhall had the youthfulness of someone half his age, and the muscle of two lifelong miners. Falhill remembered that Baljiridhall’s late brother Jirid was a lumberer, and brawnier than most. After Balgray lost her husband to Theul Jadeflame, it was Jirid’s brother who comforted her. Falhill could tell that his close friend relaxed and smiled around her wedbrother. Balgray and Baljiridhall were not friends. Falhill knew they were closer.

  “Come now, Balgray,” the laborer called, “I’ve a wild turkey stewing and I’d hate for it to burn.”

  Balgray looked to Falhill, her smile more sincere than before. “I will not let my guard down. Justice will be served. But, for now, our people are safe. That’s what’s most important.” Falhill nodded, and Balgray joined Baljiridhall for the short walk upriver.

  Drea walked out of the congress hall with his grandson. “Sarahedeen is about to be your wife, boy. If she is not with child by spring, I will annul the marriage and have you exiled!” Before Dreahall could respond, Drea shouted, “No words! Walk with your betrothed!” Dreahall scurried inside to find Sarahedeen.

  When Drea turned his eyes on Falhill, they shared a heavy sigh. Drea approached. “He is still a boy. But I need a great-grandson. I cannot leave my estate to the likes of Dreahall. He would… At least Sarahedeen can watch after things now. A couple months to ensure Sarahedeen isn’t pregnant by any previous rendezvous. Then, the wedding. She will be as good a weddaughter as one could ask.”

  “Grandweddaughter,” Falhill corrected with a chuckle. Then he half-lied, “She is a fine congresser.”

  “I chose her from many worthy candidates.”

  You chose her for her birthing hips, Falhill guessed. He dreaded these negative thoughts towards his mentor and second father, but they came nevertheless. “Drea, you are a masterful strategist.”

  In the pink-orange dusk, the old man suddenly looked older than ever before. “You mustn’t.”

  “No, I admire you — your tactical utilization of marriages in particular. Marriages are cheaper than gold.”

  “If only…marriages could solve every problem.”

  “Uandem could have brought the False Priests and burned us alive. He didn’t. Perchance this is not a ‘problem’. Perchance this is an opportunity.”

  “You always were the optimist.” Drea breathed in and out, laying his wrinkled palm on Falhill’s shoulder. “Every day, I wish it were you and not Dreahall who were my kin.”

  Falhill couldn’t help but laugh. “That is… That means so much. Ever since my own father was hanged—”

  “No, please, don’t say it, Falhill. There are some things better left unsaid.”

  “I know I told you I would never cease in my fight against those who killed my parents… But they would want me to make peace. My mother would want me to bring Falhadn home and put another baby in her. My father would want me to shake hands with Uandem and kiss Yaangd’s cheek. Mayhaps we don’t have to fight to honor
those fallen. Mayhaps the best route to honoring those innocents lost is to end the fighting.”

  Drea sniffled. Falhill squinted to find that the dams of Drea’s eyelids were about to break. “There’s so much I want to say to you.”

  “There will be another day. You look like you need your rest. Go and sleep. Sleep well tonight, for the war is behind us.”

  Drea Drysword turned sharply to the east. “Sunset.” He breathed more quickly. “Time, like sand, does slip through one’s fingers.”

  “See? Time for the best sleep you’ve had in ages.”

  “I’m so sorry, Falhill.”

  “Sorry?” Falhill furrowed his brow and turned to face his mentor.

  A chill crept up Falhill’s arms, his spine. The sun crept behind the eastern hills, and all of Independence was suddenly in shadow. Drea’s expression tightened, and the words caught in his throat.

  “Drea? Why are you sorry?”

  Shoes in the sand approached, but Falhill could not turn fast enough. A wooden cudgel met the back of his knee. Falhill buckled, and Drea whimpered. Falhill craned his neck to find two men — the Old Coaster Gargant holding the cudgel, and Fisher Greishill holding fetters. Falhill could only ask, “Greishill?” before Gargant bashed him across the face.

  The sand rushed up to meet him. The pink clouds faded in and out of view. The sound of high tide ebbed and flowed. Falhill blinked and found fetters had shackled his wrists. “Greishill? Why?” Falhill couldn’t help but stumble over his words. “Your son — you could have named him what you liked. We didn’t mean to…”

  Gargant, the half-crippled Old Coaster, limped towards the coast with Falhill in tow. “Shut up. No one is going to help you.”

  “Falhadn! Hullahedeen!” Falhill cried out. “Where is Falhadn?” But he remembered his wife had sailed to the other side of the world. The shouts came out slurred. “Drea! Help me!” Seafoam brushed against his knees. His captors headed for Uandem’s fat-bellied warship, Harbinger. “Balgray! Traamis! Primhill! Rudfynhill! Anybody?!” But his shouts dissipated into the dusklit eventide.