The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  A burst of virility pumped blood into Falhill’s arms, and he shook free of Gargant and Greishill’s grasp. Yet in fetters, Falhill jumped to his feet and ran from the coast, towards Drea. Closer and closer, Falhill’s vision started to blur once more. Falhill ran into Drea, who wept. “Please, help me! Drea, help me!”

  Steady tears filled the numerous wrinkles indented into Drea’s cheeks and down his chin. “This was the only way.” Drea grabbed Falhill’s shoulders, with more digital strength than Falhill expected. “I didn’t think there’d be food for the winter.”

  Falhill’s breath caught in his throat. “You brought them here.”

  “Yaangd seeks to make an example of the rebel congress, in exchange for free trade — food for this winter and every winter to come.”

  Shouting from behind the old man. Fetters held Potter Fal’s wrists together, though she kicked and screamed all the same. Holding Fal was Sarahill, Sarahedeen’s father who ran the tavern. “Yaangd seeks to make an example of the rebel congress,” the traitor had said. But Fal is no congresser.

  Falhill tried to break free of Drea’s grip, but the septuagenarian did not intend on helping him. Falhill spit in his face. Drea sniffled. “Uandem doesn’t need the rebel congress, only seven dissidents who he can say acted as congressers.”

  “Drea is a liar!” Falhill screamed, and Drea flinched. He let go of Falhill, but Gargant and Greishill were already on him. “Drea brought the Unholy King onto these shores! It was Drea Drysword who did this!”

  But another blow to the back of his neck rendered his tongue limp. Turning about, Falhill caught glance of Theral’s son in fetters as well. Falhill recognized Laborer Baljiridhall’s gruff voice shouting curses in the distance and Laebm’s voice telling him to be quiet.

  Most disheartening was the image of Grand Admiral Uandem himself escorting Traamis the True. The cleric did not scream nor kick; he only prayed for all to hear: “Hrash forgive them. They do not see that it is a despot and a heathen they serve. You are our only…” As Falhill struggled to crane his neck to see what happened behind him, Gargant landed a final blow to Falhill’s face. Falhill could feel breath in his lungs, the tingle of his fingers, but his vision was black.

  Falhill didn’t know how much time had passed by the time his eyesight returned, only to find himself one among a hundred slaves, oars in laps. Then the hull closed out the moonlight. In the pitch black, Falhill heard his heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings and felt a warmth leak down his leg and into his sandal.

  Chapter thirty-three

  A Demon In Human Flesh

  “It’s finished. You never have to again.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “We never have to talk about it. It’s all over.”

  His wife rose from their bed. The pre-dawn night sky painted her face the deepest purple. “I’ve seen your death. My own husband’s death.”

  Balhenhill squinted. “My darling, come back. Rest your head.”

  “You’re engulfed in darkness. The king’s son wants you dead, and a lion with an open bloody chest hurls you into oblivion.”

  “The Lionheart? Why would he—?”

  His wife interrupted him, “He killed all the Hillite soldiers. He’s a kingsman now, isn’t he?”

  “Please, Balhenhadn, come back to bed. Sleep off your woes, and talk no more of your visions. They only trouble you.”

  “I have nightmares. I dreamt of the Great Flight from Enesma.”

  Balhenhill thought of all the chickens and deer whose throats he had slit this past half year, but he pushed the thought from his mind. “Darling, I dream of that day in Enesma as well.”

  “I dreamt it before it happened.” Balhenhill’s skin crawled as his wife continued, “And I dreamt of Shelwyn’s execution. I don’t know why I dream what I dream. I saw a giant tomcat choking beneath a grape vine, two serpents strangling four rivers, a headless bird exploding onto the marble and slab.” Balhenhadn’s eyes were rolling into the back of her head. “The moon smashing the sun into a brick wall, a misshapen man with a daughter and a daughter and a granddaughter that were only two, a crown atop a rotted shadow, a different crown around six bloody breasts, my own foul fingers pressing a dagger to our son’s throat—”

  Balhenhill grabbed her linen shift. “Stop this!” He crawled to her and caressed her cheek. Balhenhadn’s eyes once more looked like the eyes of a scared fawn, no longer like some demon beast. “My darling, come back to me.”

  “It doesn’t change that I… It eats away at your soul, Balhenhill. Every time you say the words or dream a dream, a… a drop of black liquid drips down into your gut.”

  “What are you talking about? You haven’t mentioned this before.”

  “I don’t know how to describe it. I used to let it happen, not anymore. A few months ago, I looked at our little boy. But nothing in me smiled. It was like I was looking at some animal.” Balhenhadn swallowed, touched her veiny throat. “So now I fight it. And I smile again. At my son, at you. But whenever I fight it, I want to vomit.”

  Balhenhill rose to meet his troubled wife. “I’m here. Calm down. Never again. I’ll make sure you never feel sick again.”

  “Mommy? Daddy?” Henhall had appeared in the doorway to their bedroom.

  “Oh, darling!” Balhenhadn sang as she reached for the boy and wiped away tears.

  “Why are you crying?”

  Balhenhadn picked up her drowsy son, still wearing his nightbreeches though the sun had risen. “Mommy is just tired.”

  “Is it because King Yaangd found us?”

  “King Yaangd isn’t going to hurt you. Nor me, nor Daddy.”

  “But they took Gaerhedeen’s father.” Henhall and Gaerhedeen were classmates — both four years old. Gaerhedeen’s father, Alchemist Gaerhill Graymatter, had been thrown aboard Uandem’s warship, Harbinger, which doubled as a slaver.

  Balhenhill made the duo a trio. “That is sad. But they won’t take your father.”

  “Did they take Gaerhedeen’s dad because he was stealing potions?”

  Balhenhill shared a pale glance with his wife. “What do you mean?”

  “When Gaerhedeen and I were playing twigs and towers, she told me her dad collected potions and vials and some other things that he wasn’t allowed to have. She wasn’t supposed to tell, but I think she wanted to kiss me.”

  Balhenhadn tried to ignore her son’s worrisome claim. “Did you?”

  Henhall stuck his tongue out. “Only because I felt bad she told me a secret. I don’t think she’s pretty. Zannahedeen is the pretty one.”

  The two pushed for Henhall to get ready for school by the river. Though the colony had yesterday halted its day-to-day function out of fear, Drea instructed everyone to continue their daily lives. Once Henhall had dressed, Balhenhadn took him to the banks of the Azure Artery.

  But Balhenhill remained in their hovel. He prepared fried eggs with a carrot-and-pea pottage. He took the wooden plate with a cup of sweetwater down to the cellar. To his houseguest.

  Not every Hillite had a cellar. Almost none, in fact. But Drea had declared Balhenhill’s hovel to be a secret secondary storehouse for fish salting. Only he and Balgray knew of the decision, as well as Nudntryhill and Baljiridhall who helped build it. The Drysword intended this secrecy for his own benefit, but Balhenhill formulated a different sort of plan.

  In the cellar, Rynyr sat lazily against a barrel of herring. He read a scroll, The King and the Codfish. As he learned more and more of the Hillite tongue, Rynyr had been able to read children’s stories with few gaps. “Sailor Balhenhill? Is there a problem?”

  “You mustn’t go hungry.” He set the fragrant egg and pottage beside his hip, the sweetwater beside the plate. “And it is time I gave you back your sword.”

  Rynyr perked up at this. “My steel?”

  “Today, I will speak with Drea. He will ask me where you went — since your head did not—”

  “I do not want to hear anymore
.” Rynyr looked away. His Hillite came out broken and flavored with an alien accent. “You think Drea will want to kill me?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not.” Balhenhill sighed. “There is no reason to kill you now. Killing the others was a ploy to frame Kraek, so the people would turn on him and Drea could justify his beheading. Kraek is dead, the Old Coasters have washed ashore, there is no gain in your death.”

  “You told me it was to declare war on the Segchyhah.”

  “That’s not what I said. But I guess there is a hint of truth to that.”

  “So Drea still wants to kill me.”

  “Perhaps he can use you as leverage. He’ll send you back to your father, the Representative, in return for peace or gold.”

  “My father will never give up a ransom. You killed Mihivanda! His only daughter, my only sister!”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” shouted Balhenhill. He lowered his voice. “Keep your voice down.”

  “You are guilty, Sailor. For allowing it to happen.”

  “I saved your life, Rynyr. Be a little grateful.”

  “I would have rather you saved my sister’s life.”

  Balhenhill shrugged. “I don’t have that sort of power. I don’t even know what Drea will say about you today.”

  “Give me my blade, and I will defend myself when you send Drea here. I hope it clears your conscience.”

  Even as Balhenhill inhaled to retort, a meaty knock at the front door resonated down to the cellar. “Quiet. I want you to live, Rynyr. Please don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  Defeated, Rynyr sniffled and scowled. Balhenhill took it for obedience.

  Balhenhill’s ears twitched. The door’s hinges squeaked. His pace quickened right away.

  “Sailor Balhenhill?” called a gruff voice from upstairs.

  Balhenhill shut the cellar door as softly as he could and hurried to his front door. A half-crippled Old Coaster had already taken half a dozen steps into the hovel. “You the sailor?”

  “And who might you be?”

  The man’s voice came out like a guard dog’s bark. “Where were you at?”

  “In my own home?” Balhenhill held his chin high. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave my hovel. Congresser Drea is a friend of mine.”

  The Old Coaster smiled to reveal only half the teeth a man should have. “Oh, I know whose friend you are. Shall I tell you who my friend is?”

  “The grand admiral, I presume.”

  His demeanor turned from vanilla to vinegar. “That’s right, Sailor. And you’ve been summoned.”

  Balhenhill’s hovel sat very near the congressers’ mansions, where Uandem resided for the time being. The laughter of children, the curses of fishermen, the gossip of wives, and the boasting of husbands should have filled even that short walk.

  Instead, fear. Soundless, crippling fear.

  Where Balhenhill followed the gruff older man, he spotted three Old Coasters beating Hunter Fenhall. Fenhall’s lover Hraghedeen grabbed onto one of their backs but failed to pull him away.

  “Do you like to kill unarmed men, in cold blood?” one shouted at him.

  “Those were our swordbrothers. Big mistake, Hunter,” another sang in between kicks to the side.

  “Get off me, woman,” said the third, and he slapped Hraghedeen across the jaw.

  Fenhall took the opportunity to roll away. As he tried to jump up, he whimpered, “They were False Priests! They killed my eldest son! Unarmed? They had their tongues! They could have whipped up a spell to turn me into dust!”

  The three men tackled him once more. Hraghedeen wept and grasped at her jaw, where the Old Coaster’s slap had broken the skin.

  “Come on,” grunted the older man who led Balhenhill. He obeyed.

  Though Uandem had taken up residence in Falhill’s manse, the limping Old Coaster led Balhenhill into Drea’s. In the great room right inside Drea’s front door, four men sat on cushioned settees. Drea Drysword looked more like his seventy-three years than usual. General Laebm kept his hand on the jeweled hilt of his sheathed greatsword. Grand Admiral Uandem sat tall, clad in gilded plate armor with Yaangd’s royal insignia on his chest: a nine-pointed crown enveloping a blue seahorse. The harpist Rudrud made four. Perhaps the harpist is not as simple as we all believed. That horrible night, he certainly showed a darker side than any of us knew.

  “Thank you, Gargant. Sailor Balhenhill, is it?” the grand admiral asked, suppressing laughter.

  “Yes, Grand Admiral.”

  “I apologize. I am not laughing at you. The prince has told a most humorous joke.”

  Rudrud strummed a rancid chord, and Uandem laughed once more. Only then did Balhenhill notice the oversized greatsword on Rudrud’s waist.

  “You summoned me.”

  Uandem sobered and yawned. “Yes, the Drysword here tells me all the help you and your wife have been. I wanted to thank you in person.”

  Balhenhill couldn’t help but feel sick. “You’re welcome.”

  “And I have another favor to ask.”

  And he grew sicker. “What do you ask of me?”

  “Well, it’s your wife, really,” Uandem began. “I hoped to bring a Brave Priest or two with me. Not to use them, of course. Only in case of emergency. However, I need to sail back to Hrashmaad with my prisoners. I would like to make good time. Heading north, the journey took far too long.”

  Balhenhill imagined breaking his promise to his wife — asking her to conjure one more bit of witchcraft. “I will ask her.” He recalled the final magic she had mustered. Balhenhadn had prayed over a pile of pebbles every night. Drea knew Uandem was less than a day away when the pebbles floated in midair. Balhenhadn had had to pray her black words every night since the Segchyhah arrived.

  Uandem smiled. “Good. Drea tells me she responds best when you ask these things of her.”

  Laebm coughed. “If he is loyal to the crown, perhaps we should tell the sailor what is to come?”

  “Excellent idea, General!” cried Rudrud. “I’ll start.” As far as Balhenhill knew, Rudrud had only spoken in unintelligible lyrics since the pilgrims landed. But here he swayed, speaking with an eloquent, high-pitched voice. “I have heard that there was an attempt on Cleric Traamis’s life. I wonder who that could have been.” Rudrud looked about the spacious house, then abruptly eyed Drea.

  “Me?” Drea’s eyes darted back and forth. “Why would you think that—?”

  “I followed your grandson that night. I should have stopped him, but fortunately, Dreahall is a dolt.”

  Drea stuttered. “I don’t… You’re not… My grandson…”

  “I figure, when you fell ill, you were afraid Traamis the Terrible would take your place as the head of the colony. So, you had your idiot grandson take a rock to the cleric’s temple and a dagger to his chest.” Rudrud jumped up and sat next to Drea. “Is that right?”

  Drea’s breathing had quickened. “All this time?”

  “I knew? Yes, I did. If you had succeeded in killing him, I would have been very cross. My father very much wants the great Traamis dry drowned in the Bloody Courtyard. But you failed. So I can’t be too upset with you.”

  Balhenhill took a step forward. “I’m sorry. What is happening?”

  Rudrud leapt from Drea’s side and extended a hand to Balhenhill. His right arm bulged with sinew while his left arm twisted unnaturally. “Long story. Suffice it to say, you should be bowing.”

  Balhenhill shook his hand, then half-bowed. “The crown prince? Yaangdhill? Did you try to kill our high cleric?”

  “No, haven’t you been listening?”

  “You’re not the prince?”

  “I am the prince, Sailor Whoever-You-Are! Prince Yaangdhill the Twisted, if you like. I was never this clean shaven before the Great Flight from Enesma, but my mismatched arms should give it away. And no, I did not attempt to assassinate the traitor Traamis. Drea Drysword did. Keep up.”

  “Please, Balhenhill does not want to hear this,” Dre
a uttered.

  “Oh, no? Does he also not want to hear how you were the one to order the Segchyhah’s heads to cut off, to frame Kraek?”

  Drea deflated. “The sailor actually knew about that one.”

  Uandem chimed in. “Though I’m as surprised as anyone that Falhill beheaded Kraek himself. That will make an excellent tale for the men back home.”

  The prince ignored the grand admiral. “And the food stores?”

  Drea shook his head. “Balhenhill was actually instrumental in making it look like there was a food crisis.”

  Prince Yaangdhill grinned. “So the people would need us? That’s so kind of you, Congresser Drea. Manufacturing a fake food shortage for the good of the people? Yes, I understand your logic now.”

  Drea’s jaw clenched, and his voice raised. “I have tried to make our arrangement work from the beginning! My efforts have not been in vain.”

  “Except that the Segchyhah arrived out of thin air and gave you all the food you needed. So, your rebels didn’t really need us after all.” Yaanghill made a grand, sardonic gesture. “Fortunately, my father doesn’t care if the rebels think they need him to survive. That was your guilty conscience. My father is content to conquer.”

  Before Drea could respond, his front door swung open once more. Two Old Coasters dragged Theral over the rushes.

  “Ah, Congresser Theral,” sang Uandem. “The prince was expecting you.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Drea inserted. “I would have a word with Balhenhill while you speak with Theral.”

  “Go ahead.” The prince shrugged. “Whisper like midwives.”

  Theral looked up from her bloody knees. “Rudrud?” Her eyes darkened. “That voice.” And Drea pulled Balhenhill to a corner of the great room.

  “What are you trying to do?”

  Balhenhill recoiled from Drea’s grasp. “What do you mean?”

  “You know who I am talking about. Don’t make me say his name.”