The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing

by T. Josiah Haynes

  They continued down the Eel Road, and the capital city Eangd sprouted on the horizon, the roaring Duimwater sprawling out from both sides. The river, named for the previous royal dynasty, cut the kingdom in half, as well as the capital city. The high walls sported blue seahorses crowned on golden banners. Outside the Governor’s Gate stood one hundred City Guardsmen. Uandem and his men stashed their bows and adopted a more dignified gait. City soldiers, who bore the white and black striped mantles of the City Guard, kept the road clear of disruption, so Uandem could lead his kingsmen straight up to the gates.

  “Kill ‘em!” or “All praise King Yaangd!” or “Let me have the pretty one!” spilled from the onlookers’ mouths. “Hail Uandem!” and “Praise to Hrash, our king!” and “Wring the little one’s neck!” resonated in Falhill’s ears. One young man, of an age with Falhill, broke through the line of soldiers and punched Falhill in the face. Blood pouring from his nose, Falhill got a good look at the man as City Guardsmen dragged him away. His hair hung black and stringy, just like Falhill’s. His eyes shone just as brown, his frame almost as gaunt. What makes you different from me?

  Soldiers had to keep men from pulling down their trousers and having a go at Baljiridhall’s exposed body, and one older woman managed to kick Theral in between the legs. They marched through a killing field and through a second pair of creaking gates. As the entryway closed behind their retinue, a portly girl pried Theral’s matted ermine robe from her shoulders. Theral hunched over, bare as Baljiridhall. Her grandson averted his watering eyes.

  Eangd stood tall above the city walls. Half the buildings boasted three or more stories. And at the center of the metropolis, Seahorse Keep towered above any other edifice, black stone layered on gray on blue on black and so forth. The Unholy King likely occupied Seahorse Keep that very moment. Falhill’s nostrils flared as his driver pushed him along.

  Through cobblestone streets filled with vendors and children, prostitutes and drunkards, Uandem escorted the four prisoners towards Eangd’s epicenter. The sudden arrival surprised many, who began to follow the retinue, now swelled with City Guardsmen. By the time Uandem reached Seahorse Keep, three hundred commoners had formed a tail.

  Seahorse Keep inhabited a small island in the middle of the mighty Duimwater, called the Democrat’s Isle after the first King Yaangd. The river that cut the kingdom — and the capital city — in half also served as an effective moat. The fortress stood thirteen stories high. The lower half gray brick, the upper half layered black on gray on blue on black and so on. The portcullis creaked violently as it raised, and Uandem led his men into the vast palace courtyard. Its flooring consisted of dark gray slate and off-white marble, asymmetrical by design.

  The Bloody Courtyard, Falhill knew. He hadn’t stepped in the Bloody Courtyard or any of Eangd since he and Falhadn left the capital four years past. But its gory reputation made its way into many a midnight tale in protestant taverns. The first bloodshed of the war, Traamis’s initial attempt at a coup, Theral’s turn from king’s executioner to rebel leader, Drea’s escape with the king’s child bride, the massacre of countless holy men — three separate battles had occurred in this storied courtyard. Drea, he scowled. We thought he was a war hero.

  City Guardsmen allowed the horde who had followed Uandem to cross the Duimwater moat — while the soldiers corralled the four prisoners into a squat watchtower. Inside, torches flickered against the curved gray stone. A table, four stools, a wardrobe, and a stairway failed to properly fill the room.

  Theral cried when men bearing Yaangd’s royal insignia on their breasts escorted young Gaerhall from the tower. “Where are they taking him?!” Theral whimpered for her grandson. But her driver knocked her teeth out with the thick of his sword.

  Uandem fetched white and azure cleric’s robes and slipped them over Baljiridhall’s broad shoulders. “The Bloody Courtyard, commoners are calling it.” He wiped some of the blood from the tongueless man’s chin. “And we are happy to live up to the legend.” Uandem kneed Baljiridhall in the groin, and his men escorted the false cleric into the Bloody Courtyard. “Witness. The dry drowning of Traamis the True.”

  A line of forty palace guards stretched from the shore of the Duimwater, under the thick walls, to the center of the Bloody Courtyard, where lay Baljiridhall, dressed in cleric’s robes and strapped to an oaken rack. Each guard passed along a bucket brimming with saltwater. The final guard emptied each bucket onto Baljiridhall’s face, every one a slap in the face. The brine rushed up his nose and into his mouth. Baljiridhall struggled to take breaths in between each bucketful. The water already heaved against his face now blanketed the courtyard in a shallow film over the marble and slate. Falhill stared at his sorry state in the reflection below. His driver forced him to behold the Unholy King’s cruelty.

  Uandem had taken a position of authority on the palace steps — beside Yaangd’s child bride, his eldest grandson, his youngest daughter, and the so-called High Prophet with his demon arm. Uandem raised his arms heavenward. “People of Hrashmaad, citizens of Eangd, subjects of Yaangd the twenty-first — here lies the heretic Traamis, so-called Traamis the True. A blasphemy! This supposed cleric betrayed his holy king and slew countless innocents in the name of rebellion!” The shouts from the crowd shook the slate beneath Falhill’s feet. He estimated a thousand onlookers, all of whom trusted in Uandem’s fabrications. “With the blessing of your god and king, the royal fleet discovered the rebel’s colony, on a distant shore. We enslaved the rebels and put them to work for Yaangd. But we demanded the charlatans who called themselves ‘congressers’ return to their home, so their fellow subjects could witness what befalls a traitor!” Thunderous ovation. “Some perished on the arduous journey here. But I present to you the death of the rebels’ leader!”

  At last, Baljiridhall choked on the water slapping him in his face. He coughed, gagged, turned blue, and died. The line of soldiers no longer passed buckets down the line, and the spectators roared. Falhill’s thoughts turned to his friend back in Independence. Balgray had lost a husband, a daughter, a son, and a lover — all over the course of a single year. Now she had no one else but her wedson, who had gone off with the Segchyhah.

  Baljiridhall’s drenched corpse began to sag as four soldiers carried him into the palace. Yaangd’s child bride, Jeufyn, raised her arms to subdue the crowd. Her barely twelve-year-old voice carried well. “All hail Yaangd! All praise Yaangd!” The saddest sight of all, Falhill pondered. The king’s captive and child bride speaks his praises. Has she been hexed by the False Priests?

  Admiral Uandem postured himself in front of the girl queen. “And for the two remaining — a fitting sentence!” Theral mumbled to herself through broken teeth as two drivers shoved her along. Falhill’s drivers kicked in the back of his knees. “The Bloody Courtyard will open once a day to the public, so you may watch these rebels rot day by day!” Palace guards pushed two massive birdcages into the center of the courtyard. The stone wheels shrilled, the iron frame trembled. “All hail Yaangd! All praise Yaangd!”

  Metal-clad hands shoved Falhill into his birdcage as Theral stumbled into hers. Soldiers closed and locked the cage doors, and a rusty crank slowly lifted them into the air. Suspended in the humidity, Falhill looked all around him and found hundreds, if not thousands of people who wanted to see him suffer.

  Once the guards left Falhill and Theral in their birdcages, and Uandem retreated into the palace, the crowds dispersed. What did they do with Gaerhall? Only two soldiers guarded the birdcages to ensure no one toppled the contraptions over and sent the rebels to a premature demise.

  Stale scraps of bread comprised Falhill’s dinner that evening. And moldy cheese greeted him in the morning. Kitchen women in frayed brown aprons proudly flung old food at the two remaining rebels. “Whore!” and “Coward!” Coward and murderer, Falhill remembered. Sister Killer. At odds with certain death, he could not help but examine his rise and fall. He deemed what it took to go from scribe to congresser too hi
gh a price. And he prayed this gruesome fate he had to face would befall Drea twofold.

  Another morning brought a light mist of cold rain, respite for his parched throat. Some ugly old woman tossed bones into the birdcages. “Now the dogs have licked them clean, thought it might be a nice treat for you!”

  Each day brought a few score onlookers to scowl and ridicule. None struck Falhill as remarkable. Every one more tedious than the last. All of them could die, and he wouldn’t even notice.

  “Gaer? Are the children safe?” Theral would slur to the onlookers. “It’s nearly their bedtime.” Other times, she recalled exactly where she was. “Bartemhill? There’s the stain. That’s where I kill him. That’s where he makes me kill him.”

  “Theral, that was a year ago. You’re no longer the king’s justice.”

  “I save all those lives. Every night. This is how the Drysword repays me? His grandson lives because of my sacrifice.”

  Perhaps she is more lucid than I thought. “Calm down, Theral. You’re shaking your cage.”

  “Where’s my grandson? Where is he?!” Theral’s exposed body had diminished — her skin now taut as a bowstring over her severe bones. “Please take me to my husband.”

  Falhill sought relief from Theral’s toothless rantings and his bleak prospects, so he lay his head upon his bruised arm. The dreams quickly turned to nightmares.

  The courtyard’s slate and marble shone a dull yellow. Theral sat glad in her cage, hugging her husband Gaer. Baljiridhall swung his arm around Balgray, on the palace steps. Uandem played an innocent game with the child bride Jeufyn — both of them chuckling.

  Falhadn stood next to his parents, whose mouths distended into a shade of happiness. Their smiles continued to widen — until their grins stretched around their head. In a lightning flash, Falhadn bound their necks in thick rope. The rope’s beginning rushed into the sky. Fal and Maalnud’s necks cracked, ghastly smiles still fixed across their graying faces.

  Falhadn held a bucket. “Jevilk,” she uttered. “Don’t you remember where I grew up.” Falhill found himself strapped to a rack. She heaved the water up his nose. She heaved the same bucket, and water was replenished. Bucket after bucket, Falhadn continued his dry drowning. Spectral shadows of Falhill’s mother and father descended from above — Primhadn now in tow. The three of them collided with where Falhill lay, and he woke up screaming.

  The next evening, though fatigue teased at Falhill’s eyes, he refused to let his heavy eyelids drop. He knew his wife would roast him if he closed his eyes. So he leaned up against the iron bars, afraid and alone in the Bloody Courtyard.

  The next morning, Falhill’s cage squealed as it fell. And he realized he had caught an hour of uninterrupted sleep. But he grew eager for the death to which he now descended. Traamis escaped, Falhill recalled thankfully. Fal and Gaerhall escaped humiliating deaths. The birdcage struck the marble, and the door swung open.

  But no executioner awaited him, nor a line of soldiers ready to dry drown him. Much to his surprise and dismay, before him stood a strapping older man and a gaunt older woman. He gulped and rasped, “It’s been four years.”

  “Falhill!” the aged woman cried. “I can’t believe they would do this to you.” She stood as tall as she could, but even Falhill dwarfed her. Her gaunt cheeks and breast-length dirty blonde locks framed her constantly pursed lips.

  “I can,” scowled the distinguished man dressed in fine black and gold raiment. His freakish broad shoulders could not distract from the nasty scar where his left ear should peek through his immaculate mahogany hair.

  “But, this?!”

  “It’s everything he deserves.”

  The woman put a hand on Falhill’s shoulder. “We’re going to get you out of this. Come, let’s get you dressed.”

  “Water,” he hissed.

  The woman called for water, and it appeared. Falhill guzzled at the fresh liquid. His insides ached with sated thirst. The older couple escorted Falhill inside the squat watchtower.

  A guardsman — Jeulfynhall, he barely recalled — shut the door and stood close behind Falhill at all times. He stood half a head taller than Falhill. His blue eyes never met anyone else’s. And on his neck protruded a small goiter.

  A palace guard took a wet sponge to his grimy skin and wiped away the sweat and blood and filth. Another dressed him in a modest white tunic and beige breeches.

  “Please, can you just tell us if she’s alright?” the old man asked, seated at a table.

  The woman added, “And the baby?”

  The baby?

  Falhadn had grown heavy with child twice. Neither pregnancy produced a living child. The two of them hadn’t communicated with Falhadn’s parents in four years, though.

  “Falhadn is safe,” he half-answered, in between gulps of water.

  “She is still in that stupid colony?” Balhulla probed.

  “How would I know?” Falhill gave as little information as possible. “I’m being held captive.”

  “That is all done with now,” Balhulla declared. “We’re getting you out of this dreadful place.”

  Falhill laughed aloud. “And why would you do that?”

  Hulla crossed his arms. “For Falhadn.” And only for Falhadn, his eyes added. These two hated him. Falhill had not only stolen their daughter — but served as a rebel leader. The man they wanted their only daughter to marry should have been strong, wealthy, influential. But Falhill came from humble roots, humble means, and humble reputation. And yet they will call me Congresser Falhill in the annals.

  To Hulla, family was the most important of values. His wealth had only accrued in the past thirty years. Older families with influence dating back hundreds of years frowned upon such fleeting prosperity. Hulla even married his second cousin, commonplace amongst old wealth, but considered base in any other context. He wanted to marry his little Hullahedeen to a rich cousin or a renowned general.

  But his little Hullahedeen married some simple scribe.

  “We’re going to get you out of here, and we’ll all go to Falhadn and little Falhall,” the old lady said with a crooked grin. “We can begin the journey by the end of the week.”

  Falhill’s blood quickened. He fell into the nearest chair. He could overthrow Drea, reunite with Falhadn, bring the full force of the Segchyhah down on Old Coast. Perhaps rescue young Gaerhall. “How would you convince Yaangd to let me go?”

  Balhulla replied, “It’s simple. You renounce your rebellion and take a holy oath to uphold Yaangd’s rule in the uttermost reaches of the four seas. We’ll vouch for you and make a sizable donation to the crown’s coffers, then we’ll be on our way.”

  “There was a young boy who made the grueling journey with me — Gaerhall, General Kraek’s grandson. Uandem took him into the palace. Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Gaerhall?” Hulla repeated. “The boy serves as a ward to the crown. A cupbearer, I believe.”

  “I want him to come with us.”

  “Impossible!”

  “I demand it. Or you will have to explain to your daughter why her husband is dead in Eangd.”

  Balhulla stopped her husband from responding. “We will ask.”

  “You said I had to ‘renounce my rebellion’.”

  “A must. Uandem insisted. You will announce your repudiation before a public gathering. So all may see what folly this whole ordeal is.”

  “You said ‘is’. Not ‘was’. Is there still insurgence in Old Coa— I mean, Hrashmaad?”

  “We had to circumvent Kreafer on our way here. The city was on lockdown. The governor is some upjumped sportsman. He told us he had word of dissidents operating in his walls. I pray Hrash will strike down whatever paltry rebellion remains.”

  Hulla hit the table. “Quiet, woman.” He stared into Falhill’s dead eyes.

  Falhill leaned forward. “Grand Admiral Uandem told me something the other day, something I did not know. He claimed that the men who gave my parents over to the gallows were fr
om Jevilk. And I thought that was strange. Because I only know two people from Jevilk. And they’re both sitting across from me.”

  Balhulla opened her eyes wide. “That is quite the accusation, Falhill! I’m surprised at you. There are thousands of men who live in Jevilk.”

  “Curious, though, that the men who gave up my mother and my father bolted as soon as the nooses were tied.”

  “That doesn’t mean it was us.”

  “Almost as if the men were only interested in killing my mother and my father, and not rooting out any other rebel leaders.”

  “Falhill, stop it! This instant!”

  “Traamis the True is alive. The man Uandem dry drowned was an imposter — named Baljiridhall. Traamis escaped on the journey south. Even in chains, Hrash protects him. The revolution has only begun.”

  “I am warning you! Or we will not save you!”

  Falhill glowered at the severe woman. She believed she had power over him. “You don’t have a grandchild. Falhadn beat it out of her. She wanted your lineage to end with her.” Falhill understood that his wife had taken matters into her own hands with the second pregnancy, but he had never said it out loud before. Somehow, it was a cheerless relief.

  After a moment of revulsion, Hulla threw his fist into Falhill’s face, rebreaking his nose. Falhill fell over laughing. “She’ll never stop hating you.” He kicked Falhill’s stomach. “She’s halfway across the world! You’ll never find her!” One final kick marked Hulla’s exit.