He Who Was
Part One - Revelation
This is Part 1 of a 2 part One Shot written for July Prompt. Enjoy!
Edgar awoke to the chill north wind blasting through his cave some height up the Ferenal Mountains, the same wind that blew on that fated day ten years prior. He rose to the same sparse surroundings. A trio of rough undyed linen shirts and trousers, the heavy cloak he had escaped with all those years ago, two pairs of leather boots more patch and tar than supple leather. Near the entrance of the cave was a fire pit, cold and ashen, with half a pot of the prior night’s meal ready for breaking his fast. Behind his furs and wools rested his worldly belongings, hidden under a thick linen sheet weighted with stones.
Edgar pulled his boots on and headed for the cave entrance. The rolling hills of the Dales stretched all around, eventually flattening off at Karastan’s Moor where the land veered off the horizon. It had all been his once.
There was little point dwelling on the past.
He threw on his cloak, drew the hood up, and began his descent of the mountain. The craggy climb was littered with little pockets of frost, that was how it was so far north, near the edge of ever winter. Running, he leapt down the skittering stones in huge loping strides like a gazelle and was soon on the well worn track used by shepherds and traders alike. He dusted his cloak and stole a glance up the mountain, his cave was not visible and he wondered for how many more years he’d be able to make the climb. Once he’d imagined himself grey and old surrounded by kin with a worthy son, but that was all gone now.
There was little point dwelling on the future.
The trek along the valley took him from the rolling hills of meadow and pasture into a land of woods and copses, where the main past time was hunting and fishing. He enjoyed fishing, like he had all his life, a fact Edgar was thankful for now that it kept him fed. What one man does for pleasure is another’s livelihood, he thought. A smirk crossed his lips as a village of thatched cottages appeared on the horizon. Smoke rose from the chimneys and the hustle and bustle of marketday reached across the whole of the land. A shepherd, his belt heavy with a coin purse, bowed to Edgar as a dozen freshly sheared sheep trotted by. Edgar felt sorry for the sheep having to brave the edge of winter without a coat but he supposed it better than them going to slaughter. Nearer the village a trader guided his donkey off the road to allow Edgar to pass.
‘A gift, He Who Was,’ the trader leaned low and handed Edgar a bundle of bread and cheese.
‘My thanks, kind stranger,’ Edgar said.
‘We all do our bit,’ the trader doffed his cap.
It had not always been so. The first few years the villagers and market day travellers hadn’t known who Edgar was and kept clear of the man in fine armour, armed with sword. Once he’d swapped the armour for a shirt and trousers the people were more accommodating till a travelling bard recognised him and shouted ‘Ghost!’ Edgar could do nothing to stop the words, the stories, tumbling from the bard and he fled to his cave for nigh on a season, living off skinny fish, wild onions, and garlic. Eventually Edgar returned to the village and the alderman had called him ‘He Who Was.’ What that meant was never broached but they all understood he wasn’t a ghost, though he had learned that a doppelgänger had been executed shortly after his escape. That had all been seven years ago, or more, and a comfortable habit had set in between him and the village.
Edgar passed beneath the watchtower on the edge of town, the chatter of the market booming from the village square. A boy ran past, ‘I’d stay clear of the square today, mister.’ Before he had a chance to ask why the boy had vanished into a nearby copse. What had the boy seen or heard that the shepherd and trader hadn’t? Edgar paid the boy no mind and continued on.
The market square brimmed with cheesemongers and bakers, tanners and blacksmiths, woodsman and farmers, all shouting their wares and prices. Coins clattered into scales and where people didn’t have coin they traded other goods. Mothers carried baskets of root vegetables and tree fruit while little boys and girls chased each other through the medley, fathers eyed up new knives and bows, farmers had horses re-shoed, while the tanner and leatherworker arranged a deal for a knee high stack of skins. The mayor and alderman looked on from the balcony on the only two storey building in the town, the pub and inn. Locals and visitors alike all said goodday to the pair up on the balcony knowing it was by the mayors good graces the market happened at all drawing from ten miles around. Edgar nodded up to the grey haired mayor and alderman before entering the inn for his first task, gathering news.
There was rarely anything worth knowing. Feuds between barons had become more common, bandits plagued the lesser roads while the former King’s Guard, now Republican Lancers, patrolled the main ones. At least the Council had maintained that much, Edgar thought. A boy had been murdered in a nearby village, though others said it had been a duel over a girl. Troy the barkeep had kept quiet after that, though he chewed the inside of his lip.
‘Don’t,’ Hector shook his head and returned to his mead.
‘No need speak of that,’ Garis said. The two men, already spending their earnings quicker than they made them, flanked Edgar.
‘Speak of what?’ Edgar asked.
‘Their right, shouldn’t speak of it. Need a basket Edgar?’ Troy dove beneath the bar and came back with an oval straw basket.
‘I do,’ he set the trader’s gift in the basket and made to leave. ‘What’s this news that cannot be spoken of?’
‘Never you mind, He Who Was, enjoy the market. Come back for a pint, on me, and think about supper,’ Troy said.
Edgar grumbled but held off interrogating the three men, they wouldn’t tell him but someone in the market would, someone would let slip this tidbit of news. He exited into the low light of early winter and begun his tour of the markets. His coin wouldn’t stretch far, not anymore, and in a few years he’d likely have sell his labour or have some good to sell but until then he could peruse and purchase the essentials. A few eggs, some dried meat, a few jars of mead, and a heft of barley. He purchased a new line for his fishing rod, as well as two more snare traps to replace ones that had broken. Making them was cheaper but they never worked properly.
‘Did you hear? He only got himself caught!’ the tanner exclaimed to the leatherworker. The scales were weighed down with copper coins and the leatherworker had begun loading his cart with the skins.
‘Aye, mighty shame that,’ the leatherworker grunted. His eyes widened as Edgar approached, ‘Shh!’
‘Who got caught?’
The tanner went pale, ‘Oh, errr, no one of import. Need a new rain cloak? I’ve got the best quality skins and my friend, Mavon, here will make you up a top quality cloak.’
‘My current one is fine, thank you, Ostrid,’ Edgar said. ‘Who’s been caught?’ He was certain this was the news Hector, Troy, and Garis had kept from him.
Ostrid scratched the back of his head, ‘You know half the news that comes through on market day is all half-truths and lies anyway. Fibs made up by bards so they have something to sing about, aye ain’t that right Mavon.’
‘Aye,’ Mavon kept his eyes on the skins as he shifted them inch by inch. ‘Can’t trust a word of it.’
‘In that case, there is no harm in telling me,’ Edgar said.
A woman sauntered up to sell a few squirrel skins to the tanner. The pair haggled over price for awhile, Ostrid umming and arring over half-a-copper. It was all for show, or a hope that Edgar would move on. He didn’t, he wouldn’t. The woman took the coppers, giddy, and practically skipped to the inn.
‘I’d have just bought her a jug of mead and traded that if she’d let me know,’ Ostrid shook his head and set the dried skins to one side. ‘Don’t usually deal with furs but my little’un wants a fuzzy coat,’ he looked up. ‘So, He Who Was, about that rain cloak?’
‘About that spot of news.’
Ostrid gritted his teeth, ‘Won’t let that go will you…’
‘See you next market day, Ostrid,’ Mavon lifted the arms of his cart and hurried off.
‘Best if you heard this sitting down with a pint in hand,’ Ostrid sighed and set off towards the inn. ‘Leon, mind my stall.’
‘Aye,’ the potter called back.
Edgar found mead to be an acquired taste, instead preferring the dark ales made from rye or the light ones made from wheat. Before his exile he’d drank wines and spirits, often from distant lands and city-states. Barley wine also hit the spot.
Ostrid came over with his own tankard and perched himself upon a stool. Hector and Troy eyed him and tutted. Garis had left muttering about how his wife would expect some of the coin he’d made that day.
‘Alright,’ Ostrid was sweating. ‘It’s about your son.’
Edgar sat up. All his sons had been killed, save one. The youngest had been on tour with his mother visiting familial, close and distant, the length and breadth of the land. When the rebellion started he’d lost contact, when he was deposed he feared the worst. That was ten years ago.
‘Prince Edward is believed to have been arrested south of Jaskrand. The charge is inciting unrest, fermenting rebellion, rumour has it he was making his claim on,’ Ostrid leaned close and whispered, ‘your throne. He is due to be executed in three days. The roads are packed, the travelling traders say. The Council of Ralthar are offering amnesty to bandits, free meals for a week, bonuses to those who enlist. They’re making a big song and dance about it.’
Ostrid’s words had faded to nothing beyond mention of Edward being arrested. Edgar sat, perplexed, staring into his barley wine. His last living son was alive, but for how long? The boy had survived for a decade yet on his sixteenth year went and got himself captured. Had family kept him hidden? Other cities? Had they pressured him to press his claim, likely for their own benefit. Edgar slammed a fist on the table, sending Ostrid’s ale sloshing over the sides.
‘I’m sorry. If there was something we could do, we would, but we can’t. None of us can fight, we don’t even have weapons. These aren’t soldier towns,’ Ostrid sank into his stool, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I can’t ask you to fight for me,’ Edgar downed his wine and rose to his feet. ‘It would be foolish to even try. Stay here, live out your days in bliss, and forget I was ever here.’ He Who Was stormed out the door and ran back to his cave.
The run back to his cave was long enough to have second thoughts. Edgar was approaching his fiftieth year, he hadn’t swung a sword in nigh on a decade, and he had no allies to speak of. At least not ones who could fight. Clambering up to his cave had him panting and by the summit he’d all but discarded his recklessness. An unusually warm wind blew in, strong and persistent, and tore the heavy cloth cover from his worldly belongings. His turquoise armour with brass trim glittered, his swords and knives rested hungry in their sheaths. Edgar knew what he had to do.
He descended the mountain and in his bones knew it would be the last time. The armour was heavy, heavier than he remembered, the arming sword bulky, the short sword light as a feather, his plumed helm claustrophobic. Once he could fight, ride, and sing all at once, now he could barely walk in a straight line in his combat finery. He threw on his cloak to hide his arms and armour and, with his helm tied to his belt, set off. The road to Ralthar was long and winding but if he travelled day and night he would reach the city gates by dawn of the day of execution.
The roads were packed. Republican Lancers patrolled in pairs all along the main roads and there wasn’t an hour in the day where Edgar didn’t encounter one. Most kept quiet, their teal capes fluttering in the breeze while their steel lancers shone in the wintery sun. Merchants clogged the centre of the roads, their carts pulled by men, donkeys, or horses, if wealthy enough, while the regular folk walked the edges and, if necessary, the fields. For once the carts were slower than the walkers and Edgar found himself far along his journey.
‘Halt, you with the hood,’ a Lancer called. He hardened his voice in a way that revealed his inexperience. Edgar stopped and found himself staring down a lance. The weapon prodded past his ear and lowered his hood for him. The folk nearby gave Edgar and the two horsemen a wide berth, eager not to be caught up in anything. ‘Why the hood, old man?’
‘My ears were cold,’ he said too firmly.
The Lancer craned an eyebrow, ‘Get used to it, we don’t want no one suspicious on these roads.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Edgar said. He bit his tongue, this boy-lancer would have been barely handling a sword last time Edgar was on that road, probably none-the-wiser to the overthrow of a king.
‘You’d do well too,’ the Lancer tapped him on the shoulder, Edgar’s armour rang out. The Lancer cocked his head to one side, ‘What’s under the cloak?’
‘Armour, I’m a mercenary but didn’t want to show the fact,’ Edgar held the Lancer’s gaze hoping age and a white streaked beard would keep him from being recognised by anyone.
‘Reports of insurgents on the road. Rebels hoping to free their false Prince. You wouldn’t happen to know about that would you?’ The second Lancer circled round behind Edgar, blocking his escape.
‘Not a thing. To tell the truth I’m not a citizen of Ralthar, just heard the news and came to watch. If you need people to watch the road I’ll take good coin and a soft bed.’
‘We don’t need sellswords,’ the Lancer spat, his moisture mingling with the snow damp ground.
‘Suit yourself,’ Edgar forced a smile.
The Lancer sidled his jaw side-to-side, displeased but unable or unwilling to do anything about it. ‘Alright carry on but we’re watching you.’ The Lancer kicked his horse into a trot and him and his comrade continued their patrol.
Edgar held his breath and counted to thirty, only then did he release the grip on his sword under his cloak and continue on his way. The regular folk who had saw the commotion kept clear but soon they were all engulfed in a new wave of hopefuls wanting to see the execution of a prince. Edgar kept his hood down. The Council had re-minted all the coins it could, expunging Edgar’s visage, and those of his father and grandfather, from the realm. The execution of an imposter provided another layer of invisibility, no-one thought the Last King of Ralthar still lived, and to add to that much of the crowds were from the countryside were seeing the king had been rare, even the coins were mostly of prior kings. It was not until he reached the gates of Ralthar that Edgar noticed he was being watched.
The black walled city of Ralthar dominated the horizon, home to almost half a million people and ruling city over all the land within one hundred miles. Snow had settled on the upper heights of the wall over night. Two identical banners, purple and teal, flew from the gatehouse bearing the scales and sword of the Council. The Sergeant of the Gate waved people through without much care. A man, not much younger than Edgar, watched him pass through the gate. He wore chain under leathers, poorly hidden, and two swords on his belt. Edgar wondered if he was one of the rare few who could fight with dual weapons, it had been a trend amongst the dukes and barons of his day, one the swordmasters found absurd. He Who Was let himself be carried on with the crowd. Town guards stood at the entrances to side roads and alleyways directing everyone towards the centre square. Edgar had forgotten the scale of the city he’d once called home. Housing rose six storeys up, inns dominated entire streets, and the rabbit warrens of alleyways were home to messengers and thieves aplenty. There were tunnels too, a whole labyrinth of ancient catacombs, underground rivers, and storehouses hidden underfoot. He remembered trying to map them as a boy with his brothers, then later, as king, ordering a team to do so in his stead, they’d never finished. He wondered where the maps had gotten too, both his own poor attempts and the cartographer’s.
The square opened up before him. Huge sandstone buildings flanked either side of the square, once home to a beautiful park with oak, apple, and pear trees. All that had gone and now there was simply a massive paved space in the centre of the city. A sea of heads bobbed before, children sat on their parents shoulders too. At the far side, in front of what had been the courts, was the gallows. A noose hung low, beside it a rack, and beside that an executioner sharpened his axe. Edgar’s heart fluttered. He peered behind him, now there were three men eyeing him. All wore heavy linen cloaks like his own and he guessed they were also armed and armoured. The three of them wormed their way through the crowd like Edgar, eventually overtaking him and vanishing into the sea of people.
Republican Lancers lined the square, archers peered from the rooftops, and horsemen had gathered along the three main roads that led into the square. For a moment Edgar saw a massacre unfolding, not unlike the last days of his reign. But the thought, and the memory, shattered when a windowless carriage appeared into view from behind the courthouse escorted by eight Lancers. This was it, his son was in that carriage, he knew it but Edgar was too far away from the gallows. The press of people became suffocating and he found himself unable to advance or retreat. The crowd erupted into jeers, eggs and worse were thrown from the front rows. Edward was shoved out of the carriage, his wrists and ankles bound in shackles. He was dressed in a moth eaten tunic, his hair grimy and lice-ridden. Eggs exploded against the carriage, on the guards, and across Edward’s face. He was only a boy really, barely sixteen. Edgar pushed forward but for all his effort he only made it three feet.
‘Calm down, he’ll be dead soon enough,’ the man next to him chided, then laughed and jeered.
Edgar bit his tongue and watched as his son was dragged onto the gallows. A member of the council followed him up carrying a scroll of charges. Her smock was burgundy and gold, and she wore a soft billowing hat with a tassel hanging over her ear. She wasted no time and unfurled the scroll, ‘The charges, guilty on all counts, are as follows: Incitement of rebellion, spreading of anti-government propaganda, promotion of monarchy, recruitment of soldiers without written decree, recruitment of soldiers in peace time, recruitment of soldier without official office, espionage, bribing of officials, claim of defunct titles, lack of official documents, forgery of official documents, ownership of proscribed materials, ownership of proscribed materiel…’ she continued for nigh on half-an-hour.
‘Get on with it!’ a voice chided from the crowd. A Lancer barged his way through and the man found himself beaten and bloody for his demand.
Edward knelt on the gallows staring vacantly over the crowds. Egg yolk dripped from his hair and soot stained his face. Edgar wondered how his imposter had looked on the day of his execution, had they beaten him too even though they knew he was a fake?
The Councillor reached the end of her list, ‘The sentence is death, first by hanging, then beheading.’ She rolled up her scroll and the executioner stepped forth to tighten the noose around Edward’s neck.
‘No man can die twice,’ Edgar muttered.
‘It’s the same his father got,’ an older man to his right said. ‘Hanging until almost dead, then a brief relief before the axe falls. Proper gruesome I tell you.’
Edgar nodded, his hand on the hilt of his sword. How would he make to the gallows… better yet how would he escape with his son, weak and beaten as he seemed. There had to be a way.
‘For the King!’ the shout rang out over the square. One of the men who’d followed Edgar leapt onto the gallows, twin swords in hand, and slashed at the noose. A second climbed behind the executioner and skewered him through the ribs. Lancers poured onto the stand, two of them dragging the Councillor to safety.
‘Come with me, Sire,’ a voice whispered into Edgar’s ear. ‘This is no place for you. Not now.’
‘But…’
‘All is to plan, come with me.’
Edgar allowed himself to be led out of the crowds and into a side street just as he saw his son get dragged from the gallows by a Republican Lancer.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Thanks for reading!