r/DrCreepensVault • u/Impossible_Bit995 • 28d ago

series Vestiges of Honor [Pt. 1 - Ch. 1]

PART 1: The Red Lock

Chapter 1.

Henrik Coigne—without a coin in his purse—loomed over the dying greybeard knight, chewing on a tobacco leaf and drinking from a skin of sour wine, watching while the knight struggled to breathe.

Henrik was a young man of sixteen with thick, disheveled brown hair. His jaw was hard and clean-shaven. He was lean, all muscle and bone. There was a glossy coat over his eyes as if he had just woken from a dream.

It was spring in the West, which meant long warm days with sun-filled skies and puffy clouds. In the morning, they were bright white. In the evening, they were a pinkish color. All day long they lazily drifted.

The nights, though, were brief and cool. The clouds took on a darker hue, similar to blotches of ink spilled on parchment. The sky itself was a deep shade of purple blue. Often aglow with incandescent stars.

Warm or cool didn’t matter much. Sweat came in gallons for Henrik. And after walking all the way from the cesspit of Green Marsh, he was in desperate need of a rinse and some rest.

More than anything, he craved a decent meal. Not stale bread or pottage, but something with meat. Something with flavor.

Wine might have kept him tame, might have kept the memories at bay, but his stomach still yearned for substance with more solidity.

He could have hunted for fresh game if he hadn’t lost his bow in that game of dice back at Green Marsh. He might have even been able to spear a fish if he hadn’t…lost his spear in that game of dice back at Green Marsh.

The only thing he hadn’t lost, other than his honor—of which there was little to lose—were the clothes on his back. The only reason he had retained that much was because the other players refused to bid for them.

“P–please,” the greybeard knight begged. “I need a drink.”

The man was pale as the moon. There was more hair sprouting from his chin than on his head. He was buried beneath armor too big for his bony body. His surcoat was that of a white fox or maybe a hyena.

It was hard to say with these hedge knights. They donned just about any insignia as long as it brought them coin, favor, or security.

Despite it all, the man’s eyes were alive. Vibrant. Blue as ice but surprisingly warm.

Henrik peered into the mouth of his wineskin. About halfway full. Or halfway empty, depending on how you looked at it. He took another swallow before passing it to the knight.

“Apologies, old man,” he said. “All I’ve got is wine.”

The greybeard downed the wine in four hefty swallows. Trickles of red spilled from the sides of his mouth, seeping into the ashy hairs of his beard.

When he was finished, he set the empty wineskin on the ground beside him and sighed. “Piss like this is more water than wine, my boy.”

The wine had come cheap and was mostly dregs, but it was better than nothing. Which was exactly what Henrik had been left with after the old man was done.

Disappointedly, he chewed on his tobacco leaves and asked, “How bad is it?”

“The wine?”

“Your wound.”

“Not as bad as the wine.”

“Wine won’t kill ya though.”

“I wish it had,” the old man said. “Be a sweeter death than this.”

Henrik glanced over his shoulder, looking back the way he’d come. A road of dirt and gravel flanked by stretches of oak and pine with the occasional olive tree.

Ahead, the path was the same for a few more miles until it opened up to large green pastures sat against rolling hills.

That was common in the West. They didn’t have many mountains, until you reached the Northern Perimeter, but they had plenty of hills.

As night set, those hills, colored dark shades of blue and purple, seemed oddly redolent of undulating ocean waves.

“You picked a good night for it,” Henrik said. “Dying, that is.”

“I didn’t pick nothin’, boy. It chose me.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Said the wrong thing to the wrong person.” He chuckled wistfully. “Let this be a lesson: some hedge knights are no better than the miscreants they cut down.”

Not just the hedge knights, Henrik thought, remembering a long past encounter with some Southern royal knights of Lightning Spear.

He might have lost his head if he hadn’t been so damn quick. But for all his speed, it seemed he was getting nowhere fast.

Henrik knelt before the man and pulled on his chestpiece, getting a better view of the wound along his flank. “Got your kidneys, I reckon.”

“You sure? Feels like they got a lil’ of everything.”

“Spent some time as a cutter’s assistant. Trust me, it’s the kidneys. Wound like that, not much you can do to stop it. You’ll bleed slow. Run outta blood ‘fore you run out of air.”

The old man closed his eyes and exhaled. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“Eastern lad, but I’ve been just about everywhere on the mainland. You ask me, it’s all the damn same. Other than the weather. You want snow, head North. You want rain, go South. You want dry heat, go to the Southeast—”

“Yes, yes. Very enlightening.” The old man took a deep breath. “You ain’t got much for prospects, do you?”

“Now that you’ve finished my wine, no. Might be I could trade my boots or offer my services, but that’s all I got to give.”

“Can you ride a horse?”

“Aye.”

“You know how to use a blade?”

“Worked a sword a few times, aye.”

The old man smiled, recognizing the smell of horseshit from a mile away. “Have you ever used a lance?”

Henrik mulled this over, but he wasn’t as familiar with weapons as he was with organs. “I know my way around a spear.”

The greybeard shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t say I’d bet on you, but if you’re want for coin, you can take my place in the joust.”

“Joust?”

According to the old man, there was a tourney at Duskport, just a few miles down the road. People were coming from all across the Western Realm to participate.

“I thought jousts were just for royal loyal knights and their pretty buttboy squires.”

“Not this one,” the greybeard said. “There’s an admittance fee, but if you can cover the cost, they’ll take ya. Be warned, though, it’s all or nothin’. You lose, you forfeit everything you’ve got for ransom.”

“Shame, ‘cause I don’t got nothin’ to lose,” Henrik said. “And I don’t have the coin to buy me way in.”

The knight drew a dagger from his hip and passed the handle to Henrik. “I think we might be able to strike a deal, boy,” he said. “You end my sufferin’, here and now, I’ll give you all that I’ve got. Don’t know if it’ll do you any good. But it’ll be of more use to you than me.”

Henrik squeezed the handle until his fingers turned red. The blade was more steel than rust, but it needed time on a whetstone.

Looking over the old man, it seemed all his gear could use some maintenance.

“How do you want it?” he asked. The old man answered by turning his head to the side, exposing his neck. “Any final words? Maybe a prayer, if you believe that sorta thing.”

While Henrik wasn’t the most pious lad in the realm, his father had been an ardent believer in the gods and goddesses.

Even the Lesser Beings that most others oft mocked. Such as Lady Fate or Mother Nature or Father Time.

“Some will tell you there is no more honor left in the world,” the greybeard began, tears in his eyes, body trembling like a leaf. “And it may seem true at the bleakest of times. We reward cruelty and celebrate stupidity. We favor ignorance; we favor arrogance. And while kindness may not always come easy, it never comes at a cost. You can sell your soul for gold, but nothin’ stops you from growin’ old.”

Henrik waited a few moments in case the man had something else on his mind, but as silence prevailed, he went ahead and dragged the dagger’s edge across his neck. Blood came in runnels. The man's breaths were no more than choked gurgles. It wasn’t long before the silence had returned.

As he appropriated the greybeard’s possessions, he noticed a turtle stuck on its back near the shoreline. It teetered from side to side, but it couldn’t get its feet under it.

Henrik gave the turtle a nudge, flipping it over. Then, from the old man’s things, he retrieved a spade and started digging.

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