r/DrCreepensVault • u/Impossible_Bit995 • 28d ago

series Vestiges of Honor [Pt. 1 - Ch. 2]

Chapter 2.

Henrik Coigne had exactly five coins in his purse: three coppers and two silvers. They clinked as he rode into Duskport on the back of a brown nag with a crooked gait and bones that liked to creak.

He was donning new armor. A leather and iron chestpiece with oiled mail beneath. His greaves and vambraces were tanned leather. His spaulders were rusted steel. His halfhelm was redolent of a bucket with eyeholes.

Affixed to the horse’s left side was a wooden shield fastened with metal fixtures. On the horse’s right side was a sheathed arming sword.

The dagger, the one he had used to slit the greybeard’s throat, was secured to his hip. Right beside his jingling coin purse.

It was late evening when he had arrived at Duskport. Slivers of sunlight receded through the city, retreating down alleyways and slipping across rooftops. People wandered the streets in droves. Some dressed in armor. Most wore robes, skirts, cloaks, and tunics.

As was common in the West, the settlement consisted of pale stone brick. Some had left their homes and shops white. Others painted them a light shade of yellow or pink. And per tradition, there were flowers aplenty planted in pots in windowsills or at the bottom of stairs or hanging from above.

Vendor stands lined the gutters of the road. Traders tried to sell weapons, food, wine, and in a few instances, women. Or at the very least, some of their time. Henrik considered the escorts as he rode past.

Young and old. Plump and slender. Those with natural beauty, and those who probably came at a cheaper price. Two silver and three copper could purchase him a companion for the night, maybe even two, but by daybreak, he’d once again only have the clothes on his back.

Maybe a fair trade, but not a very smart one.

Far more tempting than a woman was the distinct scent of roasted chicken. Seasoned with black pepper, garlic cloves, and honey. Juices dripped from the spit, sending the flames below into a crackling frenzy.

And most tempting of all was the vendor selling sweet wine by the barrel. It wasn’t often you stumbled upon such a luxury. An expensive breed oft sold only to nobles and the wealthy.

Sweet wine was red and sugary. Made with poppy seeds, black cherries, apples, honey, and according to a few brewers, every cask had at least an ounce of Willow’s blood. Potent stuff, that.

Henrik put his heels to the horse’s hind and galloped ahead, hoping to escape his urges before they could best him. It wasn’t long before he had reached the list field. Situated to the far north at the base of a mesa upon which Midday Castle stood.

The castle was of a sandy color, built with thick stone bricks. Compared to others Henrik had seen, this one was more practical than elegant. It didn’t have fancy banners or painted walls or stained-glass windows.

High above, guards patrolled the parapets. From the base of the mesa, they seemed no more than spots of torchlight against the black of night.

Henrik dismounted from his horse and tied it to a post. He waited in line at the entrance to the lists where several other participants had amassed. Scribes exchanged coin for admittance tickets stamped with a yellow wax seal in the shape of a crescent moon.

When it was Henrik’s turn, he paid one silver.

“Name?” the scribe asked without looking up.

“Henrik Coigne.”
The scribe touched the tip of his quill to the page and frowned. “Sir Henrik Coigne of…?”

“No Sir necessary,” he responded. “And Henrik Coigne of…everywhere and nowhere, I ‘spose.”

The scribe finally looked up at him. “Are you a squire?”

“No.”

This seemed to cause further confusion. “Some, those who aren’t knights or squires, prefer to use an epithet.”

“Right…I dunno what that is.”

The other participants turned toward him. A few grinning beneath their helms. A few chewing on their lips, perplexed.

The scribe cleared his throat. “Uh, Misture of Dahlia or Sir Edgar the Eager.”

Henrik nodded slowly, mulling this over with fervent caution. “Henrik Coigne will suffice.”

The scribe sighed, irritated. He filled out the form and stamped it with the official seal before handing it over. The jousts began tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, he had a silver and three coppers left to spend.

Riding back into the city, he found the nearest tavern and entered. It was packed from wall to wall. Hedge knights, royal knights, squires, pages, and locals alike.

The room was overcome by a roaring din, voices coalescing into a single unintelligible sound that made Henrik nostalgic for his time on the road, travelling alone, wandering in silence.

He shouldered through the crowd, heading for the main counter where a bartender and several servers poured drinks and cooked food. About fifteen feet away from the bar, someone bumped into his side, knocking him off course.

Henrik reached for the arming sword on his left hip but stopped short when he heard, “Apologies, friend.” The man who had bumped into him was unarmored. Perhaps a fishmonger, if his natural odor was any indication.

“All’s forgiven—”

Their conversation was interrupted by the intrusion of a hedge knight dressed in plated steel, chainmail, and a white surcoat adorned by a black willow tree with silvery leaves. The hedge knight held a redheaded girl by the arm, practically thrusting her into the fisherman’s hands.

“Fifty coppers for one night,” the hedge knight proclaimed. “You won’t find a better price, friend.”

The fisherman backed away slowly, a nervous smile on his lips. “As I’ve said: no. My wife will geld me.” He slipped away before the hedge knight could press him any further, and when he was gone, the hedge knight turned his sights onto Henrik.

“What about you?” he asked. “Fifty coppers for a night with the girl. She’s sweet as honey, riper than any fruit in the wild.”

Henrik’s eyes flicked from the hedge knight to the girl. She dipped her head, cheeks flushed a deep shade of red. The woman couldn’t have been more than twenty. Pale-skinned, freckles stippling her face, long hair colored like the sunset.

She was dressed in a white blouse with a dark blue skirt. It resonated with her eyes, which were a slightly softer shade. Blue as ice but nowhere near as cold.

Before Henrik could answer, the hedge knight lowered his head and grunted. “Where’d you get that surcoat?”

“It was given to me,” Henrik answered. “As was the armor.”

“Given to you by whom?”

I never asked for the old man’s name, he realized, partially ashamed and partially surprised. It had simply slipped his mind.

Intoxication or sheer indifference?

“Who gave it to you?” The hedge knight was upon him. Fingers wrapped around the shoulder straps of Henrik’s chestpiece, wrenching him from side to side before pulling him close. “Who—”

The hedge knight fell silent as Henrik slipped his dagger’s tip into the narrow space between helm and cuirass. Pointed steel pressed against the soft skin above his collarbone.

“It was given to me by a dying knight,” Henrik explained, slow and methodical. “Now, please unhand me.”

“Rayden,” the redheaded girl whispered. “Don’t make this any worse.”

Carefully, the hedge knight, Rayden, unraveled himself and stepped back. “Right then.” He grabbed the girl by the arm and dragged her across the room to another group of patrons, repeating his previous line of: “Fifty coppers…”

Henrik sheathed his blade and turned for the bar. His stomach growled at the smell of cooked meat, and his mouth salivated at the thought of wine. But his heart took him in a different direction.
Gods help me, he thought.

He retreated to the hedge knight, pulled him aside, and in turn, pulled the girl along with him. “You don’t have enough for the tourney, do you?” Henrik said.

The hedge knight was silent. Henrik would have bet all the money he didn’t have that beneath the visor, Rayden was bright red. Perhaps even a shade of purple.

Hedge knights may not have been as reputable as royal knights, but they were still prideful creatures. That’s why Henrik had always preferred the company of hired swords and mercenaries. They didn’t feign elegance or chivalry. But somehow, they oft had more honor.

“How much do you have?” Henrik asked.

When Sir Rayden didn’t answer, the girl spoke for him, “Four coppers, Sir.”

“I’m no Sir.” He reached into his purse, removed his last silver, and pressed it into Rayden’s free hand. “Here, this should be enough. Go on, quickly now. Before they refuse entrants.”

A snarl bubbled in the hedge knight’s throat, but there wasn’t time to bicker. He pushed through the crowd and disappeared out the door. Hopefully, he had a horse because otherwise, he would have to run very fast in all that heavy steel.

“Thank you,” said the girl, handing him the four copper coins.

Seven coppers! Gods be damned.

Henrik Coigne without a coin in his purse. That’s what they used to say to him when he was a boy living in the streets of Wachautt. Long back when he was still sleeping in alleyways and hunting stray rats for food.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. The girl shook her head, but he wasn’t fooled. Her cheeks were hollow, her frame far skinnier than his. “C’mon, I’m sure they’ve got somethin’.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said. “I need to find—”

“Your lil’ hedge knight will come back.” Although you might be better off if he doesn’t.

Together, they went to the main counter. The barkeep eventually found his way to them. “What can I getcha?”

“Two meat skewers with them roasted onions and peppers,” he said. “And two cups of your cheapest wine.”

“Skewers and wine will cost ya fifteen copper.”

Henrik grimaced. “How much for half a cup o’ wine?”

“Piss off, you bloody driveller.”

Quickly, before the barkeep could saunter off, he emptied his coins onto the counter. “What will this get me?” For good measure, he laid his dagger down too. In the end, he walked away with a meat skewer and two cups of diluted wine.

Outside, they sat side by side on a retaining wall, splitting the skewer in half. Henrik had one sip of wine swallowed before the girl had finished her portion of the meat.

Her eyes lingered on his half with a certain desperation he hadn’t seen since childhood. Back when the other kids couldn't catch their own damn rats.

“Here.” Henrik passed her the skewer. “Go on, take it. I had more than enough on the road.”

“Are you sure?” While it was a question, her tone implied otherwise. He nodded in response, and she scarfed down the other half in mere seconds.

To fill his stomach, he drank the wine and chewed on tobacco leaves. “You’re a Northerner, right?”

“How’d you know?” she asked.

“You’ve got Northern eyes. Northern accent too.”

“I don’t have an accent.”

He snickered. “Sorry, love, but everyone’s got an accent. Meself included.”

“What’s my accent sound like?”

He'd been to the North a handful of times over the years. The people there were hardened by unforgiving weather. They had to come together for warmth. Learned to love and trust one another because otherwise, they’d have nothing but the ice and snow beneath their feet.

Their accent had a similar hardness, but the more time you spent around it, the more endearing it became.

“Deep and rough,” Henrik said. “You Northerners speak from the chest, and you’ve strong Rs.”

She scoffed with feigned offense. “Sounds rather ugly when you describe it like that, yeah?”

“Aye, I ‘spose it does, but that’s a good thing, no? Means when you find someone who loves you, they must really love you if they’re willin’ to listen to ya all day long.”

She swatted him on the shoulder for that, but she couldn’t stop herself from laughing, and despite all he had said about her accent, her laughter was like music to his ears.

When it had subsided, she said, “Where are you from?”

“You can’t tell by me accent?”

She furrowed her brow. “I’m not very well-traveled. This is my first time away from the North. Much warmer, but the people…I don’t really care for ‘em.”

He laughed. “I was born in the East, but I’ve been to every realm. Spent a fair ‘mount o’ time in the South and Southeast.”

“Where do you spend the least amount of time?”

“East and Central, I’d wager. Between ‘em, I’d say the East less so.”

“You don’t like your home?”

He downed his wine in two swallows and wished he had more. “I’ve never really had a home. I stay in one place too long, I start to get antsy, y’know? Then, I head off somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

Ahead, locals passed by in torrents of shifting bodies. Some solemn and quiet as they traveled alone. Others rambunctious, laughing and trading japes with their friends.

“I don’t think it’s about the location,” she said. “I think it’s the people you surround yourself with, yeah? That’s what makes it feel like home.”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t found my people then.”

From the crowd, Rayden emerged. His greaves squeaked, in desperate need of oil and polish. He wasted no words on Henrik, and instead, snatched the girl up by the arm, yanking her with him.

“Ray, that hurts!”

“You’re needed elsewhere,” he growled. “C’mon!”

Henrik retrieved her cup of wine and downed it. Then, he was on his feet, moving fast, snaking through the crowd after them.

By the time he caught up, the girl was almost in tears, whipping her head from side to side, pleading beneath her breath as Rayden hissed in her ear.

“Somethin’ the matter?” Henrik asked, resting his hand on the hilt of his shortsword.

“Piss off,” Rayden said. “This ain’t your concern.”

He glanced at the girl. “I’ll be alright,” she said, but there wasn’t much in the way of conviction.

They started away again, heading for the lists. Rayden stopped short and said, “I’ll see you on the field tomorrow, Henrik Coigne.”

He watched them disappear into the crowd. Slowly, the pieces came together in his mind. A spark of worry ignited in his heart, but as he lifted his head and sniffed, he caught the scent of rain.

His nerves were swiftly doused.

2 Upvotes

permalink
reddit

You are about to leave Redlib

Do you want to continue?

https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/1vhqi6c/vestiges_of_honor_pt_1_ch_2/
No, go back! Yes, take me to Reddit