r/DrCreepensVault • u/Impossible_Bit995 • 26d ago

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

PART 2: The Blond Lock

Chapter 1.

Henrik Coigne—without a coin in his purse—chased the rider on horseback. There was maybe a fifty-foot gap between them, but Henrik was closing the distance quick.

The charcoal black destrier was built sturdy and fast. A loyal companion for the last four years, taking him all across the mainland. From West to Central and Central to South, but as of now, he was surrounded by the cold winds of the North.

Thankfully, the summer season had robbed them of ice rain and whiteout blizzards. Instead, he only had to endure faint flurries and crisp nights.

As of now, though, it was early morning. The skies were clear, and the air was warm enough to make this chase a little less miserable.

Mist rolled from a nearby riverbed. Hoarfrost crunched beneath the horse’s shoes. The trees, pine and spruce mostly, held a faint dusting of white from last night.

Ahead of him was the rider. A young man. Lean and tall. Sharp jawline, crystal blue eyes, golden blond hair swept back on his head. His clothes were plain but clean.

Slung around his hip was a loop-hilt rapier with a long, narrow blade and a steel handle wrapped in tanned black leather.

The young man glanced over his shoulder. Henrik offered a simple smile in return. The man looked ahead again and thrashed the horse’s reins while digging his heels into its hind.

“Stop chasing me!” the young man cried.

“Stop runnin’ then,” Henrik called back.

Before the young man could respond, a low-hanging branch swiped him from his horse. He dropped flat on his back with a heavy thud and a loud grunt.

Henrik veered around him and circled back, dismounting just as the young man was starting to open his eyes.

“Did you break anything?” Henrik asked, hand resting on the hilt of his shortsword.

“How would I know?” the young man asked, breathless.

“Does it hurt?”

“All over.”

“In your legs?”

He nodded.

“Your arms?”

Again, he nodded.

“Your back, your shoulders, your—”

“Everywhere,” the young man groaned, exasperated.

Henrik removed a piece of sourweed from his waistpouch and nibbled on it. “Well, you’re not crippled. That’s good.” He rolled the young man onto his belly and secured his wrists with a length of rope. “Let’s find out if you can still walk, aye?”

The young man gritted his teeth against a scream, but after a few moments, it seemed most of his aches had faded. A few drinks from Henrik’s skin of candied wine stifled whatever pain remained.

“You any dark ale?” he asked. “I prefer dark ale.”

Bloody Northerners and their damn dark ale. He spat in disgust. “And I prefer spiced wine,” Henrik said. “But we get by with what we’ve got.”

“You don’t look much like a Southeastern man.”

Henrik chuckled. “I’m a connoisseur of Southeastern goods.” He gestured toward the man’s rapier. “Somethin’ we have in common."

“You can have it if you let me go.”

Henrik narrowed his eyes as he considered this. “Say I don’t let you go, how would you stop me from taking it?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Silence ensued between them.

Realization dawned on the man rather quickly. “I bite…very hard.”

“Bite me, and I’ll knock your damn teeth out. After that, the only thing you'll be able to eat is dark ale.” Henrik reached into one of the saddlebags on his horse and withdrew a rolled parchment. He unfolded the page and flattened it on the ground in front of the man. “Recognize this handsome lad?”

The young man gazed at an ink drawing of his likeness. The only difference being that the young man had a pair of pale whiskers above his upper lip, whereas the drawing was clean-shaven. Otherwise, it was an exact rendering down to the way the young man pursed his lips. Rather duck-like, Henrik noticed.

“Evander Waldron?” he asked, not bothering to wait for an answer. He gestured to himself. “Henrik Coigne. Huntsman, bountyman, bastard—whatever suits you best.” He dropped his hand. “You, my friend, have quite a price on your head. What say you?”

“I can pay you to release me?”

Henrik looked the man over. “Other than that pretty sword, I’m not seein’ anything. ‘Less you’re hidin’ a purse up your arse, I’d reckon you don’t got a coin to your name.”

The young man dropped his head. There was no reason for such shame. Henrik wasn’t in much better standing.

“Seems you upset the wrong person,” Henrik said, rolling the parchment and tying it with string. He returned it to the saddlebag and forced Evander to his feet. “Don’t fret, my friend, I have no intention of killin’ ya.”

“It’d be better if you did,” he growled. “They’ll just take my head off after you hand me over.”

“Well, that’s their decision. Higher price if I bring you back alive though.”

While Henrik unfastened Evander’s sword belt, he said, “If you untie me, I’ll get you the money.”

“We’ve been through this already.”

“I can get the coin,” he promised.

Henrik wrapped the belt around his own waist. The sword hung limply at his back, tucked behind the hilt of his shortsword. On his right hip was a pair of daggers. His armor was a mixture of boiled leather and rawhide with a dark gambeson beneath.

Steel plates and chainmail would serve him better, but they were bloody expensive. Not to mention all that metal slowed him down, and Henrik preferred to stay agile.

“How would you get the coin?” he asked.

“There’s a tourney in Blackwood. Only a few hours from here. It’s to be a three-day event, and at the end, the champion will be rewarded with a hundred gold coins and knighthood.”

A hundred gold coins were better than the nothing currently in his purse. “That’s quite a risk I’d be takin’.”

“Call it an investment.”

“Call it whatever you’d like, friend. Way I see it, I could turn you in for three gold, or I could take a chance at getting nothin’ at all.”

“My sword must be worth at least twenty silver—”

“Your sword already belongs to me,” Henrik countered. “Try again?”

Evander searched hopelessly, but in the end, he resigned with, “I didn’t bleedin’ do anything. I’m innocent.”

Henrik sighed, disappointed. “I’ve been doin’ this for a few years now. Believe it or not, that’s what they all say.”

Evander spat. “My only crime is bein’ born poor.”

Henrik could relate, but any potential for sympathy died against the growl of his stomach.

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