Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 16

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 16
The Winter Sword (16)

At Captain Deraki’s command, the mercenaries rushed forward and seized Yanika by the arms, wrenching her to her feet despite her inability to resist. Several others advanced toward Romaback.
Romaback, unwilling to surrender, raised his crossbow with trembling arms and aimed it at them. A cry twisted with malice tore from his lips.
“How can this be! After all our dealings, you cast us aside like worn rags and take the side of these milk-scented brats who’ve crawled in from who knows where! I thought you understood the situation, but you’re completely blind! Has some wretched maternal instinct awakened in you? Bah, filthy dogs! Bah, bah!”
Then Yefnen, steadying his breath, spoke slowly but with unmistakable clarity.
“You seem to regard motherhood as something terribly trivial, but… can you stand before your own mother and proudly boast of what a wretched human you’ve become? You’re lower than vermin, so… it would be better if you never met your mother while you still draw breath.”
Romaback’s face contorted miserably. This was the first time he had suffered such an insult without being able to kill his tormentor.
Yanika, whom he had trusted, was either dead or useless now. If he followed these mercenaries in this state, there was no telling when he might escape.
But… damn it! There was no way to refuse to follow them!
At that moment, a girl with silver hair braided down her back stepped forward. She passed by Boris and Yefnen, moving toward Romaback.
Her gait was light yet dignified, and despite her small frame and youthful features, it was difficult to instinctively block her path. One of the mercenaries surrounding Romaback turned to look at her and spoke.
“Nayatrey, you don’t need to step in.”
The girl, Nayatrey, did not respond. Her small lips were pressed firmly shut.
Nayatrey suddenly propelled herself forward, took two quick steps, spun around in a graceful arc, and moved to his rear with breathtaking speed—as swift as the dagger she herself had thrown. What happened next was impossible to follow with the eye.
Her arm extended in a blur, and her braided hair danced through the darkness like a whip. It was not a striking technique. Romaback was merely startled, neither screaming nor falling.
Tap.
The sound of her feet touching the ground came from the opposite direction she had entered, having already withdrawn. She landed on one knee, shielding her face with her left arm—a movement so flawless it resembled a dancer’s grace. Such a technique was impossible without having trained in martial arts since childhood.
What had just happened?
Boris understood the situation only when he looked at Romaback. The crossbow in his hands, along with the three daggers that had been embedded in his arms, had vanished without a trace. The girl was a master of the art of disarming with bare hands. Yefnen had only heard of such a technique existing; seeing it performed was a first even for him.
“Clean work. Well done, Naya.”
Nayatrey rose to her feet and offered Captain Deraki a light bow of acknowledgment.
Captain Deraki gestured to the other mercenaries and called them over. He had no further interest in dealing with Yefnen and Boris. The brothers, likewise, had no desire to entangle themselves with them.
As Nayatrey walked toward Captain Deraki’s side, the mercenary who had spoken to her earlier followed and gently stroked her hair. He was a man in his early twenties with long red hair tied back.
Nayatrey looked up at him but said nothing. Yet she did not seem displeased either, despite her bearing suggesting she would not ordinarily permit such familiarity.
The Mercenary Band disappeared beyond the village. Nayatrey did not spare Boris another glance.

“They deliberately chose a distant village that would require us to walk through the night, hoping we’d grow weary and careless enough to collapse.”
The brothers trudged across the Meadow, having lost their horse and with nowhere left to go.
Southern Trabaches was filled with land like this—vast stretches where nothing was cultivated. Though weeds grew thick enough that the soil could have been reclaimed with effort, the people of this nation, obsessed with politics, showed little interest in clearing or farming such land.
“So that’s what it is.”
Boris nodded at Yefnen’s words, his face gaunt and exhausted.
When they had left Sabanon Village, the guard at the gate had mentioned that there were several villages nearby, and even a great fortress called Gwale. This was what they were discussing now.
Yefnen spoke with bitter resignation.
“There are far too many people in this world who approach others with the intention to exploit them from the start.”
Yet the brothers were not searching for a village. The problem was simpler—they had no money.
It was absurd, but Captain Deraki of the Mercenary Band had vanished without delivering the promised payment. Yefnen and Boris, their minds consumed by the recovery of the Winter Sword, had completely forgotten about the money. Moreover, the coins they had originally possessed had been stripped away by Yanika and her gang when they seized the Winter Sword.
“And when you think about it, we never even asked why so many people were chasing us. We killed twenty or so men without questioning who was right and who was wrong. We might not have even killed them. But what if we’re being attacked because we committed some wrong ourselves?”
Yefnen ruffled his younger brother’s hair, just as he had done back home, while simultaneously mussing it further.
“Boris is smarter than his older brother.”
It was long past dinner time, yet they had eaten nothing. Before leaving the village, they had scraped together the last silver coins from the corners of their pockets to buy one final loaf of bread, which they had divided between breakfast and lunch. Now, truly, nothing remained.
Boris had never gone hungry like this in all his life. Yet his concern for his brother’s state of mind weighed more heavily than his empty stomach. There was no way his brother could be at ease while his younger brother starved. He wanted to say he was fine, but he doubted his brother would accept such reassurance. What was his brother thinking right now?
“Should we rest for a while?”
It was the camp they had anticipated. The brothers found a spot with even grass near a large tree and sat down.
They had no blanket to wrap around their bodies. All their belongings, which had been tied to the horse, had vanished completely—they didn’t even have flint or tinder to start a fire.
The two sat in silence, gazing toward the open Meadow. Though the darkness revealed little beyond grass blades glistening in moonlight, they stared in that direction for a long time.
Boris could not remember when he had fallen asleep.

His first memory was of a terrible nightmare. Cruel hands were strangling the boy’s throat. He could not breathe.
He thrashed, trying to break free, but it was futile. Boris twisted his entire body in desperation. Then something brushed against his feet. When he kicked his legs, they became entangled before suddenly catching and being thrust away. That was when the hands released him.
Still unable to distinguish dream from reality, Boris kept his eyes shut, breathing in ragged gasps that made his throat ache. Only when cool air brushed against his neck—where the strangling hands had been—did he realize he had awakened. He slowly opened his eyes.
It was pitch black. Dawn had not yet broken. Boris glanced around and, finding no one, looked down at his feet. A crumpled bundle of cloth caught his eye. When he slowly pulled it toward him, he recognized it as Yefnen’s outer coat.
He realized his brother must have draped it over him after he fell asleep. Scanning the surroundings with his eyes, he spotted his brother lying some distance away.
But something seemed wrong. His brother lay in a disheveled state, as though he had been shoved down by someone.
Normally, his brother was not a restless sleeper. The thought that whoever had strangled him might have harmed his brother first made Boris jump to his feet.
He approached and placed his hand near his brother’s nose. Though his breathing was somewhat labored, he was, thankfully, still breathing.
Thinking he should wake him, Boris grasped his hand. But his palm was unusually warm. When he placed his hand on his brother’s face, his cheeks and forehead were hot to the touch. With a child’s concern, Boris worried that his brother had developed a fever from giving away his clothes and sleeping outdoors.
Boris retrieved his brother’s outer coat, brushed the dust from it, and spread it out. After draping it over his brother, hoping it would provide some warmth, he lay down with his back against his brother’s.
Whether from exhaustion or not, sleep came quickly.

The next day, the brothers somehow reached the New Village.
I held Boris’s hand and swept my gaze across the streets as we walked, asking passersby where one might find someone who purchased precious metals.
My hand still burned with fever. My face had grown gaunt from it. Boris asked several times if I was unwell, but my brother silently shook his head. When my younger brother pressed too insistently, he even forced a smile.
“No. I’m fine.”
Following the directions people had given us, we entered a newly constructed house on the main road. It was sparsely furnished—barely more than a shell. A ladder leaned through a hole in the ceiling, and there were no partitions dividing the space. Inside, a man sat dozing before what appeared to be a table fashioned from a wooden crate.
“How much would you offer for this?”
I presented to him a mirror with a lid—a keepsake from my mother.
Boris was startled by how readily I produced it without hesitation. That mirror was the only heirloom I had cherished for so long. Our father had disapproved of us dwelling in memories of our mother, making it difficult to keep such things.
The man opened one eye to examine the object, then suddenly jolted awake and stared at my face. He hastily rubbed his eyes and retrieved a magnifying glass from a bundle of cloth tucked beside the wooden crate. The moment he took the mirror, he scrutinized the sapphire affixed to the lid.
The mirror was exquisitely antiquated in design. Its ivory-hued surface, shaped like a seashell, bore intricate black arabesque engravings, and at its center sat a deep blue sapphire. Inside the lid were engraved my mother’s initials: Y. J.
“It’s a decent piece. Three hundred Elso. How about it?”
I knew the object was worth considerably more, but I struggled to find appropriate words with which to counter his offer. After a long pause, this is what emerged.
“That seems rather low.”
In all my years, I had never attempted to haggle over price. I had never reduced the cost when purchasing goods, and the thought of asking for more money when selling felt so humiliating that my cheeks flushed crimson.
The man glanced at my face and shrugged. As he spoke in a curt manner, I found myself uncertain what expression to wear.
“Do you understand the difference between new and used goods, young man? Anyone asking for more than three hundred Elso for something used is a thief. I’m being generous because I’m a country man. Anywhere else, you wouldn’t get more than two hundred Elso.”
“….”
When I could not respond, he continued his tirade.
“Besides, noblewomen who might use such items won’t buy anything with fingerprints on it. At best, it ends up in the hands of tavern girls, or the jewels are pried out for use in other metalwork. And this kind of craftsmanship is outdated. If you calculate the value of the sapphire alone, it’s barely worth a hundred Elso. You should be grateful I’m even crediting the craftsmanship.”
I could not muster any alternative logic before him. I looked down at Boris’s face once, then lowered my head.
“Then please do so.”
“Brother….”
In the past, I would never have surrendered my mother’s keepsake to another’s hands, not for three hundred Elso, nor even for three thousand.
Yet I handed over the mirror with the lid, watching intently as it was wrapped carefully in cloth and placed into the man’s pouch.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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