Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 60

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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 60.
Island of the Survivors (2)
As we approached the large bonfire blazing in the center of the settlement, a woman wielding a long pole walked toward us from the opposite side, accompanied by a man.
Around the bonfire, several men clinked tin cups together. Drinking from morning onward—it seemed fitting for a region renowned for its brutal cold.
Isildor San lifted his shoulders in displeasure.
“How was I to know the river would shrink so much? Plates shattering at will, you say? Even the legendary cold of Lemme isn’t what it used to be.”
“This winter has been rather dry. And living as we do, we must endure such days. Just because we’re from Lemme doesn’t mean we’re condemned to chew ice for eternity.”
Unlike our first meeting, her speech carried an unexpected refinement of southern dialect. The woman planted both hands on her hips and looked up at Isildor San, her expression growing puzzled.
“You don’t seem like someone I’m meeting for the first time.”
“I remember you well.”
He offered this casual reply without further elaboration.
Boris knew Isildor San’s manner of speaking well enough not to take offense, but the woman scrutinized him suspiciously from every angle.
“It was years ago, but I think you’ve been here before. What’s your name?”
“Isildor. Isildor San.”
“That wasn’t the name back then.”
“Then perhaps my Elder Brother came instead?”
At his characteristically unflappable tone, Boris struggled to suppress his laughter. Isildor San shrugged habitually and smiled faintly.
“You should tell me your name too.”
The woman gripped her pole more firmly and replied challengingly.
“Hebetica.”
“Well now, that’s quite an elegant name for a woman without a family name, isn’t it?”
Hebetica tapped her opposite palm sharply with her pole.
“Do you understand what my name demands of you upon hearing it? Are you a Barbarian? Or are you another man who won’t settle down unless he’s struck a few times?”
Though her words were rough enough to provoke anyone meeting her for the first time, Isildor San’s expression remained unmoved.
“Barbarian, you say? What an unexpected remark. Your half-brother would be quite offended if he heard that.”
Hebetica’s expression changed instantly.
“You know him? Have you seen him? Where is he now?”
“Listen, how could I possibly know such things? Surely you don’t really think I’m a Barbarian? I’ve merely heard rumors. And seeing you, I thought you resembled him quite closely.”
“Resemble? Are you finished talking?”
The man who came with Hebetica chuckled.
“Hebetica’s been skilled with the oar since she was born. Her grandmother and mother both worked as boatswains—it’s a family trade. When it comes to pole work, there’s none in these parts who can match her. If you underestimate her as merely carefree, you’ll pay dearly for it.”
“Is that so? Then I concede defeat in a rowing contest. Hehehehe.”
Hebetica, who had never proposed such a wager, wore an exasperated expression. Isildor San continued without shame.
“You should adopt a family name. It’s a waste of such a fine name. How about Hebetica Kazannis? Hebetica Altzrose isn’t bad either, and Hebetica Solon would work too?”
“Hey, you—keep being so impudent and you’ll really get struck!”
As the man beside her warned with a smirk, Hebetica shifted her pole from one hand to the other, then gripped it differently before finally lowering it.
And she curled one corner of her mouth upward.
“I remember now. Was it about four years ago? Longer than I thought. You’re the one who butted into the fight when the Decan tribe attacked and then disappeared, aren’t you? So that’s how you know my brother?”
Isildor San pretended to be lost in thought.
“Ah yes, that’s right. It had to be either my Elder Brother or me, after all.”
Hebetica tapped her staff against the ground with sharp, deliberate strikes.
“Is a simple expression of gratitude so unpleasant to hear?”
Isildor San’s smile remained fixed, but the woman’s complexion shifted noticeably at his response.
“I’ve noticed that people who suddenly dredge up old favors typically have a second agenda waiting in the wings.”
The woman pursed her lips and fell silent, merely caressing the shaft of her staff. But eventually, she spoke with blunt directness.
“Fine, you’ve got me. I do have something I need.”
“Make it brief.”
“Help me the way you did back then.”
“You’re asking me to fight?”
Isildor San raised both hands toward the heavens in an imploring gesture, as if beseeching the gods to witness this absurd turn of events. Then he shook his head firmly.
“I’m too old for that sort of thing. Is there nothing else? Perhaps you’d like me to till the fields for next year’s planting, or help you dispose of some aged wine that’s become troublesome? I’d be delighted to assist with something like that.”
Hebetica laughed with an odd expression.
“To be honest, it’s not so different from what you’re suggesting. If you do well, I’ll give you all the aged wine you can drink.”
“Oh? Then I can take home whatever’s left over, yes?”
He agreed without even asking what the work entailed.
Hebetica pointed toward the Northern Hill and told him to come there early the next morning. As Isildor San nodded and rose to leave, Boris followed and asked.
“Do you really have an Elder Brother?”
“Well, if I don’t not have one, then I suppose I do.”
Boris narrowed his eyes and muttered.
“So if you don’t not have one, that means you don’t.”

Winter in the inland regions was crystalline and biting. Above the thick gray cloud cover blanketing the horizon, wisps of white clouds drifted lazily across the sky.
Isildor San and Boris arrived at the hill where they’d agreed to meet Hebetica, settling in to wait for dawn.
Boris gazed absently at the clouds, turning over something Isildor San had said.
“Barbarians, you said?”
“Yes, you might recall the tale I told you when I was at Belnoir Castle.”
Though his tone was dignified, almost meditative, Isildor San was actually employing every trick he knew to carefully uncork a bottle of aged wine.
Boris kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. The gray clouds resembled dust clouds kicked up by galloping horses.
“I remember. It was a story about the Barbarians and a princess.”
“Yes. And I explained the peculiar symbiosis between the people of Lemme and the Barbarians, didn’t I? Once they fought like mortal enemies, but now they respect each other’s territories adequately. They still don’t care for one another, yet sometimes they help. What we’re about to do falls roughly within this Lemme-style coexistence. In any case, it’s a simple matter, and since I’ve incurred a debt, I ought to protect Hebetica.”
Boris didn’t grasp the meaning.
“Protect Hebetica?”
“No, no.”
Isildor San shook his head and paused, considering how best to explain.
“‘Hebetica’ carries a special meaning beyond being merely a person’s name. In the old Lemme tongue, you might say it means ‘propriety,’ though it’s somewhat different from that. Hmm, to put it more fully, it’s something like ‘to follow the ancient customs of that land.’ That’s the sense of it. And it’s no accident that she bears such a name.”
“Why would someone be given such a name?”
“It’s a custom. The Settlement passes down special names to certain people. They’ve essentially transformed values that must be preserved across generations into names. When such names circulate within the Settlement, people cannot forget those values.”
Boris was somewhat taken aback and pressed further.
“Using a person’s name for such a purpose seems rather extreme, doesn’t it?”
“It’s likely a custom from an era when written records were difficult to maintain. In any case, the name Hebetica is commonly found in Settlements that are easily accessible to outsiders. They emphasize Hebetica to prevent outsiders from violating the custom. There was something else, too.”
Isildor San tapped the wine bottle thoughtfully before speaking.
“Yes, ‘Limsar’. It means ‘always stands at the forefront in battle’. It’s a name passed down primarily in settlements that have struggled long against foreign peoples. Villages with great rivers typically have someone called ‘Coronus’—a ‘water master’, if you will. The idea is to govern the waters wisely before they cause trouble.”
Boris’s expression brightened with curiosity.
“You seem to know everything.”
“Well, I know everything except what I don’t know.”
Boris waited for Isildor San’s characteristic arrogance to subside before asking again.
“But why are the Barbarians attacking the settlements of Lemme’s people? You just said… or rather, you said the Barbarians coexist with Lemme’s people, helping each other across the border…?”
“Yes, yes. But that’s true when you look at it on a grand scale—the Kingdom of Lemme and the Barbarians as a whole. On a smaller scale, there are always petty squabbles. It’s like how two families’ sons might fight in the neighborhood a few times without the families becoming enemies. Even if a settlement or two is destroyed in such conflicts, neither the King of Lemme nor the Barbarian chieftain would pay it much mind. Deliberately, even.”
A moment later, Isildor San hummed and corrected himself.
“The Barbarian chieftain might be somewhat different, though. After all, compared to the Kingdom of Lemme, they’re an absurdly small force. He’d probably be furious with that reckless clan of theirs. If the chieftain is foolish, he might secretly support those seeking vengeance, and eventually even the royal army of Lemme would be mobilized.”
As Boris listened with a serious expression, Isildor San glanced at him and smirked.
“But this incident doesn’t seem likely to create such a tragic situation. They’re just quarreling over the Corn Fields, after all. In any case, they’re like bickering neighbors.”
Fragmented clouds spread gradually across the sky. White specks like sheep dotted the frozen blue expanse. The sun hid behind the clouds. It was a magnificent dawn.
“So how far should we go to protect this so-called ‘Hebetica’? Do we need to stand at the very front like ‘Limsar’ and charge ahead?”
Isildor San stuck out his tongue and shook his head.
“I don’t know. Do as you please.”
Boris crossed his arms with a surprisingly mature expression and gazed down at the clouds on the horizon.
“I don’t want to kill anyone.”
Without fail, Isildor San’s fist flew out and struck Boris on the crown of his head.
“I don’t want to either, you fool!”
The two soon stood nose to nose with mischievous smiles. Since leaving Belnoir Castle, Boris hadn’t grown much—he reached just to Isildor San’s neck. Both puffed their cheeks and nodded with similar faces.
“Moderately, but magnificently.”
“Today’s lesson is about observing the courtesy of another’s land, then.”
“That’s right. The hundred and ninety-fourth lesson.”
“When did you start counting those?”
In moments like this, they were unmistakably friends. I loved this situation, loved that I could be this way, loved that Isildor San did this for me.
I wished it could always be like this. I wished nothing would ever change.
“Shall we go?”
But that was only our signal. While we were talking about names, the settlement people who had finished assembling were already rushing down with cries and shouts that were neither cheers nor screams.
Those who were late to depart patted our backs as they rushed past. In the midst of it all, Isildor San was finishing the last sip of wine from the uncorked bottle.
“It seems rather late to be departing after receiving wine like this.”
“Don’t worry. This old wine was wrapped up so long for a reason—it tastes quite respectable. Just be careful not to draw that sword of yours carelessly.”
“Surely nothing that serious will happen?”
Since the day we first met, I had heeded Isildor San’s advice and never drew Winterer again. Instead, I used the short sword he had bought for me.
“Then shall we prove the aged wine was worth its price?”
After the gathered people rushed off, only a few children remained scattered on the hill, still ready to follow the procession’s end with the iron pot lids they had been clanging.
Boris muttered softly, still unable to believe it.
“A battle over the Corn Fields.”
At that moment, Isildor San suddenly shouted like the frenzied villagers. Even the boys and girls clanging pot lids turned in surprise.
“We cannot yield the corn!”
And with that, flailing his limbs just like the villagers, he began charging down the hillside.
Only then did I understand why Isildor San had made such a point of finishing an entire bottle of wine. Boris, who had abstained from drinking, hesitated in confusion. But understanding soon dawned on him as to what he must do.
It was an irresistible, intoxicating urge.
“The corn… surrender the land!”
“We won’t let you harvest a single kernel from our soil!”
“Barbarians, tend your corn in your own backyards!”
“If you plunder our corn, we’ll strip you bare!”
“Before we fashion dentures from corn stalks and jam them down your throats, get out of here quietly!”
All manner of fresh(?) battle cries echoed across the distant meadow. Some forty members of the Corn Fields Defense Force clashed with invaders of similar number, wielding clubs in some corner of that field.
Among them were a man and a boy, both running forward with voices raised louder than anyone else, declaring their resolve to defend the corn at all costs.

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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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