Children of the Rune: Winterer

Chapter 3

Armor of Snow, Sword of Winter

When Boris returned, Yevgnen’s bed was a mess, and two sacred objects lay on top of it.

The brothers went silent for a moment. Then Boris said, “Snowguard…”

The bright silver chain was dazzling, like it had been made from ice crystals. The closer one looked at it, the more beautiful and intricate it seemed.

He reached to run his hand over it. It felt cold one moment, then warm the next, as unlikely as that seemed. Snowguard’s mysterious ability to absorb heat, and then simply make it vanish, was one of the best-known magical abilities of this armor. That was why it was referred to as the “armor of snow,” which no fire could melt. It was a family heirloom that Yevgnen and Boris’ great-grandfather had acquired.

Yevgnen continued where Boris left off. “And Winterer.”

As the name—meaning “one that winters”—suggested, the strange metal could only be shaped with the cold. It was honed into a blade that resembled a ray of bright light. It was a white sword and looked as regal and cold as it was slim. The white, patternless scabbard held a hilt that was two handspans long. Being a bastard sword, it could be wielded with a single hand as well as two.

Snowguard and Winterer were together referred to as the Winterbottom Kit—a set that countless knights and mercenaries had attempted to acquire for many years, even if it meant shedding innocent blood. The magical abilities of this equipment were famed enough that anyone who fought with a sword had at least heard rumors and admired them.

From what the brothers had been told, their great-grandfather had killed ninety-nine enemies to get his hands on Snowguard. The armor had been the possession of a foreign lord at the time, which meant that the man must have had a larger army than his great-grandfather’s—certainly not smaller.

It had taken another thirty years for his son to claim Winterer as well. He’d killed no fewer men than his father, and claiming the sword once did not mean it would be theirs forever. The fact that the Winterbottom Kit had been completed in the hands of a single owner gave rise to fervent admiration, and it was around that time that the rumors began.

It was said that anyone who owned the Winterbottom Kit would be extremely powerful. Soon, the talk morphed into the belief that in order to become the best swordsman in existence, one needed to possess the kit. Under such circumstances, the key to protecting the hard-earned treasure from challengers was simply to refuse to entertain any of them. There had been many requests to fight Boris’ grandfather in a fair duel, with the winner claiming the goods, but he had simply scoffed at them. Thieves that snuck in had been caught by the manor’s private soldiers and beheaded.

At the time, the House of Jineman was considered one of the most powerful in all of Travaches, and single combat was the only way one could try to take the Winterbottom Kit from them. But no matter how good it was, it was just a set of equipment. Larger families that valued their complicated network of political connections with other houses were not foolish enough to pursue a vendetta that would only end when the enemy was completely wiped out, all for a set of equipment.

As decades went by, the rumors died down, and Boris’ grandfather did not once put the Winterbottom Kit on and step outside his home, despite all the effort he had gone to so that he could acquire it. It was his way of completely preventing the avarice of those who wanted it. This strategy was so successful that in recent years, most people believed it had been stolen long ago. But it was perfectly safe in the Jineman home, in the hands of the two sons of the family, as was tradition.

Boris’ grandfather had not wanted his children to fight over the kit, and thus had given one piece to each of his sons and told them in his will to cooperate. Vlado, however, had been chased out by his older brother and had been denied a claim to the equipment. He wanted it back now, and he would show no hesitation in ensuring that it happened.

Yulken had two sons, but he disagreed with his late father. The Winterbottom Kit was more powerful when it was together. There was nothing to be gained from splitting it up. Naturally, he intended to give both pieces of it to his eldest, who would become the head of the family. Yevgnen was eight years older than Boris, who was only twelve. Yulken believed that such a difference in age would ensure that Boris would not dare to rebel against the decision, but Yevgnen did not agree with his father.

“Boris, let me borrow the sword for a moment.”

Winterer, the Sword of Winter, was quite light for its size, perhaps owing to the mysterious material from which it was made. Even so, it was too heavy for a twelve-year-old to wield.

Boris quietly looked up at his brother. It had been early this year, when Yevgnen had turned twenty, that Yulken had given the Winterbottom Kit to him. That night, Yevgnen had called Boris to his room and asked him which of the two items seemed more attractive. Boris hadn’t given much thought to it and had said that the sword seemed nicer than the armor, which was probably heavier. Yevgnen had told him that when he was old enough to use it, it would be his. Boris had been shocked, but Yevgnen had spoken calmly, like it was no big deal at all.

Boris wondered afterward if he had believed his brother at that moment. Yevgnen repeated his intent on multiple occasions after that, saying that Winterer belonged to Boris. At a certain point, Boris had started to believe it. And today, his brother was telling him the same thing again.

Boris suddenly realized that he still hadn’t really thought of this renowned sword as his own. He was old enough to know what a vendetta was. In the Travaches Republic, no third party could hold a pair of houses responsible for the results of a vendetta between them—this was an unwritten law. No matter how many people died tonight, no one would mourn the losses except for those present. He was a child who couldn’t even fight yet. It was only right for his big brother, his most beloved family member, to take the sword.

Boris shook his head. “This belongs to you.”

“No. I will return it to you after this conflict is over, I promise. I won’t even borrow it unless you give me permission.”

“You don’t need to return it. It’s yours.”

“Boris.” Yevgnen took the scabbard in his hand and held the hilt out toward him.

Boris hesitantly gripped it, and his brother let go. The weight of the sword instantly pulled his arm down. He dropped it, and it clattered to the floor noisily.

“Try to raise it.”

Boris tried, but it was impossible to hold it up with one hand. Only when he used both hands was he able to just barely hold it pointed toward the ceiling. His arms trembled from the effort, and the tip of the sword traced unsteady circles in the air. When he was starting to think he’d reached his limit, Yevgnen supported the end of the scabbard with his hand. Boris’ shoulders drooped as the strength left his arms.

“See? You can wield it too.”

“But I barely—”

Yevgnen did not let him continue. He bent to bring his face close and whispered, “You’ll get better at it. You’ll be amazing, in fact. Like your name suggests, you are a warrior.”

The name “Boris” meant “warrior,” but he thought his brother’s warmth felt nicer than that fact. Then the strange sensation returned, cooling the back of his neck. He knew he really would become the owner of Winterer—and it would not happen pleasantly.

A bizarre silence hung about the manor. The two hundred or so soldiers that their father employed were guarding the front and rear of the building—the security was tight and forbidding. There had been over a thousand soldiers during the height of House Jineman’s power, but their numbers had been greatly diminished. Their heyday was the time of Boris’ grandfather, who had acquired Winterer.

Boris and Yevgnen were standing on the second floor, at the staircase that led directly to the backyard. They would not have to fight, since the morale of the soldiers was decided by their father’s presence, not theirs. On the other hand, just because Boris was young did not mean he could simply hide from the battle, since he was also a Jineman.

Soldiers stood like dark stakes outside in the yard, their backs to the manor and arrayed at regular distances from each other. They were the inner layer of defense. The unit forming the outer perimeter was stationed outside the grounds, reaching even places that could not be seen from the house.

The Jineman manor wasn’t structurally suited for defense, even though it had been modified several times. The moment that the enemy breached the grounds, the battle was lost. Enemies that reached the manor would destroy and loot everything they touched, from ordinary household goods to precious heirlooms. Regardless of the outcome of the battle, being plundered was a disgrace and difficult to live down. Even if the heavens granted that the battle come to a close without a clear winner, the house that had been pillaged was considered defeated in all but name.

Such vendettas took place several times each year. Sometimes they were worth talking about, should some renowned family be involved, but in most cases, they were ignored as inter-family disputes. Houses that lost were often wiped out entirely, but antagonistic families continued to resort to this method, nonetheless.

It wasn’t unusual for a sibling who had been cast out of the house to pursue a vendetta against his own family, just like this situation. It was as common for someone to leave their house over political differences as for couples to elope at night in Travaches.

Yevgnen’s eyes were fixed on the crack in the window, and Boris turned toward the staircase. He heard nothing, but there would be dozens of soldiers at the bottom, protecting the manor. They would die before the two Jineman boys did, at the very least.

“Boris, look.”

He approached the windowsill at his brother’s words. There was a light at the edge of the fields, above which a red, hazy sky and purple clouds floated. They were torches.

“It’s begun.”

Boris felt a sudden prodding below his ribs, forcing him to stop breathing for a moment and purse his lips. The sounds reached them first, the blurred and unintelligible voices of the attackers. He had assumed the darkness would make it impossible to see much, but suddenly, the entire manor grounds were surrounded by burning torches. How many men were there? Five hundred? A thousand?

Yevgnen bit his lip, recalling the last thing his father had told him.

“If the going fares ill, take the Winterbottom Kit and go in the direction I told you.”

His father had not mentioned Boris. Did he not care? To Yevgnen, Boris was the priority. He was sure he could escape through the darkness if he went alone. But the pain of leaving his father behind, as well as the responsibility he felt to take his brother safely with him, held him back. At the same time, under no circumstances could he let his uncle take the Winterbottom Kit.

Even if he was more talented than other young men his age, Yevgnen was only twenty, and the burden on his shoulders was far too heavy. But he didn’t feel that his lot was unfair, which was perhaps due to his upbringing. He simply blamed himself for not being capable enough just yet.

He thought of the soldiers, fated to spill their own blood this day. If he’d taken his father’s place as head of the family, this force would have been his responsibility. The private soldiers of a family could not be gathered on a whim. Most of them had been cared for by his father since childhood, and they had grown up to swear loyalty to the House of Jineman. Their existence was expressly for these vendettas. It was for this purpose that they’d been treated many times better than peasants and allowed a life of comfort. Their mission would be over tonight.

The light of the torches flickered in his little brother’s face. Gripping the sword tight, he resolved to cut down as many of the enemy fighters as he possibly could. His uncle’s location was not immediately apparent. If Yevgnen was lucky enough to encounter him early and cut him down, that would make things easier. It was with such thoughts that he bit back a bitter smile.

In the meantime, Boris was gazing at a painting next to the window—a painting of a woman in a white dress with a sad smile. She was not their mother. Her eyes were looking at Boris as though she had something to tell him.