by Ross Kitson
***
Hunor walked outside the farmhouse deep in thought. The cottages in this remote stretch of Thetoria intrigued him. The wood in this region was notoriously poor: the commonest trees were slim and silvery with green wet wood and were called arynx. Ever resourceful, the North Thetorians chose to burn peat and dry the flexible arynx to use as thatch for their cottages. The farmhouse had such a silvery roof, running the length of the one storey structure, broken only at the far end by a stubby chimney.
Hunor ducked under the lintel of the red-stone frame. The kitchen was a broad and long room, extending for almost half the building, and yet was cluttered with tables, chairs, pots and pans. In the centre of the kitchen was a wide fire pit, glowing red with smoldering peat. Doors led from the kitchen to the bedrooms and the pantry.
Jaan’s wife stood at the side of the fire pit. The younger of her sons sat at her feet playing. She glanced over as Hunor entered.
“Loral, you need a hand with anything?” Hunor asked.
She looked away and said, “Don’t trouble yourself.”
Hunor paused by the door that led through to the room he was sharing with Jem.
“I just mentioned to Jaan that we’ll be on our way later. Get out of your hair. We’re grateful for what help you’ve given us.”
“It’ll be a shame to see you go,” Loral said insincerely.
The thief stared at Loral’s back and weighed up his response. He thought better of it and walked through into his room.
It was a tiny chamber vacated by Hinfer two days ago. The room was immaculate with neat sheets, folded clothes and Hunor’s sword all arranged very precisely on the bed. Even the mud and dust from the kitchen had stopped at the threshold as if it were afraid to enter. This is Jem and his magic all over, Hunor smiled to himself.
Hunor picked up his sword. He drew the blade and held it out to gaze at the way the light flickering from the kitchen caught the metal. It was magnate alloy, like Orla’s armour, but with spells of sharpening augmenting its keen edge. Its Shorvorian name was Ur-iy-Sytk. It meant ‘Shard of the storm.’
The Shorvorians believed that a man’s sword, bestowed upon him by his family and in many cases from a long line of ancestors, was a part of his soul. It was an outward expression of his courage and his pride, his valour and his mercy—for a sword could save as well as slay. The Shorvorian warrior caste—the hârdan—dedicated their days to perfecting their art in the belief that the sword was an extension of your being, only ultimately realised by extensive practice. The light rippled in the metal as Hunor reflected if he truthfully wished to display his soul for all to see.
Hü-Jen had had no heir, no kin to pass Ur-iy-Sytk to. In many ways Hunor had never had a father he would have chosen to learn from. Thus their relationship developed beyond master and pupil. He spun the sword around abruptly and slid it back in its scabbard.
“Too much sitting around. It’s making you maudlin,” he told himself.
“Master Hunor?” a voice called from the door.
The thief turned; it was Hinfer. His face was red and sweating.
“Soldiers. About a dozen of them. Coming up the hill. Father just sent me.”
Hunor nodded, strapping on his sword. He grabbed his and Jem’s packs. Moving through into the kitchen he saw Jaan and Orla running in.
“How long we got, mate?” he asked Jaan.
“About ten minutes I’d reckon. Hunor, if there’s going to be trouble…”
“No. That’s not an option, mate, not with the kids about. Orla, take the horses with Hinfer, he’ll show you the caves. The mules will account for the mess they leave.”
The knight looked aghast.
“You want me to sneak away and hide in a cave with the boy? Out of the question.”
“Well the other option is a pitched battle outside, and assuming we win we’ll have a dozen bodies to hide. Then should we take Jaan and the family with us?”
Orla stared at him, her eyes narrowed. The seconds ticked away.
Hinfer pulled on her gauntlet.
“You could finish the stories.”
The Eerian looked at the boy and smiled. With a last glance at Hunor she stalked from the kitchen.
“I’ll get Jem and Emelia. We’ll hide in the pantry. Just act naturally, Jaan. Any hint of a problem we’ll be with you.”
Jaan nodded, avoiding his wife’s look of horror. Hunor shouted to Jem, wincing with guilt and dragged their packs into the small pantry.