The Runes of Norien

CHAPTER TWO

  I

  The poor thing was dying, and there was nothing Yern Kobold could do. Though she was ultimately destined, as all their animals, for the butcher block, he had a great affection for the sow – a majestic yet gentle creature, with bright, intelligent eyes – and the sight of those eyes gazing up at him in agony, as the spark of life dwindled from them, filled Yern’s heart with sorrow.

  He’d had no reason to be hopeful, of course, no reason whatsoever why the Shy Death should spare his sow, but still he’d been foolishly hoping that she had one last litter in her, five or six piglets that would keep hunger and despair at bay, and maybe, just maybe, restore some of the rosiness that had so heartbreakingly faded from his children’s wasting faces.

  But the moment the weary beast collapsed from the throes of labour, and her distended belly shrunk to half its size in a single breath – her womb releasing nought but air, an air that smelled neither of dung nor of decay nor of anything at all, a lifless smell like that of marble – Yern knew that soon she’d be delivered not of a healthy pink brood but of her rapidly waning life.

  And now with a groan and a shudder the blood came gushing out, black dead blood lacking the stench of disease, till there was nothing left inside the sow but a heart whose maddened beating slowed and slowed and then with a final spasm went still.

  Yern, who’d been unwittingly holding his breath, let out a sigh. A rivulet of blood was still leaking from the the animal’s insides and settling in a dark pool; if this had been the old days, those blessed days that seemed so faraway, no sooner would the blood begin to thicken than a swarm of flies would be upon it; but there were no flies in Feerien anymore – nothing for them to feed upon. Who would have thought that the day would come when they’d miss the accursed vermin?

  Wiping the dirt off his breeches, Yern stood up and waited for the spell of faintness, of the sad world spinning around, to pass; he hadn’t the strength to pick up the dead sow and cart her all the way down to the road. Not that anything would happen to the carcass; foxes and jackals had long retreated to the woods, seeking what live prey they could find. It would remain there, its flesh unchanging in colour and substance, till old Durgall, who had no home and traded with the Scavengers, would come by and toss it on his dilapidated wagon and drag it all the way to the Waste Valley, there to be sold and devoured even though it could offer the Valley’s miserable dwellers no more nourishment than the likeness of a pig carved on a piece of wood.

  From the cottage came the sound of Yonfi’s shrill laughter, fleetingly lifting Yern’s spirits; Yonfi was his youngest and dearest, and it killed him that he couldn’t plump up the pallid, gaunt little face – and yet listen at him laughing, as if life was kind like his boyish heart!

  Along with the gleeful sound came the waft of boiling cabbage, wretchedly familiar; of course they should be grateful that the earth continued to give them what little sustenance it could. Rumours said the Miners had taken to eating weeds and stones, and some even their stillborn babies.

  Yern thought it unlikely – after all, the Miners’ services were still valuable to the King – but the appalling thought gave him some wicked comfort.

  Misery loves a good rival.