The Runes of Norien

by Auguste Corteau

  Climbing the mountain at whose foot they’d spent the night, and which formed part of a range that spread across the great island like a jagged, formidable wall, would have been a near-impossible affair for Norien’s questers if it weren’t for the girl, who, in spite of her former disability, was thoroughly familiar with the paths, ledges, footholds and hollows of the imposing slope. Because, as she explained with the smile of someone who has learnt to meet adversity with forbearance and appreciate life’s small blessings, over the years she had often had to escape the carnal intentions of men desperate enough to overlook her crippledness by taking refuge on the mountain and its numerous hiding places.

  “It wasn’t that they couldn’t come after me,” she said, “but I guess they thought I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

  “Have you ever been to the other side of the mountain?” Gallan asked.

  “I’ve thought about it,” said the girl, “but because that part of the island didn’t sustain so devastating a damage – at least that’s what they say – it’s where most of these wicked, man-eating monsters live. I’d never survive, let alone make it to the southern coast, on my own.”

  “Well,” Yodren said with a smile. “It appears that now you finally will.”

 

  The cold outside the cave was bracing, but that only strengthened their resolve to climb the mountain no matter how tall and steep it looked.

  And true to her word, the girl led them along its trails, shelves, handholds and footholds with the assuredness of a nimble, hooved creature; she knew by sight which parts of the vertical rock were treacherous and shouldn’t be held on to, what wide and sturdy-looking ledges were in fact ready to crumble at the slightest pressure, and where the granite was coarse enough to sit and rest without fear of slipping off.

  As for the others, they seemed quite well-equipped for the climb. Gallan and Raddia had already scaled the heights of Mirror Mountain, and moreover, by removing their gloves and shoes and allowing their bare skin to touch the mossy rock, they were instantly suffused with an affinity to its surface, as if the precipice were a pliant beast they had subdued. And Wixelor, with his tremendous height, spidery limbs and giant’s fortitude, turned out to be ideally suited for the task, which he accomplished with the ease obtained by two and a half centuries of climbing up and down his solitary island – and this while carrying both Yodren and Yonfi on his back at the dodgier parts of their ascent. However, they all cast envious glances at the raven, which, by a mere flap of his wings, perched higher and higher, waiting for them with the impassiveness of a superior being watching the slogging of dumb, incompetent creatures.

  By nightfall – a thing perceptible only by the darkening of the stagnant clouds – they reached the mountain’s summit, but their achievement felt hardly rewarding – for the sudden exposure to the full strength of the biting wind and the damp mist snaking around them made the prospect of lying down on the bare rock to sleep, even in a heap of tangled bodies, as inviting as death (which didn’t seem out of the question).

  They were even thinking of proceeding to their downward climb despite their exhaustion, when, as they shuffled about, treading slowly because of the hovering mist, they heard the raven’s squawk – and stepping towards it they found themselves before a most peculiar construction: a tall, roughly-cubic tub of stone, hollow on the inside and with three great stepping stones extending stair-like to the rim of the structure.

  No one, not even the girl, had any clue as to the purpose of the strange vessel, but once they climbed inside they found that its cavity was filled almost to the middle of its height with many years’ worth of thickly-layered ashes, comfortable enough even for Wixelor to curl up and lie down upon, shielded by the wind. But just as they were shifting and settling and aching to sleep, Raddia felt something sharp poke her back and sitting up she saw a white thing protruding from the ash, and extracting it she realized with horror that it was a long flat bone, not unlike the ones in her own forearm.

  Yodren, sensing her alarm, crawled over and took the bone from her trembling hands – and understood at once that they were inside a sacrificial altar; Spirit Servants all over Feerien had been burning animal offal upon or inside similar altars for centuries, to appease the Spirits. But he also knew, from folk tales, that the people of the Vanished Kingdoms, before the Disaster ended them and their wicked ways, would often sacrifice human flesh as well, such as the dismembered corpses of their enemies after a battle, or even innocent babies, to placate the Spirits during a draught or a pest.

  And then he recalled what the girl had told them about the survivors of Erat Rin’s devastation, and how in the despair of the growing famine many had made prey of their own kind. Which meant that, judging also by the bone he held with rising distaste, that they might be sitting upon the remains of devoured men, women and children.

  He tossed the bone outside, and lying down again to wrap his arms around the soundly-sleeping Yonfi, he tried to toss the thought aside as well, not wishing to alarm Raddia who seemed also on the brink of sleep. Yet as he closed his eyes, Yodren thought of the Scavengers, who, for all their vilification, had been driven to cannibalism by the sheer immensity of their hunger, a hunger he had never known nor ever wished to know.

  For no one is truly superior to one’s most desperate self.

 

  By a stroke of luck – perhaps the Goddess was at last gracing them with a smile – their descent was far more painless than they expected, for in the ebbing of the tidal waves that had laid waste to the island, one or several great buildings (castles? palaces? temples?) had been uprooted, swept back and shattered against the mountain, creating a massive heap which, after years of accumulating ashes, had turned into a smooth black slope, its provenance evidenced only by a few pillars and granite boulders jutting out of the ashes. They merely had to lie down and let themselves slide to the ground.

  And the Goddess kept smiling; for once at the foot of the slope, they discovered a hidden treasure that could alleviate the cold which was still their greatest enemy. It was Gallan who first spotted an unfamiliar spear-like thing protruding from the ashes – and pulling it out he unearthed a kind of goat with great sharp horns, which turned out to be just one of a flock that had been buried under the ash and thus remained perfectly intact. The carcasses were too desiccated and unappealing to eat, but their hides could be made into some sorely-needed capes. It took them a while to think of a way to skin the corpses without the aid of tools, till Yonfi simply walked over, grabbed a goat by the neck and tore off its coat with a single pull of his small hand as if it were paper.

  Thus cloaked and still refreshed from their sleep, they set out in the wilderness, guided solely by the raven which would fly ahead, perch on a rock and wait for them.

  It took them three long days to reach the southern coast, during which they were waylaid three times by groups of bandits and savages. The first two took one look at Wixelor, even more forbidding in his goatskin, and fled in a panic. The third group was either more courageous or completely desperate, for despite their obvious dread on seeing the monster at the rear they still charged on the travellers, letting out war cries and waving about their makeshift weapons in a display of ferociousness that was meant more to embolden themselves than to terrorize the curious company. However, it was the tiniest traveller they should have feared, had they known the power he wielded. And Yonfi, always happy to unleash Royen upon unsuspecting foes, brought his bare foot down, and instantly a crack tore through the ground with a rumble, rushing towards the bandits in a rapidly widening chasm that swallowed them and their howls of terror.

  Hunger was a far greater source of distress, for after they had gone through the scant provisions the girl had gathered – mostly fish and mollusks – they could barely get enough food to suppress the groaning of their empty stomachs. The wasteland they were crossing was entirely barren and lifeless; even its ponds and creeks, which Yonfi and the girl spent hours wading a
bout, yielded nothing but tadpoles and lichens, so that they had to make do with the odd mushroom or bulb, devoid of taste and sustenance.

  And so after a while they all turned their hopes to their feathered guide, waiting for the rest of Wixelor’s dream to come true. But, alas, no warm gust of wind pierced the freezing cold, and no matter how often they stopped to smell the air, they could detect no pleasing scent – only the earthy rankness of the goatskins.

  And then, on the dawn of the fourth day, by which time they had grown so weak and weary they could scarcely stand, the raven flew ahead with greater speed than usual, and disappeared behind the top of a hillock instead of staying in sight. Such was their horror at the thought of finding themselves lost in this endless desert, they darted after the bird despite the feebleness of their quivering legs – whereupon, reaching the top of the mound, they saw the sea. Yet it was with a sinking heart that they regarded it.

  For though they had no reason to anticipate a magnificent sight, deep down they had invested the southern coast with the last of their dwindling hopes, dreaming of a view that would justify their arduous journey, and which would bear some sign of the marvellous land lying beyond. But all they could see was a vast expanse of sea and sky as bleak as those of the coast they’d left. And once more they envied the raven, which, its mission fulfilled, had already shrunk into a tiny black spot fading into the clouds.

  Yonfi had run ahead to call the raven back in vain, and by the time they caught up with him, standing with shaking legs upon a large rock, he had dissolved into tears of utter desperation. Yodren climbed on the rock, wrapped him up in the goatskin that had slipped off his thin, heaving shoulders, and gathered him into his arms, telling him it would be all right, and that they’d meet with the raven again at the other shore of the sea. He had kneeled down to better cradle Yonfi, and when he felt his legs grow damp he thought it was because of the proximity of the sea; but looking down he was amazed to see that, where Yonfi’s tears had dropped, the rock had split apart, and from within it flowed a steady spring of fresh water, precious as life itself.

  They drank avidly, filling up on water, while the girl wandered about the dunes, looking for anything remotely edible – but not even moss grew on the desolate ground. And since there was nothing left to do, swollen like wine sacks, they set off for the sea.