A pig will scream when you clamp a vice to its head and start screwing a spike through its skull. That hadn’t surprised Darvik. What never failed to surprise him, however, was just how long they kept screaming. He’d timed it once. The pig had screamed for over ten minutes, and somehow it hadn’t taken a single breath in all that time. It was as if the pain itself was filling the poor animal’s lungs. It had screamed until the very moment it dropped dead. They always did.
Darvik slowly cranked the extractor’s drill another quarter turn, to where he knew it would work most efficiently. The pig squealed even louder, and the process had only just begun. Darvik turned his attention to the glass vial at the base of the extractor, sitting between the two wings that gripped either side of the pig’s head. It was starting to fill with essence, the magical energy locked inside all living creatures and some of the dead ones. By siphoning essence out of an animal, Darvik collected fuel for his master’s artifacts. This particular pig was giving its life to fuel a spirit-lamp, so some spoiled nobleman could go a few years without lighting a candle.
Darvik nodded to himself and took a seat at the far wall, letting the cluttered workbench block his view of the animal. The pig was immobilized by chains and the extractor would do all the work from here. He didn’t have to watch. Darvik waited as the pig shrieked out more air than its lungs could possibly hold until it finally slumped to the floor, its body spent and the extractor’s vial full. Thus did Darvik, journeyman artificer to Master Erenkirk, slaughter yet another pig.
Before lunch, he would have to drag the corpse across the street to the butcher, where it would be sold at a discount to hapless townsfolk who didn’t mind eating tainted meat. On the way home, he’d have time to visit Candle. He always visited her on pig days. Her company and the many comforts she provided helped wipe the horrors of the slaughter from his mind. Some days, she was all he looked forward to.
With his break over, Darvik returned to his work. He slowly unscrewed the extractor’s spike, taking care not to give the pig an opportunity to spray blood and brains at him, then loosened the vice and pulled the extractor free. Skin and scabs came with it, but at least today was a dry day.
He gingerly pulled the vial free — it was held in place by a tight strip of leather — and quickly stoppered it before the precious essence could waft away. He tapped the glass and gave it a swirl. The purple-black essence curled and rippled like smoke mixed with water. It was a good yield, as it should have been. Darvik had spent weeks of his life and dozens of pigs calibrating the device. It had been his second task as an apprentice artificer. The first was crafting a set of earplugs.
The matter at hand, of course, was the viscount’s lamp. It wasn’t ready for the essence yet. Darvik had yet to unlock the magical pathways that would turn essence into clean white light. Lamps! The task was beneath him. Darvik should have been promoted to master and given his own apprentice by now. Old Master Erenkirk was hungover or worse from last night, most likely, and his hands shook more than a dying pig. Surely he was ready to retire and let Darvik take over.
A bell jingled in the shop-room. Darvik set his work aside and crossed through the curtain, where he emerged behind the counter. The shop’s shelves were lined with spirit-lamps, music boxes, and kitchen tools. The more valuable and more interesting artifacts were all kept in a locked cabinet in the work room. Erenkirk’s shop carried various baubles such as rings to enhance lustful performance, amulets that eliminated the need to sleep, and various other physical enhancements. They carried seeing-stones and healing chains, harnesses that compelled a dog to heed his master’s
Darvik slowly cranked the extractor’s drill another quarter turn, to where he knew it would work most efficiently. The pig squealed even louder, and the process had only just begun. Darvik turned his attention to the glass vial at the base of the extractor, sitting between the two wings that gripped either side of the pig’s head. It was starting to fill with essence, the magical energy locked inside all living creatures and some of the dead ones. By siphoning essence out of an animal, Darvik collected fuel for his master’s artifacts. This particular pig was giving its life to fuel a spirit-lamp, so some spoiled nobleman could go a few years without lighting a candle.
Darvik nodded to himself and took a seat at the far wall, letting the cluttered workbench block his view of the animal. The pig was immobilized by chains and the extractor would do all the work from here. He didn’t have to watch. Darvik waited as the pig shrieked out more air than its lungs could possibly hold until it finally slumped to the floor, its body spent and the extractor’s vial full. Thus did Darvik, journeyman artificer to Master Erenkirk, slaughter yet another pig.
Before lunch, he would have to drag the corpse across the street to the butcher, where it would be sold at a discount to hapless townsfolk who didn’t mind eating tainted meat. On the way home, he’d have time to visit Candle. He always visited her on pig days. Her company and the many comforts she provided helped wipe the horrors of the slaughter from his mind. Some days, she was all he looked forward to.
With his break over, Darvik returned to his work. He slowly unscrewed the extractor’s spike, taking care not to give the pig an opportunity to spray blood and brains at him, then loosened the vice and pulled the extractor free. Skin and scabs came with it, but at least today was a dry day.
He gingerly pulled the vial free — it was held in place by a tight strip of leather — and quickly stoppered it before the precious essence could waft away. He tapped the glass and gave it a swirl. The purple-black essence curled and rippled like smoke mixed with water. It was a good yield, as it should have been. Darvik had spent weeks of his life and dozens of pigs calibrating the device. It had been his second task as an apprentice artificer. The first was crafting a set of earplugs.
The matter at hand, of course, was the viscount’s lamp. It wasn’t ready for the essence yet. Darvik had yet to unlock the magical pathways that would turn essence into clean white light. Lamps! The task was beneath him. Darvik should have been promoted to master and given his own apprentice by now. Old Master Erenkirk was hungover or worse from last night, most likely, and his hands shook more than a dying pig. Surely he was ready to retire and let Darvik take over.
A bell jingled in the shop-room. Darvik set his work aside and crossed through the curtain, where he emerged behind the counter. The shop’s shelves were lined with spirit-lamps, music boxes, and kitchen tools. The more valuable and more interesting artifacts were all kept in a locked cabinet in the work room. Erenkirk’s shop carried various baubles such as rings to enhance lustful performance, amulets that eliminated the need to sleep, and various other physical enhancements. They carried seeing-stones and healing chains, harnesses that compelled a dog to heed his master’s
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