Edda Volund's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

For ten years Edda Volund guarded Morainehold's gate each night, and for ten years she dreamed of one blade. Not a sword for war. A guardian relic, strong enough to outlast her, to hang at the gate long after her hands went still. But tonight her fire was dying again, and dead coals shape nothing worthy. She crouched by the forge and dug through her coal pile with both hands. Half of it was gone. Again. The third night this week. Her hammer lay cold on the anvil, and the metal she meant to fold had gone gray and stubborn. A weak fire made brittle steel. Brittle steel made no relic. Edda knew the thief now. She had seen the tracks in the frost each dawn, small boots and a dragged sack. A frost gnome, wild beard crusted with ice, quick fingers, quicker feet. He came when her back was turned to the road, and he took what she needed most. So she stopped hammering and started building. She strung a rope low across the coal pile's edge and tied a small bell to its center. She pulled it taut, banked her fire to a dull glow, and waited in the dark with her hammer across her knees. Near midnight the bell rang. Edda was up before it stopped shaking. The gnome froze mid-reach, one glove buried in her coal, his icy beard bright against the embers. He bolted. She caught the back of his coat and lifted him clean off his boots. Coal spilled from his sack across the stone. "Ten years I've kept this gate," she said. "You'll not starve my fire another night." He did not beg. He kicked once, then went limp and grinned up at her. "Your coal's poor stuff anyway," he said. "Burns fast, dies faster. You want real heat, smith, you're feeding the wrong thing to the fire." Edda held him at arm's length. "Speak plain." The gnome jerked his chin toward the sack at his hip. She shook it open one-handed. Inside sat a pale, glistening lump, thick and heavy, slick as wax. Rendered troll fat. He'd been trading her coal for it somewhere out past the gate. "One handful of that," he said, "burns hotter than your whole pile. Longer too. I only took your coal because I'd nothing else to trade for it." Edda looked at the fat, then at the dying forge, then at the thief dangling from her fist. Her coal would never make the blade. She had known that for weeks and refused to hear it. But heat like he promised might. She set the gnome down. She did not let go of his coat. "Then you'll show me where you get it," she said. "And you'll stop robbing my pile. That's the price of your neck." The gnome's grin widened. "You'll never get near where it comes from," he said. "Not without me. And I don't work for free."