Galen Ashwick's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Galen Ashwick pulled the blade from his forge, and it sagged like warm wax. He wanted to make one weapon in his life: a legendary sword only his fire-touched hands could finish. But the rare metals it needed melted at a heat his fire could not reach. This was his fourth try. This one warped and cracked like the rest. He threw the ruined blade into the water trough. Steam hissed up. Under his charred linen wraps, faint light crackled along his skin. Every tool he touched glowed hot in his grip. His fire lived inside him. Yet the coals in his hearth burned cold and orange, never white. He unwrapped one hand and pressed his bare palm to the forge stones. Sparks jumped. The coals brightened, then dimmed. Not enough. It was never enough. He sat on the cold floor and stared at the cracked blade in the trough. The metal wanted more heat than any fire he owned. More heat than any fire in the whole valley, maybe. Then he remembered the thing on the ridge. Months ago he had found it grazing among burnt ferns. An iron stag, tall as a horse, its plated body seamed with molten light. When it lifted its head, fire poured from its mouth in a long roaring stream. The heat had scorched Galen's brows from twenty paces. He had run then. Now he walked back with rope and a bucket of the sweet-smelling glowmoss the stag had been eating. The stag stood where he remembered. Its antlers cut sharp against the dark. When Galen stepped close, it swung toward him and opened its iron jaws. He held up the glowmoss and did not run. "I need your fire," he said. "Just once." The stag ate from his hand. Its jaws were warm as an oven. Galen looped his rope loose around its neck, not to pull, but to lead. The stag followed the moss, step by step, down to his workshop. Inside, he raked his cold coals into the forge and set the final blade among them. He fed the stag the last of the moss beside the hearth. Then he pointed at the coals. The stag lowered its head and breathed. Flame hit the forge in a white torrent. The coals screamed and turned from orange to blinding white. Galen shielded his eyes. Heat pressed his skin like a wall. The rare metals softened, then flowed, running clear and bright for the first time. He worked fast, hammering while the fire held, and the blade took its shape and kept it. When the stag stopped, the coals were spent to gray ash. The blade lay whole and true on the anvil. Galen laughed, then stopped. The stag stood in his doorway, calm, chewing nothing. It had eaten all the moss. Now it looked at his glowing hands, and its jaw began to warm again.