Nolan Jareth's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Nolan rested through the night at a crumbling watchtower near the gully. By morning his leg held his weight. The sap had done its work. But his hand kept closing on nothing. His broken hilt still lay buried in a dead spider's skull, back among the nest. It was the last scrap of his old blade. Without it, no forge could reshape the champion's sword he once swore to carry. He limped back to the gully alone. The spiders had returned. More than before. They crawled thick over the blue flowers and the dead one where his steel was stuck. He counted ten, maybe twelve. He had no sword and no plan. Only need. "You'll die reaching for scrap metal." The voice came from the rocks above. A small woman climbed down, blonde hair loose, a healer's satchel on her hip. He had never seen her, but he knew her kind. She carried herbs, not weapons. She studied his leg with a quick, sharp glance, the way Sylvara studied a tree line. "Elara Brightwater," she said. "I gather sap from this bloom. Thorin told me a knight was bleeding out here. You look better than he described." Her eyes went to his empty hand. "And more foolish." "My sword's remnant is in that nest," Nolan said. "I need it." "You need to breathe. Scrap won't help a corpse." She knelt and opened her satchel. She pulled out a jar of crushed blue petals, the same bloom that had saved him. "But the horned ones hate this. The crushed sap. It burns their eyes." Nolan looked at the jar, then at the swarm. "Give it to me." "I'll throw it. You grab your metal and run. One chance." She did not wait for his answer. She flung the jar into the cluster of spiders. It shattered. Blue pulp sprayed across them. The spiders shrieked and curled, legs scraping at their own faces. A path opened across the rocks. Nolan ran. His bad leg screamed. He reached the dead spider and wrenched the broken hilt free from its skull. The petals' sting faded fast. A spider turned toward him, horns down. He swung the jagged hilt and caught its green eye. It reeled. He did not wait for the next. He ran back up the rocks. Elara pulled him over the ledge by his collar. They crouched behind stone while the swarm milled below. Nolan held the hilt to his chest. Rust and dried spider blood coated the broken steel. But it was his. He had it back. "Now what," Elara said. "That's not a sword. It's a handle." "It's enough to start." Nolan wiped the steel clean. "I need a forge. And a smith who works old blades." Elara shook her head, but she pointed north. "There's one. Half a day's walk. He's expensive, and he turns most men away." Nolan stood. His leg held. For the first time since the wolves, he had something to carry forward.