Runvald's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Runvald wanted to summon a frost giant. To do it, he needed a beard-knot enchantment stronger than any he had woven. To power that knot-work, he needed Flamebind tincture that would hold fire without burning. Tonight, in his stone apothecary, the fourth batch caught fire before it set. The flask cracked. Blue flame licked his knuckles. The rune above his left ear, Berkanan, flared hot and pushed the fire back. Its black edges smoked. Runvald did not flinch. He wrote the failure in his log: too much heat, too fast, again. Four batches this month. Each one taught him by dying. The old northern brewer had shown him the recipe but measured by eye and wrote nothing down. Now the brewer was dead, and Runvald was left guessing at ratios the old man carried to his grave. He measured everything twice. He recorded every step. Still the tincture ignited. He cleaned the burn on his hand and studied his notes by lamplight. The fire always came at the same moment, when he stirred the resin into the heated base. The heat, he thought. Always the heat. The door opened without a knock. Grimli stepped in, apron stained black with old soot. The old dwarf alchemist had outlived six generations of his own kin, and he moved like a man who had stopped hurrying long ago. He looked at the cracked flask, then at the log. "You heat the base before the resin," Grimli said. It was not a question. "That's the recipe," Runvald said. "It's wrong." Grimli picked up a jar, sniffed it, set it down. "The northern man heated after. Not before." He said no more, as if that settled it. Behind him came Merlyn, the blind rune-worker, hammer on his belt, a leather blindfold stitched with the Helm of Awe hiding his eyes. His tattooed forearms glowed faintly in the lamp light. He ran a callused finger over Runvald's knot-work spread on the table. "Your binding-rune is fine," Merlyn said. "Your fuel is not. Fix the fuel." Runvald looked between the two old dwarves. He trusted neither easily, but both had seen more brewing than he ever had. He mixed a fifth batch. This time he ground the resin cold. He warmed the base only after the resin was folded in, slow, off the flame. Berkanan stayed silent. The tincture thickened. It did not catch. He carried the flask to the enchantment. A single drop touched the beard-knot. The knot lit with steady fire that clung but did not burn the braid. It held. "It sets," Runvald said. His voice shook. Grimli was already at the door. "Set is not stable," he said, and left. Runvald looked at the small vial. One dose. Enough to test the knot, not to reach a giant. He needed the resin again, and the resin came from one place. He would have to go and get more.