Thorgrim Frostborne's Arc

Chapter 6 of 11

Thorgrim set the spent hawk on the anvil. It breathed slow, feathers dull. He drew the blade and looked at Elara. She had taught him to survive this sword. Now he needed her to bleed for it. "You know what has to happen here," he said. Elara stepped back until the crystal bush stopped her. She was small, her cloak torn at the hem, her white hair loose. Her people had forged this blade and named it after a river that killed a village overnight. She had spent her whole exile keeping the rest of that power locked. "My blood," she said. "On that iron. You saw it in the vision." "I saw it." "Then you saw only half." Her voice shook. "The storm was split for a reason. My people sealed it because the first half already froze a village. The other half was worse. That is why they sent me away. So no one could ever open it." Thorgrim gripped the hilt. The metal was cold under his palm. Above them, at the top of the stairs, the keeper still waited in the dark. It could not cross the forge fire. But it would not leave. He could not climb past it while the blade stayed half-dead and mute. "The keeper won't move until this sword is whole," he said. "That thing hunts me because I stole the blade. Finish it, and I have something to answer it with." "You have a lie." Elara wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "You think power buys you past the keeper. It buys you nothing. It kills us both." Thorgrim raised the sword over the anvil. His arm did not shake. "Then give me a drop. Not the sacrifice. A cut. Enough to wake it partway." He held out his free hand. "Show me I'm wrong." Elara stared at him. Then she pulled a small knife from her belt. She drew it across her palm. One line of blood welled up. She let a single drop fall on the anvil. The iron drank it. Light ran up the blade, blue and fast. The sword screamed in his hand, a high sound like wind through a crack. The crystal bush rang. The hawk lifted its head. And above them the keeper made a sound Thorgrim had never heard from it. A low groan, hungry, closer. Elara clamped her hand shut. "Stop. Do you hear it? One drop and it strains toward you." She backed to the stairs, then away from them. "The full pour won't open a door for you. It opens one for that." Thorgrim looked at the blade, still glowing, still crying. He looked at the dark stair where the keeper leaned against the light. He had wanted her blood to free him. Now he understood the sword did not want to free him at all.