But she could leave at any point, if she wished it—and even if Sreovel tried to claim otherwise, the eclipser would find her head floating away through the rapids of the river just as soon as the words left her tongue. Oleja owed her nothing, and she refused to act as though she did. She’d do the work to gain access to the forge and to get her cut of the coins that the people of Ahwan valued so heavily, but nothing more.
The agreement settled between the two of them in silence. Soon, Oleja finished the plans for her design, and once she had all of her measurements and dimensions set, she turned her attention to the next step in the process.
Now, she needed a mold.
Chapter Ten
Oleja hastened through the streets of Ahwan, bouncing on her prosthetic as she walked. The device worked better than ever; the new model served her well. Since completing it several days prior, she had practiced on the limb with almost every waking moment not spent working in the forge. Balancing came more easily to her now, and walking no longer gave her much trouble—although, the longer she stood for, the more the stump of her left leg ached, sometimes forcing her to sit and let the fractals of pain pass. But she always got back up before long and kept moving—she had a plan to enact and people to save; no hero’s tale ever told of them sitting around, suffering in pain.
Running became her next goal, and climbing as well. She took walks out behind her cabin often, leaping up the steep incline and picking her way back down again, only to repeat the process over and over. Many slopes lay between her and her village. She refused to let them slow her.
Day after day she practiced on the new limb, shoving away the pain as she worked to gain back the proficiencies she’d once had. Improvement came slower than she wished, but she saw it nonetheless. And now she faced the most important challenge yet, the one that defined how competent with her prosthetic she truly was, and the one that dictated when she was ready to return to her village and lead a charge against the eclipsers of Itsoh.
The time had come to try her hand at fighting—true fighting, against trained soldiers—once more.
After all, what good was there in marching all the way back to Itsoh if she died on the end of an eclipser’s blade as soon as she walked into the camp? Death was not an option—it never had been, and never would be—so at last the time had come to shake off the rust and get back to her combat training.
Her bag thumped against her hip, a fundamental feature of her daily life once more. For too long she had walked around without it, leaving its weight behind as she prioritized not falling to the ground after every step. But in all that time, its absence grew even more difficult to ignore than her lost leg. Her hands itched to reach within its pockets and find something to do, and her mind drifted aimlessly as if no longer tied down by the strap across her shoulder. Paying attention to anything else at all proved twice as difficult when her hands lay still, somehow.
Tor hurried along at her side as she crossed a bridge over a river and entered the outskirts of the city. Contrasting the heavily developed terrain of the city’s center, swaths of trees and other natural features of the valley remained here, interspersed with homes on larger plots of land dedicated to growing crops or raising animals. The road changed from cobblestone to gravel and dirt as it continued northwest into what the people of the city called the West Run.
Larger than the North and South Run, the West Run was more of a continuation of the full width of the valley than anything. It cut west through the mountains for some ways before veering off to the south, never narrowing in the same manner as the North or South Run as far as Oleja could see.
It was there, out in the West Run beyond the bustling hub of the city, that the soldiers of the Ahwan army did their training.
As Oleja neared, she caught a glimpse of the training grounds at last. An almost mythical status hung about the place in the minds of the people of the city. Said to have once been a field, the grounds now dipped down into a wide, sloped crater. The sides were not so steep, merely an incline, but the stories said the formation of the landscape came from years and years of fighting. Every soldier who trained there deepened it further; the intensity of their sparring ground away the rock and gravel as they all made their mark on the pit. It served as a testament to the vigorous training of the Ahwan army, a symbolic threat to any who should attempt to challenge the city: that their own army and civilization would be ground away beneath hundreds of soldiers whose very feet cut through the solid stone of the earth.
Oleja could think of no better place to hone her skills once more. Like the sharpening of a dulled blade she would bring a new edge to the fight that raged within her. And if she fought well, and mightily, and proved just how great her battle skills were, perhaps the other soldiers would fall in line behind her, begging to learn from her and march at her side as she destroyed Itsoh once and for all.
Excitement hastened her steps.
At the lip of the training pit, lining the gravel path as it approached, sat multiple building-like structures. Roofs hung above brick floors, held aloft by thick beams at all corners, but each of the four walls remained fully open. Some of the structures held tables and benches and long rows of pegs to hang clothes and bags and similar items. Under others, rows and rows of gleaming weapons leaned uniformly in racks—mostly spears, but swords too, as well as other weapons Oleja couldn’t name. Pieces of armor lay on benches and hung from stands, not nearly as organized as the weapons. Most of the people walking about seemed to have their own armor, custom fit to their stature, though the weapons appeared to be shared in a more communal fashion.
Down the slopes, armor-clad soldiers swung their spears, sparring in groups of two or more. Many wielded spears capped with some material that shrouded the sharp metal heads, and others fought with only the shafts of the weapons. With the risk of death kept at bay, they swung at each other with full force, and blocked strikes aimed at them with equal vigor. Obstacles marred the field—boulders and piles of rocks and low scraggly trees, but unnatural features as well, including low brick walls and wooden barricades. Packed dirt, sand, gravel, and bare stone made up the ground in large patches, with dry, trampled grass clinging lifelessly to the very edges of the pit and around the obstacles where feet did not so often tread.
Oleja stepped inside one of the structures along the edge and found an empty spot at the line of pegs. She hung up her bag on one.
“Stay up here,” she said, turning to Tor. He licked her right leg and flopped down onto the floor beneath her bag.
Next, Oleja went to one of the structures housing weapons and armor. With her own armor still hundreds of miles away, tucked in a stone hollow near the gate in the south end of her village, she would need to use one of the extra suits lying around.
Once she pieced together a set of armor—mostly leather, plus a metal helmet stamped with the symbol of Ahwan on either side—she went to the rows of weapons. No bows joined the ranks, and she didn’t wonder why; they weren’t the best weapon to use for sparring with other soldiers, rather something one might carry with them off into a field somewhere to practice their aim or take into the wilds to shoot game. What fun was there in two people firing arrows back and forth, dodging the deadly projectiles as they raced towards them? A bow worked well when a fighter wished to take out a number of enemies at a distance, but in the thick of close combat, a sword or spear or even a dagger made a better choice.
She hoped to practice with a bow again soon, once she got her hands on one, but for the time being she would join the soldiers in fighting with spears. She didn’t have much experience with such weapons, but she had seen Onet—the raider—use one. How hard could it be?
Oleja grabbed a spear from the rack, already fitted with a blunt tip over the blade, and then approached the pit.
Spears seemed to be the favored weapon of the Ahwan army; nearly every soldier in the pit wielded one. Their style was one of close collaboration between fellow soldiers, and as Oleja watched, the way
they fought together like an intricately designed contraption became more and more impressive. Soldiers sparred with their opponents at close range, the wooden spear shafts clacking together in a flurry of blows. Suddenly, a soldier from the opposing side of the drill might approach from behind another soldier’s ally, at which point the one who spotted them would throw their spear, striking the advancing enemy. Seeing their ally left without a weapon, the others on the unarmed soldier’s side quickly and flawlessly reallocated the weapons they had among them, sometimes handing a spear off to a companion mid-blow and trading their opponent over to the weapon’s new wielder as well. Whoever stood closest to the thrown spear, now on the ground or, in theory, buried in the flesh of the rapidly cooling enemy, snatched it up, and just like that the group continued fighting. They repeated this maneuver over and over, never missing a beat.
A grin split Oleja’s face. Before her was the perfect force to destroy Itsoh. She jogged down the slope into the pit, eager to find herself an opponent.
Pain flared in her leg as she went. She ignored it. She didn’t have time to be slowed by old wounds.
Two women stood by a half-demolished brick will, sipping from waterskins as they watched a larger group of fighters a short ways away. Oleja approached them.
“Need someone to spar with?” she asked, twirling her spear once in her hand.
One of the women sized her up. “Sure. You’re not part of the army, are you?”
“No, I’m new to the city.”
The woman smirked. “Good. Neither am I, I just do this for a workout. But fighting these old chumps is too predictable. I’m in.”
Oleja nodded to the second woman behind her. “I’ll take on both of you.”
“Let’s keep it one-on-one for this round,” said the first woman. Her eyes fell for a second on Oleja’s prosthetic as she spoke. She set her waterskin aside and picked up her spear from where it leaned against the wall. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Oleja swung first. The other woman was fast; she caught the swing immediately and spun the strike back on Oleja. Recoiling, Oleja took a step back, focusing her attention momentarily on keeping her balance. Too late she saw the other woman’s spear arcing towards her.
She had only enough time to duck, so that’s what she did. The blunt tip of the spear just barely grazed the back of her armor, and then Oleja was up again, sidestepping to her right, bringing the butt of her spear up in an instant. She jabbed at one of the woman’s hands where she gripped the spear tightly. The wood made contact with the woman’s thick glove, and she uttered a quick grunt of pain. Her grip on the weapon loosened for just a moment.
Oleja grabbed the woman’s spear with one hand and wrenched it from her grasp. The woman staggered forwards a step and looked up. Oleja stood before her, two spears in her hands, both poised and ready to strike.
“Well that was certainly… interesting,” said the woman. She laughed. “Very different from the form they teach us here.”
Oleja shrugged and dropped the woman’s spear to the ground. “It worked.”
“I suppose it did.” She stuck out her hand to Oleja. “I’m Nesh.”
“Oleja Raseari.”
The second woman, who still leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, offered a quick wave. “Huxily. Welcome to the pit.”
“Thanks. You fighting me next?” asked Oleja, holding her arms out as if issuing a challenge through her stance.
“Not likely,” said Huxily.
“Suit yourself.” Oleja turned to look around at the other people nearby.
As her eyes swept the groups, one person in particular stuck out to her. The figure wore armor with many added embellishments and wielded what looked like a spear with a shorter shaft and longer blade. Long dark hair, bound in a ponytail, stuck out from beneath their helmet, but with their face obscured, Oleja could not see any other features. A sense of familiarity hung about them.
The figure fought in the middle of a group of soldiers, besting each of them one by one. When all were defeated, they took a step back and removed their helmet to take a drink of water.
It was Helis Sniveer, the king’s chief guard.
Oleja’s lips parted into a sneer.
A few other men went to join Helis, clapping him on the back as they took drinks from their own waterskins.
“Training up before the start of the trials?” one man asked Helis.
“I train to train. The trials are nothing special—not for me at least. It’s an honor to serve the role that I do, but in the end, I see them just the same as any other fight.”
“You’d be able to beat the whole thing for sure,” said another of Helis’s buddies. “If you were allowed an attempt of your own, that is.”
Helis shook his head. “I wouldn’t waste my time with such things. I serve the king.”
“Well, just don’t party too hard at the festival on Aukai’s Night. Can’t have you still exhausted and letting just anyone into the trials.” A chorus of laugher rippled through the group. Helis joined them.
Oleja looked back at Nesh and Huxily. They didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Helis or his companions.
“Thanks for the training,” said Oleja with a halfhearted wave. The two women nodded after her, but she already marched towards the group surrounding Helis.
“Who is looking for an opponent?” called Oleja as she approached, interrupting the conversation. All of the heads in the group turned towards her. “Or are you all too busy relaxing?”
Helis locked eyes with her. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. No one else in the group showed her any recognition.
“You need someone to show you the ropes or something?” asked one man.
“I’m a skilled fighter already,” said Oleja. “I figured the offer went the other way around.”
Laughter tore through the group again.
“That’s a challenge!” called one man.
“Take on Tillor, you can beat him easy!” said another.
“Hey!” said one man—presumably Tillor. “I can win.”
“Prove it,” said another in the group, and pushed him forward. Oleja raised her spear.
“Listen, I don’t want to hurt you or nothin’,” said Tillor.
“You’d be lucky to get close,” said Oleja. And then she lunged.
She swung at the man with her spear; he batted it aside with his own. The crowd behind him cheered. Oleja ground her teeth.
She surged forward again, taking her spear in both hands and shoving outwards, pushing Tillor back. He staggered a few steps away, and before he stopped, she swung again, aiming a jab at his sternum. He blocked her strike and swept out at her with his spear.
Oleja danced to the side, shifting so she stood on Tillor’s left.
“Huh?” he said as she moved, confusion on his brow as he turned, trying to follow her with his gaze. But he was slow.
She struck once, twice, but Tillor blocked both blows—barely on the first, as he still moved to shift his stance to face her new position, but more confidently on the second.
“What are you doing?” called one of the men from the crowd. “Why do you run from his swings? Afraid of getting hit?”
Running? No, she shifted her position to gain the upper hand, to put the tactical advantage in her favor. Why did they taunt her for so simple a move?
Tillor swung again, a swift strike that caught Oleja in the hip. Pain shot through her left leg anew and she grimaced. She took one staggering step forward.
Another swing from her; Tillor dodged the blow. The momentum carried her forward, and for a moment, she teetered on the edge of losing her balance. Tillor stepped in and struck again, the blunt-covered tip of his spear slamming Oleja in the chest.
The next thing she knew, she sat on the hard dirt of the ground, her head spinning as she regained her senses. Tillor stood above her. Cheers and whooping cries filled the air.
Oleja took the butt of her spear and thrust it between Tillor�
��s ankles. One quick push sent his feet scrambling over the ground, and a moment later he joined her in her unflattering position. She pointed the tip of her spear at his throat.
Roars of laughter came from the group. Oleja looked up in confusion. Tillor scrambled back to his feet and dusted himself off, and Oleja followed.
“What is so funny?” she asked.
“You fight like a barbarian!” said one man through his laughter. He took up his own spear and mimicked her style, pretending to shove away invisible enemies as Oleja had done in her fight.
“You dance around your opponent, fleeing their blows instead of facing them and deflecting the strikes like a warrior,” said another man. “A true soldier of Ahwan keeps their enemy’s focus straight ahead and locked on them at all times.”
“And what was with that final move? Do you always trip your opponents after you’ve been beaten?”
“Where did you learn this form? From earthborn?”
Fury boiled in Oleja’s blood. How dare they suggest she trained alongside those beasts? The only thing that slowed her was her prosthetic; if she still had both legs, or more practice on her prosthetic, or even more experience fighting with a spear, her form would have surpassed that of Tillor and Helis and all of the rest of them easily. In her prime she could have taken them all at once—and won—without breaking a sweat. She had felled multiple eclipsers, and the deadly mutants of the desert too. Honn of Itsoh met his end at her hand. These soldiers were no match for her.
“If you all can do better, then prove it!”
The clamor from the group lessened.
“What?” asked someone.
“Prove that your skill is superior to mine!”
“Tillor already—”
“As far as I see it, I beat Tillor using my ‘barbaric style.’ If you think you can beat me, prove it.”
“All right,” said another man, stepping forward. He put his helmet back on, slapped it twice on the side, and raised his spear.
Seablood Page 10
