Seablood

by Cameron Bolling

  How did the vault get within if the whole stone was one large rock? Looking at the outside, she had just assumed someone did an expert job of filling in any cracks with mortar, but looking over the inside now she could clearly see that was not the case. Only one piece of rock made up the stone—or had, before she smashed it against an even bigger rock—and it wrapped perfectly around the contours of the vault. But how? How did Aukai even get the vault inside? It didn’t make any sense.

  The stone met precisely with the metal, leaving no free space whatsoever between the two materials as if the rock itself was molded to the shape of the vault. Oleja went back to the exposed end and took it in both hands. There, she pulled, trying to slide the vault free of the stone alcove that gripped it.

  The rain-covered metal slid from her grasp and she slipped, her foot and prosthetic skidding in the mud before she landed hard in the muddy groove cut by the stone’s violent descent down the mountain. Dark brown rainwater soaked through her white robe. She looked back up at the metal container. Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t freed the vault yet after all.

  She pulled herself back up, sliding in the mud, and looked over the vault again. The hinge. If she could free the hinge, she might be able to get it open—and she only needed to pry the lid up high enough to remove the spear shaft and shield enclosed within.

  Her hands went for her prosthetic where the crack in the wood led within to the hollow interior.

  “What’s going on out here?”

  A voice called through the night, followed immediately by another clap of thunder. Oleja looked up. A man approached, a dark cloak drawn close around him with the hood up, a stream of water dripping from the pointed front of the cowl. He held a lantern in one hand.

  When his eyes fell on the stone and the vault sticking out of the side, he stopped in his tracks. His mouth opened slightly; his eyes opened far wider. For a moment, he just stood there.

  Then he turned and shouted back over his shoulder. “The vault is freed from Aukai’s stone! Aukai’s successor is here! Ahwan has chosen a new champion!”

  Moments passed as distant voices from the homes filtered through the sounds of the rain and wind and thunder, and then more lights appeared, carried by more cloaked figures rushing from their homes. Oleja stopped. The stone still clutched the vault in its death grip.

  “Who freed the vault? Who is it? Who is the champion?” asked the approaching voices. Soon, a small crowd had appeared, with more arriving by the moment. Others ran through the streets, their voices calling out above the rain to let everyone know their hero had arrived at last.

  But what would they think when they learned that the vault remained only half-freed?

  The fact hung in her mind—it felt like some joke orchestrated by Aila Aukai herself. Oleja cheated the trial, and as if she knew exactly what would happen, Aukai left her now with a half-success. The respective half-failure lay before her now in the form of a great mass of stone.

  Again, Oleja stepped forward and tried to pull open the vault. Still, the lid did not budge; she released it quickly, not wanting to show how much she struggled with the task that marked the true completion of the trial and named her the champion.

  “The vault isn’t free!” called one voice above the others, the first to notice something amiss. Oleja only stood there before them, looking out at the figures around her. She didn’t know what to do.

  One man stepped forward to close the gap between himself and the man who had just spoken. “I can see it fine, can’t you? The vault is free.”

  “Yeah?” said the other man, squaring his shoulders in the face of the challenger. “Can you see the other half? Because I sure as hell can’t.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd, joining with the call of the rain as if it, too, joined in the conversation.

  “She’s the hero!”

  “She’s not the hero!”

  “If she’s the hero, she has to get the vault out completely and open it.”

  One woman stepped forward, throwing her arms out to the sides to keep the two arguing men away from each other. “The stories say the hero will bring the vault back into the light of day, and that has been done.”

  “It’s nighttime!”

  One of the men stepped closer. “The story says the vault will see the light of day and that the hero will hold the spear and shield aloft. Which she has not done, because the vault is still trapped.”

  “The vault is free, it just won’t open—the hero can open it with aid!” said the woman, frustration entering her voice now.

  The man shook his head. “The trial rules dictate that the hero must free the vault unaided by any tool or other person. And the vault isn’t free.”

  Oleja wanted only to shrink back into the shadows and the rain as the crowd argued around her. This was far from the triumphant trial ending she imagined. But what could she do now?

  If the people—or the king—demanded that she free the vault in full, unaided, how could she do it? The rock still gripped it as if fused to the surface of the metal, and it felt like she was further from having it open now than before when she couldn’t even see the thing. Tucked away and shrouded from all of the demanding, watchful eyes that pierced her and scrutinized her every movement, perhaps she could get it free—if not by the rules set forth in the trial instructions, then by cheating her way to the finish line. She had already done it once in order to get this far, what was one more push in that direction to finish it off?

  But standing there before the crowd, dozens of eyes watched her every action—within the bounds of the rules or not. She needed either a massive surge of strength to rip the vault free by her own skill, or a distraction to give her the time she needed to break the thing free against the rules.

  “Hey. Hey! Let the king decided!” called one voice above the others.

  “The king is nothing but a corrupt and spineless puppet, leave him out of this!”

  “Do not say that about King Reungier.”

  “He should have no say over the trials. They are far above him, and they will find Ahwan a true leader! The honor of Aukai’s Clan will be restored at last!”

  “We will not be ruled by a soldier!”

  “She’s not a soldier, she’s the hero—the champion chosen by the Seablood Trials!”

  “Not yet she isn’t, she hasn’t succeeded in her trial!”

  “She has!”

  Voices rose louder and louder. The crowd grew with every moment—some rushing over with anger plain on their faces, ready to join in the arguments, while others stepped over hesitantly, trying to get a view of the commotion and the supposed new champion of the city, but wary of the quickly amassing mob. The people of Ahwan knew those angry shouts well, and the wise among them were right to keep their distance.

  “Stop!” called Oleja through it all, but her voice vanished into the veil of wind and rain. No one wanted to listen; they only wanted to shout.

  And then, through it all, came a shrill sound Oleja knew all too well. Above the rumbling growls of thunder and the roar of the rain and the shuddering of the wind in the pines rang the unmistakable sound of steel sliding free of a sheath somewhere deep in the crowd.

  Chapter Thirty

  The call of a drawn blade sent a wave of unchecked bloodlust through the crowd, and suddenly the sound had been echoed dozens of times over. Any shred of power Oleja felt she had over the situation evaporated at once. She stood there unarmed, wearing nothing but a rain-soaked robe hardly durable enough to hold itself together, and before her a mob erupted into a clashing fight. Trying to exert her position as champion over them wouldn’t even work—not until she held the spear shaft and shield in her hands. Without the contents of the vault, only half of the mob recognized her as anything more than just a regular old citizen of the city. And pacifying half of a mob didn’t solve any problems.

  She tried again to open the lid of the vault, desperation now adding to her strength, but the stone covering the hinge
and the far end of the thing kept it down tight. Her eyes flicked across the crowd. They were all more preoccupied with each other than with her. Perhaps she could—

  “Death to the false hero!”

  Well, no other words could have possibly been as bad as those.

  A man ran towards her, dagger drawn, the tip raised high over his head as he hurried forth to strike her before anyone else got the chance to stop him. Oleja’s eyes widened and she backpedaled through the mud. She leapt up out of the muddy groove and scrambled back through the grass. The man kept advancing, a wild look in his eyes, dagger swinging out before him.

  And then her prosthetic collapsed.

  The limb bent at the crack in the middle and gave way, splinters of wood still clinging to one another as it jutted out at an angle far from reminiscent of a leg shape. Oleja tumbled to the ground. She looked up as the man stepped closer.

  He swung his blade downwards, the dagger’s tip aimed for her throat. At the last moment before finding herself skewered, she rolled to the side. The blade missed her throat but sliced through a portion of her hair. A few black locks, soaked from the rain, fell into the grass.

  The man shouted in anger and came after her again, stepping to the side after noticing her absence below him. He raised his blade for a second strike.

  Oleja’s hands found a fist-sized rock on the ground and she took it up at once. Just as the man began the downwards arc of his blade, she lobbed the rock at his face. It struck his cheek with a dull thud and bounced off into the rain and shadows. Blood bloomed across his cheek as he recoiled with a grunt of pain.

  Scrambling up onto her hands and knees, Oleja crawled across the ground, moving closer to the crowd. Many more who shared the sentiments of the man trying to kill her waited amongst the masses, sure, but hopefully a greater number preferred her alive.

  A heavy force tackled her from behind and threw her to the wet ground once more. She writhed under the weight, twisting back around to face the man. He clutched at the front of her robe and pulled her up closer to him, still brandishing the dagger.

  “You won’t win the title of champion, you are false! You cannot even open the vault!” He spoke through gritted teeth, his voice a hoarse snarl of a sound.

  “Have some faith in your hero,” spat Oleja and then lifted her knee into his gut. He fell back for a moment, his free hand clutching at his stomach. Oleja raised her right leg and kicked the man hard in the face, driving her bare and bandaged heel into his nose. With a crack that she heard even above the cries of the mob, he fell back, raising both hands to cradle his face. He dropped his dagger in the process.

  Oleja snatched it up in an instant and then flicked it at him menacingly as she scuttled backwards.

  Her back hit the trunk of a nearby pine. Light underbrush and a few other trunks formed a small patch of wooded area. Quickly, and as quietly as she could while half-dragging her body across the ground, she pulled herself into the tangles of the shadows and foliage.

  There, she took a moment to catch her breath. Her mind reeled. What could she do now? The mob surged around the stone and the vault, the sides clashing as they raged for dominance. They fought over her—her role, her fate, her relation to the king and the city and the mythical champion they told stories about. If she hadn’t toppled the stone from the clifftop, they’d all be at home, asleep in their beds, weathering the storm from within the dry safety of their houses. But instead they brawled like savages in the field, desperate to come out triumphant atop their own selfish wants. They didn’t care for civility or humanity, only blood and power.

  Oleja watched as the people in the crowd screamed at one another. They pushed each other back and forth, stepping close to those they argued with as they got in their faces, rainwater and spit flying from their lips and fires burning in every one of their eyes. Still more people came running over from the city streets. The mob only grew, both in size and in anger.

  And then Oleja watched as one woman waved a knife in front of another as they argued. The second woman strode close to the first and shoved her hard, causing her to stumble back. The first woman caught herself against the tight knit crowd around her, and then—lunging forward with the speed of an arc of lightning in the sky—shoved her knife deep into the second woman’s stomach. The blade sank into the woman’s flesh, dark blood dripping out and running in rivers down the wielder’s hand, quickly swept away by the force of the rain pouring down. The second woman dropped her gaze to the knife in her stomach, a look of fury and pain and fear on her face. And then she fell.

  The mob quickly swallowed her, shifting around her and concealing her from Oleja’s view. No one helped her up; they all just kept on with their own fights. The freshly spilled blood made the mob rage louder, hotter. Blades crashed as more of them resorted to trying to cut their opponents’ opinions out of them.

  But Oleja didn’t have to see the woman where she bled to death on the ground. Others around her dropped to join her as they met similar fates. Blood ran thick through the grass alongside the water and mud, darkening the ground as if turning it into one great mass of shadow that grew in power until it could rise up and envelop all who stood above it in one fell blow, dragging them all down to their graves.

  Oleja’s hands shook. She had to do something—anything. This bloodshed was her fault.

  By whatever means necessary, she needed to free the vault. Not only to become to hero, but to put an end to the fighting and unite Ahwan at last.

  Righting her prosthetic to give her another few strides of walking on it, she stepped out from the cover of the trees. With a few shaky bounds, she closed the gap between her and the mob, and then ducked within its folds.

  People ran this way and that, but more dangerous were the blades. Oleja dodged a few wayward strikes meant for others around her, but with everyone packed together and fighting in such close proximity, their blades nicked others in the fray on every backswing and follow through. Oleja skirted past them all, weaving around the angriest patches of the mob as best she could. Several times someone yelled at her, their anger a clear indicator of their intentions with her neck, but just as quickly as they could open their mouths she vanished, darting between bodies and disappearing into the maze of limbs and blades and furious cries.

  When finally she broke through the mob and found herself at the stone, she let out a quick sigh of relief, but wasted no further time. She slid down the muddy side of the scar in the earth and approached the vault again.

  Blood soaked through the bandages that wrapped her foot—very little of it her own. More of the stuff coated the skin up her ankle and splattered her shin and calf. It mixed with the swirling muddy rainwater pooling at the base of the long trench in the ground. She knelt in the roiling water.

  Stabbing her stolen dagger into the mud, she dove both hands into the water and felt around. After a few moments, her fingers curled around what she sought—a chunk of rubble, jagged with the fresh cracks that severed it from the stone or the mountainside or wherever it originated. She pulled it forth from the muck. Yes, it would do.

  Too many eyes still surrounded her, but she didn’t care. A chunk of rock had to be fair game—plenty of similar ones scattered the ground around the stone’s previous home up on the cliff.

  She stood again, steadying herself on the side of the stone as she did, and raised the rock in her fist. She struck it hard against the stone where it covered the hinge of the vault.

  A few flecks of rubble chipped away. Oleja raised the rock again. She had to get the vault open.

  A flash of lightning lit the sky, joined moments later by a roll of thunder. Oleja used the veil of thunder to mask the sounds of her slamming the rock against the solid stone, getting in several strikes as the blast echoed through the valley. Even after it faded away behind the sounds of the rainfall and the shouts of the mob, she kept at it.

  Bit by bit, the stone covering the hinge chipped away. Oleja worked as fast as her arms could go, knowing an
y observed break in the rules meant certain failure. She just had to get the vault open.

  With one great crack of her rock against the tendrils of the stone, the piece above the hinge broke away and spun off into the night, splashing into the water somewhere behind her. The hinge lay bare, its interlocked pieces still holding tiny grains of rubble and the silty residue of mud, but free nonetheless.

  Oleja hurried to the side and took the lip of the lid in both hands. Channeling all of her power into the motions, she yanked up on the metal lid.

  A high-pitched grating tore through the air. The hinge gave ever so slightly, but the stone at the far end of the vault still held it down. Far too much of it covered that section; chipping away at it would do no good, unless she had until morning in five days’ time before she needed the contents freed.

  Which she did not.

  But as she pulled up on the lid, a few bits of the stone from the far end crumbled away, the cracks that ran through them giving out and releasing the bits of rubble into the air. They crashed back onto the metal lid, each striking its surface with a clang. With enough force, the lid would bend open—at least enough to slide her arm in through the crack and pull out the things closed inside. The metal was thin enough and had some give to it. But the hinge, though free of the stone, still wouldn’t shift enough to allow such an opening.

  She had only one trick left up her sleeve. And if it didn’t work, she would be out of options for good—truly, this time.

  Oleja scanned the mob around her. All still seemed more invested in punching or stabbing or screaming at one another than whatever she did there beside the stone. Seizing the opportunity, she stooped again and dipped her fingers into the water.

  She hid her movements carefully behind the guise of hunting for another piece of rubble in the water. Crouched there, she bent her left leg to the side, allowing the fresh crack in her prosthetic to split apart once more. With all the speed and stealth she could muster, she slipped one hand inside, into the hollow within the wood. There, she pushed her hand past the other items at the top—a small metal hammer and chisel—and grabbed something else from the bottom, its smooth and chalky sides dampened by the rainwater that leaked in through the cracks.