Seablood

by Cameron Bolling

  From the hollow she pulled her clay canteen. Keeping it as carefully concealed in her hand as she could manage, she righted her broken prosthetic again and stood. She had no idea what the mysterious contents of the canteen even did, but she knew the seablood had a strange sheen to it, a sliminess to the touch. She just prayed whatever it could do was enough.

  Uncapping the canteen, she poured the contents out onto the hinge. The wispy dark liquid pooled on the metal surface, the salty water mingling with the sweet and cool water of the rain, while the black clouds within danced through the surface. With her free hand, Oleja smeared the stuff across the hinge. Her hand grew slick—sticky, almost, but not quite so harsh. The faint smell of the world of water found her nose, but then a moment later it disappeared again.

  With the canteen empty, Oleja slipped it hastily back into the hollow in her prosthetic and righted it again. Then, when she was satisfied with the job she’d done on the hinge, she grabbed the lid once more.

  Her hand slid across its surface. Cursing herself for her stupidity, she crouched again and ran her hands through the water and mud until the slickness faded away. Again, she took the lid in her hands, and with a mighty shove, she pushed it upwards.

  The squealing, creaking call filled the air again, but only for a moment. The lid shuddered and lifted higher, chipping off bits of stone from the far end and bending in the middle. The corner she pushed against rose towards the sky, and a moment later she looked within to what lay beneath the dented and bent lid of the old vault.

  Fine cloth rimmed the edges, softer than any Oleja had ever felt. Laid diagonally through the rectangular hollow was a spear shaft, the thick wood etched with designs and ringed with silver embellishments at intervals along its length. Atop it lay a circular shield, also made of wood and polished silver metal, and bearing the seablood symbol on its front in silver. A bolt of lightning illuminated the two items for a moment. The symbol on the shield flashed in the light, its glimmering surface catching the light in a hundred different streaks of a thousand different colors. Not silver, then—some other smooth, light-colored material made up the design.

  But none of the finer details mattered. She had freed the spear shaft and the shield. She had done it. She was the champion.

  And the mob obeyed her now.

  She grabbed the two items from where they lay within the vault and pulled them free. The mob clashed on around her, unaware of her victory.

  But not for long. Let them behold her.

  With the spear shaft and shield in her hands, she clambered up onto the top of the stone. Mud and blood and rainwater still soaked the sole of her foot and the wood of her prosthetic, making for a slick climb, and the crack in her prosthetic certainly lent her no aid. But after a few moments of struggling, she reached the top. There, she stood, her head high above the mob. She raised the shaft and shield high above her.

  Lighting flashed. Thunder boomed. In a rippling wave that washed violently through the crowd like a fast-coursing river, all heads turned to face her.

  Every eye focused on her. Every mouth fell silent. Every ear turned to listen.

  Oleja Raseari, the hero of Ahwan, rose like a towering wave before them.

  The champion had been chosen.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  All at once it felt as though the shrill cries of steel on steel and the shouts of anger died away. Somehow, despite the wind and rain and thunder, the air felt still, and the night calm. Everything around Oleja fell to quiet subdued obedience.

  But inside her, power raged. Her hands trembled, but she held the two items above her with silent confidence and resolve. For several long moments, no one said anything at all.

  “She cannot be the champion, she struggled to open the vault!” came a voice. Dozens of heads whipped around to face the challenger.

  “But she did!” called back another. Angry murmurs ebbed out through the mob. The man who leveled the question against Oleja’s status shrank back, now greatly outnumbered. He did not speak again.

  Lightning lit the sky. Thunder filled the valley again in its wake. Oleja looked down at the crowd.

  “I am the champion. I hold Aukai’s shield and spear. Any who wishes to challenge me challenges all of Ahwan.”

  Oleja looked over the crowd again. Water soaked their cloaks and ran in streams off their cowls. Drops pelted their faces as they peered up at her. But now, looking upon them again, she saw something new creeping into their expressions, joining the bewilderment and shock they had looked upon her with immediately following her rise to the top of the stone: awe; adoration; relief. Oleja had only ever imagined a group looking upon her in such a way.

  Overwhelming joy flooded through her. She had done it. She proved herself. She was the hero.

  Except she lied. She cheated.

  She kicked the thought aside just as soon as it bubbled into her mind. She didn’t have time for doubts. She needed to return to the palace to unite the shaft of the spear with the spearhead forged from long weeks of her labor. And then she had to begin preparations to march the forces of Ahwan on the Itsoh eclipser camp.

  “The champion!” shouted someone. “The champion is chosen!”

  “Ahwan has a champion once more!”

  “Aukai’s successor is here!”

  “Champion! Champion! What is your name?”

  “Her name is Oleja!”

  “Champion Oleja! Oleja is our champion!”

  Oleja cracked a wide grin. Finally they recognized her for who she was. Finally.

  “I march now for the king’s palace!” called Oleja over the cries of the crowd. And then, lowering the spear shaft and using it as a walking stick, she descended carefully from her perch atop the stone.

  The crowd parted around her when she reached the ground, and as she walked through the group, they hurried to make way for her. Soon, she reached the other side of the gathering, then continued across the grassy clearing and onto the cobbled streets of Ahwan.

  Those who retained some wisdom and avoided the violence of the mob gathered on the street, standing in pairs or small groups huddled under overhanging roofs and in doorways safe from the rain. They whispered to one another, their faces full of fear and confusion. As soon as Oleja stepped into view—her drenched white robe and black hair hanging heavy around her, carrying the fine shield that shone with the mark of Aila Aukai—their eyes widened. All worry melted from the bystanders’ faces as they saw the people hurrying along behind her, their shouts of anger now replaced with cries of joy and celebration. Pulling each other along, they rushed to join the crowd.

  The procession through the city made easy work of waking anyone who had not been woken already by the storm or the fighting. As the crowd turned down new streets, windows all up and down the way opened and bleary-eyed people stuck their heads out. Anger over being woken by such a rowdy group showed clear on their faces at first, but it morphed quickly into wide-eyed amazement when they saw Oleja leading the group, carrying the spear shaft and shield, or when they heard the calls of the crowd, shouting about the arrival of the champion. Folks hurried out into the street, dressed in their nightwear and slippers with hastily donned cloaks or fur coats trailing behind them as they ran through the puddles. Young children sat in windows, watching with mouths agape in tiny o’s at the festivities in the street. The whole city seemed alive with cheer and celebration.

  And ahead of them all walked Oleja. Her foot, bare but for the dirtied and bloodstained bandages that wrapped it, stung as she walked through the streets without so much as a simple leather moccasin. The stump of her left leg ached in the grip of her prosthetic—she had forgotten how unforgiving her old design truly was, and walking gently and somewhat sideways on it to keep it from bending at the crack in the middle didn’t help matters. Still, she pushed on with a steely look on her face. Determination kept her upright and advancing swiftly towards the palace.

  “Oleja! Oleja!” Someone called her name from deep within the crowd
—though so did a hundred others, chanting her name as they marched through the streets. But this voice was familiar.

  Cyrah broke through the folds of the crowd a moment later and ran full speed towards her. She wrapped Oleja in a tight hug at once, nearly knocking Oleja to the ground as she teetered on her cracked prosthetic. Brashen and Wil emerged from the crowd a moment later.

  “You’re back! Praise the stars, you’re back!” said Cyrah as she pulled away, looking up at Oleja with all of the stars gleaming within her eyes.

  “And the champion, no less,” said Wil, looking her up and down as if sizing her up anew.

  “You beat the fifth trial.” Awe tinged Brashen’s voice.

  “I am indeed back, and the champion as well,” said Oleja, nodding to Cyrah and Wil in turn. She shared a smile in Brashen’s direction too. As she spoke, she kept her pace, still heading for the palace. The trio fell in step alongside her.

  “The shield…” said Wil in amazement, his eyes fixed on it where Oleja held it close to her chest. “Is that… can I see it?”

  Oleja held it out at an arm’s length. Wil brushed one finger over the design on the front, the shimmering etchings of rainbow. He shifted his head back and forth, looking at it from different angles.

  “Abalone,” he said, the word coming out almost as a sigh.

  “What?” asked Oleja, looking down at it again.

  “It’s a material—comes from specific shells in the sea. It’s called abalone.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Cyrah.

  Another familiar voice in the crowd caught Oleja’s attention as Maloia slipped around the outskirts and hurried over. She stopped a few paces away but kept pace with Oleja. She looked at her with an expression of amazement and pride.

  “Never would I have guessed that the half-dead girl I pulled off a broken sled was destined to be the champion of Ahwan. But I should have. I knew I felt something special in you.”

  Oleja closed the gap between Maloia and herself and pulled her into a hug. “Thank you for all of your help, Maloia.”

  Maloia patted a hand against the soaked robe that stuck to Oleja’s back.

  The procession continued through the city, then wound up the narrower paths and staircases at the end of the South Run that ascended towards the palace. Oleja continued to lead the crowd, setting the pace for those who followed as she struggled more and more on her broken prosthetic. Nonetheless, she kept going. Cyrah, Wil, Brashen, and Maloia followed along just behind her, and then came the rest of the crowd. At the top of the staircase that wound up along the side of the waterfall, Oleja turned briefly to look back behind her.

  The crowd slowed as the narrower staircase forced them to condense down from a mass the width of the street into only three or four abreast. They hurried up the stairs, anxious to keep pace with their new hero. Down below, hundreds of heads bobbed in the night, filling the South Run as they all made for the stairs. Hundreds. Hundreds of people followed behind Oleja.

  And then she turned again and continued upwards. She still had yet to reach the palace.

  Soon, she reached the crossroads she knew well. One path led up to the palace, while the other led into the small collection of buildings set in a cluster of trees; it was the same crossroads she had sat helplessly at so many weeks before, stuck with her broken prosthetic and fuming mind after her first conversation with the king. A small group of people waited at the intersection, watching curiously to see the approaching crowd. No doubt they heard the calls echoing up from the valley.

  Seeing Oleja and understanding at once the meaning of the disturbance, the group of people broke into cheers. But something else drew Oleja’s attention.

  On the edge of the group, leaning against a low wall, stood Ardess. Oleja’s heart dropped and a chill shot through her body. Impulse told her to look away and force a casual expression onto her face, but Ardess watched her carefully. For just a moment, Oleja met her eyes.

  Ardess gave her a faint—if somewhat sad—smile and a gentle nod. Oleja returned the smile and then pulled her attention away, back to the path ahead that led up to the palace atop the hill.

  At the front doors of the palace, it became clear that the noise of the crowd had reached there as well. Dozens of guards stood in rows atop the wide terrace, all at rigid attention, spears out before them with the butt of each planted firmly on the ground. At first, she though the extra guards were a measure of wariness, a precaution taken against the sounds of shouting and an enormous stampede of feet running up the mountain. But as she drew closer, the guards all turned and faced inwards, creating a path through which she was meant to walk as the soldiers all stood there, ready, facing their new champion.

  Oleja grinned. Her new status could not have been more perfect. She had more than enough might to flatten Itsoh for good.

  She wished Ude could see her. Soon enough, he would.

  She passed between the lines of guards and stepped through the enormous doors of the palace, held open for her by soldiers in fine, polished armor. Somehow, the door felt smaller this time.

  Others streamed in behind her—her friends, as well as the massive crowd that followed her up from the city. They filled the immense hall from wall to wall, cramming in alongside the tables and columns. Oleja made a beeline for the doors on the opposite end.

  There, another pair of guards opened the doors for her. Oleja stepped through into the king’s chamber. The crowd continued to follow, but only the lucky few who made up the foremost section of the group managed to squeeze into the front portion of the smaller room within.

  The king stood by his chair wearing a robe of dark blue over a simple white shirt and pants that looked to be his sleepwear. His hair sat in an unkempt mess, but his crown held down the messiest sections and pulled his official presence back around him. Tor sat at the king’s side as he spoke with the attendant—the same woman who had escorted Oleja to the stone both times—standing at the base of the dais, and Helis, who took up his usual spot a few steps below the chair. Water dripped from his clothes and long brown hair, leaving small puddles and trails of water droplets on the stone floor. He locked eyes with Oleja when she walked in, one eyebrow raised slightly, his jaw tense.

  Tor’s ears perked up as Oleja entered, and he turned his head towards her immediately. At once he leapt up and bolted down the steps of the dais, closing the gap to Oleja in a few short bounds. He nuzzled her with a force that threatened to topple her.

  “Welcome back,” said the king when Oleja looked up. He turned to face her with a wide, bright smile. As he spoke, he ran a hand through his beard, combing back the runaway strands that still poked out after what she could only assume was a rushed awakening. The attendant could not have arrived with the news much earlier than she did.

  A hush swept through the crowd.

  Oleja held the spear shaft and shield higher. Her broken prosthetic wobbled underneath her, but she caught her balance with the spear shaft.

  The king furrowed his brow. “Is something wrong with your prosthetic?”

  “Yes, it broke under the force it took me to shift the stone. Though I knew it was already breaking, I wore my old one for the trial because it felt more fair.”

  The king nodded. “Where is your other prosthetic?”

  “In the forge where I have been working since coming to Ahwan, up in the North Run.”

  The king gestured to the attendant. “Send someone to fetch her prosthetic at once. And then go and grab the spearhead.” The attendant nodded and then hurried off through the side door.

  Turning back to Oleja, the king spoke to her again. “I must admit, Oleja—when you left here the second time, I didn’t expect that you would end the night being crowned champion of Ahwan. I assumed that a retrial to balance out the injustice of your first attempt would be merely an act to help you feel that the outcome of the trial fairly reflected your capabilities. But just the same, I must admit that I am no less pleased. This is fantastic news for the city,
and we are honored to have you serve as our new champion, as directed in the trials set out by Aila Aukai herself. Welcome home, champion.”

  “Thank you. I am honored to hold this position.”

  The attendant returned a moment later with a small bundle of silk. The king stepped down to the base of the dais and held out his hands. The attendant placed the bundle in his open palms.

  Back at the top of the dais, the king beckoned Oleja forward. “Please step up to join me atop the fifth step of the dais. For generations, no other but the king of Ahwan has set foot here at the top, as it is an honor reserved only for the king and champion of the city. Well, no other human I should say,” he added, his eyes turning to Tor. “I suppose your coyote beat you to that honor. But that is beside the point. I am honored to serve as the king who will share this position once again.”

  Oleja stepped up the dais, one tier at a time. At the third step—the one where Helis always stood—she shot a sidelong glance to him as she stepped up onto the fourth.

  At the top, she took up a position beside the king. He let the layers of silk that wrapped the bundle he held fall away. A shining spearhead glittered in the light of the room, forged of silver steel and etched with the same symbol that adorned everything else—the symbol of the seablood, the symbol of Aukai, the symbol of Ahwan. And now, the symbol of the champion.

  “Are you all right to stand if you hold the spear shaft out before you?” asked the king, eyeing the way Oleja still used it as a walking stick to take some of the burden off of her broken prosthetic. Oleja nodded. She moved the shaft from where she gripped it at her side so that it stood before her instead, the butt still on the ground, the top pointed towards the ceiling high above. It rose to the height of her neck, about a spearhead’s length shy of five feet long.