Seablood

by Cameron Bolling

  A few drops of wax hit the side of the stone bowl. The flame sputtered as the liquid wax leaked onto the wick, but it continued to burn. As the flame touched the surface of the seablood, Oleja thought for sure the water would douse it, but then it grew and flared in an instant. Fire leapt across the surface of the water, burning in new tongues of flame all through the bowl. Oleja stared down at it in awe.

  One of the attendants came forward and lifted the bowl. The other took the iron and snow-water. Together, they left the chamber.

  “The spearhead will now be forged by the ceremonial crafters of the palace,” said the king. “Should you succeed in freeing the vault from Aukai’s stone, the new spearhead and the old shaft that Aukai herself used in battle will be united to form the weapon of our new champion. Should you fail, however, the spearhead will be melted down and returned to the earth.”

  “Let your crafters know their work will not be for nothing, then,” said Oleja. “I will return with the spear shaft.”

  The king chuckled. “We all hope that is the case, of course, but we have hoped the very same of countless others who succeeded on the first four trials. None yet have bested the fifth.”

  “Before today, the hero you sought had not walked through these halls bearing the trophies of the trials. But she has now.” In the corner of her vision, she swore she saw Helis roll his eyes. She ignored him.

  The king only smiled and then turned to climb back up to his chair. “You will go on now to the fifth and final trial: freeing the vault containing Aila Aukai’s spear shaft and shield from where she entombed them in a stone before her death. She designed the trials, and the fifth was placed upon our mountain slopes by her own hand. You may bring nothing with you, and you will be given a robe to wear in place of your own clothes. All who face the final trial do so with nothing, as we all once were before Aukai brought us from the dark years into this new age of light and prosperity.”

  One of the attendants emerged from the door again carrying a folded bundle of white cloth.

  “There is a room through that door where you may change and leave your things,” said the king. He paused, glancing down at the floor below the table for a moment. “And I’m afraid you will have to leave your prosthetic as well.”

  Oleja stopped and looked up at him, her brow furrowed, shock and anger colliding inside her. “Excuse me?”

  “None are permitted to bring anything with them at all. It is our rule, the rule set forth by Aukai herself.”

  “Would you demand one cut off their leg if they wanted to attempt the final trial? Or what about a hand, or gouge out their eyes?”

  “Well, no, those things are part of their—”

  “And my prosthetic is part of mine. To go without is to leave me unable to stand on my own.”

  The king pursed his lips. He glanced around the room in clear discomfort. “We simply cannot allow it. If you are meant to best the trial by the will of Aukai, you will do so.”

  Oleja fumed, but the king was right; if she was meant to best these trials as part of her fated heroic journey, she would. And she was meant to, she could feel it. Exception to the rules or not, she would find a way.

  “Fine.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But you will still have to take care of my coyote while I’m gone.”

  “That can be arranged,” said the king. He whistled and tapped his hand against the side of his chair. Tor’s head snapped in the direction of the sound. He looked up to Oleja. Oleja gestured towards the king, and then Tor bounded up the stairs to the king’s side. The king reached a hand down and scratched behind Tor’s ears. Helis looked to the coyote with shock and confusion clear in his eyes.

  Oleja passed through the side door and emerged into a smaller hallway. An open door lay just across from the one she’d entered through, and she looked inside. The room stretched only a few paces in any direction. A small table and tall cabinet filled one side of the room, and a bench lined the other. She stepped within and closed the door.

  She put her bag down on the table and undressed quickly, storing her clothes on a rack inside the cabinet. Incredibly thin fabric comprised the robe given to her by the attendant, which felt almost like soft parchment that threatened to tear with the slightest pull. Lastly, she kicked off her boot and then took a seat on the bench to take off her prosthetic. With the limb removed, she sat there for a moment as a feeling of exposed weakness flashed through her. She didn’t want to go back out into the king’s chamber so helplessly dependent on others for even the simplest tasks.

  But that was what the king—and the trials—demanded of her. She had no choice but to oblige. All perceptions of weakness would melt away once she carried the spear and shield of Aukai as the new champion of Ahwan.

  Using the walls for support, she pulled herself up to stand on just her right leg. She reached over and opened the door. One of the attendants stood on the other side, her back to Oleja. When the door opened, she turned.

  “May I assist you, Ms. Raseari?” asked the attendant.

  “I don’t see many other options,” said Oleja with a sigh. The woman leaned over and Oleja wrapped her left arm around her shoulders. Together, they returned to the king’s chamber.

  When they entered, the king stood. “Oleja Raseari, are you prepared to face the fifth and final trial in the Seablood Trials?”

  “Yes.”

  The king nodded. “Then go, and may Aukai’s favor guide your hand so that you return as the new champion of our people.”

  Oleja met his gaze. He smiled warmly down at her from his dais. Tor panted happily at his side, looking up at the king as he spoke. As she turned for the door, her eyes drifted past Helis for a brief moment. He stood there with a dull expression, looking unimpressed and bored with it all. The hints of distaste played at the corners of his mouth, like something just a smidge too bitter sat on his tongue. And then she turned and left the room with the attendant at her side.

  A cart waited just outside the front door of the palace, which meant Oleja didn’t have to walk all that far. She hopped into the back, joined by the attendant, and they set off down a winding path along the far side of the hill.

  The sun hung low in the sky, bathing the mountains in fire-orange light. Oleja marveled at the beauty of the landscapes, but a dark cloud hung over it all in her mind. She hadn’t expected to arrive at the final trial so exposed and alone. She thought at least that Tor would join her, and that she could carry her things with her. When difficult obstacles lay in her path, she used her tinkering to best them, but now she didn’t even have that. And still she had no clear idea of what this final trial demanded.

  Doubt hung in her mind, fueled by her nakedness. She just hoped that whatever lay ahead, she alone was enough to master it after all. She had to be.

  When the cart stopped, the attendant got out and helped Oleja to the ground alongside her. A path wound through a cluster of pines, and they followed it. Long shadows stretched across the ground, cast there by the peaks and pines and other features of the clifftop. On the other side of the copse of trees, the path descended down a slope of gravel and loose stones. There, positioned at the edge of the precipice like a crowning jewel, sat a boulder. It rose to about the height of her ribs, roughly round and grey like the stones of the valley, though a warmer shade of grey than the natural rock of the area, and smoother as well. Carved into its side, worn away by the elements of the natural world, was the Ahwan symbol.

  Overall, it looked surprisingly ordinary.

  “This is the final trial,” said the attendant. “Locked inside the stone is a vault of metal placed within by Aila Aukai. To beat the trial and become champion, you must free the vault by any means, but you may not climb back up this path. To leave the cliff’s edge is to admit defeat. To use tools is a cheater’s forfeit. Do you have any questions?”

  Oleja shook her head. The attendant covered the final distance up to the stone with her. There, Oleja released her hold on the woman
’s shoulders and used the boulder to hold herself up. The attendant left quickly, vanishing back up the path and through the trees.

  Taking a quick glance around the stone, Oleja sized it up. No other marks marred its surface, nor was there any clear place to strike if she hoped to break the thing. Tapping on the rock, she found it hard and solid—impossible to simply dig through without tools, which obviously went against the rules of the trial. But what other way to break it did she have?

  She looked down the cliff face—sloped slightly after a vertical drop of around eight feet. The sloping cliff descended far down the mountain towards the valley below where the outskirts of the city lay. Stone ledges and drops in the uneven surface crisscrossed the slope. If she pushed the stone off the edge, its fall down into the valley would surely break it apart and free the vault. And no one said such a technique went against the rules—in fact, the attendant said “free the vault by any means,” so long as she didn’t use tools. And when last she checked, pushing things off cliffs didn’t count as a tool.

  Bracing herself on the side of the stone that faced away from the cliff, she hooked her fingers underneath it. She dug into the gravel ground with her foot. Then, using all of her strength, she pushed.

  Her foot slid in the gravel, throwing all of her energy into kicking up the small rocks instead of shifting the large one. Again she tried, pushing her foot deeper into the gravel, ignoring the bite of the sharp stones on her exposed sole. Just as before, her foot slid through the loose terrain. The stone hardly budged at all.

  Frustration began to take hold and imbue her with its reckless power. Her thighs still ached from the weeks spent walking, but she forced away the discomfort now. She had to beat this trial. If she didn’t, all of her time in Ahwan and out completing the trials meant absolutely nothing. And she refused to let all of that time go to waste.

  She dug her foot into the ground again and pushed, shifting her position now so she forced her shoulder against the stone and pushed with her hands as well. Her foot slid. She tried to reposition it without letting up on the boulder, but with only her right leg it proved impossible.

  In anger, she dropped down to her knees and used them to find purchase on the ground instead. They slid in the gravel just the same, but at least she could alternate between them to give herself the time to find better holds when one gave way. The sharp stones cut at her knees. Standing so short, she pushed too low on the boulder to take advantage of its center of gravity, and what little movement she managed before disappeared entirely. She wouldn’t give up—she had to beat the trial, the last trial.

  She got back up and pushed again as before. Some of the bits of gravel under her foot grew warm and slick, and she looked down to see streaks of blood smeared across them. It trickled from her kneecaps and from a number of cuts on her foot. She took hold of the pain and channeled it into her shoves. She had to move the stone and get the vault free, she had to.

  Her foot slid out from under her and she crashed down into the gravel. Clawing at the ground, she hoisted herself back up. She had to move it, she had to win.

  With a roar of fury, she shoved again. The stone shifted an inch and then fell back into place just as quickly. It had to move. It had to be her.

  She was Oleja Raseari, skyborn, hero of her people. This was what she was meant to do.

  Again she shoved; again she slipped. Scrapes appeared on her forearms and her chin.

  She had to be the hero.

  Her hands scrambled frantically through the stones until she found one just a bit smaller than her fist. She took it on one hand and struck it hard against the center of the symbol on the stone. A few flecks chipped away, but nothing more. She struck it again. She struck it again. She struck it again.

  Heat rose in her face. At first she suspected that her anger boiled to new heights, but then tears dripped down her cheeks and she realized she sobbed. No giving up. She couldn’t give up. She had to be the hero—she had to.

  It was meant to be her.

  With her fist now, she swung at the stone. Pain shot through her knuckles, followed quickly by a bloom of fresh drops of blood. Tiny red beads lined the ridges in the skin. She already bled from so many scrapes—what were a few more?

  Again she punched the stone, but still it didn’t move. Another round of sobs shook her body.

  “Ms. Raseari? Would you like to go?” The attendant stood at the base of the path. She kept her arms folded tight across her stomach as she approached with slow, cautious steps.

  “No,” said Oleja through gritted teeth, and then, when the power in the word just didn’t feel strong enough, she added a second “No!” as loud as she could muster. It echoed off the mountain cliffs, seething fury ringing clear in the dying light. How could she just give up after coming so far?

  Oleja pulled herself back up and threw her weight against the stone. When still it didn’t move, she found a new foothold in the gravel and tried shoving once more, throwing her fists against it in a bid to make it roll across the short stretch of even ground before it pitched over the edge. But just as before, her foot slipped sooner than the stone moved in any significant manner, and again she fell to the ground. A scream roiled in her throat, thrashing about as it tried to break free, but she wouldn’t let it out. More sobs pushed past it and burst forth before Oleja could stop them.

  She did not stand again; not until the attendant walked over and knelt beside her slowly. Gently, she helped Oleja up and guided her back up the path, back through the trees to the cart where it sat, waiting to take her back to the palace in defeat.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The heavy doors of the forge felt impossible to open, but they parted under her bloodied hands nonetheless. Tor stayed at her side, walking so closely beside her so that his fur brushed her prosthetic with each step. Even as the doors of the forge opened and Oleja stepped inside, he walked with her, entering the room for the first time.

  Though the hour had grown late and dusk now hung about the valley, Sreovel worked inside. She glanced up when the doors opened. A rumble emanated up from Tor, but nothing more.

  “Oh, Oleja! You’re back!” exclaimed Sreovel, beaming. A second passed in silence as her smile faded just as quickly as it appeared like a wave retreating across the shore.

  Oleja slumped down onto the stool nearest to her and leaned her weight against the bench. She kept her eyes down. She didn’t know what to do.

  “Well, you’re alive,” said Sreovel. “Some who attempt the trials never return at all.”

  “Yeah,” was all Oleja offered in response. She lifted her bag to the table and took out a few tools and pieces. For a moment, she shaped them mindlessly, but she soon put them down. Even the energy to tinker had left her.

  Her eyes roved over the things that scattered the table, but otherwise she did not move. The fires of anger that usually powered everything from her fighting to her steps felt as if they had been extinguished entirely by the mountain winds while she pounded away at Aukai’s stone. She closed her hand around a piece of metal; her grip wrapped it loosely.

  How could she have been so foolish? Running about all across the land, playing some game—some scavenger hunt—as a roundabout way of getting back to what she wanted. Being the hero to her people wasn’t enough—she’d had to make herself hero of Ahwan too.

  She should have just done it all alone. Before the trials, before coming to Ahwan, before traveling with the raiders, before leaving Itsoh. Right after she killed the guard, and just before she and Pahlo fled into the wilderness. Right then she should have run down to the gate, fixed the smashed opening mechanism somehow, and freed her people. She should have ended it all that same day.

  Cowardice drove her away. The path she walked wasn’t laid out for a hero by the powers of fate’s will, it was laid out for a coward, a failure. That was all that drove her so far from her village and her people and those she swore to kill.

  “Oleja?” started Sreovel softly. “You will fin
d another way to save your people. I do not know what it is you have to save them from, but I have my guesses. You are determined and resourceful—I know you’ll find a new plan.”

  Oleja opened her palm and let the piece of metal she clutched fall gently onto the surface of the workbench. “I have no more plans. I’ve exhausted nearly half a dozen since arriving in Ahwan, and even more before that. There are no other plans. That was it.”

  Sreovel sat silently for several long moments. The faint creak of the wheels turning in the water echoed faintly in through the open window. Their gears spun on the wall, attached to none of the forge’s equipment, spinning uselessly there amongst the bricks and ash stains.

  “What will you do now, then?” asked Sreovel at last.

  Oleja shrugged, but she didn’t raise her eyes to meet the other woman’s. “I can go back to the village alone as I always should have. Whether that plan can succeed or not, I have no idea. But I don’t have a great record. Or I could just stay here in the city or go off somewhere else. I don’t know.”

  Sreovel stood and took a few steps towards the workbench where Oleja sat. On the floor by Oleja’s stool, Tor lifted his head and let out a low growl. Sreovel looked to Oleja, but then moved to a different bench and leaned against it.