The Combat Codes (19 page)

“Purelight or not, it doesn’t make a difference,” Cego said confidently. “I’ve seen you two in the Circle. It should come down to skill, and I know you have what it takes.”

Knees shook his head, always the pessimist. “I like to think so too. But been doing some scoutin’ of my own and we be up against some of the best. For starters, we got Shiar over there. We know what he be capable of when he wants to get ahead.”

“He’s just one kid, though; there are supposed to be twenty-four accepted each year,” Cego said.

“Yeah. I know, I’m just gettin’ started, though. And I’m thinkin’ Shiar might be the least of our worries.” Knees said. “They be sayin’ Gryfin Thurgood is a shoo-in.” Knees nodded to a tall, chiseled purelight with an athletic build at the center of the pack. “Thurgood House always got a kid in the Lyceum, one brother every few years.”

Murray cut in again. “True. Even I had a Thurgood in my class. Yancy, I believe. Darkin’ good wrestler. Wouldn’t be surprised if his brood had some of that skill.”

Cego’s heart sank again. Murray always had a way of boosting his spirits.

“Speakin’ of famous names—over there with rest of the inbreeds, we got a Halberd kid goin’ into the Trials with us,” Knees said.

Cego’s eyes widened. Artemis Halberd was Mercuri’s most famed Grievar Knight and the nation’s current champion. By now, Cego had already seen countless replays of him on SystemView, and his name constantly came up in discussions of the greatest Knights of all time. It was said that Artemis single-handedly accounted for sixty percent of Mercuri’s major wins in the past year, which was a staggering number, considering that most Knights didn’t fight more than five times per year. Artemis had fought ten times last year. He was seen as unbeatable at this point in his career.

Cego looked amongst the pack of purelights for a boy that resembled his father—a mane of fiery red hair, chiseled jaw, thick muscular shoulders, legs that looked like they could spring across a ravine. He didn’t see anyone that matched the image in his head.

“Where is he?” Cego asked.

“
She
,” Knees said. “Solara Halberd.”

Knees nodded to one side of the pack of purelights. A thin girl stood straight-backed at the edge of the pack, a red braid of fiery hair falling across her shoulders. She gazed out at the spectral torches, her eyes giving off a determined amber glow.

“She hits hard,” Dozer said, rubbing at one of his forearms. “Training two days ago, I got paired up with her. Just holding pads, she nearly kicked right through them. Fifty straight and she wasn’t even breathing hard.”

Though Cego believed his friend, he couldn’t picture Solara slamming kicks into Dozer. She had a sharp nose to accent her almond-shaped eyes, and pale marble cheeks. He could see the slight resemblance to her father with the red braid of hair, though he guessed she must take after her mother with her more delicate features.

Just when Cego realized he’d been staring for several moments at the Halberd girl, she cast her eyes directly toward him. Cego quickly looked down at the floor.

“Uh… What about him?” Cego quickly turned their attention toward the boy with the bald head sitting beneath the pillar. “Was he at training earlier?”

“Nope. Haven’t seen him ’til today,” Knees said. “Walked in by himself, drippin’ wet. Kid don’t say anything, just sits down and starts his breathing, steam comin’ off his head just like that. Hasn’t moved for three hours since we got here.”

“Bet he’s trained by the Kirothian Priest Knights!” Dozer whispered. “I heard they can hold their breath for over two hours, and can expand their blood vessels to prevent getting choked!”

“You be tellin’ the tall Grievar tales again,” Knees said. “You’d believe someone tellin’ you Grievar Ghosts be real too!” Knees jabbed at Dozer’s stomach playfully.

Dozer raised a hefty forearm to block Knee’s shot, and followed with a pawing right of his own that the Venturian adeptly ducked. Cego missed these two.

Just as he was about to ask the two what they thought of Upworld, the spectral torches around the room flared brighter, casting away the shadows along the walls. Several new torches sprang to life on the balcony above, where Murray had been keeping his eyes throughout the wait.

Several figures stepped forward onto the balcony. At the front was Aon Farstead, Commander of the Lyceum, and by far the oldest person Cego had ever seen. Aon stood at the edge of the balcony, hunched over and wrinkled, dwarfed by the three other men that stood just behind him.

“Welcome to the Lyceum, Trial-takers!” Aon whispered, yet his voice boomed around the chamber with authority.

Aon’s milky white eyes darted around the room, reflecting the dancing light from the torches as he spoke. “You hail from many roads. You hail from faraway lands that have never seen towering walls or the spectral wells of the Citadel. You hail from Deep caverns blanketed in a thousand shades of light. You hail from roots of combat that grow within Mercuri’s own garden.”

Cego glanced over at the group of purelights. He saw Shiar’s chin raised proudly.

“You hail from the very minds and spirits of the Ancients, the Grievar that stood at the dawn of combat itself.” For a moment, Cego felt Aon’s ghostlike eyes hovering on him, as if staring directly through him, before continuing to dart around the room.

“You hail from many roads, but now you only have one that lies before you. This is the path of the Grievar. The Trials were built by the Ancients to distinguish those young Grievar worthy of acceptance into the Lyceum. Those students accepted will continue the tradition of learning techniques passed down for centuries. Those accepted will tread a lightpath all Grievar seek, yet very few follow. From the Lyceum, we are born.”

“From the Lyceum, our Knights are born, with the strength to protect Mercuri and provide a beacon of light at the darkest hour.” Commander Memnon stepped forward on cue to Aon’s words, his broad shoulders stiff and his hard eyes scanning the room with authority.

“From the Lyceum, our Defenders are born, with the spirit to guide the hand of PublicJustice and represent the downtrodden during their time of need.” Commander Pugilio stepped forward, the tallest man on the podium, yet he somehow he was smaller than Memnon with his sagging shoulders and drooping mustache.

“From the Lyceum, our Scouts are born, with the sharp eyes to spot the tiniest glimmers of hope within the darkest corners of our lands.” The wiry Commander Albright stepped forward as Aon spoke, his chin held high in his collared uniform.

“The Lyceum’s halls are sacred to all Grievar, even those beyond Mercuri’s borders. Though many schools around the world have sought to replicate our process, none possess our collective technique and wisdom.

“That is why we must be discerning with our Trials—for those who enter into the Lyceum’s studies must represent Mercuri’s next generation—our honor. All Trial-takers that are gathered in this hall today are distinguished already—whether it be by blood, skill, or spirit. By day’s end, as the Trials are finished, we shall be even more distinguished. Only a select few will enter the Lyceum. Twenty-four students total,” Aon said.

The kids in the room looked around at each other, some appearing fearful at the sheer weight of the competition, while the purelights stood steadfast, whispering amongst each other, never even considering the thought of getting cut.

“I can see some of you stand confidently with the Trials looming before you. You do so rightfully. To your sides stand the strongest and most skilled Grievar brood of your generation. Many of you already have an extensive knowledge of techniques, conditioning, and combat strategy,” Aon said.

“However, the Trials are not made as a pure test of strength and skill. The Trials are made to test your potential to endure. Each of your Trials will be unique. The light within the Hall of Trials knows you already. How you move, what your strengths and weaknesses are. Where your pride and fear live. The light will exploit this; it will seek to unsettle the unstable stones in your walls of defense. You would be wise to tread warily—expect anything.”

The crowd of Grievar kids hushed. Even the purelights quieted down.

“Those students accepted into the Lyceum will not only be the best but the most enduring. They will be able to handle any situation in front of them, even during the darkest hours.”

“The lightpath of the Citadelian is not an easy one. It is one filled with sacrifice. You will give up the luxuries, the love, the very trimmings of life that you may depend on. But you will gain something even more valuable. Honor. We fight so that the rest shall not have to.” Aon whispered the mantra with reverence.

Aon looked down, his milky eyes closing as he took a deep, labored breath. He looked up again, quiet for several moments. He cocked his head, as if listening to something, before raising his fist to the air in salute.

“Today begin the Trials! May the best emerge from the darkness.” Aon’s closing remark was accentuated as a massive sliding door swished open at one end of the hall.

9

Trials and Tribulations

A Grievar must respect the dream as much as any waking moment. Shadows passing in the night may not emerge to be blood-starved wolves, and yet, there is always a chance a shadow can bite with such
ferocity.

Passage Three, One Hundred Sixty-Third Precept of the Combat Codes

A
blast of frigid
air hit Cego.

The cold seemed to crystallize the air itself as shards of frost swirled across the tundra. The landscape was barren but for a few trees pushing through the hard ground like skeletal hands reaching from their graves.

Cego was wearing standard-issue trousers and a skin guard the Lyceum had provided him, but nothing had prepared him for this. His hands were already streaked with veins of frost, and he couldn’t feel his feet through his vat-hide boots.

As he stepped forward, the cold sucked the air out of Cego’s lungs like a knee to the stomach. The cold of the tiny cell in Thaloo’s dungeon was a warm bath compared to what Cego now faced. In this place, the cold was an opponent about to lock on a choke; Cego had to deal with it or he would die.

Another wave of frostbitten air swept across the tundra, blanketing Cego’s vision with white crystals and bringing him to his knees.

How had he arrived
here?

Cego had already taken some sort of test. It hadn’t been what he’d expected.

He’d waited for several hours in the Lyceum’s great hall until a grey-haired clerk had called for him. “Charge of Scout Murray Pearson! Number ninety-six, Deep brood, lacklight.”

Murray had grabbed Cego’s shoulder to meet his eyes before he was escorted away.

The clerk had directed Cego into a small, sterile room with a single chair at the center. He’d taken the seat and the man had brought out a strange device, a lightdeck sprouting wires with metallic clips at each end. The clips had attached to the base of Cego’s scalp, pinching at his skin.

“Provide brief responses to each of the questions,” the man had said in a monotone as he swept his hand across the lightdeck.

“You find yourself in the aquatic markets of Besayd,” the clerk started. “Two hawkers approach you, one speaking Tikretian and the other babbling in a tongue you can’t understand. The Tikretian hawker offers to sell you two pounds of water fruit for a clearly rotten price. The foreign-tongued hawker makes another offer, though you can’t understand what it is.” The grey-haired man paused.

“Do you take the horrendous offer, or do you attempt to bargain with the man you don’t understand?”

“Well, I guess that depends on the look of the man I don’t understand. Does he look trustworthy?” Cego had asked.

“No questions, just answers,” the clerk had replied.

“All right. Well, first, I’d make sure the two hawkers weren’t working together to—“

“Choose one of the two options,” the clerk had interrupted him.

Cego had paused for several moments before going with his gut. “I’d take the bad offer.”

The clerk hadn’t provided any indication as to whether Cego had answered correctly; he swept his hand across his lightdeck and continued on.

“You find yourself in the marshes of Swampskil, suddenly stricken with rotworm and utterly lost…” The clerk had asked similar questions of Cego for the better of an hour.

Cego couldn’t remember how the test had ended. He recalled a final question regarding the plight of the harvesters in the outer rings, and then suddenly he was here, forced to his knees on the frigid ice, barely able to keep his eyes open as the frost accumulated on his lashes.

A quick flash of movement near one of the few trees sprouting from the tundra caught Cego’s attention. Something was whipping around in the wind, attached to one of the tree’s emaciated branches. From a distance, it looked like a flag.

Cego gritted his teeth and slowly pushed himself off the ground, taking a slow step forward against the wind. This was his Trial. They were watching him.

Cego closed in on the tree, peering out from beneath his heavy eyelids. A white piece of cloth jumped back and forth like a ghost dancing on the gusts of frigid air, strung to the branch with a thin rope.

He reached out and grabbed it. It wasn’t a flag at all. It was made of a thick, rough, woven material—all too familiar to Cego after the past month’s training in Murray’s barracks. A gi jacket.

Cego didn’t even hesitate; he needed the layer of warmth or he wouldn’t last. He untethered the uniform from the rope and slipped into it. The gi fit perfectly, the sleeves reaching just to the end of his wrists.

To Cego’s surprise, the inside of the gi wasn’t laden with frost as he expected. The soft inner fabric felt warm to the touch. He could feel heat surge through his veins, as if the gi was boiling the blood that ran through them. He took a deep breath—the air didn’t burn his lungs any longer.

Cego looked down at the gi in wonder. What sort of tech was this?

The wind softened along with the cold in his veins. Cego could suddenly see across the white-cast tundra, as if a blustery veil had been lifted.

Across the barren landscape, a solitary patch of green stood out in the distance. Could grass somehow be growing in this desolate climate?

Walking with more confidence in the newfound warmth of the gi, Cego made his way toward the green oasis.

As he got closer, Cego should see the patch of green was not grass but ice. An ice field, glimmering green—the source of its strange color was the glowing Circle planted dead at its center. Emeralyis
.

A stocky figure stood within the Circle, unmoving. The figure was facing away from Cego, clad in a white gi jacket similar to his own.

“Professor?” Cego shouted over the wind as he neared. He assumed the man was one of the teachers at the Lyceum. “What would you have me do?”

The figure did not respond or turn to face Cego.

Cego stepped onto the sheet of ice and nearly lost his footing. It was as slippery as a wet moss-rock. He could remember the old master testing their balance on the slippery rocks that dotted the Island’s tide pools. He’d stand across from Sam as each brother would vigorously attempt to push the other into the water.

Cego slowly started to shuffle his feet along the ice toward the pulsing green Circle ahead. Perhaps that would be the aim of this Trial—a test of his balance, fighting on this slippery surface.

“Professor, I’m ready for your Trial,” Cego said as he stepped into the Circle. He’d never trained in emeralyis before, but Murray had versed him on the effects of the alloy.

“Overly creative,” Murray had told him. “Emeralyis will make you think you’re a painter, creatin’ new works across the Circle’s canvas—techniques you’ve just now invented.”

Cego didn’t feel any more creative, standing just past the steel frame on the slippery canvas. He could only concentrate on the man standing across from him.

The man creaked his head from side to side, his neck popping loudly each time. He turned around. His face was completely veiled in a black fabric. Two burning yellow eyes pierced a small slit above his nose. He was thick, nearly twice the width of Cego.

The veiled man spoke in a whisper. “Take me down.”

Cego understood. He’d practiced in the gi with Murray for several weeks now. He’d need to take the man to the ice somehow.

Cego approached in a crouch. The gi uniforms would make this a game of grips. The fighter who established dominant grips on his opponent’s gi uniform would have the control for a proper throw or takedown.

Cego feinted as if he were about to shoot low, before taking a quick inside step and reaching for his opponent’s gi lapel. Just as he expected, the man’s arm shot out like a piston, reaching for his own lapel. Though Cego was able to secure a grip, the man mirrored it and grabbed onto his collar.

Now the real test began. Cego pulled with his grip, testing his opponent’s reaction. The man was like a rock. He didn’t waver. Cego tested him to both sides, seeing if he’d shuffle his feet, but again, he didn’t even react.

Cego knew he needed to take action, fast, or his opponent would first. He yanked the man’s collar again, hard this time, looking for any reaction at all. The man’s feet slid forward on the ice slightly.

It was enough of a sign for Cego. As his opponent’s body moved toward him, he stepped between the man’s legs with one foot and swiveled his other foot outwards. He bent his knees while launching his hip into the man’s waist, attempting to leverage him up and over his back. Seoi nage. He’d practiced the shoulder throw with Murray for the past several weeks.

His opponent countered expertly. As Cego pushed into him, the man arched his back, drove his hips forward, and lifted Cego into the air, heaving him up to eye level and letting him fall onto the ice with a thud. Urisho goshi. The air burst from Cego’s lungs on impact, leaving him breathless on the cold ice.

His opponent stood above him, his eyes searing from beneath his veil. “Take me down,” he repeated.

Cego stood slowly, a dull pain arcing down his back. He approached the man again. The man’s hand shot out and grasped Cego’s lapel. Cego countered with his own grip. They circled each other, matching sleeve grips on each side.

After attempting Seoi nage, Cego knew he could never win that game. His opponent’s reactions and stability were masterful. Cego’s throws were not nearly good enough. Cego needed to go after the legs. He’d drilled single- and double-leg takedowns with Farmer since he could walk. That was Cego’s game. Though the ice prevented him from shooting from too far out, he knew there was an opportunity to attack with a closer shot.

The man was standing upright, stiff-backed, which seemed a prime opportunity to go after his legs. When Cego tested his reactions and lowered his base, though, he could feel the firm grips preventing him from getting any mobility. The man was like a statue, holding Cego in place. Cego needed to break a grip and get in close enough to clinch.

Cego released both of his grips and double-handed one of the man’s wrists, yanking sharply at his sleeve to try and break his grasp. It didn’t budge. The man’s vise-like fingers didn’t even seem to strain as Cego tugged at them full force several times.

The man exploded forward, quick-stepping past Cego and sweeping his leg out from under him while throwing him toward the ground with his collar grip. Osoto gari. Cego’s shoulder exploded against the ice, sending a blast of pain down his spine.

The man stepped back, again repeating the monotone words. “Take me down.”

Cego felt the doubt closing in on him, constricting his movements, making him second-guess his techniques. How would he ever get this man to the ground? He couldn’t take a long-distance shot because of the slippery ice. He couldn’t match the man throw to throw. He was like a wall; he wouldn’t budge. His grips were vise-like; there’s no way Cego could execute his takedowns without breaking them.

Cego stood again, grimacing. The man didn’t move. Cego approached. They gripped up.

Cego stared into the man’s glowing yellow eyes. They were completely expressionless, robotic.

Perhaps Cego wasn’t meant for the Lyceum. Though he’d done well in the Underground, this was different. He didn’t have the training, the genetics that the purelights did. It would be easy to give up. Call out to whoever was judging him that he’d forfeit.

Sometimes, we need to lose to win
, Farmer’s voice whispered.

Cego wanted to yell back into his head, wherever the old master lived in there. What more could he possibly lose? He’d tried every course of action, and all paths led to the same result: lying flat on his back on the cold ice.

Suddenly, it dawned on him.

The cold.
He needed to lose something in order to gain something. That was it. Cego’s mind raced as he charted a course of action.

He yanked at his opponent’s gi, just to assure him he was still putting up a fight. As expected, the man barely reacted, keeping his posture straight and his grips on Cego’s gi, as tight as ever.

Cego yanked again, this time harder, looking for the slightest reaction. His opponent slid forward on the ice again. Just at that moment, Cego loosened his arms in his gi jacket and twisted his shoulders forward. His opponent’s hands remained vise-like on the gi, allowing Cego to slide out of the jacket into the cold air.

The frost hit Cego again like a kick to the stomach, immediately stifling his breath. It felt as if his blood had stopped flowing, frozen within his veins. But he was free.

Cego shot forward with lightning speed, unencumbered and lithe without the uniform, and wrapped his arms around his opponent’s waist, the man still tightly grasping the gi that Cego had slid out of. Cego drove forward with every ounce of strength he had, wrapping his foot behind the man’s knee as he pushed.

Caught off balance, the man began to topple over, his feet frantically attempting to grip the slippery ice.

Cego smiled slightly as he felt his opponent fall backward beneath him. He had sacrificed his gi, his only heat source, in order to get inside on his opponent with enough speed. Just as he was congratulating himself on the crafty maneuver, Cego was suddenly going head over heels in the air again. His opponent had framed his feet on Cego’s hips as he was going down.

The man pushed out with his feet as he rolled over his shoulder, throwing Cego into the air and again slamming him onto the ice. Tomoe nage. The man landed on top of Cego in mount.

Farmer’s voice again echoed in Cego’s head, scolding him.
Victory is sitting at home by the fire long after the fight.
He’d celebrated the takedown too early. He hadn’t anticipated the counter roll.

This time, his opponent did not stand up. He crushed down from on top of Cego, squeezing him against the cold ice, his bulk blocking out the light above. The man’s full weight on his chest prevented Cego from taking a full breath. The little air he did inhale was icy frost, sending chills down his throat, paralyzing his innards.

Cego tried to shrimp his hips out from the man’s crushing mount, but there was no space. Nowhere to move. No air to breathe. No options. Cego was in the darkness again.