The Combat Codes (16 page)

Cego had been the forager. Farmer would send him to scale every cliff along the edge of the Island to collect various herbs and sprouts that grew atop them. Cego took to climbing naturally, finding grips with his hands and feet as if they were meant to be there. He’d enjoyed the heights, feeling the sea wind brushing the cliff face, staring out at the emerald waters that surrounded the Island.

Sam would contribute to the meal with a bucket of blue crabs that he caught from the nearby tide pools. Farmer and the three brothers would roast the fish and crabs over a bonfire as they watched dusk fall.

After their meal, the brothers would put two crabs in the center of a makeshift driftwood ring and watch the creatures fight for dominance. Cego and Sam would take sides and bet on the victor, while Silas would commentate on the fight, yelling in excitement when one of the crabs broke through its opponent’s defenses with a quick-pincered jab or a deft scuttle maneuver.

Cego’s Island home was starting to seem more like a dream than a memory, though. Waking up in the loft with Arry’s wet nose on his face. Sitting on the black-sand beach and breathing with the tide. Diving beneath the waves as the old master watched from his perch atop the dunes.

Cego had spent his first week on the Surface in complete shock, staring out at the bleak world around him. Though the sun occasionally peeked from the grey skies over Mercuri, it was only a glimmer compared to the bright orb that rose every day over the Island. Everything felt different here, as if Cego had emerged from the Deep to a completely changed world.

Cego still hadn’t told Murray or anyone else about the Island. He didn’t speak out loud about the black-sand beaches or the emerald waters. He kept silent about his brothers and the old master. Those scattered memories were all he had anymore; they were his only home.

“Thank you,” Cego said as Mune passed him the plate of vat-meat. Amongst these new companions, two Jadeans who barely spoke Yoren, and Murray, who was often silent for hours at a time, dinner conversation was not the liveliest affair.

“You two work on throws earlier?” Murray uncharacteristically broke the silence, looking at Masa and Cego.

Masa nodded. “Yes, Murray-Ki,” he said, using the Jadean attachment for teacher. Cego had slowly been picking up on the strange intricacies of the Jadean language. Masa and Mune referred to Cego as ‘ko’ to denote his position as their student and Murray as ‘ki’ as their master. However, when Cego asked what he should refer to Murray as, Masa told him ‘Murray-Ku,’ which also denoted master, however at a greater difference of seniority than Cego had with the twin brothers.

“Cego, your throws are solid, but I think your harai goshi could use some reps,” Murray said as he ripped a piece of vat-meat from his hand.

Cego nodded, picking at the dry ferns in his wooden bowl. What he would give for fresh fish, sliced down the center and grilled over the spit.

“Yes, I still need to get used to the gi, though” Cego said.

Though he’d practiced some of the throws before, he’d never donned a gi in the past—a thick, woven long-sleeved uniform that enabled strong grips by him or his opponent. Fighting slowed down in the gi; it was less of a scramble and more of a strategic match of constant reactions and counterreactions. Cego wasn’t used to it; he’d rather be unencumbered.

“Why do I need to practice in the gi, anyways?” Cego asked. “It seems silly to train in that uniform when I’ll be fighting without it.”

“The gi teaches your mind to slow down. You can concentrate on the details instead of just blasting through the techniques,” Murray replied. “Plus, some of your Trials will likely be in the gi, so get used to it. In Desovi, all Knights fight in the heavy gi—Grievar would likely freeze on that barren tundra without any layers.”

Cego nodded again. After training with Farmer and then fighting in the Underground, he figured he would be better prepared for the Trials. Recently, though, Cego’s confidence had wavered.

There were so many things about Grievar combat that he still didn’t understand. Combat in various types of Circles, each affecting his mental state in different ways. The clothing he wore during his fights that could change his strategy, how he’d have to approach each opponent. The potential for fights in various environments to mimic the conditions of the other nations, Circles out in the bitter cold or in the sweltering heat.

Why hadn’t Farmer prepared him for any of this? Though his training in the basics of combat had been thorough, it now seemed rudimentary, given the vast number of variables he would need to take into account going into the Trials and, if he got beyond that, training in the Lyceum. What if he failed?

Murray noticed Cego’s furrowed forehead. “Don’t worry, kid. I know it’s a lot to pick up in this amount of time. Most purelights you’ll be going up against have had a lifetime to learn this stuff.”

Cego stopped chewing. Murray sometimes had a strange way of boosting his confidence.

Murray looked up at Cego from his empty plate. “What I mean is… you’re picking this stuff up fast. Just keep your basics in mind; that’s where you have the advantage over these other kids.”

Cego nodded. Murray’s teachings were like his home—spartan. His house was made for efficiency. The things he owned, the heat pad, the small rooms, the training loft, Ruby—each served a singular purpose. Even the food they ate, though it wasn’t tasty, served the purpose of providing optimum nutritional value. Murray didn’t give much with his teachings, but what he did give was efficient, it had a purpose.

“All right, twins, you clean up here, Cego and I are getting a jump on Codes before lights out,” Murray said.

“Yes, Murray-Ki,” Masa and Mune replied in unison.

*

It was raining again.

Sitting on a small wooden stool in Murray’s room, Cego listened to the drumming on the tin roof. A fire was lit in a diminutive hearth in the corner of the room. Cego rubbed his hands together; even indoors, he could see his breath as Mercuri’s night air became colder. The fire didn’t seem to provide much warmth, not like the huge bonfires on the black-sand beach of the Island.

Murray sat at the edge of his cot, reading from a book with a worn leather cover. There were hundreds of similar books stacked in piles along the walls of his room.

Codes was another portion of his new training that Cego needed to pick up in time for the Trials. Murray took Codes very seriously, perhaps even more so than the combat training itself.

The Combat Codes were written in an old, flowery language. Murray said that the Ancients had written the Codes as doctrine for all Grievar to uphold—both in the heat of combat and during everyday life.

“A Grievar shall learn from the rainstorm. Upon finding oneself under a sudden downpour, there is the inclination to run below the eaves of nearby structures. But pacing between buildings, hiding from the storm, one will still find themselves involuntarily soaked. Standing firm in the rain from the start, a Grievar has made a choice, at least,” Murray read.

Cego nodded.

“What is the rainstorm?” Murray asked. He followed up each passage of Codes with a series of questions to test Cego with.

Though Cego hadn’t heard this particular passage before, he had a knack for interpreting the Combat Codes. They were strikingly similar to the words he often heard echoing in his head—Farmer’s words.

“The rainstorm is the opponent,” Cego answered.

Murray nodded for Cego to continue.

Cego thought for a moment. “The Grievar wants to run away from the rainstorm and hide under the shelter of the buildings. But if he does that, he’ll get wet anyways. He might as well stand outside in the rain, because in that case, at least he made his own choice to get wet, instead of the storm forcing him to take the action.”

Murray nodded, clearly impressed. “Spot on, kid. Now, what about combat applications?”

Cego was ready for this one. “Opening your guard. If your opponent is about to break open your guard, and you can feel that he is about to do so, there is no point in using your energy to fight it. You’re better off making your own choice to open your guard, which gives you the edge and timing, maybe leading to a sweep or attack as your next move.”

“Oss!” Murray responded in approval. “Great example, kid. Now, how about worldly applications?”

Cego wasn’t so sure about this one. Beyond the example in the passage itself, how did it apply to everyday life? “Hmm… When climbing a rock face, you need to make choices about which holds to grab onto?”

Murray shook his head. “You need to think about how the Codes apply to life. Being a Grievar isn’t just about fighting or learning techniques. It’s about the folk that we’re fighting for, as darkin’ foul as some of those folk may be modernday…”

We fight so that the rest shall not have
to.

“You made the choice to fight for me,” Cego said abruptly.

Murray looked at him curiously, finally thrown off guard by one of Cego’s answers.

“You made the choice to fight for me, which changed everything. Going into the fight at Lampai, you knew you were standing in the Circle because you wanted to be there. Not because someone was forcing you to fight.”

Murray looked at Cego and then down at the floor for a moment, before letting out let out a deep breath.

“Kid, I don’t know where you came from, but you’ve got some wisdom in those years,” Murray said.

Cego grinned, happy to have finally given Murray something, though small, after everything the man had done for him. That question lingered in Cego’s head, ever since he’d met Murray—why had he done all this for him?

“Why did you make that choice, Murray-Ku?” The Jadean formality slipped out of Cego’s mouth without thinking. “Why did you fight for me?”

Murray paused, the flames from the hearth dancing in his yellow eyes. “I’m no Grievar Scout. You know that, everyone at the Citadel knows that, yet I keep doing it. As if I don’t have any choice, as if I’m aimlessly following this lightpath that’s been set for me,” Murray said.

The burly Grievar looked up at Cego. “But now, things feel different. It’s because of you, kid. You’re right. I did make the choice to fight at Lampai. I made the decision that you were worth fighting for, because I see something in you. Something I don’t see much of anymore.”

“I saw it when you were fighting Grinder, when you didn’t straight out put a foot through his skull when he was helpless on the floor. I saw it when you were watching the harvesters on the steppe; you were genuinely interested in what other folk did out there. You’re different than the rest of them. I don’t know where you came from, or where you learned to be the way you are, but that don’t matter now. I made a choice to bring you up here, and I’ll see that through. We’re going to get you into the Lyceum.”

It was the most Cego had ever heard Murray speak of himself, or of anything, for that matter. Cego realized he’d never said it before, though he should have so many times along the way. “Thank you, Murray-Ku.”

Murray nodded. “All right, on to the next,” the old Grievar said as he flipped the book to the next passage of Codes.

Cego stared into the fireplace, rubbing his hands together. He was finally starting to feel some warmth.

*

High Commander Albion Jonquil Memnon briskly walked the corridors of the Citadel.

He moved with a determined, long stride. Though far past his prime, Memnon was the epitome of a Grievar—tall, thick, and grizzled from combat. Out of habit, he wore his second skin, the form-fitting shirt still glistening from training this morning. He often didn’t bother to switch into his more formal Commander’s uniform.

Memnon didn’t slow as he jogged down the Keep’s spiral staircase, the same stairs he’d descended every day since he became High Commander nearly a decade ago.

Though Memnon no longer fought in the Circle as he did during his Knight’s service, he was meticulous with the upkeep of his body. Even on the busiest of days, he trained every morning. He was known to jump into the sparring sessions of his much younger Knights, both to ensure they were sharp and to test himself. He often left the bouts bruised and panting, though he never relented to the weariness until he was alone.

Memnon could show no weakness, not to his subordinates within the Citadel, nor to foreign nations that would seek to diminish Mercuri’s influence.

The Keep was located at the very center of the Citadel’s walls, a circular tower that rose above the rest of the surrounding structures. The Keep served both as the living quarters of the Knights as well as the command center for all of Mercuri’s Grievar.

Memnon passed two of his newer cadets in the corridor, freshly graduated from the Lyceum. Both stood at attention and raised their fists in salute, followed with the combat cry of “Ossu!” Even for formalities like this, Memnon did not stop. He nodded as he passed but kept his brisk pace, heading toward the Keep’s command center.

Memnon couldn’t stop moving.

When he stopped, some Kirothian or Desovian Commander was still moving, strategizing and improving their Knight programs, getting ahead in the arms race. When Memnon stopped, he was failing his Knights, who were training at this very moment in the Pit of Circles at the base of the Keep. When Memnon stopped, he was letting down all the folk of Mercuri—those who depended on his team winning to ensure they had food, homes, medtech, or any other comforts in life.

The only time Memnon slowed down was to sleep, or to peer out from the window of his room at the top floor of the Keep. Even then, gazing out over the Citadel’s ancient grounds, Memnon’s mind was racing. When his hard yellow eyes swept over each of the storied branches of the Citadel, he could only dwell on problems.

PublicJustice was in dire need of talent and leadership. Though an old friend from service, Dakar Pugilio had become nearly uncontrollable. The Lyceum was growing old in its customs and training methods, along with its ancient Commander, Aon Farstead. The Scouts were still too young and brash under the leadership of Callen Albright.

Memnon turned a corner and walked through a pair of sliding doors into the Keep’s command center. The room was round, built in the exact dimensions of a Circle, ten meters in diameter. Shield windows looked out at the Citadel’s grounds in every direction.