“How about a Level Sixer?” Dozer asked. “What prevents them from challenging us?”
“Well, nothing prevents them, but Level Sixers get the biggest handicaps. They’d need to take on three of us in a row with a single member of their team to win a challenge,” Sol said.
“Wow,” Dozer said, clearly amazed at the prospect of one Grievar taking on three fighters back to back.
“And what if we decline the Cripplers’ challenge?” Cego asked, though he could tell by Dozer’s elated expression that wouldn’t be as simple as it sounded.
“Well, if you decline a challenge, your score takes a hit,” Sol said. “Not as much as if you lose the challenge, though. It depends on how much risk the challenger is taking; a decline penalty gets bigger with the risk factor.”
“If there are so many disadvantages and risks, why even make a challenge?” Cego asked.
“That’s what challenges are all about,” Sol said matter-of-factly. “Torm Ironhand, the Grievar who created the challenge system, famously stated: “Challenges are macroscopic versions of combat itself.”
Dozer snorted, “You actually memorized the darkin’ guidebook?!”
Sol ignored him, continuing her recitation. “In combat, one has to take calculated risk in order to open an opponent’s defense. Eventually, one Grievar has to make the first move in combat, just as is the case in the challenge system.”
Sol added, “You’re right, though, Cego. Some teams play the defensive game and wait for other teams to make the challenges.”
Cego nodded as he listened to Sol’s explanation. Fighting was all about taking risks. Playing it too safe with any worthy opponent gave them the opportunity to slowly pull apart your defenses. But counterattacking was a valid strategy as well, waiting for an opponent to show an opening and then capitalizing on it.
Cego gazed up at the screen to see that some of the challenges had already been marked as accepted in emblazoned red text. In addition, a small tc insignia had appeared next to some of the challenges on the board.
“What’s tc mean?” Cego asked Sol.
“Trade clause,” Sol said. “That means the defending team has accepted the challenge, but they’ve invoked a trade clause. Only a defending team can do this, and only if their calculated risk in accepting the challenge is high enough. If they win, they get to make a trade for a select member of the attacking team.”
Cego immediately thought about Knees. They actually had the potential to get him away from the Jackals and onto the Whelps? This was the answer he’d been looking for—a way to get Knees back.
“Is there any way to make a trade challenge directly?” Cego asked, trying to contain his excitement.
Sol shook her head. “You can’t challenge another team for one of their members. A trade clause can only be invoked as a response to a challenge… I don’t like the sound of this. What are you thinking?”
“Well. I was just thinking about getting Knees back…” Cego said.
Dozer’s eyes lit up. “Yes. We need to make a challenge to get him back!”
“Didn’t you just hear me, you big block?” Sol said. “We can’t make a challenge for a trade.”
“But if the Jackals were to challenge us… then we could invoke the trade clause,” Cego pondered.
“Yes, but how would we get the Jackals to challenge us?” Sol asked.
“As you just said, Sol, this is all just a bigger version of a fight,” Cego responded. “We need them to think our hands are down because we’re too tired to keep them up. When they make their move, we counter at just the right moment.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Sol said. “Most challenges are attempts to bite into another team’s score. Currently, as our score is hanging right near zero, there is no real reason for the Jackals to challenge us. Plus, the trade clause can only be invoked if the defender’s calculated risk is very high. Ours is not.”
Cego sighed. He knew Sol was right, which was starting to become a trend this week.
It wouldn’t be so simple to get Knees back. They would need to play the long game.
“All right. Well, then, we need to start building our score,” Cego said as he swiped his lightdeck, voting in favor of accepting the Cripplers’ challenge.
*
Luckily, the day before the Whelps’ first challenge, Cego’s class schedule wasn’t quite as jam-packed as usual. Cego was already painfully sore from the variety of grappling, striking, and endurance drills his professors had them running throughout that week, and he hoped to have some recovery time before getting into the Circle against a Level Two opponent.
After Cego had voted to accept the Cripplers’ challenge, Dozer and Sol had followed suit. The only decline to the challenge had come from Mateus Winterfowl, who pretty much did everything in opposition to what the rest of the team decided on.
Cego’s final class of the week was Combat Codes with Commander Aon Farstead. Cego had received an alert on his lightdeck that told him he’d been accepted into the class, though as expected, he’d been rejected from entrance into the more popular Stratagems and Maneuvers.
Unlike the rest of Cego’s classes, which were on Level One of the Harmony, Aon’s class was on the other side of the Lyceum, in the Valkyrie.
Cego walked the long hallway between the two buildings alone, watching the spectral light torches flicker along the walls. His heart had sunk when he’d received notice that Aon’s class was located in the Valkyrie—he hadn’t been back there since the Trials.
It was impossible to forget what had happened in there. Since the Trials, his vivid dreams of the Island had stopped completely, as if the place had never even existed.
Cego was glad he hadn’t been given much time to consider the past. There was enough to worry about here at the Lyceum—classes, training assignments, scores, and challenges. Getting Knees back.
“You go to Professor Farstead class too, Cego?” a voice sprang from behind him.
Cego spun around, surprised that someone had snuck up on him so easily. Abel. The little Kirothian was alarmingly agile.
“Whew. You scared me there, Abel,” Cego said. “Yeah, I’ve got Combat Codes—you?”
“Yes… what privilege!” Abel said in near-breathless excitement. “My ancestors, in Kiroth, still they speak of Aon Farstead in daily prayers. If only they could see Abel now.”
“In their prayers?” Cego asked as they continued down the long hallway.
“Yes. In Kiroth at evening prayer, Grievar pay respect to those who came before,” Abel said. “Long list of famous Kirothian Grievar. So long that Abel sometimes fall asleep. Aon Farstead on that list. In his young age, Professor Aon, he come to Kiroth and teach our folk. He spread the Codes.”
Cego had always thought that the Codes were always there, since the beginning. Like the black-sand beach or the emerald waters.
“I hope to find seat in Professor Aon’s class,” Abel said as they began to climb the stairs toward the sixth floor of the Harmony.
“Why, do you think it will be crowded?” Cego asked.
“Of course!” Abel replied. “How could whole Lyceum not be there to hear Professor Aon’s wise words?”
Abel’s jaw dropped when they opened the door to Professor Farstead’s classroom. It was nearly empty. There were only a handful of students sitting in small semicircle. The room was set up informally and had the feel of a study, with wall-to-wall shelves of books, just like the sort Murray had stacked in the corner of his bedroom.
Cego quickly recognized the fiery hair braid hanging off the back of one of the chairs—Sol. They quickly took a seat next to their fellow Whelp, who gave them a surprised look, given the rest of the students in attendance looked to be from the higher levels.
“Wow. I didn’t expect to see you two here,” Sol whispered.
“Why not?” Cego asked. “Professor Aon is famous. He’s even mentioned in daily prayers around the world.” Cego wasn’t quite sure why he’d added that d
etail.
Sol gave Cego a quizzical look. “Well, I just didn’t think the Deep Grievar gave much credence to the Codes any longer. Isn’t it all about making a bit down there?”
“You’re right. Most folk don’t care about the Codes down there. But I’m not from the Deep,” Cego replied.
Sol raised an eyebrow and was about to say something when Professor Aon entered the study.
From his long grey beard to his wispy robe, the old Grievar oozed wisdom. The class stood as he entered, but Aon motioned for everyone to sit down as he took a seat in the center of the semicircle.
“That walk from the Tower is getting longer and longer every day.” Aon chuckled as he straightened out the folds in his robe. Cego knew Aon was blind, but the old Grievar’s milky white eyes had a life of their own, never staying on one point in the room.
“Eight this year, eh?” Aon said. “Every year, a few less. When I first started teaching this class at the Lyceum, five decades ago, we needed to hold this lecture in the Dome to fit all the students. Now my quaint little study does the trick.”
Abel suddenly raised his hand into the air, silently.
Professor Aon cocked his head, somehow sensing Abel’s outstretched arm. “Yes, young Grievar?”
“Professor Aon, I would like to express honor I have to attend your class, and for those who do not come, I feel sorrow that they cannot hear your wise words,” Abel said stoically, as if he’d rehearsed the line.
“The honor is mine, young Grievar. And no matter how many students attend my class, I plan on being here, every year, until my body is more dust than bone,” Aon said. “Is that an East Kirothian accent I detect?”
Abel smiled widely. “Yes, my parents from hardlight district in Thirkarsh, outside capital.”
“A wonderful place… and a wonderful people,” Aon mused. “Some of the best years of my life I spent in Kiroth. Even at my age, I think I’d shave a few years off the top for one of those fresh sponge cakes right now. Threeksh mafalesta.” Aon made a quick signal with his hands clasped together.
“Threeksh mafalesta,” Abel replied in Kirothian, making the same solemn gesture.
“The young Kirothian here brings us to a good starting point for today’s lecture,” Aon said. He paused for a moment, as if listening to the quiet in the room. “There are Grievar around the world, right now, each fighting for different nations, different peoples, and different reasons. Why do we fight?”
The room stayed silent. The question seemed so simple.
Aon asked it again. “Why do we fight?”
One of the Level Sixers responded. “We fight so that the rest shall not have to.”
Aon nodded. “I’m glad you know the first precept of the Codes, young man. Yet reciting directly from the Codes does not answer my question. Why do we fight?”
Cego thought about his time in the Underground. He fought then because Thaloo had forced him to, to line the bit-purse of patrons and mercs and other nefarious Deep folk. He thought about his time on the Surface so far. He fought to enter the Lyceum, to get where he is now. To study, to become a Knight. And then… Cego hadn’t really given much thought to what happened then. He assumed that when he became a Knight, he would be fighting for his nation, for Mercuri.
“We fight because we have to,” Cego said.
Aon’s ears perked up and his milky eyes swirled in Cego’s direction. “Cego, is it?”
“Yes, professor,” Cego answered.
“Care to elaborate on that, Cego?” Aon asked.
“Um, well…” Cego didn’t realize he’d be put on the spot. “I don’t really know why we fight, to tell you the truth. Grievar fight. I was never given any choice about it. It’s not like with the Daimyos, who choose their lightpath. They get to choose to be painters or politiks or merchants. I just knew from the start, a Grievar fights. That’s just the way it is,” Cego said.
“That’s just the way it is,” Aon repeated Cego’s words. “I’ve heard that many times before, young Grievar. Do you know what that usually means? It means that folk have forgotten why. That is the case here. Most have forgotten why we fight. We cannot forget, or all is lost,” Aon warned.
Aon waved his hand around the classroom at the tall bookshelves surrounding them. “These books are why we fight, young Grievar. They are filled not only with the Combat Codes, but also with our history. The history of this world, from before your time and even my time, as hard as that might be to imagine for some of you. These books are filled with tales of strength and honor, deception and cowardice, love and sorrow. These books are why we fight,” Aon repeated.
Cego swiveled his head around the room, taking in the tall shadows that the bookshelves cast in the flickering light.
“To truly answer the question—why do we fight—you would need to read through every single word of every single book in this room. And then you would need to find every other book written by Grievar and Daimyo historians alike and read their words. After that, you would need to listen to every tale ever told, spoken from the crafty tongues of the Daimyo nobles to the pleading whispers of the Grievar slaves held in the deepest, darkest Underground cells.”
“I do not say this to dissuade you from seeking the truth, my students,” Aon said. “After all, it has been the sole purpose of my long years on this planet to answer that question, and I shall continue trying to do so until my last breath. I say this to tell you that the answer to why the Grievar fight is in the very history of this world. It is in the blood that runs through your veins and in the light that flickers up on our walls.”
Aon paused, as if examining each student’s reaction to his words.
“That is the purpose of this class. Though it is called the Combat Codes and we will certainly be studying those very texts, we shall also keep in mind that we strive for greater purpose than simply reading a text. We each are seeking our own answer to that question: why do we fight?”
*
The question—why do we fight—was notably absent from Cego’s mind as Gunnar Cavanaugh’s shin skimmed the top of his head.
The Crippler’s team leader was bearing down on Cego, attacking him with a variety of strikes from unorthodox angles. Cego was defending ably enough, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep up the pace.
Cego sucked in his stomach, narrowly avoiding another blistering kick aimed at his liver. Gunnar didn’t look like he was slowing down anytime soon—the Level Two’s blue second skin was barely wet. Cego’s white second skin had completely soaked through after the first ten minutes of the bout.
The Lyceum’s challenge grounds were not looming with the grand fanfare of Lampai Stadium, yet somehow, Cego found this venue more intimidating. The room was utilitarian—unadorned walls, several rows of long wooden bleachers on each side, a tan canvas with three adjacent Circles planted at the center.
The intimidation stemmed from who was in this room—Cego’s peers and teachers, not just random spectators. The audience was made up of Lyceum students who were levels above Cego, Fives and Sixers who were on the verge of graduating and becoming Knights. His own professors were also likely watching him from somewhere up in those stands, judging his performance.
Well into minute twenty of the fray, Cego was short on ideas on how to beat Gunnar. For a lanky striker, his opponent was surprisingly agile, with solid takedown defense. Gunnar had stuffed most of Cego’s shots and had easily returned to his feet after the rare takedown.
Though Gunnar’s attacks had more than occupied Cego’s attention, he had noticed Sol’s quick win in the next Circle over. The daughter of Artemis Halberd had proven herself an able grappler. Cego had heard the familiar crunch of bone and ligament as Sol had torqued her opponent’s knee to a vicious angle.
Mateus Winterfowl, who’d refused to join the Whelps during their strategy session, had lost his bout near minute five. Mateus had gone up against the Cripplers’ resident brawler, who’d overwhelmed him with what Cego could only des
cribe as an ugly but relentless show of striking.
With the score tied up, it was up to Cego to take this first win for the Whelps.
Gunnar leapt in with two quick jabs, one breaking through to bloody Cego’s nose even as he tried to slip to the left.
Cego was fighting in rubellium, a familiar setting after the month of training in Murray-Ku’s barracks. The Circle’s red glow had urged him forward throughout the bout, but Cego had stayed calm, patiently waiting for his opening. He was still waiting.
He slipped another jab and tucked his hand against his jaw, taking Gunnar’s high round kick to the forearm. He’d feel that one tomorrow.
Cego responded with a spinning back fist. He’d attempted the technique several times so far with little success. Gunnar stepped out of reach again.
The Crippler’s team leader was tall and corded, with short-cropped blond hair. Gunnar seemed confident in his every movement, not hesitating as he surged forward with another rapid combination.
Cego’s brother, Silas, had fought with a similar style.
“Every punch needs potential,” Silas had said to Cego during one of their bouts in Farmer’s ironwood Circle.
“How about a feint?” Cego had asked his older brother. “What if I’m just trying to get you to react?”
“Even a feint needs potential,” Silas had replied. “Otherwise, your opponent knows it’s a feint. It loses its purpose.”
Silas had demonstrated his lesson on Cego firsthand, as he often did, throwing a series of quick combinations and breaking through with a cross that left Cego crumpled on the canvas.
“So, how do I win?” Cego had asked his older brother, holding a hand up to the gash under his eye.
“You don’t win.” Silas had flashed that mocking smile of his before walking away, leaving Cego alone in the Circle.
At the time, Cego had thought Silas was simply being arrogant. His eldest brother had often treated him harshly, almost with disdain, not with the care he reserved for Sam.
The Combat Codes Page 26
