The House of Grey- Volume 2

by Collin Earl

  She showed them a message:

  Attention All. Battlegrounds, Cyann and The Diamond. It’s go time!

  Well, that explained it.

  Students continued to file down the long, descending stairway and flowed over the field like cattle. Those at the head of the pack stopped short as they reached the center of the field. That must be where everything is going to go down, thought Monson. In the distance, he saw two groups of students standing around the fifty-yard line, gathered on opposite ends of a large red wrestling mat.

  Though the mob of people made it difficult, Monson, Casey and Artorius caught a glimpse of Indigo talking excitedly with some of her friends on one side of the mat. On the other side, two older boys held up a corny banner with the words “Damion ‘The Diamond’ Peterson” splashed across it. The trio could also see The Diamond himself, although the angle made it impossible to see his face. He was chatting with a group of four or five people, none of whom Monson readily recognized. The three boys stood at the guardrail for a moment more, surveying the scene until Casey gestured towards Indigo. They rushed towards her.

  “Hey boys, glad you made it.” Her tone a bit on the sardonic side, she was nevertheless clearly excited and beaming at the assembling crowd. It was obvious that she was enjoying the attention, even if it was not totally focused on her.

  “Damion Peterson challenging your sister to a fight? No way we’re gonna miss this. That’s the stuff of legends.” Casey looked at Monson and Artorius, who nodded in agreement.

  “I doubt there’s still a student in class,” replied Indigo. The teachers are gonna be pissed.”

  Monson glanced over at Cyann, who was checking the armor she used for official matches. Casey and Indigo continued chattering beside him, but Monson could not take his eyes off Cyann. She was a ways off, resting casually on one knee with her back to them. Without even realizing it, he found himself moving towards her. Why was he approaching her? To talk to her? What was he going to say?

  “You certainly know how to draw a crowd.”

  Cyann froze, probably trying to figure out who was speaking to her over the din. Her body seemed to ripple as if a sudden and overwhelming chill enveloped her. She ran a hand through her hair.

  “We’ve been over this, Mr. Grey.” She did not sound surprised. “I don’t draw crowds. I’m a mere victim of circumstance.”

  She did not look up from her armor as she ran her hands across the leather straps that held the breastplate in place. Monson stood in silence for a moment, and then plopped down next to her. She looked up from the heavy armor, a guarded expression on her face.

  Monson gave her a quizzical look. She always looked tense, but that was not what was bothering him. Well, actually, that did bother him, but what was really bothering him now was…

  “How did you know it was me?”

  Without missing a beat or showing any trace of a smile, she answered. “The smell. You’re very pungent.”

  What? he thought. What was she talking about? Wait…he could not believe it. She was joking!

  “Cyann!” Monson looked at her amazed. “You made a joke!” He turned around as if he were searching frantically. “I need to write this down, take a picture, something. This is momentous.”

  Her eyes scrunched again, though this time he could not tell if she was upset or trying not to laugh.

  Come on, Cyann, laugh, said the voice in his head.

  She did not laugh. Her guarded expression returned. She sounded offended.

  “I do know how to joke, Monson Grey—”

  “Well, that’s obvious. I’ve never even seen you smile, let alone laugh. I’m sure you’re capable, but I’ve never seen you actually do it!” He sighed. “Such a pretty girl, too. I’m sure you have a beautiful smile. What a waste.”

  This time, Monson froze.

  What in the world just came out of his mouth? Did he really just say what he thought he said?

  Slowly, he brought his gaze up to hers. Their eyes met. She no longer seemed offended, but she did look …confused.

  Cyann turned from him and stood, scooping up her helmet and the rest of her gear. She walked away, an unsure step disrupting her normally smooth stride.

  Wonderful! Just call me Mr. Smooth, he thought. He wandered back towards the others and stood in between Casey and Artorius, who had not paid the slightest bit of attention to his encounter. Really, he should start carrying a roll of duct tape for occasions when he felt like talking—especially to the opposite sex, he mused.

  After another fifteen minutes or so, he noticed others becoming restless. Nothing was happening. Only the annoying chatter of unusually high-strung students echoed around the gathering. A pang of unfamiliar emotion coursed through Monson. It startled him.

  No, not now, said the voice in his head. He looked at Artorius and Casey, who were still off in their respective worlds. It’s that feeling again, the dangerous one.

  He stopped.

  No. This was…different. It was not that feeling. It was…something else. It was…worry?

  He felt worried? But why? What reason was there to worry? He looked around for Cyann and then Damion. He found himself among the same people as before.

  Then it hit him.

  Monson was worried about Cyann.

  Damion Peterson. The Diamond. He was a lot bigger than Cyann. Cyann flattened Casey, but how was she going to handle someone who had a hundred pounds and at least six inches on her? True, she had technique and power, but could she defeat someone like Damion?

  He gave himself a mental shake. He was being stupid. This girl remained undefeated. Undefeated, as in had never lost a single match. Instead of worrying about a girl who could obviously take care of herself, maybe he should just pray that he never had to fight her.

  Yeah, he thought, that would be a much better use of my time.

  He turned his attention back to Cyann. Her armor in place, she was now strolling slowly towards the middle of the mat. Her pace looked confident, bearing no marks of the uneasiness that weighed her down moments ago. She walked with her short bokken at her side, bringing its weight up to rest on her shoulder only when she stopped. She waited.

  Tumultuous applause caught many off-guard, erupting with all the warning of a night raid siren. Finally visible as he emerged from a large group of friends on his side of the mat, Damion Peterson walked towards Cyann. His ensemble was totally random and borderline humorous. Instead of the kendo armor that Cyann was so fond of, he wore a tight-fitting, long-sleeved shirt and matching leggings that many of the boys used for football. What were they called? Under Armour! Because he was wearing more than one layer of the thin clothing, it was bunched and rumpled all over. His weapon of choice was a wooden shaft cut expertly in the shape of an English long sword. It looked very complete with its oversized pommel and cross-shaped hilt. True enough, if not for the wooden blade, the weapon in Damion’s hands would be a sword in every sense of the word. Monson had to wonder if the choice was deliberate. Were they about to see a different sword-fighting style?

  Damion came to a halt about five feet from Cyann. He turned back and put up a hand to quiet the crowd. They fell silent immediately. Satisfied, he faced Cyann.

  “Are you ready for our match?” His voice was quiet but carried across the crowd nonetheless.

  Cyann was as calm as ever but sounded resigned. “I am, but didn’t I tell you to go train first? Why are you back so soon?”

  “I have been training.” Damion sounded prideful. “I found an excellent teacher and practiced just like you said, and it’s about time I put that first tick mark in your loss column.”

  He was not boasting, for people like Damion Peterson did not need to boast. He was merely stating a fact.

  Cyann shook her head. “OK, Mr. Diamond, let’s see the fruits of this training.”

  Cyann began her routine of bowing and offering and twisting her weapon. Monson remembered the movements from her fight with Casey; they felt odd and out of place bo
th then and now. He wondered what their purpose was.

  Damion Peterson interrupted his thoughts.

  “Same rules as last time?” He sounded hopeful.

  Cyann nodded. He beamed.

  Monson leaned over to Casey who was next to him.

  “What rules? I didn’t know Cyann played with rules.”

  Casey looked at Monson incredulously.

  “What rules? Grey, have you been living under a box?”

  Monson scowled at Casey. “Not unless you have been living in the box with me, because there’s hardly a day that I’m not with you and Arthur.”

  “Don’t call me Arthur!”

  Monson grimaced. “Sorry…Artorius.”

  Casey answered in stride as if the interruption had not happened. “True enough. OK, I guess I should explain.”

  Monson tilted towards him. Casey gathered his thoughts.

  “Well, you’re well aware that Cyann doesn’t like to be confined by the normal fencing rules.”

  Monson nodded.

  “I found out she started her own little fencing club a while ago. A club with only one rule: There are no rules. When Cyann says there are no rules, she means it.” Casey pointed towards Damion. “Do you see how he’s barely wearing any protective gear?”

  Monson again simply nodded.

  Casey smiled. “Good, I’m glad you noticed. Now, let me ask you this, why would he do that? But before you answer, remember that Cyann’s hits have all the impact of a bullet train. Just remember what she did to me.”

  Monson thought for a moment, but the answer seemed obvious.

  “Well, obviously he feels that he can gain some sort of advantage from less protective gear. Maybe his speed will increase?” Monson looked at Casey expectantly.

  Artorius cut in. “That may be part of it, but think of something more direct. More brutal.”

  It hit Monson.

  “His hands…he’s planning to fight with his hands and not just his weapon.”

  “Bingo,” said Casey and Artorius in unison. Casey finished up.

  “And that’s not all. According to Cyann’s rules, you can strike with hand, foot, or weapon, it doesn’t matter. You lose if you’re disarmed, knocked out, or taken down and you tap out.”

  Monson was at a loss for words. Why would she go to such lengths? Just for a good match? He did not understand.

  Their conversation remained unfinished. Before the three of them could plunge deeper into the topic, movement from Cyann and Damion stopped them. The two combatants were starting to move in on one another. The boys’ attention shifted quickly towards the battling duo.

  It was actually very surprising. Damion displayed some good footwork, skirting the edge of his weapon’s reach and testing Cyann with very basic slashes at her mid-section. Cyann dodged or deflected these attempts easily, as Monson could see there was barely any force behind them. Damion switched tactics and volleyed half a dozen attacks, each stronger than the last, augmenting his sword strikes with blows from both his hands and feet. Casey looked over at Monson smugly, with a what-did-I-tell-you sort of look. Damion paid the price, however, as every weaponless strike was met by Cyann’s sword.

  Seeing that the alternating sword/hand technique was not working, he switched back to his previous strategy of rapid sword strikes. On the last swing of the second of these barrages, something changed in the flow of the match. Cyann deflected the blow and took a step towards Damion using a signature move, the Flash Forward. The Flash Forward was nothing more than speedy footwork; its name came from the fact that the speed one used in the move seemed slightly superhuman. For a few microseconds, it was almost as if Cyann disappeared from view and reappeared several feet in front of her starting point.

  Damion brought his long sword down sharply before she could take more than a step, effectively cutting off the Flash Forward and creating a small opening in Cyann’s previously flawless defenses. He could not take the advantage, however, as Cyann retreated and repositioned herself almost as quickly as she had moved forward.

  “Impressive,” Casey said out loud. “He actually anticipated the Flash Forward.”

  Artorius and Monson were too entranced to answer.

  Damion matched Cyann’s en garde stance. They eyed each other for a moment more. Then Damion attacked, this time with light, cleaving slashes. On his second volley, it appeared as if he overreached his attack, creating a small opening in his defenses. To their amazement, Cyann did not capitalize on this.

  “That was stupid,” said Casey, apparently noticing Cyann’s lost opportunity.

  “Not in the least.” Monson squinted towards the combatants and then towards Casey. “Did you miss it?”

  Casey looked at him, confusion evident on his face. Monson heard Artorius laugh on his other side.

  Monson glared at Casey. Was he joking? Playing dumb just to get a rise out of Monson? No, that wasn’t it, he really didn’t know. Even if Casey had missed it, Monson knew he was right; something suddenly clicked into place. Speaking with confidence, Monson continued. “He was feinting, Casey. Damion was just trying to goad her into trying to end it early.” He leaned back so that he could see both of his friends. Casey and Artorius scrutinized him. He stared back.

  “Grey….” Artorius looked particularly perplexed by his words. “That’s amazing. I was just thinking the exact same thing.”

  Casey stared at them, puzzled. “I don’t get it. How did you know he was feinting? It didn’t look like he was feinting to me.”

  Monson pointed towards Cyann. “Cyann is a very technical fighter. She’s totally clean in her defense and while her offense isn’t as strong, it’s very hard to fight her one-on-one. Her greatest weapon is her patience and the fact that she doesn’t make any mistakes. That’s what she used against you, Casey.” He glanced at the battling duo, in particular at Cyann, and then turned his attention back to Casey, who gawked at him.

  “Offensively you’re much stronger than Cyann. If you faced a dozen of weaker, less technical opponents all at once you would have a much better chance at winning, as your style is designed to take people out quickly, thus lessening the chance of extended combat. Cyann, on the other hand, has a style that allows for extended combat with a single individual. It was exactly what happened to you. You got angry and impatient….”

  He stopped talking. He tried to think back to that epic first encounter between Casey and Cyann. Casey and his powerful full-body blows that twisted and grinded against the grain of physical strength and mental endurance. His overhead strikes and furious slashes that rained down with precision, all aimed at the head, legs and chest, each becoming increasingly violent and brutal. Monson could remember the tough offense, the raw attacks that left nothing but the blow itself. Attacks that became…overextended! He started back up.

  “You overextended your attack, Casey. In doing so you couldn’t recover on the counter-strike. She took at advantage of that by attacking the blow instead of the body.”

  Silence greeted the end of his sudden discourse. Casey and Artorius looked at him, then at each other. Monson felt suddenly embarrassed.

  “Grey, I take it back.” Casey’s voice was low and thoughtful, like he was in awe.

  “Take what back, Case?”

  “I take back what I said about me being the main character of your life story.”

  Monson tried to think back to what he was talking about. He suddenly remembered that whole movie thing.

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “I take it all back, as it seems you’re much more interesting than I originally thought.”

  “Thanks, Casey.” He paused. “I think—”

  “Grey.” Artorius’ voice sounded serious. “I think we’re fast approaching that time when you tell us who you are and how you know so much about things you say you know nothing about.”

  Taken aback, Monson looked downward.

  “I’ll tell you what I remember.” His voice was barely a whisper. “But not ye
t. Please not yet.”

  Monson could tell without looking up that Casey and Artorius were communicating silently.

  “OK, Grey,” said Casey. “When you’re ready, we’ll be here.”

  Their attention returned to the match, which was really heating up.

  Damion was good. Really good, actually. His form seemed balanced, alternating between aggressive blows and well-executed defensive measures. His style was not as form-heavy as Cyann’s or even the Ja-no. It was quite obvious that whatever the style Damion Peterson had learned, it was very different. His style relied on strength, which was an advantage in this situation. This was not the impressive part, however. What was truly impressive was his patience. It appeared as if he were trying to wear down Cyann, forcing her to defend heavy overhead and cross-body strikes. Most of these Cyann was able to avoid completely but it was apparent that the ones that found her sword were taking their toll. The repetitive concussive force was having a visible effect; it was jarring her out of position and dulling her reactions. This was not surprising as she was, after all, a great deal smaller than Damion. Being so close, Monson and the others could hear pieces of the fighters’ running conversation.

  “You’ve improved a great deal, Damion.” She blocked alternating blows aimed at her head and limbs.

  “I told you I would.” He sounded proud. He re-posed as he spoke, centering himself. It was obvious that the constant onslaught was taking a toll on him as well. “You’d better not back out once I beat you.”

  Cyann countered a move that looked very similar to the Two Step. It was not quite a Two Step; the footwork seemed off and Damion was over-extending his thrusts a bit, but it was very close. She deflected both thrusts of the modified Two Step using the same downward-pointing cross-body block that Casey and Artorius had used on Monson earlier. After blocking the last thrust, she did not re-pose, but swept her blade up in a clockwise motion and knocked Damion’s blade away from his body. Everyone one saw it. Damion was open and for real this time. Cyann arced her smaller blade towards his head. She barely missed as he dropped back panting.

  Cyann’s voice was like a calming breeze.