Which is why Cego was particularly dreading his final day in the yard.
Ozark was planning something bad. Worse than the usual. Cego really wasn’t sure what the Tasker was capable of—how far he’d be willing to take it. Although lining his bit-purse had always been Ozark’s primary incentive for the grueling training, he now seemed capable of a level of cruelty that went beyond the bits.
That day, Ozark had them doing all the standard tasks: sloth carries, rope runs, dog crawls, last boy hanging. So far, nothing beyond the standard level of exhaustion.
Cego hung onto his rope as last rays of dusklight cut through the yard’s street-level grates. He dropped nimbly into a crouch as Weep’s grasp began to shiver beside him.
Ozark was facing away from the crew, staring out at the dusklight. He slowly turned, looking directly at Cego.
Perhaps it wasn’t just the fact that Cego had usurped Ozark’s control over the crew or made him appear incompetent. Maybe it wasn’t even that Cego’s patronage cut Ozark out of the deal.
Cego could see that this cut deeper for Ozark. Like any Grievar, Ozark strove to find his lightpath. Ozark probably wasn’t skilled enough to fight for the Citadel or even to become a well-paid merc. So, he’d turned to one of the least honorable careers a Grievar could find—Tasker.
A Tasker didn’t even make an honest living with his own two fists. Instead, he profited off of the skill of other fighters. Ozark licked up Thaloo’s scraps every day, hungering for wins and sales. It was a pitiful existence—one that filled this man with uncertainty, fear, and anger.
Ozark’s robotic voice echoed off of the yard’s stone walls. “We’re going to make some changes on this fine dusklight, little scumlings. You all look weak in the Circle. Even when you win, it looks weak.” He stared directly at Cego, with his crooked teeth bared.
“No killer instinct in the lot of you. I need you to start going for the kill. Patrons pay for killers, not for weak-willed scumlings.”
The Tasker continued, “We need more live combat, more than just these tasks. Think of it like fighting in the Circle, except without the light and the crowd. Just two Grievar fighting for the finish like it was meant to be.”
Cego didn’t like where this was going.
“We start this now,” Ozark said. “Form a ring, two of you in the middle.”
Ozark stared down the line of boys and his eyes fell again on Cego. “You, get in there.”
Cego knew he had to keep his calm. He stepped into the middle as the rest of the boys circled around him.
Ozark’s voice grated, “Weep, get in there with him.”
The little boy walked into the middle of the circle robotically. Weep looked like he could barely stand. His blank stare was focused at the dusklight in the distance, as if the neuros had him occupying in a completely different world.
Ozark barked, “In this yard, I am the light. Only I tell you when it’s done. If I don’t say stop, you keep fighting. Disobey me and things get worse.”
Cego’s mind raced. That had been Ozark’s attack—having him fight Weep. Farmer always said there was a parry to every punch, an escape to every submission. What was the escape here?
There was no way Cego would hurt Weep. But if he refused to fight, Cego knew it would end up far worse for the entire crew. If anything, he wanted to let Weep win, whatever it took. But Weep wasn’t in any condition to win convincingly, even if Cego opened up his defenses. Weep was barely standing, let alone fighting. He should be in the medward right now.
“Go!” Ozark stood with his arms crossed as he waited for the two boys to fight for him.
Cego looked into Weep’s eyes. He needed to communicate with the boy somehow, wake him up. Cego needed Weep to attack him and convincingly beat him.
Cego put his hands up and got into a fighting posture, slowly circling Weep. He threw a few feints—maybe he could get him to snap out of the stupor. The little boy didn’t respond, though; he stood lifelessly, not even flinching as Cego’s fist passed right in front of his face.
Cego thought back to the moment in the yard when Weep had first lifted Dozer onto his shoulders. It was months ago, but it felt like a lifetime since he’d first come to Thaloo’s, to the Underground.
Cego’s time in the Deep had taught him of the greed, corruption, and fear that made this place work. Folk like Tasker Ozark ruled this Underground world. Those who stood on the sidelines, away from the action and the real hardship, yet constantly frothed at the mouth and shouted for the kill. Folk like Thaloo thrived here—those who profited and got fatter off of the sweat and blood of young Grievar.
But there had been light in the darkness. When Weep had carried Dozer on his shoulders in the yard that day, Cego had seen it in the boy’s eyes. Weep’s eyes had been luminous, as if he could suddenly see the path laid out in front of him.
Seeing Weep like that had given Cego strength. The whole crew finally working together, running as one cohesive unit and using leverage to their advantage—the thought of that moment filled Cego with light. Seeing Dozer and Knees opening their minds to learn new techniques and finally standing up to Shiar. There had been light in the darkness. Cego could almost feel it now, filling his belly with each breath.
Suddenly, Cego realized he was feeling the light. A lone, pulsing spectral hovered between Weep and Cego. It was Cego’s spectral, the one that had first visited him in his cell. He was certain this was the same wisp.
The crew and Ozark stared at the spectral with their mouths agape. There was no array in the yard to attract spectrals like there was in Thaloo’s Circle. Here in the yard, where street urchins and orphans toiled and followed broken lightpaths, spectrals never appeared.
Cego knew he was not the one that needed the light, though. Weep needed it like water, like nourishment, like life. Weep needed the strength to attack him, to beat him, and to finish him so that this day could be over.
As if the spectral could hear Cego’s thoughts, it slowly floated toward Weep, shining brightly down on him. The little boy’s eyes suddenly became lifelike again—first a glimmer and then a bright yellow flare within his irises. Like he’d woken from a dream, Weep looked around the yard and breathed deeply.
Cego caught Weep’s eye successfully this time. He knew the two would have to act quickly if this fight was to be convincing. He began to move in on Weep again, throwing feints in his direction. Weep now responded accordingly, moving his head side to side and shuffling his feet to match Cego’s stance as if the two were dance partners. The spectral buzzed around Weep, following his every movement.
Cego threw a quick jab at Weep, aimed just below the chin, which the boy blocked, though barely. Cego couldn’t slow down his strikes too much or Ozark would discover the game they were playing.
Cego threw a combination this time, a quick jab and a cross, as Weep continued to play defense with his hands up. The boy blocked one of the strikes but the other grazed his ear, knocking his head to side jarringly.
Cego shot in for a quick double-leg takedown. He slowed just enough to telegraph the shot so that Weep could play the proper defense and sprawl his legs out.
Weep was doing well, better than Cego had expected. The boy even followed up his sprawl with a series of sharp elbows to the side of Cego’s exposed head as he drove in. The elbows reopened the scar tissue on a gash just above Cego’s eye, creating an immediate streak of blood on his face.
Cego knew exactly what he needed to do to get Weep to capitalize on the position and go for the finish. The final steps of this dance were laid out in front of him.
Cego gave up on the takedown attempt, falling to his knees as if his legs had given out with Weep bearing down on him. He ended up on his knees and elbows with his head on the floor—turtle position. Weep would know what do here; Cego had practiced this maneuver with him nearly every day.
Just as expected, Weep capitalized on Cego’s turtle defense. He swiveled around Cego while keeping his weight on him, then threw one
foot over Cego’s hip, hooking just above the knee. Weep grasped his hands around Cego’s shoulder with an over-under grip, and slid under him as he threw another hook in.
Weep had taken his back beautifully.
The crew around them cheered as Weep started to fight for a choke. Cego played the proper defense, making it difficult for Weep to slide his forearm across his neck, constantly pulling the boy’s hands off as he tried to dig them in. Cego could feel the spectral hovering over them, basking the two boys in its warm glow.
Finally, Weep convincingly caught one of Cego’s defending arms under his leg, making it a two-on-one race to the finish. Now was the time. Weep needed to capitalize on the advantage and go for the finish. There wouldn’t be a better moment.
In one fluid movement, Weep stripped away Cego’s remaining arm with one hand and slid his other hand under Cego’s chin. He’d locked on the choke. Weep started to squeeze, constricting the arteries on both sides of Cego’s neck to stop the flow of blood to the brain. Excellent form. Cego could feel himself start to get lightheaded. He needed to hold his smile at the thought of Weep choking him unconscious.
Just as the blackness closed around him, Cego heard Ozark shout from the sidelines.
“Don’t let go of that choke.”
*
Sam shot in and Cego threw his legs back into a quick sprawl, pressing his weight down on his little brother’s shoulders until he curled up onto his knees. Cego swiveled around to Sam’s side.
Farmer watched from just outside the ironwood Circle, the old master’s glowing eyes appraising the techniques of his students as they sparred. He wore his usual robe, a loose brown fabric with sleeves that cut off just under the elbow. Tattoos crept down his forearms onto his wrists, and his grey hair fell to his shoulders in a loose knot. Arry sat obediently at the old master’s side, standing on her hind legs and yipping when one of the brothers made a sudden movement.
The Circle was set in the courtyard at the center of the old master’s compound—an open-air garden enshrined with the soft glow of lichen tendrils that grew along the clay walls. The rest of the compound was centered around the Circle, as were the brother’s lives.
Cego and Sam spent the near entirety of their days on the Island training within the Circle. Rest was a footnote in Cego’s life—when he lay down on his pallet at night, it was merely to pass the time until training the next morning.
Cego pressed down on Sam, throwing a warning shot at his brother’s ear, reminding him to cover up. Sam wasn’t reacting the way he normally did. He’d normally give Cego a spirited fight, leaving the two brothers panting on their backs as they lay on the Circle’s spongy canvas.
This Circle was their home. The brothers spent the majority of every day in it, training from when twilight peeked over the emerald sea until they lay exhausted on the canvas floor in the fading dusk light.
His two brothers had always been his opponents in the Circle. They fought viciously until one of them was unable to continue—unconscious on the canvas or with a limb wrenched at the wrong angle. Cego was never angry at his brothers for hurting him, though.
Farmer had always said, your opponent is your teacher, and, as usual, the old master was right. Though Farmer had taught Cego all of his techniques, his skills had been honed by constantly battling his brothers. Testing new attacks and combinations on Sam. Getting smashed by Silas—defending or just trying to survive.
“You are thinking. Hesitating. Do not think,” Farmer advised stoically, snapping Cego back to his present sparring session with Sam.
Sam was still hunkered down in his defensive position. Why was he stalling?
Cego took action and swiveled to Sam’s back, sinking his hooks in and flattening his brother to the ground. Cego had practiced the attack thousands of times. Executing it was as simple as placing one foot in front of the other.
He snaked his hand across Sam’s neck and locked on the choke, squeezing until his brother slapped the canvas in submission. Cego rolled away and faced his brother as he sat up.
“You need to try to escape before I’m so far in,” Cego said in frustration.
“I know,” Sam said, looking down at the canvas. “I tried to.”
Though Sam was the smallest of the three brothers, he usually fought like a cornered Island mongoose, clawing for survival even against impossible odds. Lately, though, Sam had been giving up.
“You didn’t try. You haven’t been trying for some time now.” Cego raised his voice as he stood up over his brother. “How many times have we fought? I know when you’re trying.”
“I did,” Sam responded listlessly again, looking at the ground. “You’re just better than I am.”
Cego felt the hair stand up at the back of his neck as he faced off with Sam. Farmer had taught the boys to leave emotion out of the Circle, but Cego couldn’t help it; he felt the heat rising in his chest.
Maybe it was because Sam was hurting Cego’s own advancement—he wouldn’t learn anything against an unresisting opponent. They trained to get better. And now he’d hit a standstill.
“What’s wrong with you?” Cego yelled at his brother. “Don’t you want to get stronger?!”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Maybe Cego was angry because Silas had left. Silas had always tested Cego’s abilities to the fullest—making him work for every inch of ground.
“Silas is gone; he left us!” Cego shouted at Sam. “He went on the Path to get away from you and all your annoying questions.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the eldest brother.
Cego felt the anger continuing to build within him, his body shivering as he screamed. “You’ve been weak, Sam. You were holding Silas back. That’s why he left!”
Sam charged at Cego, his nostrils flaring, throwing a flurry of punches as he came in. Cego managed to block one strike, but another came through and snapped his head back violently.
Cego put his hand to his mouth, tasting the blood on his tongue. He missed that. He hadn’t taken a hit like that since Silas had left.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Cego said, smiling at Sam through his bloody teeth. Cego raised his hands and stalked toward Sam.
Sam wasn’t smiling.
Cego feinted in with a quick jab and followed up with an elbow that sliced across Sam’s brow. Cego pulled his brother into a clinch and threw a quick knee to the midsection. Sam responded with a head butt, slamming his forehead into Cego’s sternum, knocking him backward.
“There you go!” Cego yelled. He spat blood onto the canvas. Farmer had taught them to respect that canvas, having the brothers methodically clean it after every session.
Cego was still angry. Maybe it was tasting blood for the first time in so long. Maybe he was angry that Silas had left them. Maybe he just wanted to feel something—that fire stoked in his belly, feeding off of his brother’s aggression.
Cego fired a lunging cross at his brother, expecting him to dodge it, and then came under with a quick body shot that thudded into Sam’s ribs. Sam grimaced and looped his arm around Cego’s back, shooting his hip into him and tossing Cego to the canvas with a well-timed o-goshi throw.
“There! See?” Cego yelled up from the ground. “This is how we sharpen each other! This is how we get better!”
Arry let out a high-pitched howl.
“What are you even talking about?!” Sam yelled, standing over Cego now. “Get better for what? What’s the point of all this?”
Cego was suddenly aware that Farmer was watching the heated bout silently from the sideline. He felt his face flush with shame—he’d gone out of bounds, screaming and spitting in their sacred ironwood Circle. Cego sat up on the canvas and looked at the old master, steadying his breath.
Farmer nodded at Cego, repeating Sam’s question in his baritone voice. “What is the point of all this?”
Cego breathed out slowly, lying on the canvas, letting his adrenaline fade. What was he doing? He d
idn’t have any reason to be so angry at Sam. Sam hadn’t done anything wrong. He wasn’t the reason Silas had left. They were brothers—and he only had one left on the Island.
“We fight so that the rest shall not have to,” Cego replied slowly.
“Yes, I know. I’ve heard it a thousand times,” Sam said, still heated. The little boy directed his eyes at Farmer now. “We fight so that the rest shall not have to. We’re training to take the Path.”
Cego nodded. “Yes, Sam.”
Sam wasn’t convinced. “But why are we fighting, really? We’ve been training our whole lives to take the Path, but how do even know if something is actually out there? I’ve never seen it, have you? What if Silas swam out there and there wasn’t anything but more water?”
Cego looked at his little brother. This is why Sam had been acting so peculiar lately. He didn’t believe. He didn’t think the Path lead anywhere. Sam didn’t think Silas was alive.
Cego waited for Farmer to respond, but again the old master stayed silent. He was testing Cego—he wanted him to answer Sam.
“How do we know the sky or the bottom of the sea exists? I’ve never climbed high enough to feel the clouds or swam down to touch the bottom of the deepest trenches, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. The end to the Path is the same. We have to believe it’s there, just like Silas did,” Cego said.
Sam looked down at the canvas, a tear welling up in the corner of his eye. He breathed out slowly.
Cego stood up and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry I pressed you like that,” Cego said. “I’m not sure what got into me.”
Sam nodded. He looked at Farmer and then back to Cego, his hay-flower eyes sparkling with wetness.
“I’m sorry too. I just miss Silas,” Sam conceded. “I’ll try harder next time, I promise.”
“Good,” Cego said. He wanted to tell Sam he missed Silas too.
Cego looked to Farmer for instruction. The old master nodded again, and Cego knew what to do.
The Combat Codes Page 9