There had been a time, long ago, when Shyne had hated getting up this early in the morning. That time had been beaten out of him, first by the sword lessons of his father, then the training drills of the Arafellin Army, and then by the call of the Training Yards of the Grey Tower. He had too much to do for sleeping in to be considered an option. And so, before a large majority of the Tower was awake, Shyne was standing in the middle of the Training Yard, washed and dressed in his training uniform, a dark shade of grey. His hair was very neatly set in two braids, with tiny bells at the end of each, occasionally clanging against his lower back.
His swords, which were usually in his hands most other mornings, were lying on a bench not far away. He’d finished his stretches and his breath was still even. Breathing deep through his nose, then letting it out in a puff of mist into the chilly pre-dawn air, he stepped into a middle guard stance. This morning he would forgo his swords and train with the use of his bare fists.
Silently, he moved through a few of the simpler forms, stepping and punching, then stepping and kicking, the stepping back and doing this or that. These had become routine. In the years since he’d had training in Unarmed Combat, he’d mastered what he’d learned, but he’d never attempted to advance it. And that was specifically why he was out here this early in the morning, even before he normally would have been, going through the motions.
He’d taken to the sword quickly. His mother had jested once that he was born with a sword in his hands, and in a way he was, because the swords that were his inheritance, his birthright, were forced on him almost from day one. He’d taken to the sword quickly out of necessity, then later out of passion, to fill the void left by his dead parent’s, then the deeper void left by his dead love. He’d also taken to throwing daggers quickly, also out of necessity. This had been merely practicality. He’d realized one day that to be an effective Warder, he would have to be able to fight at a distance, and throwing a dagger seemed the natural choice for one such as he considered himself to be. So he’d picked it up and was soon teaching others how to use it. His unarmed combat, however, had stagnated. He’d kept in practice, but had always been too busy to pursue further study.
All of this ran through his head as he moved from stance to stance, attack to defense and back to attack, twirling around in a small circle of steps. The only sounds to be heard were the crunches of his boots on the thin layer of frost that covered the Yards. He didn’t notice anyone around him, but then again, he didn’t notice much of anything around him. He was singularly focused on his thoughts, his bodies just going through their motions.
After a few minutes of this, his breath still even, one thought struck him enough to make his body stop. That was it. That was what he’d needed all of this time to make it past what he’d known before.
Immediately, he went into a guard position. In his mind he could see a man standing in front of him. Jaram. He loved the man, though he received only hate in return, and his face often came to mind at times like this. They’d spent a lot of time sparring, years ago, and Shyne still pictured him when he needed a sparring partner and didn’t have one handy. With a sigh, Shyne envisioned the man moving at him, stepping in and punching. Instead of the block he’d learned to use, he performed a much softer block, moving the fist to the side instead of attempting to stop it. He also stepped to the opposite side. The phantasmal Jaram overextended himself and Shyne punched him in the gut.
There was little difference between basic grapple-less unarmed combat and two-weapon fighting. The trick was mobility. Be ready to move, and be ready to use the weapons separately.
His breathing started to pick up. He continued trying this with his illusory sparring partner, going through possibilities in his mind. An attack from the rear hand could be just as easily diverted with a rear-handed block, keeping the opponents free hand in a position where it couldn’t be used. The same could be said about kicks, though without blocking, just stepping out of the way. Just as he could flow from stance to stance, attack to attack, he could flow from defense to offense, catch his opponent off guard.
Then something unexpected happened. As more possibilities played out in his head, Shyne continued to act against the figment of his imagination in front of him. And then, as he diverted a step-punch, Jaram took hold of his blocking hand. Shyne stopped, and Jaram hit him. Of course, he felt nothing, but he recoiled anyway, so wrapped up in his mind he was that he imagined himself feeling the blow. He’d never hit the real Jaram. They’d always stopped their swords an inch from flesh, practice sword or real. But when he eventually did fight Jaram, as he knew deep down he would have to someday, Jaram would not stop his blade, and so Shyne had to mentally prepare.
But this new tactic stumped him. He’d never learned anything about grappling. So he and Jaram went through the motions, the possibilities, until Shyne got a feel for it. If one was to punch at an opponents face, the opponent would block, of course. If one then proceeded to grab the blocking arm, one could easily follow up with another punch, which the opponent would have to block with his rear hand, which could also be grabbed. If one could hold both his opponents hands, the possibilities would be amazing. If one could figure out where to move his feet in this position, and where to place his hands, he could perform trips, body flips, arm pins, hip throws, and quite a few other techniques. And this was only coming from what Shyne remembered of watching some of the Gaidin spar with such attacks. He was sure there were other possibilities he couldn’t even imagine.
But now that he understood basic grapples, through an interesting epiphany, he knew there must be a way to counter them. Almost at once, he realized that the answer was once again mobility. One could easily defeat a trip by stepping over the tripping foot, or counter an arm lock by spinning to place the arm at the small of the back, where the other arm is free to attack.
As he was going through the intricate offensive and defensive maneuvers, a sound shattered his thoughts. It was the sound of the bells that began the day at the Tower. He was no longer on his time, but now was on Tower time. Almost without pause, he walked over to the bench his swords were lying on and strapped them on, then strode out of the Training Yard and into another day at the tower.