CHAPTER 5
Work as Usual
The Grievar who is born strong faces more difficulty on the path to mastery than his smaller and weaker brethren. Such a Grievar may resort to brute strength to defeat opponents and thus is less likely to learn the principles of leverage and efficiency. The strong Grievar follows the harried path; they must control their strength to learn true technique.
Passage Five, One Hundred Fifty-Second Precept of the Combat Codes
Cego was still unsteady on his feet when Dozer slapped him on the back, nearly sending him crashing into the wall.
“Someone finally made it!” Dozer was red-faced and smiling again.
The news had spread fast that Cego had gotten picked up by a patron. Though Cego wasn’t technically under Murray’s charge unless the man won at Lampai, the rest of Crew Nine treated the deal as if it were already done when they greeted him on his return from the medward.
“You’re going to the Surface! I hear on the Surface they ride giant birds around called rocs!” Dozer exclaimed.
Dozer shook his head. “You’re from the desert out in Venturi, birds don’t like heat like that. I’m going to get myself a roc. Grow it up from a hatchling until it’s big enough to carry me around.”
“You better hope it becomes a big darkin’ roc if it be carrying you.” Knees smacked Dozer’s bandaged belly.
Cego laughed deeply at his friends, though his rib cage hurt.
Weep was there, shy but standing taller now as he grasped Cego’s wrist firmly. “I’m glad it was you, Cego. If anyone was to get out of here, I’m glad it was you.”
Cego felt a weight bearing down on his shoulders. Somehow, this Murray Pearson had decided he was the kid worth fighting for. Why should he have a chance to get out of the Underground when Weep, who had gone through so much already, would still be sitting in this tiny bunk every night? Weep, who had almost no chance of getting picked up by a patron, would inevitably end up on the streets alone.
Cego looked Weep in the eye. “You’re getting out of here too. I promise you.”
Knees interjected as Weep turned away to hide the tears welling in his eyes. “That be some fight you had, Cego. I was thinkin’ you finished when N’jal be throwin’ those hammers from top. Then I’m blinkin’ and you’re back standin’—feeding him the real heat!” Knees feinted in and out like Cego had, throwing shadow punches at Dozer’s barrel-like chest as he emulated the fight.
Dozer took a playful swipe at Knees, who ducked under and tried to wrap his arms around the big boy, though he only could get about halfway around his girth.
“You’re weak. And lucky.” Shiar emerged from the corner of the bunk. The jackal stood in front of Cego, his eyes blazing with hatred.
Cego stayed silent, though he returned Shiar’s stare without flinching.
“Yeah, if he’s so weak, how come he beat N’jal? How come Cego’s bit-price is above yours now and he’s gotten himself a patron?” Dozer moved up next to Shiar, looking down at him.
“That’s where the luck comes in. Caught N’jal on a bad day. He had some lucky shots. Anyone could see that, even an imbecile like you,” Shiar hissed at Dozer.
Cego didn’t want this to escalate. A fight here could hurt the rest of the crew’s chances of getting out, especially if someone got hurt. Tasker Ozark wouldn’t stand for fighting when it wasn’t for his own benefit.
Cego conceded. “You’re right, Shiar. I was lucky against N’jal. I think he might’ve got the rotworm or something; he didn’t look himself.”
Shiar shook his head. “If that’s the case, you are just as I said—a weakling. I saw the end of the fight. You could’ve finished it standing up like a real Grievar. You were barely able to put him away though he was finished.”
Cego remembered that part of the fight clearly. Though he’d been on the verge of passing out, he’d looked at N’jal’s curled-up body on the dirt. The once-fearsome Grievar had seemed like a helpless child.
Cego knew he could’ve finished it faster. A swift kick to the head or another few punches from mount to knock N’jal’s brain around in his skull. He’d felt the crowd urging him to finish it that way—the amplified effect of the auralite Circle around him.
He’d resisted the urge, though, pushed the anger and fear down as he’d done before. Why badly damage N’jal when he could finish the fight with a choke, ending it all the same?
Cego heard Farmer’s voice in his head as he turned toward Shiar. “We fight neither to inflict pain nor to prolong suffering. We fight neither to mollify anger nor to satisfy vendetta. We fight neither to accumulate wealth nor to promote social standing. We fight so the rest shall not have to.”
Crew Nine stood around Cego, listening to his words, to Farmer’s words. Somehow, Cego knew words like these were not often heard in slave Circles, where the sole purpose of fighting was for entertainment and patron sales. The words Cego spoke were old, older than their training yard. Older than Thaloo’s fighting den. Even older than this crumbling Underground city.
Knees nodded in agreement and Dozer puffed his chest out proudly, his head held high.
“Pffft. You speak the Codes now?” Shiar spat. “I’ve heard it before. Drivel written by those Grievar long passed, dust and bone now. It’s only about being strong and winning. That stuff doesn’t mean anything, especially coming from a lacklight like you.” Shiar turned and walked back to the other corner of the bunkroom.
Dozer nearly took a swing at Shiar as he walked by, but Cego stepped forward and put his hand on the big Grievar’s shoulder. “He’s not worth your time.”
Murray’s opponent was announced promptly after his contract with Thaloo was signed. The Dragoon—one of Thaloo’s most feared in-house Grievar, known for his unconventional and deadly leaping attacks.
In the past, Thaloo had outsourced the Dragoon for a number of the Underground’s most publicized disputes. The Dragoon had most recently settled a grievance between two prominent Daimyo. The fight bestowed the winning Daimyo the rights to a new mining operation along the western cavern, a contract worth millions of bits.
The Dragoon had knocked out his opponent in fewer than forty seconds with a spectacular flying knee.
Although Murray didn’t trust the man, Thaloo certainly knew how to leverage his connections. And that made him a great fight promoter. The word about Mighty Murray Pearson’s return to the Circle spread quickly.
The Deep Hawkers Guild was the first to promote the fight across the Underground. Within a day of the fight announcement, an ad was aired on SystemView showing footage of Murray’s old fights spliced with the Dragoon’s most recent wins. Murray was made to look like a young Grievar who had a decent chance against the notorious merc.
The hawkers also packaged fight tickets with some of their wares. “Need a Surfacing Day gift for the brood? Treat yourself to something as well, all for one great price! Buy the latest from ArkTech Labs and get two free tickets to Lampai’s biggest fight of the season!”
Builders were quick to erect massive lightboards along the Underground’s bustling thoroughfares. In a matter of days, Murray saw his face plastered across Markspar Row, flashing at him from the huge displays. Again, they used clips from his early years at the Citadel. Murray barely recognized the chiseled Grievar smiling down at him.
Drawing even more attention than Murray’s comeback was the fact that he was fighting for some slave Circle kid, an unknown Grievar brood. A lacklight. The gossip was tremendous, aided by the sensational rumors the hawkers spread to sell the fight: The boy was his bastard son. The boy was a Kirothian asset. Or any other shocking story the hawkers could come up with to draw attention to the fight. At the Bat, Murray even heard some folk speculating on the Citadel’s secret involvement, how they planned to use the fight as a catalyst to usurp the Underground’s Circles. That was one story Murray thought not too far-fetched, especially as the Underground used to be fully under Ezonian control until the powerful Daimyo merchants and slave Circle owners expanded the black markets.
Deep folk started to recognize Murray again, pointing at him, shaking his hand, asking for his attention on the street. He was one of the Grievar from below, representing the underdogs, the downtrodden, the lacklights. Murray didn’t get it. Why was everyone making such a big deal? This was his fight, not theirs.
The more he thought about it, though, the more he realized it was a big deal. He hadn’t been in the Circle for over a decade. He’d left it with a loss—the worst of his career.
Now was his chance to dispel those bad memories, to feel the light again. He could redeem himself. Show people that there was more to being a Grievar than pulling in the highest bit-purse. It was about honor. Adhering to the Combat Codes. But he was going up against the Dragoon. Even the Citadelians spoke about the Dragoon with respect. The former Grievar Knight had won several land disputes between smaller villages just outside of Ezo early on in his career but ended up taking the merc path like so many others, deciding he’d rather pad his purse than honor his nation.
Despite his lack of honor, the Dragoon was dangerous. Deadly.
Murray needed to train.
Murray exhaled deeply as he followed the cobbled road to Anderson’s home in the Farmoss District, passing beneath the large swaths of lumin lichen on the cavern ceiling that cast everything in a sleepy green hue. He passed by traditional Grievar homes carved out of the cavern walls, intermixed with modern steel-framed buildings set farther out along the streets.
Farmoss was the one place in the Deep that Murray still considered Grievar land. Unlike most of the Underground districts that faced the constant glare of the spectral arrays, Farmoss was shielded from the light by the slope of the steppe perched above it. The Daimyo had tried to desecrate it just like the other districts, but somehow, Farmoss had rejected their incursions.
Every other major district was directly under the arrays, gargantuan fixtures set along the cavern ceiling that lit the darkness of the Deep. The arrays slowly rotated throughout the day to deploy one of five distinct elemental alloys, each of which attracted swarms of spectrals.
The arrays streamed yellowlight at dawn to take the edge off the Grunts’ hangovers, bluelight at midshift to keep the droves in line, followed by verdant greenlight for inspiration, then redlight to give the masses a final hard adrenaline kick at dusk. Night was covered by the invisible blanket of blacklight. Everything moved like clockwork according to Daimyo programming.
But when they’d made numerous attempts to install their arrays in Farmoss, the spongy roof had slowly expelled the metals, diluting the mortar and stripping the screws and eventually spitting out the chewed-up refuse like a finicky eater. Sometimes, Murray truly believed he could settle in Farmoss, tucked away from the light and far from the Citadel’s reach. Anderson had done so. His old friend had said he’d rather not live out his later years in the constant pull of spectral light. Many Grievar could never remove themselves from the light. They constantly felt its gravity, pulling them back to those beautiful moments of action and glory they’d felt in the Circle. It eventually ate away at them.
Murray didn’t know if he could do the same as Anderson. Though he appreciated the quiet calm of Farmoss, he knew there was a reason he still kept close to the light.
He located Anderson’s address by memory. The home was a traditional Grievar build, the clay exterior pale grey except for the dark wooden door at the center.
Leyna, Anderson’s wife, opened the door and gave Murray a vigorous hug.
“My Murray! How long has it been?” Leyna led him into their sitting room. Though the exterior of the home was built of clay, the interior walls were reinforced with the redwood strips cut from the forest of roots that hung in the western cavern.
“Too long, Leyna—it’s good to see you. And you look the same as I remember. Better than can be said of me,” Murray said as he ran a hand through his scraggly beard. Leyna truly did look like she hadn’t aged a year. Same soft honey-yellow eyes set on sharp cheekbones.
Murray, Anderson, and Leyna had come up together at the Lyceum. They’d started as fresh-faced Level Ones and graduated together as hardened Knights. In the Citadel, they’d been there for each other’s greatest victories and most devastating losses.
Murray sat at a grooved wooden table that matched the walls. Leyna emerged from the kitchen with three ales. “I assume you’re still liking these, given Anderson told me you’ve already paid him a visit or two at the Bat this trip down?”
Murray shook his head. “This fight. I need to hold off on those for a bit, Leyna.”
“Ah, yes. Just like the old days! Eating right, abstaining from the drink. Why, I remember Anderson and I even shucked off our playtime for a month prior to fights.”
Murray chuckled. “Well, luckily, that part of it won’t be a problem for me right now…” He looked down at the table, rubbing his knuckles together.
“Oh, so you mean to say there isn’t any lucky lady paying homage to the famed Mighty Murray right now? I find it hard to believe that. Once upon a time Upworld… I can remember not a single lass able to keep her skirt down in your presence.”
“Well, as you can see for yourself, I’m not the man I once was.” Murray patted his gut, giving Leyna a playful grin.
“Ah, so we are all getting wrinkles. Doesn’t mean you won’t wipe the mats with this dragon boy, or whatever they call him. Looks to be all flash to me—these flying techniques, all the Grievar are trying them out modernday. No basic technique in the lot of ’em.”
“As flashy as they seem, my dear, the Dragoon has knocked out some top-notch opponents this past year with those very techniques.” Anderson emerged from the basement. He had his spectacles on and a dirty apron draped over his chest. Murray couldn’t believe this was the Grievar who had once brought crowds to their feet in the Citadel, clamoring and chanting for the Bat.
“How many times have I told you to leave that dirty rag downstairs—you’re going to get soot all over the kitchen,” Leyna scolded Anderson, taking his apron off as he held his arms outstretched.
Anderson clasped hands with Murray, examining him from over the rim of his spectacles.
“Seems like you’ve really gotten yourself into it this time, brother.”
“As usual.” Murray grimaced. “I didn’t know who else to come to. I mean, we had Coach back in the day. I’ve been out of the game for so long, though… I don’t even know where to start with the darkin’ thing.”
“This boy must be real important to you. For Mighty Murray to come back to the Circle after all these years…”
Murray lowered his voice to a near whisper. “He could be the one, Anderson. I’ve watched him fight. The kid moves like… like him. I don’t how to place it; it’s just the way he fights.”
Anderson was quiet for a moment. “He’s gone, you realize. He said he wasn’t coming back and I don’t think he ever will. You could just be seeing him in places.”
“It’s different this time, Anderson. This kid, he fights by the Codes. You need to see the way he takes the light. I have a feeling about this one.”
Anderson nodded. “Well, what do we have, then, three weeks?”
“My body, my mind—I don’t feel like I used to,” Murray said grimly.
“We’ve done worse,” Anderson said. “I remember a time when Mighty Murray won us the Tamal Plains. When me and Hanrin Tuvlov broke down your tavern door the morning of the fight, you were out like the great void, a girl tangled in the sheets with you. All it took was a bucket of cold water and a hearty meal—you were ready to go. Took that Desovian down within a minute and went to work as usual. It’ll be the same this time around, old friend. Work as usual.”
Murray nodded affirmatively. “Work as usual.”
Anderson gestured toward the basement. “I’ve got the old mats and pads down below; shall we get started?”
“Never a time like right now,” Murray muttered wearily.
The two old Grievar creaked down the stairs into the basement.
Cego was dreading his final day in the yard.
Tasker Ozark had lost any potential cut of the profit from Murray’s deal with Thaloo because of its unique unpaid nature. Ozark took out his frustration on Circle Crew Nine.
The training in the yard was even more grueling than usual. Ozark had the entire crew doubling up on all the standard drills. A few of the boys were worked so hard that they didn’t make it back to the bunks on their own two feet.
Weep took the worst of it. He was in and out of Thaloo’s makeshift medward for exhaustion, muscle fatigue, and dehydration. They usually shot him up with some generic neurogen that convinced the boy’s brain he was fit to train, despite the fact that his body was giving way. Weep would disappear for part of the day and return to the yard with deep circles under his glazed-over eyes.
Ozark wasn’t even taking enjoyment in the crew’s suffering, which worried Cego. Usually, Ozark would laugh when one of the boys went down in the dirt from exhaustion. Now, as the crew toiled, Ozark was expressionless.
Part of the deal Murray had negotiated stated that Cego would be released from Thaloo’s captivity several days prior to the Lampai fight. Murray would ensure Cego didn’t escape during that time, and if he lost the fight, Cego would be returned to Thaloo. Either way, Cego hoped his departure would provide the rest of the crew some relief from Ozark’s spite.
Which was why Cego was particularly dreading his final day in the yard.
Ozark was planning something bad. 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, he now seemed capable of a level of cruelty that went beyond 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 on to his rope as the last rays of dusklight cut through the yard’s street-level grates. He dropped nimbly into a crouch as Weep began to shiver beside him.
Ozark was facing away from the crew, staring at the rays of crimson light streaming into the yard. He slowly turned, looking directly at Cego.
Perhaps it wasn’t that Cego had usurped Ozark’s control over the crew or made him appear incompetent. Maybe it wasn’t even that Cego’s patronage left 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 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 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 the man with uncertainty, fear, and anger.
Ozark’s robotic voice echoed off the yard’s stone walls. “We’re going to make some changes on this fine duskshift, little scumlings. You all look weak in the Circle. Even when you win, it looks weak.” He stared directly at Cego, 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 into the distance, as if the neuros had him occupying 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 though he’d improved considerably during their blackshift training sessions. Now Weep could barely stand, let alone fight. He should have been in the medward.
“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 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 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. When Weep had bravely followed Cego at blackshift and insisted he needed to train more, Cego had seen it. At those moments, Weep’s eyes had been luminous, as if he could suddenly sense 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. Watching 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 above Weep and Cego. It was Cego’s spectral, returned to the yard again, casting its light on the crew. He knew the white flicker of its ethereal tendrils, the gentle warmth that flushed his face as it neared.
The crew and Ozark stared at the spectral with their mouths agape. There was no elemental alloy in the yard to attract spectrals like 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 who 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 defend with his hands up. The boy blocked one of the strikes but the other grazed his ear, knocking his head to the side jarringly.
Cego shot in for a quick double-leg takedown. He slowed just enough to telegraph the shot so that Weep could parry by sprawling his legs backward.
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 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 blackshift in the yard during their illicit training sessions.
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 felt 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 light-headed. He needed to hold back 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 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 with sleeves that cut off just under the elbow, and his grey hair fell to his shoulders. 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.
This Circle was their home. The brothers spent most of every day in it, training from when the sun peeked over the emerald sea to when they lay exhausted on the wooden floor in the fading dusk light.
Cego pressed down on Sam, throwing a warning punch 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 them both panting on their backs.
His brothers had always been his opponents in the Circle. They fought viciously until one of them was unable to continue—unconscious on the floor 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 his techniques, his skills had been honed by constantly battling his two 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, 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 wooden floor 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. “I tried to.” Though Sam was the smallest of the three brothers, he usually fought like a cornered island ferrcat, clawing for survival 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 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; heat rose in his chest.
Maybe Cego was angry because Sam was hurting his 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.”
Sam was usually full of questions, throwing them out like pestering jabs at Cego through the entire day. Why did some crabs have soft shells when it made them more vulnerable? Why did Farmer never smile? Where did the Path lead? But now, when it was Cego’s turn to ask such a simple question, the boy couldn’t answer. He just had that pitiful look on his face.
Or 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. Sam couldn’t do the same. He seemed almost useless in the Circle. Cego felt the anger bubbling up within him and boiling over.
“Silas is gone; he left us,” Cego spat at Sam. He wanted to make his little brother as angry as he was. “You were holding Silas back. That’s why he’s gone!”
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 yanked his brother forward with two hands behind his head 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 floor. Farmer had taught them to respect the interior of the Circle, having the brothers methodically clean it after every session.
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, shoving his hip into him and tossing Cego to the wood with a well-timed o-goshi throw.
“There! See?” Cego yelled 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 stood over Cego now. “Get better for what? What’s the point of all this?”
Cego abruptly remembered 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 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, letting his adrenaline fade. What was he doing? He didn’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 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 defiant eyes at Farmer now. “We fight so the rest shall not have to. We’re training to take the Path.”
“Yes, Sam,” Cego said.
Sam wasn’t convinced. “But why are we fighting, really? We’ve been training our whole lives to take the Path, but how do we 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 was why Sam had been acting so peculiar lately. He didn’t believe. He didn’t think the Path led anywhere. Sam didn’t think Silas was alive.
Cego waited for Farmer to respond, but this time 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 swum 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 floor, a tear welling up in the corner of his eye. He breathed out slowly.
Cego stood and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I pressed you like that,” he 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 as he looked to Farmer for instruction. The old master nodded again, and Cego knew what to do. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder.
“Let’s get back to training,” Cego said, though his voice wavered as the words came out of his mouth.
Cego awoke. He’d been choked unconscious before, numerous times in Farmer’s capable hands. Though he knew he’d only been out for a minute or two, it always felt like a lifetime.
The darkness faded from the edges of Cego’s vision as the world slowly came back into view. He was lying on the floor in the yard.
Cego could see the boys were still standing in a circle with two fighting at the center. Weep was in there again, this time fighting Shiar. Tasker Ozark stood on the sidelines, yelling for Shiar to go for the finish.
Don’t let go of that choke.
The Tasker had ordered Weep to finish Cego.
Cego was alive, though. If Weep hadn’t let go of the choke, Cego would be dead. Weep must have disobeyed Ozark’s orders, which was why he was still fighting. This time, he was up against Shiar, who Ozark knew would show no mercy.
Cego saw Weep fall to the dirt, Shiar easily tossing the smaller boy to the ground. The spectral was gone and Weep looked like he’d lost the glimmer in his eyes along with it.
Cego tried to stand. He would help Weep, no matter what happened. He wouldn’t let Shiar hurt him anymore.
Cego couldn’t move, though; he lay paralyzed on the floor. He felt the hazy fog that came with the neuro they’d injected him with, the same sedating drug they’d given him when they first dragged him off the streets. He could do nothing but watch his friend get beaten.
Shiar was on Weep, throwing punches and kicks at the boy, who desperately tried to cover up from the ground. With a jackal-like grin on his face, Shiar drove his knee into Weep’s belly, bearing his full weight down into the boy’s solar plexus. From there, Shiar threw blow after blow like a jackhammer, driving Weep’s head into the dirt. Weep turned over onto his stomach and curled up into a ball, trying to escape the vicious onslaught.
Cego looked out to the rest of Crew Nine, saw all of them standing frozen, not lifting a hand to help Weep. Knees had his eyes squeezed shut as if he had escaped to some other place in his mind.
Cego saw Dozer’s bulky form step forward from the circle of boys, staring pleadingly at Ozark. “Stop this! He’s going to kill him.”
“Stay where you are or you’ll end up where that little scumling is now,” Ozark growled back.
Dozer shook his head and stepped forward again toward Shiar, who was still mercilessly slamming his fists into Weep’s ribs. Ozark moved to block the big boy, and suddenly a glowing metallic stick was in the Tasker’s hand. The rod blazed with menace as a red current ran up and down it.
Dozer stopped in his tracks, staring wide-eyed at the strange sight: a weapon, wielded by a Grievar. A direct violation of the Codes. But no surprise to Cego, knowing who Tasker Ozark was, knowing what this man was enabling right in front of their eyes.
Shiar laughed and stood over Weep. Cego saw the jackal turn toward him and catch his eyes just before he threw the first kick from above, which thudded into Weep’s rib cage. The next kick caught Weep on the side of the head, bouncing it back and forth like a tethered ball.
Cego tried to scream but nothing came out. With every bit of energy in his body, Cego wanted to stand and save Weep. He’d fight Shiar; he’d fight Ozark, even—whatever it took. But he couldn’t do anything. Cego lay on the floor, immobilized, helpless again.
Weep’s eyes met his, their heads level on the yard’s red dirt. For a moment, Cego thought he saw a glimmer of light behind Weep’s eyes. The same defiance he’d seen in Sam’s eyes. Asking those same questions: Why am I here? Why am I fighting?
Another kick crashed into the boy’s body, and the light was gone.
Though they were torturous, those days training in Anderson’s basement felt good to Murray. He felt like he was doing something worthwhile after so many years spent dredging up Grievar brood on a hopeless mission.
Though he remembered Anderson as a good training partner back in the day, Murray never realized his friend could be such a hard-nosed coach. The lanky Grievar’s laid-back demeanor evaporated when Murray told him how important this all was—taking the fight to the Dragoon and winning Cego’s freedom.
From that point forward, Murray was on the mats, huffing, sweating, grunting, keeling over, vomiting in the can in the corner of the room, and generally feeling like he was dying.
The basement had the bare basics of combat training equipment, but it was more than enough for two old Grievar Knights. A tattered jump rope, Anderson staring hard-eyed at Murray, analyzing his footwork and mobility as he warmed up, alternating his stances, cadence, and speed. A frayed heavy bag, Anderson standing behind it, shouting at Murray for one more minute of repeated hooks, constant knees, cutting elbows. Well-worn striking pads, Anderson expertly wielding them on both hands, calling out for Murray to throw, one-, two-, three-, four-, five-, and six-punch combinations. A thin tatami, frayed through to the floor in spots, Anderson screaming for Murray to sprawl onto it and shoot forward for single- and double-leg takedowns. A heavy, patched-up grappling dummy, Anderson standing over Murray, yelling at him that it was the last minute of his fight with the Dragoon and he needed to finish his floored opponent with ground-and-pound. Two to the body, one to the head, two to the body, one to the head, over and over again.
And when Murray was at his worst, panting like a dog, trying to savor every breath, it was suddenly time for sparring rounds. Though Anderson was older now, the lanky man still threw jabs with frightening speed, catching Murray on the nose, jolting his head back as he repeatedly tried to get inside.
They would grapple on the mats with Anderson wrapping Murray up in his legs, threatening submission after submission, seamlessly flowing from triangle neck attacks to omoplata shoulder locks to straight arm bars.
At the end of one session, the two old Grievar lay side by side on the mats, sweat and blood dripping from their skin.
Murray turned to look at his old friend. “Why do you think he left?”
Anderson looked up at the ceiling, his chest expanding and contracting, his arms sprawled at his sides.
Murray continued, “It was right after I lost. I know Coach said it wasn’t because of that, but I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that it was somehow my fault.”
Anderson sighed. “Every path has got to end sometime. Maybe Coach knew it was time for him. Things changed fast—the Citadel no longer following the Codes to the letter. You, me, Leyna, Coach, any Grievar—we’re all working on fading light, anyways. You know that.”
“Yeah, fading… Fade from the light gracefully. That’s what some Citadel clerk said to me that day when they transferred me from service. Should’ve been straight and said they’re tossing me into a vat of bat shit instead.”
“A Scout job is respectable,” Anderson said.
Murray snorted. “Bah, respectable. Scouting for the Citadel is something, but going after these kids in the dark—they knew, Memnon knew what he was doing to me. He’s still holding that loss against me.”
“I hope the high commander of the Citadel has more to do than hold grudges after all these years,” Anderson said.
“Fade from the light gracefully,” Murray repeated. “Follow the path, do it for the good of the nation. All that stuff—I got it. I just keep coming back to how everything fell apart all of a sudden. One moment, we were all standing beneath the stadium lights—so bright, fans cheering, the stability of the entire region riding on our shoulders, and the next thing you know, here we are, lying on your basement floor in the Deep, over ten years later,” Murray said.
Anderson turned toward Murray. “Maybe so; I sometimes get the same feeling, like I’m spinning after taking a hit. But you need to adapt, as Coach would say. You fall into an opponent’s trap, make it work for you. Sure, maybe Memnon knew what he was doing to you. Throwing one of the best Grievar Knights in the past few decades into the Deep, turning him into a lowly Scout. Make him pay for it, Murray. You say you’re onto something here with this boy Cego. That’s a start.”
Murray nodded, exhaling. “Yeah, it’s a darkin’ start.”
The boy walked alongside the burly man, the top of his shaved head only coming up to Murray’s midsection.
Lampai Stadium glowed in the distance at the end of Markspar Row. The greenlight coated the surface of the Underground’s streets in an emerald sheen. The cawing and cooing of hawkers from the nearby market echoed on the stone walls around the two companions.
“Let’s get away from the hawkers… Never know what you’ll end up buying from the crafty ones after midshift,” Murray said. He’d been trying to get the kid talking, have him open up about his past, but it had been difficult to get him to even open his mouth.
As they approached the stadium, the bustle on the street grew thicker, with swarms jostling their way toward the daily fights at Lampai. Murray watched Cego swivel his head at the sights, sounds, and smells that infiltrated every street corner.
An assortment of old mechs crawled down the streets—rusted transports hauling alloys from the mines or foul-smelling sweepers heading for the trash heap. Murray even saw the grounded form of a scrapped Flyer with a pack of glowing spectrals trailing the exhaust.
“Straight from Arklight!” A hawker stood atop the mech, screeching. “This beauty only flew five runs for Governance before she was decommissioned. Rubellium blast cannon still intact, only needs a minor Maker to fix her up!”
The Deep didn’t get near the quality of gear Upworld, but there was still a thriving black market for anything and everything getting pawned off as Arklight tech.
Amid the crowded mass of mechs and laborers and hawkers walked the Grievar. Thickly muscled, scarred, and gnarled, the Grievar strode boldly under the light, their chests puffed out and their muscles bulging, intricate flux tattoos adorning their bodies like works of art.
Murray caught Cego staring at some of the bare-chested Grievar. A lion flux on an exposed chest reared up on its hind legs and swiped its paws menacingly. An octopus on another Grievar’s back expanded and unfurled, reaching with its tentacles down the man’s arms and legs.
Murray felt his own flux tattoos shifting under the light, even from underneath his thick cloak. He sensed each tattoo as if it had a personality, a unique characteristic he’d acquired during his path.
“Flux tattoos,” Murray said to Cego. “They used to mean something. Now Grievar get whatever fits their darkin’ fancy.”
Closer to the stadium, the two passed a Daimyo caravan pulled by a pack of Grunts, thick-shouldered haulers whose sole purpose was to drag their lord around. Even though the Daimyo had mechs for transport, many preferred to show off with an entire mobile caravan, complete with Grunts pulling the vehicles from the helm, courtesans draped across the inner chambers, and armed mercenaries surrounding the entire procession.
The Daimyo noble at the center of the caravan was shielded from the street with a translucent pod surrounding him, likely charged to the touch.
Murray could see the blue-veined man staring out from behind the glass, watching the rabble on the street with his black, fathomless eyes. Even with the shield between them, Murray wondered if he could put his fist through the glass and crush the frail creature’s skull if he timed it right. His heart quickened at the thought.
Though Ezo had won the Deep long ago, Murray knew that these rogue Daimyo lords were the actual rulers down here. Those Daimyo with no allegiance but their own pockets; running the dens, the Courtesan Houses, the stim trade, and the illicit mining operations. Those hiding in the shadows while their mercenary Grievar fought for their interests.
One such merc guarding the caravan eyed Murray suspiciously as they passed each other. The man looked to be a Grievar, yet he carried Daimyo tech—a thick steel rod that pulsed with a menacing blue current. Murray had felt the effects of an auralite-forged weapon before. The second the rod made contact, it took your knees out from under you, made you want to curl into a ball and give up.
“No tools, no tech,” Murray growled as he passed by the merc.
“Back off, old-timer.” The merc held the glowing weapon up. “Lord Mamaru would have no problem with me settin’ you to a sizzle.”
Murray kept his eyes on the man until the procession turned a corner.
Before they reached the bustling square in front of Lampai, Murray guided Cego away from the main thoroughfare toward a smaller side street that looped around the back of the stadium.
Cego never asked questions about where they were going, but Murray could tell the kid was thirsty for knowledge. Murray had been the same way when Coach had brought his team out on their first expeditions around Ezo or to foreign lands beyond the borders. Everything was new, each sight unique.
Murray had planned on taking the kid straight to Anderson’s, maybe let Leyna make him some of those famed Deep cakes of hers. Certainly would be an improvement over that green slop they called food at Thaloo’s. First, though, Murray decided he’d bring the kid to a place he himself hadn’t visited in ages.
The pair walked in silence beyond the clamor of the stadium and followed the small path toward Daeomons Hill, a steep, rocky incline that led up to the back side of the steppe.
When he’d just set out on his path, Murray remembered sprinting up Daeomons Hill for endurance training, purposely setting his lungs on fire so that the burn wouldn’t seem so bad in the Circle. With his fight with the Dragoon looming, Murray wanted to test himself again.
“Ready for a bit of a workout?” Murray looked at the boy, who nodded silently.
Murray tried to think about the Dragoon as he and the boy started up the hill. Though he’d made progress with Anderson over the past two weeks, he still was nowhere near the shape he’d need to be in to keep up with a much younger Grievar.
Murray’s heart started to thump in his chest as he visualized the upcoming fight. The spectral light filtering from Lampai’s giant arrays, the crowd boisterous and zoned in on the two Grievar in the Circle. The thrill and anticipation right before the bout began, a steady tingling in his belly that would give way to a euphoria that filled his chest, surging through his arms and legs, guiding him toward his opponent.
Murray pushed his pace as the hill rose sharply, cutting away the view of the steppe above. He looked at Cego at his side, who seemed to be thinking the same thing as he—get to the top. The boy’s eyes gleamed with determination, his short legs taking two strides for every one of Murray’s.
Soon, Murray and the boy were running full steam, scrambling up the rocky ravine toward the top of the cliff face. Murray could feel the strain of his old body, his joints creaking as his legs pumped faster.
Though he was worn down, something felt different. He was going somewhere. He wanted this fight. He looked to the boy, striding up the hill without fear, only looking forward to his next step.
Murray’s heart beat rapidly in his chest as he launched himself ahead. The two left an avalanche of gravel behind them as they scrambled up the hill. The last ascent was the steepest—the pair needed to throw their hands to the rocky surface to keep their balance as they clawed for the top.
Murray’s body wanted to give way like an old roof strained past its years, ready to collapse beneath the weight of seasons of weathering. The Dragoon wouldn’t stop, though. The Dragoon wouldn’t be forgiving like this hill. Cego’s freedom wouldn’t be forgiven either—the boy depended on Murray. He needed him to fight through the burn, get past the suffering.
Murray let out a deep howl.
Finally, at the top of the hill, he fell to his knees. His chest heaved up and down like bellows trying to keep a dying fire lit. Cego stood next to him, breathing hard but calm.
Murray huffed. “Used to be easier.”
The pair surveyed their surroundings. From the top of Daeomons Hill, the view of the Underground was unique.
The cavern glowed with green iridescence cast by the arrays laid into the scrimshaw ceiling thousands of meters up. Spectrals danced around the lights like swarms of glowing moths. Grey structures sprouted from the bedrock, and paved streets zigzagged between the buildings, broadening into wide thoroughfares and narrowing into thin alleys.
To the north, the Lift looked like a giant tree, its roots burrowing into the cavern floor, creeping under the gridded streets, its trunk rising into the cave ceiling. To the east, the greenlight bathed the market district in an undulating current, ebbing and flowing along with the bustle of the streets. And to the west, Murray could just make out the forms of giant mechs ripping into the cavern wall, digging along with hordes of Grunts to unearth deposits of valuable elemental alloys.
But Murray liked to imagine the sprawling cavern before any of this. Before the politiking and posturing, before he was born, before his father had built their little cavernside home, before the arrays and the Lift had been constructed, when the only way to come Deep had been on blind, long treks through winding tunnels.
It was down here, in this voluminous cavern, that empires had first chosen their champions, the Grievar, to fight for their interests. Many arenas had since been built across the Surface world. There were grander venues like Albright, or ingenious designs like Aquarius, or those in more unforgiving climates like Starkguard. But none compared to Lampai, where the way of the Grievar had been born.
Murray’s eyes shifted to the center of the city, where Lampai Stadium burst from the bedrock like a gem glittering in the Deep. Hordes would stream into Lampai every day at the height of the shift to watch the Underground’s top Grievar in action. In one week, Murray would be standing within a Circle at Lampai’s apex, facing the Dragoon.
Murray breathed out slowly as they turned from the view of the city toward the steppe, now directly in front of them. Layers of fertile growth were built alongside a central stairway with rows of glowing crops clinging to the bedrock on each level. The crops were fed by Dagmar Falls, which spewed from an opening above and was then channeled along to the rows of each level for irrigation.
The two began to climb the ancient staircase, moving past luminous rows of growth on each level. Cego stared as the crops pulsed in a dizzying array of green hues, ranging from the gaudy bright fluorescence of lichens to the dark, forest bloom of the mosses. Growers were heaving out large bags of fertilizer from storage sheds, and hundreds of harvesters were out working in the crops.
When they reached the base of the falls, Murray turned to Cego, his breath misty in the damp air.
“Hey. Do you know how to swim, kid?”
Cego nodded silently and Murray breathed a sigh of relief.
“Follow me.” Murray motioned to Cego. White spray soaked the two as they moved single file around the edge of the falls and then behind the rushing water.
The pair emerged into a wide cavern. In front of them, a glassy lake shimmered a coral hue, illuminated by the now-nascent dusklight streaming through a hole in the cavern ceiling. With a sweeping gesture, Murray signaled their arrival. “Lake Dagmar.” Though the majority of the lake to the east was often crowded with visitors, this particular section was kept secret by a select few.
Murray broke the silence again. “Thought you’d enjoy a swim.”
Cego surprised Murray then, speaking methodically as he looked out at the lake. “It reminds me of home.”
“Where you from, kid?” Murray took the opportunity. He knew Thaloo and the other den owners had shipments coming from all over the world, but he hadn’t had a chance to figure out where Cego was from yet.
Cego was silent again, his lips pursed.
“You from the Isles, maybe?” Murray said, prodding. “I did a tour of the Emerald a while ago. Good folk, good fighters out there. Though, can’t say I’m a fan of Aquarius Arena. That place still gives me nightmares.”
Cego slowly nodded.
After the trauma many slave brood went through, getting ripped away from their families or worse, it wouldn’t surprise him if Cego had blocked out the past. Murray decided to drop the line of questioning.
“Well, you’d best go for it before blackshift.”
Murray watched Cego sprint along the shore and dive beneath the glassy sheen of the lake. The kid swam like an otter, staying beneath the water for minutes at a time before surfacing for air. Must be an Islander, Murray thought, to swim like that. Cego looked like he belonged in the water, just as he’d appeared to belong in the Circle.
The way that Cego had stood motionless waiting for his opponent, using only the minimal amount of energy to finish them, replayed in Murray’s head. The boy had moved with such fluidity, the sort that Murray rarely saw even in Grievar who had fought for an entire career.
Murray caught Cego’s eyes for a moment, the kid looking back at him with that strange blank stare, as if he were occupying a completely different world. Cego closed his eyes and dove back beneath the water.
Cego was thrashing through the waves again.
The night sky blanketed the world as the two brothers swam the Path. Cego and Sam followed the green trail of plankton toward the distant horizon, the same Path that Silas had taken over one thousand days ago.
They’d left the island behind. They’d left the old master behind.
Something was wrong, though.
Silas had completed his training before he’d taken the Path. He’d fought Farmer.
Watching Silas fight Farmer had been like watching a boulder falling from the top of a cliff. Though Silas had been the strongest of the three brothers, it had been viscerally apparent that the old master would reach his destination as certainly as the falling boulder rode gravity to the ground. That wry smile had been missing from Silas’s face that day.
That fight with Farmer had been Silas’s last training exercise—a ritual that signified he was ready to leave the island and follow the Path.
Sam was far from ready, though. The youngest brother had left without Farmer’s approval. Sam had always been too curious; he didn’t have the patience to wait his turn. He’d recklessly leapt into the waves and Cego had followed him.
Cego told himself he followed Sam because he wanted to save him. Sam was weaker than he; Sam needed protection. In truth, though, Cego knew he was just as curious. He didn’t want to stay on the island with the old master any longer. He wanted to follow the Path and see what awaited him on the distant horizon. He wanted to see where Silas had gone.
Cego tried to pick up his pace to catch up with Sam, but his brother maintained the distance between them. Against the green luminescence of the Path, Sam’s figure was a dark silhouette.
The two swam endlessly until the island disappeared from view behind them. For a moment, the world was in balance, the darkness of the sky above an equal to the murky depths below, the horizon suddenly as close as the shore they’d left, the green, glimmering Path connecting their past and future.
Maybe they’d make it. Maybe they were ready.
Sam disappeared from the surface of the water. Cego could only see the crest and fall of the waves where his little brother had last been swimming.
Cego threw himself forward with all his strength. His swim out had been a calculated effort, trading speed for efficiency. Now Cego forgot about efficiency. He used every fiber of his coiled body to propel himself through the water.
Cego approximated where he’d last seen Sam on the surface and exhaled deeply before letting air fill his lungs to capacity. He dove under and launched himself toward Sam’s sinking body, but the water hardened. The viscous liquid held Cego in place.
He couldn’t move as he watched Sam’s little body sink in front of him. He tried in vain to reach toward Sam, but the water was too thick for him to extend his hand. The liquid wrapped around his body like a serpent, immobilizing his muscles, slowly choking him.
As the world faded, Cego looked toward the surface for a glimmer of light. There was nothing but darkness above.
Cego stayed quiet on the walk back down the steppe with Murray. The dusklight was subsiding and hordes of harvesters were packing up their day’s work among the crops.
As he trudged downward, Cego tried to forget about what had happened the previous day in the yard, but he couldn’t. Weep’s lifeless eyes kept coming back to him.
The day’s trip into the markets, the run up Daeomons Hill, the tour of the steppe, and the swim in Lake Dagmar had all served to distract Cego from remembering the trauma. Now, though, as the two started down Daeomons Hill in silence, the fresh memories began to haunt him.
Cego had been helpless, frozen on the floor as he watched his friend get viciously beaten. Weep, who had come so far, was dead because Cego had been unable to do anything.
The moment played over and over in Cego’s head. The sulfurous smell of the red dirt in the yard. Ozark’s spiteful eyes surveying his handiwork. Shiar’s cackle as he threw kick after kick into the little boy’s body. The pleading look in Weep’s eyes as the light faded from them.
Cego had stayed on the ground even after the paralyzing effect of the neurogen had worn off. Knees had tried to rouse him, telling Cego he needed to get up and carry on. But Cego hadn’t moved.
He had watched from the floor as Dozer carried Weep from the yard, the big boy racked with sobs as he delicately draped the body over his shoulder. Cego had slept on the yard’s dirt that night, not moving until the next crew physically removed him in the morning.
A tear streaked Cego’s cheek. He turned to his side and wiped it discreetly with his sleeve. He couldn’t let Murray see any weakness.
Cego could tell the man was trying to help him out. He still didn’t know why the burly Grievar was doing it, but he could see something different in him. Murray wasn’t in it for the bits—after all, he was fighting for Cego’s freedom, putting his own head on the line.
We fight so the rest shall not have to.
The familiar mantra was a reminder that this man was the closest thing to home or family that Cego had down here. He’d grown close to some on Crew Nine, but they weren’t here now, and they wouldn’t be with him if he made it to the Surface.
The two reached level ground and turned onto a cobbled path that wrapped around the other side of Daeomons Hill. Homes were elegantly built into the slope here, carved and constructed as if they grew naturally from the landscape.
Cego sighed as they passed under the soft glow of the lichens. Tendrils sprouting plentifully along the cave ceiling cast undulating light on the cobbled road. A curious sort of tree lined the path, with luminous buds sprouting from the ends of each wiry branch.
Murray pulled to a stop in front of a grey home with an oaken door, rapping on it with his fist. A silver-haired woman with a strong jaw and honey-colored eyes opened it.
The woman and Murray greeted each other with a wrist-to-wrist grasp. Murray looked down to Cego, who was standing silently in the doorframe.
“Leyna, I’d like you to meet Cego.”
Cego’s week with Leyna and Anderson was confusing. He wasn’t used to the comforts in the cozy home, not after his grueling experience at Thaloo’s.
Like a doting mother, Leyna made sure Cego had every amenity available—delicious foods at all hours of the day, a warm bath at night, and fluffed pillows in his bed.
Leyna constantly fed Cego, telling him he was far too skinny for a growing Grievar boy. After a steady diet of green slop for months at Thaloo’s, it took his stomach a day or two to get used to the rich foods that Leyna laid out in front of him. He didn’t let that slow him down, though.
Cego wolfed down every crumb of her delicious cooking, dishes like minced mushroom pies encrusted with beelbub nuts, spiral-root sautés over beds of moss, and fluffy Deep cakes frosted in lichen butter.
Cego didn’t see much of Anderson or Murray that week. The men spent most of the days training in the basement, and when mealtime came, they talked fight strategy. Murray ate only special training-approved dishes that Leyna cooked for him, which looked far less appetizing than Cego’s feasts.
Anderson gave Cego warm smiles and even a pat on top of the head, but the tall, dark Grievar was quiet around him. Once, Cego caught Anderson staring at him, examining him, but he quickly looked away when Cego met his gaze.
Cego spent several days working with Leyna in her garden behind the house. There, the Grievar lady cultivated a variety of Deep roots, mosses, and lichens that she used in her cooking. She even had a beelbub tree in the center of the garden.
Cego watched as Leyna harvested the luminous nuts. She hummed a wistful tune as she worked. As soon as she plucked each nut from the branch of the tree, its glow slowly faded.
“Why does the light fade like that?” Cego felt comfortable asking the Grievar lady questions, almost as if he were talking to the lone spectral in his cell again, except with Leyna, he got real responses.
“Good question.” Leyna placed another nut into the basket Cego was holding for her. “Our beelbub tree gets nutrients from the ground—water and minerals that it pulls up in its roots. The nutrients travel to each of the tree’s branches and eventually out to the very ends of each branch to feed the nuts.”
Leyna brushed her silver hair over one ear, which was cauliflowered and studded with several earrings. She continued, “The tree uses some of those nutrients to generate luminescence in the nuts. Out in the Deep caverns, this sort of tree uses light to attract bats that feed on the nuts. The bats then deposit the beelbub seeds in another cavern where new trees can grow.”
“But when the nut gets pulled off the tree, the light goes out. Doesn’t that mean it dies?” Cego asked, a tinge of sadness in his voice.
Leyna looked at him with earnest eyes, her expression softening. “Well, yes and no. In a sense, it is dead because it is cut off from the tree’s roots, from the ground. But when the nut is plucked from the tree and deposited somewhere else, it grows into a whole new tree.”
Cego thought about how the old master had responded when Sam had asked him one of his many questions about death. Farmer’s words filled Cego’s head, and he found himself speaking out loud. “A Grievar is not born to build legacy or history, to make name or impact. Only to fight and die in the Circle. Death should be considered—”
Leyna cut in. “Just as the wilting of a flower before the frost, noted and soon forgotten.”
“How… how did you know?” Cego stared at the Grievar lady, wide-eyed.
“I think I should be asking you the same,” Leyna replied. “Of course, I’m speaking the Codes. But it’s more curious to me that a boy fighting in Thaloo’s den can recite the Codes like that.”
She met Cego’s eyes, and for a moment, he became afraid that Leyna would ask him where he’d learned those words.
“Where did you learn to speak the Codes?” Cego fired the question like a counter jab to get ahead of anything coming his way.
“I picked up bits here and there growing up,” Leyna said. “But most of my learning came from my years studying at the Lyceum, from the Codes professor who still holds that position at the school today—Aon Farstead.”
“Where did the Codes come from?” Cego suddenly felt like Sam, with so many questions bubbling up.
Leyna stopped plucking at the tree and took the basket from Cego. “The Ancients wrote them, supposedly.”
“The Ancients?”
“Yes. The Grievar who came before. Before all of this Underground you see today. Before the roads and buildings and stadiums and slave dens and arrays.”
“What was there before all of this?” Cego asked.
“They say there was a time long past when you could still hear the Deep wind, the soft swish of cave bats flying overhead—not just the whirring of mechs eating away at the earth. A time before the great arrays above, when only the gentle glow of lichen illuminated the cavern floors. A time when our Circles were simple formations of rock, wood, or moss spread on the ground, not the overcrowded dens, amphitheaters, and arenas they’ve since become.”
“What happened to all that?”
“The Daimyo happened,” Murray said gruffly from the entrance to the garden. “Their archivists still brag about everything they gave us when they came Deep. Tech, slaves, language, culture, light. They fixed us. That’s what they say.”
Murray walked over to the beelbub tree, running his hand along one of its smooth branches.
“Truth is, they gave us nothing,” Murray said. “They only took from us. They took our quiet caverns, our peaceful darkness, our language, our culture, our Codes. Same thing happened everywhere else they went—the Kirothian highlands, the Desovian peaks, the Emerald Isles, and of course the whole of Ezo—the Daimyo took everything from the Grievar. We are not free to fight, free to live, as they would have us believe.”
“There’s those in the North still,” Leyna said. “Our kin on the Ice still have their sovereign lands.”
Murray shook his head. “The time for Myrkonian freedom is near gone. As we speak, the Kirothian Empire is pushing into the North, bringing their Enforcers and Flyers with them. A darkin’ airship even, I hear.”
“But they need to make a challenge.” Leyna frowned and crossed her arms. “Tharsis Bertoth won’t let his lands go so easy.”
“Bah.” Murray waved a hand. “Smoke and mirrors. They’ll find some Grievar pawn to stand in the Circle across from Bertoth, and meanwhile, Kirothian mechs will be ready to blast the Ice Tribes to dust if anything goes wrong.”
Leyna shook her head. “All right now, we’re boring Cego with this talk. And it makes me glad that Anderson and I decided to retire Deep, away from all such politiks. The fight never seems to end.”
“I’d be happy to do the same, Leyna.” Murray sighed. “But right now, doesn’t seem I can stop fighting. And even though you and Anderson are out of the light, such matters are happening down here, too, just under your nose.”
“We can only fight in the Circles we stand in,” Leyna replied.
“That’s the darkin’ truth,” Murray said as he grasped one of the beelbub nuts in his fist and plucked it from the tree.
Cego watched carefully as its light faded.