The Combat Codes

by Alexander Darwin

“We fight so that the rest shall not have to,” Murray whispered.

  The familiar mantra triggered a wave of memories that rushed back to Cego, like a deep-seated fault giving way to a quake. He breathed the salty sea air and heard the lapping of the tide. He saw Sam running beside him on the shore of the black-sand beach and Silas swimming out atop the green glow of the Path. He saw the old master’s face, rough and wrinkled like tree bark.

  In the back of his mind, Cego had known it since he’d arrived, bloody and beaten on the Underground’s streets. He’d known it sitting alone in his little dungeon cell beneath Thaloo’s. He’d known it training in the yard and fighting in the slave Circle. He was far from home.

  Though he had no idea how to get back, this man was the first person that had reminded him that home even existed anymore. The burly Grievar had said the words with conviction, as if he truly believed them.

  We fight so that the rest shall not have to.

  Cego nodded at the bearded Grievar. He would go with him to the Surface. He would find his brothers, Sam and Silas. He would get back to the old master.

  The man reached forward with a gnarled hand, grasping Cego’s. His grip was like a vise, but it was warm.

  “Murray Pearson.”

  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 return from the medward.

  “You’re going to the Surface! I hear on the Surface they eat real food—live and wriggling when it goes into your mouth!” Dozer exclaimed.

  Knees patted Cego on the shoulder and turned to Dozer. “You blockheadin’ it again. Food’s not movin’ when you eat it; they be cookin’ it first, all fussin’ over spices and marmalades in them fancy Upworld stew pots.”

  Dozer protested, “No! They eat somethin’ called deer. It’s a Surface-side animal that runs real fast, but if you can catch it, you gotta bite into it before it goes bad.”

  Cego laughed deeply at his big friend, 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 burden 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 invariably end up on the streets alone.

  Cego looked Weep in the eye. “You’re getting out of here too, Weep. I promise you.”

  Knees interjected as Weep turned away to hide the tears welling up in his eyes. “That be some fight you had, Cego. I was thinkin’ you finished when Grinder be throwin’ those hammers from top. Then I’m blinkin’ and you be 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 Grinder? 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 Grinder 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 Grinder. 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 clearly finished.”

  Cego remembered that part of the fight clearly. Though he’d nearly been on the verge of passing out, he remembered looking down at Grinder’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 even another few punches from mount to knock Grinder’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 Grinder when he could finish the fight with a choke, ending it all the same?

  Cego could hear Farmer’s voice in his head as he turned toward Shiar, the bright flecks around his golden irises sparkling now. “We fight neither to inflict pain nor to prolong suffering. We fight neither to mollify anger nor to satisfy personal vendetta. We fight neither to accumulate wealth nor to promote social standing. We fight so that 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 that Cego spoke were old, older than the yard they trained in. 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 past, 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 Daimyos. The fight bestowed the winning Daimyo the rights to bulldoze a new cavern along the western wall, a contract worth millions of bits.

  The Dragoon had knocked out his opponent in less 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 were the first to promote the fight a
cross 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 out at him from the huge displays. Again, they used clips from his early years at the Citadel. Murray barely recognized the chiseled Grievar with the flashy smile staring 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. “The boy is Murray Pearson’s illegitimate son” or “the boy is Commander Memnon’s bastard” or any other sensational story the hawkers could come up with to sell 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.

  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, it was a big deal. He hadn’t been in the Circle for over a decade. He’d left 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.

  He was going up against the Dragoon, though. Even the Citadelians spoke about the Dragoon with respect. The former Grievar Knight had won several land disputes between smaller villages just outside of Mercuri 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, even.

  Murray needed to train.

  *

  Murray found his way to Anderson’s home that evening, walking beneath the sleepy glow of the Farmoss district.

  Murray exhaled deeply as he walked along a cobbled road beneath large swaths of lumin lichen that grew from the cavern roof above him, casting the cobbles in a deep, green hue. Murray passed by traditional Grievar homes inlaid into 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 Daimyos had tried to desecrate it just like the other districts, but somehow, Farmoss had rejected their incursions.

  The Daimyos had made numerous attempts to install their arrays in Farmoss, but 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 older 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, working for the past decade as a Scout.

  Murray 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. In typical Grievar fashion, the two fought for the underhooks, each attempting to gain leverage by swimming their arms under the armpits of the other.

  “My Murray! How long it’s been?” Leyna led him into their kitchen. Though the outside of the home was built of clay, the inside walls were reinforced with the red beelbub planks cut from the forest to the west.

  “Too long, Leyna—it’s good to see you.” It truly was good to see another old face. Murray, Anderson, and Leyna had come up together at the Lyceum. In the Citadel, they’d been there for each other’s greatest victories and most devastating losses.

  Murray sat down 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?”

  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 kids are trying them out nowadays. 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, with a dirty apron draped over his chest. Murray couldn’t believe this once had been the Grievar that had brought crowds to their feet in the Citadel, clamoring against the railings and chanting for the Bat.

  “How many times have I told you to leave that dirty rag downstairs—you’re going to get it 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 nodded and 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 do
n’t feel like I used to,” Murray said grimly.

  “We’ve done worse,” Anderson said. “I remember a time when the Mighty Murray won us the Tamal Plains. When me and Leyna broke down your tavern door 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, 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 as usual, 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.