“Is there something I can help you with, Master Arbiter?” The sarcasm in Commander Vye’s voice does not go unnoticed, but Molers remains calm, poised, collected, a snake playing dead while it allows its prey to grow overconfident before it strikes.
“Isn’t it convenient that Arbiter Noni is out here, alone when the landmines outside the wall go off?”
Damn. Of course, he doesn’t buy my story; though, I’m not certain that Commander Vye believes that I was out here exercising because I couldn’t sleep; it was a lame story when I told it. There is only one thing I can do to convince them that I am telling the truth, and as my mind floats back to Sheila, I wonder how I would have made it this far without her quick wit and foresight. Thrusting my wrist outward, allowing my sleeve to fall back some, revealing my wristband, the one that had been assigned to me when I had received my commendation as arbiter, I glare at those around me, daring them to challenge me, to scan the bracelet, knowing what they will find.
“Go ahead,” I say, my voice even and hard, the rebelliousness within it evident.
Renal steps forward with a scanner and runs the red beam over my wristband, watching the screen as it flashes green, telling him where I have been for the last few hours, or at least, where my wristband has been. He closes the scanner and looks at Commander Vye. “She’s been here the entire time.”
Molers’ unforgiving glare bears down upon me, as though trying to read my innermost thoughts, my secrets, but I meet his gaze, daring him to challenge me. I know what he thinks: how convenient. He was never an easy one to fool, but right now he has no proof that I was anywhere but in the quad, but it does not stop him from making my night worse. “Arbiter Noni is very confident of her abilities,” says Molers, and my heart sinks, not liking where this is going. “Perhaps a test.”
“We’re done here,” Commander Vye growls, angered at having her authority tested.
“Are we?” replies Molers in a silky manner, and my nerves explode from the calmness of his voice.
“You have no authority here,” says Commander Vye.
Molers opens his mouth, but closes it when Renal shifts his stance, ready to step in, reminding me of the day I had stopped Molers from harming Sheila and how he had to step in the stop Molers from killing me. Again, I wonder about Renal’s position here and if he is more than just an arbiter assigned to the eastern sector.
“As a recent assignee to this region, I would like to have my faith in its commander justified, and if you can’t control on of your arbiters, then…” Molers allows his voice to trail off, and cold fear grips me.
He has been assigned here? Why? And his request was accepted? For years Molers has tried to get assigned to other parts of Arel, to get away from the training facility, but his requests had always been denied. Why approve his transfer now? The chilling thought that I had something to do with it wafts over me, causing me to shiver from its ominous implications. If I had not sentenced him to the munitions factory, he might still be at the training compound, but now he will be here, at the manor, able to watch my every move and torment me once again as fate has chosen to be punitive by placing me back under his stifling presence.
“And just how can I reignite your faith in me,” mocks Commander Vye, though a part of her feels threatened by Molers’ accusations. If her authority is in question, she is in danger of disappearing, and she would not be the first commander to have vanished one night and have every semblance of their existence wiped clean.
“The trial of fears.” A devious grins spreads across Molers’ face as his words echo around me.
The trial of fears. I have heard of it. Every arbiter has. As a testament to their bravery and skill, recruits whose willingness to serve Arel are called into question are forced to face a maze filled with their deepest fears. They are locked in a building, or someplace, the location always changes, and forced to face five challenges. If they succeed, they are reinstated to their position; if they fail, they die, thus ridding Arel of a weak link.
Molers did not pick this task without reason. He does not trust me—he never has—and he covets Commander Vye’s position. If I fail, I die, and my commander’s ability to train future arbiters will be questioned, thus removing her from command. If I refuse to accept, I die and Commander Vye will be sent to the crematorium. Only one course of action provides the chance of sparing us both.
“I accept,” I say.
Hands seize me, hauling me to my feet, and a glint of metal catches my attention: the coiled wires I had shoved under my sleeve have fallen onto the grass, a speck of rust tainting the slender blades of green. If they are discovered… The last thing I see before a black bag is shoved over my head is Renal stepping on the wires, concealing them from view, but whether it is by accident or on purpose is anyone’s guess, and I haven’t the luxury to ponder it. Stale spittle suffocates me as a thick canvas bag encircles my head, and other arbiters throw me into the back of a transport, the banging of the door slamming shut, sealing my fate, while reminding me of the finality of my decision.
Chapter 8
Trial of Fears
The edges of my boots scrape across a metal surface with raised bumps in it to provide traction, unsure of where to go or what to do as gloved hands shove me through a corridor, not caring if I stumble. Hot, sticky vapor from my rapid and anxious breaths cling to my cheeks and chin, forming their own mask underneath the bag strapped around me head, while sweat coats my hands, soaking the rope securing them. An old-fashioned thing for them to do, but Arel likes its mind games, and I had encountered many of them while at the training facility. The incessant thumps of my pulse in my ears heightens my already nervous senses, but fails to drown out the stomping of heavy-soled boots accompanying me to my doom. I knew Molers would get his revenge for what I did to him, and that I would have to face it someday; I had just hoped that it wouldn’t be so soon. I should have been more careful.
The pace slows, and I am jerked to the side a little as a heavy door opens and the weld on hinges release low, drawn out creaks (a sign that they haven’t been used in a while) and, with a final shove in the middle of my shoulder blades, I am forced through the opening, causing my feet to entangle themselves, and I fall to the floor, landing on my bound hands, allowing my elbows to take the brunt of the impact. Grunting, I work the rope loose while a metallic thud reverberates around me, mocking my predicament and daring me to challenge it. They’re free! Relieved to have my hands free, I yank the black bag off my head and drop it to the floor as I stand up while looking around, searching for clues as to where I am. Ethereal light surrounds me, plunging me into suffocating darkness, and as I turn around, my eyes roaming up and down the walls, noting the gigantic fans in the ceiling, I realize where I am: I’m back at the training facility. The training compound is full of areas set aside for training exercises, and this is one of them.
A high-pitched whine fills my right ear, forcing me to step back. A drone, no bigger than my fist, hovers beside me, capturing my worst moments on its tiny camera and transmitting it back to the viewing room, where I am certain Commandeer Vye and Molers are, waiting to see what my next move will be. I smile to myself, not surprised about the drone’s presence. What happens here will either be used to instruct future recruits, or broadcast throughout Arel as a testament of its greatness, or both.
I walk forward, unsure of where else to go, and there must be a door around here somewhere. The hollow thumps of my boots on the metal floor trail after me, giving me the odd sensation of not being alone, yet I am certain that no one else is in here with me. Nerves on edge, I tread with care, unsure of what to expect or what I will be forced to face. The trial of fears is supposed to focus on the fears that the individual participant harbors, forcing him to face them. Sometimes, the ones in charge just choose some of the most cruel things they can think of that will entertain them, but if Molers is watching, then it will be a testament of how well I face my fears, because he knows them well.
A thi
n chain dangling from the ceiling catches on my shirt, hooking itself deep within the knitted fibers. As I try to untangle it, it pulls and tugs, yanking open a trap door above me, spilling its contents. A wave of squirming tarantulas overwhelm me, covering me in a sea of hairy legs and fangs, all angry at being disturbed and taking their ire out on me. Twisting and turning while bending over to keep them off my face,—not that it worked as tiny stings inundate my cheeks—I wave my arms in a frantic motion, desperate to get the hairy beasts off me. Something slams into my side as I run into a rail, knocking the wind out of me, causing me to tumble, while the squirming vermin assault me. The drone hovers nearby, capturing my thrashing as I knock every last one of the tarantulas off me and they scatter, scurrying away, preferring the overreaching shadows over my frantic movements.
I pause. My face burns, my hands burn, and my neck burns, informing me that I have been either bitten, or have gotten some of their urticating hairs underneath my skin, causing an insatiable irritation that I just want to scratch, but I force my mind to focus on the end goal: completing the trials. This is just the first test. Spindly legs stretch out from my shoulder and I jump, flinging the one remaining tarantula off me and onto the metallic floor. It rears up on its hind legs, showing me its fangs in a threatening gesture, hoping to ward me off. Lifting my foot, I stomp on the disgusting creature, feeling it flatten underneath me and turn into jelly as I twist my heel from side to side. Once done, I stare into the camera of the drone, daring those watching to give me another test.
A door on the other side of the chamber opens, releasing its red light into the darkened area surrounding me. Apprehension wafts over me, but I head for it, knowing that I am to go this way, even though it means another trap. Any who do not continue forward in the trials are killed. Memories of another arbiter trapped in here, just like I am now, flood my mind as my fellow recruits and I were forced to watch his trials as part of a lesson. He never got past the second test: a series of electrified wires shooting out 20,000 volts of electricity, enough to fry anything. The man froze when faced with the possibility of being electrocuted. That was when a sniper’s bullet killed him.
I stop. Without moving my head, I glance upward, remembering why I feel as though I am not alone; it’s because I’m not. Snipers must be up there, above me, or on the same floor as me, ready to assassinate me should I refuse to engage in any of the tests. Giving into fear is never an option here, yet it is the hardest to conquer.
Growling emanates from the shadows just before I step into the stream of red light. Peering into the dim glow hovering in the darkness just beyond the reach of the red beam, I glimpse the outline of a cage, and the wild dog trapped inside it—its ribs poke through the skin as it has been kept in a starved state so that it will attack anyone it comes across—stares back at me, its yellow eyes taking in my toned form, sizing me up and how I am enough to feed him for a few days. I freeze. I have never liked the wild dogs kept in the space between the outer and inner walls surrounding Arel and still remember the time I had to kill one while a recruit. I never showed fear then, so why is this my second test? Molers must be toying with me. He would have told the ones in charge of these tests my fears, and since he was my instructor for 18 years, he knows them well, and would have recommended this.
The cage opens. The dog charges me, saliva dripping from its bared fangs, snapping its jaws as its barks bounce off the concrete walls around me, causing my ears to ring just a little. I dive out of the way and roll across the floor, but before I can regain a defensive posture, the dog snatches my foot between its powerful jaws and tears into the leather, while shaking its head from side to side with such force, that I fear it will break my ankle. I roll onto my back and kick it in the face. The dog tightens its hold. As I scoot across the ground on my back, the thought that it will go for my throat shoves its way to the front of my mind, and I search for anything that can be used as a weapon, but I have been left with nothing.
The dog releases my foot. It leaps for me, but I roll across the icy floor, flinging my fists in a vain attempt to ward it off. I touch fur but have no idea if it made an impact or not, so I continue to roll, until I no longer feel the dog on top of me. As I come to a stop, I rip off my shirt and crouch low, eyeing the dog as it paces in front of me, snarling, exposing its razorlike teeth, and my skin already feels the sensation of them ripping into my flesh, warning me of my very probable future. I wrap the ends of my shirt around my fists while never removing my eyes from the animal, poised and ready for its attack.
It lunges at me. I hold my shirt out in front of me, allowing the dog to bite into it, and while it snaps its jaws in an attempt to get to me, I jump up, flinging myself onto its back and wrap the rest of my shirt around its neck, squeezing as hard as I can while jerking its head into an odd angle. It rears up on its hind legs in an attempt to throw me off, but my grip remains firm as I wrap my legs around its midsection and continue to squeeze the life out of the animal. I feel a pop and the dog goes limp, crashing to the floor with me atop it. Seconds tick by as I refuse to move, unwilling to believe that it is dead, but the longer I remain here, the greater my chances of being killed by a sniper.
The room ahead of me beckons me to walk toward it and step inside its tomb. Untangling myself form the dead dog, I step toward the open doorway, a moth to the flame, and enter its snare as its blood red light transforms my walnut-colored skin and black undershirt into a crimson fire. The door closes, sealing me inside.
Now what?
I spin around in a slow, methodical motion, scanning the walls from floor to ceiling, but all I see is red on smooth metal, except for a small rectangular shape that appears to be the access port to a circuit box. Before I can wonder why it is there, a tremendous bang mixed with a groan reverberates around me, filling me with dread as the grinding of gears rise in volume and the ceiling edges downward with panels breaking away to accommodate the walls inching their way inward, decreasing the size of the room and threatening to crush me. Being crushed to death: an abhorrent thought that gave me nightmares for a week once.
During my eleventh year at the training facility, our instructors decided that it would be prudent to teach recruits what could happen if we were ever pinned down. Molers had been put in charge of the training exercise, and he took some amount of pleasure from tormenting us. He devised a chamber, similar to this one, where the walls closed in and the unfortunate victim trapped inside had to figure a way out. None of us were allowed to talk to each other, nor were we allowed to see within the room to prevent us from observing the chamber’s secret escape.
“A test,” I remember Molers saying to us before sending the first person in there, “of your resolve under pressure. You must learn to accept that death is imminent. No one escapes it. If you can master that one fear, you will be masters of yourselves.”
The recruit sent in before me had panicked. His pleas for help, to be let out, mixed with his agonizing screams as he died, until they ceased, giving in to silence’s dominance, still fill my ears to this day, almost as though I am there now. Flesh and flattened bone, glued to the walls by fresh blood, greeted me when Molers shoved me into the chamber. I froze when I stepped on the brains strewn across the floor, what was left of my fellow recruit and the only testament of his meager existence. That same fear freezes me now.
My heartbeat quickens and I start to hyperventilate as the ceiling and walls close in on me. This is about to be my tomb, and I had walked into its trap. Sweat pours down my face, getting in my eyes and forcing me to wipe them as I spin around, desperate to know what to do, how to escape as that fear from so long ago resurfaces and my nightmare becomes a reality.
“Just breathe, Noni!” Faya’s voice echoes in my mind, almost as those she is here now, and I remember how as I panicked in the chamber Molers had put me in, her encouraging words filtered through the door, giving me the encouragement I needed to think of a way out of my predicament. She had received a slap for her efforts.
I rush for it, shoving my stubby fingernails underneath it and pull at it, until I rip it from the wall, ignoring the blood dripping from one of my fingers as its nail tears away from my skin, exposing half of the skin underneath. Coiled wires hang from it, but that isn’t what gets my attention: it’s the open hole behind the wires just big enough to get an arm through, and the lever that lays beyond it that snatches my focus. I shove my arm through the opening, reaching for the lever, but my fingers come nowhere near it. Of course, they wouldn’t let it be this easy.
A wall touches my foot, and my pulse quickens again. The temperature within the room has risen, or my body thinks it has as sweat glints off my arms and trickles down my neck, forming its own path down my front as it crawls between my breasts and soaks my undershirt. The gears shift, creating a sound that thunders through the metal walls, warning me of a change in its plans. Squished into a room now the size of a closet, the walls cease moving, but not the ceiling: it increases its descent.
I seize the coiled wires and yank them free of their hold, pulling on them, until I have a long enough rope. Shoving my arm back through the hole, wires in hand, I fling one end at the lever, hoping to wrap it around the handle, but each attempt proves to be in vain as the wires just slap it before smacking the floor. I try again, and again, but with the same outcome.
The ceiling closes in.
Panic threatens to take hold of me, forcing me to relive my past. I shove it aside, choosing to focus on Faya’s old advice of breathing, when I remember Molers’ words: death is imminent. Death is certain, but it doesn’t have to be today. I jerk my makeshift rope back inside and search for anything that can be used as a hook as I hunch over to avoid being touched by the ceiling as it refuses to let me stand at my full height. The only other item in the room is the panel. I jump for it, grabbing it and bending it between my hands. It is pliable, more so than it should be. It will have to do. Slamming it on the floor, I bend the edges, rolling them up, until I have something that resembles a rod and smack the palm of my hand with it. It smarts. Good. Flattening out on the floor as the ceiling is now just three feet above me, I force one end of my rod up until it resembles a hook before tying the coiled wires around its flat edge.
Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2) Page 11