His voice trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish his statement—we all know what happens to those who fail.
“At the present,” continues Commandant Gant, “this mine produces about twenty thousand pounds of copper ore to send to the smelters. Presidents Kumi and Tapiwa wish that to increase to thirty thousand, which brings us to why you are here.”
He says that last bit with doubt and disdain, which does not surprise me.
“I have a job to do,” I say, “just like you.”
“Yes, but…” begins Commandant Gant.
“Arbiter Noni may be young in years, but she has proven herself more than capable of the most harrowing of tasks,” Renal interrupts, his tone carrying a sense of finality to this direction in the conversation, and once again, I wonder if he is more than just an arbiter assigned to the eastern sector like me. Such musings are cast aside as Commandant Gant steers the conversation back to my reason for being here.
“I’m questioning nothing. As you can see”—the commander directs our attention to one of the monitors with images of workers (plebeian and citizens together) filling a minecart with bags full of ore or copper—“our workers move slowly and lack any sort of enthusiasm in performing their duty to Arel.”
By the bony features on many of them as their limbs lack muscle, making me wonder how these walking skeletons stand at all, I see why they have no enthusiasm. “How much are they fed throughout the day?”
“A single ration,” replies Commandant Gant.
“That should be increased,” I say, my voice dispassionate, yet firm.
“Increased?” protests Commandant Gant, but Renal clears his throat, silencing the man.
“Yes, increased. You want them to perform intense manual labor for ten or twelve hours a day, yet you do not feed them enough. And each worker will be allowed a day of rest.” Even in the training facility, recruits received one day a week that was their own with no drill, no studies, just relaxation.
“We cannot shut down this mine for a day.”
“You won’t. The mine will continue to operate seven days a week, but the workers will be divided into groups and each group will be rotated, so that everyone gets at least one day to rest.”
“This is absurd!”
“Are you questioning Arbiter Nonie’s orders?” asks Renal, a dangerous edge to his voice, “and thereby questioning the presidents’ themselves?”
Commandant Gant rethinks his words. “No, sir.”
“Well, I think this is ridiculous! The workers are here to work. That is their job. They are just plebeians or people striped of their citizenship,” says a cold, yet familiar voice, and I turn, wishing that the person speaking is not who I think she is, but disappointment has long been my companion.
Grelyn stands on the edges of the room, proud and defiant, believing that everyone should care about her opinion, and still acting as though she can do whatever she desires and get away with it, as was the case on most occasions at the training facility. Renal directs his annoyance toward her.
“Name. Rank,” he demands, and Grelyn shrinks just a little under his harsh tone.
“Grelyn, arbiter,” she replies, keeping her voice devoid of fear, even though she takes a step back from Renal.
“Your business here?”
“I am here to help the workers navigate the mines and find abundant deposits of copper ore.”
That makes sense, as much as I hate admitting it. With her ability to see in the dark, she is a valuable asset, and in a place such as this, she will have no trouble spotting rich deposits or helping the miners dig new tunnels.
“So, why are you not in the mines?” asks Renal.
“I am here to file a report.” Grelyn falters underneath Renal’s intense gaze.
“Report,” commands Renal.
Grelyn swallows, knowing that she has taken on more than she can handle as Renal intends to make an example of her. “Commandant Gant, we have encountered a blockage. We will need digging equipment to clear it out if we wish to access the rich deposits behind it.”
“Understood,” replies Commandant Gant.
Grelyn turns to leave, but Renal stops her.
“I think you are forgetting something.”
Grelyn’s glare could curdle milk, but she remains in control of her mouth, faces me and says, “My apologies, Arbiter Noni. It is not my place to question your authority here.”
“Dismissed,” Renal says, and Grelyn rushes out of the room, hurrying through the sliding doors and disappearing into the sunlight.
I release the breath that has been trapped in my lungs, kept there from the surprise of Grelyn’s presence, and I have a feeling it will not be the last my surprises. “Commandant Gant, I would like to see the rest of this facility.”
Relieved, and pleased to feel important again, the commander urges Renal and me to follow him through another door leading into the center of the mines itself. “This is the sorting area,” he says, his tone robotic, and I watch as three people struggle to push a minecart—bits of rock drop off the top of its load—up a small rise where they tip it over and dump the contents. Others rush up and seize the misshapen lumps of rock throwing them into different piles to be loaded into dump trucks, their soiled and bony fingers almost the same thickness as the rest of them. “And ore found will be sent to the smelters, while the stuff deemed unusable is cast aside and dumped in the wildlands.”
Renal and I follow behind Commandant Gant as he leads us down a hill and toward the entrance to the mine. Vacant eyes look up from their work for a moment before casting themselves downward, pretending to have not been interested in our presence and hoping that we will ignore them. Movement causes me to look behind. For a moment, I believe that the same familiar person I saw on the monitors follows us, but I cannot be certain, nor can I show too much interest as my place is here, and my duty is to complete the task assigned to me. Commandant Gant’s voice drones on, not caring if anyone listens, concerned more with hearing himself talk, but amidst his prideful boasts of quality production, despite the fact that the reason I have been sent here proves otherwise, all my mind focuses on are the forlorn, wrinkled, and soiled faces before me trudging in and out of the mine shaft with apathy and death as their constant companions.
As though rooted to the ground, my feet refuse to move another step, forcing me to remain where I am, surrounded by the workers and their guards. The creaking of wheels draw my attention. Two workers trudge up the hill, pushing a grime encrusted minecart, stopping when they reach the top and stepping away for just a second, one second too long. The brake pops free, and the cart edges its way down the slope, picking up speed as it goes, until it careens downward.
“Look out!” someone shouts.
Guards and workers dodge out of the way of the raging cart, missing it by seconds. Among the chaos, a man stands up, chucking his shovel to the ground where it plops in the lifeless dirt, before charging for the rails, his shredded pants flapping behind him, clearing themselves of metallic dust in a feeble attempt to cleanse themselves for this final act. He stops in the middle of the tracks. Shouts and yells for him to move rage all around me before silence crushes them, and helplessness takes its hold as we watch the cart crash into the man, crushing him, smearing his flesh and bones across the tracks—a poor testament of his meager existence—before skipping the tracks and overturning where it slides on its side with debris shooting out of its bed, until it stops. As the noon sun illuminates the fresh blood blanketing the tracks, people turn away, going back to their work, and the cold melody of their digging tools fill the air.
I stand frozen in time, staring at blood, reminded of the woman at the factory who chose death over a life of forced servitude, while memories of the infant she tried to protect inundate my mind, accusing me of being no better than the heartless guards joking about the man’s final act of desperation. Someone speaks to me, but my ears do not transmit his words to my brain. The taunting, the laughing, their call
ous reaction to what has happened infuriates me, igniting a rage that has sat dormant for years, only surfacing when my survival depended on it; but it threatens to escape its imprisonment, desperate for justice, or is it revenge it wants?
A guard throws someone to the ground and I whirl around to see what is happening. He raises his switch and brings it down upon the poor victim and as it strikes pale flesh, the face I had been seeing since I arrived, the face I thought I saw on the monitors, stares up at the guard in defiance: it is Chase. My feet charge across the dirt, kicking up poufs of silty sand as they carry me across the embankment to where Chase lays on the ground with his arms around his face, protecting it from the guard’s wrath. I plow into the guard, knocking him to the ground and stand over him, my feet shoulder width apart and my fists clenched, ready to fight.
“Striking a starved plebeian is easy,” I say, “but if it is a challenge you want, why don’t you face someone who can fight back.”
After the words are out of my mouth, I scold myself for being so rash and making such a bold statement, but despite my second thoughts, I remain firm in my stance so that those watching remain unaware of the turmoil within me. The challenge has been made. Now, I must see it through.
The guard removes his helmet and I almost gasp at the face that greets me: Trevors. What is he doing here? Possibilities for his assignment here roil through my mind, each one dismissed, until I think of the only reason that makes sense, aside from the probability that this could be some sort of punishment: they must be grooming him to be a marshal. When recruits graduate from the training facility, some are selected for specialized training to become marshals. If this is the case, then Trevors’ presence at the factory, as well as here, makes sense because marshals in training are sent to the most troublesome regions of Arel to test their resolve, before they are allowed to monitor other arbiters. My stomach sinks at the thought of Trevors being given the authority to arrest arbiters, but I push it aside. I must not think of it, nor can I ever voice my suspicions because those who do are never seen again, and there is no need to guess where they end up.
“No…” Chase begins to whisper in protest, but he receives a kick in the face from another guard, forcing him to be silent.
I refuse to look at him. I can’t. My gaze must remain fixed on Trevors as I wait for him to either accept or refuse my challenge. My jaw goes numb from me clenching it as Trevors makes up his mind. He chucks his helmet to the side and stands up, and it takes all my resolve not to shrink away from his overbearing height as he towers over me.
“I accept,” growls Trevors, and a malicious smile spreads across his face.
Renal looks at me with worry in his eyes, but there is nothing he can do. I made the challenge. I must abide by it.
Commandant Gant waves at a handful of guards standing nearby and two appear one each side of Trevors and me, gripping our arms and leading us away. “Take them to the pit.”
I dislike the sound of that. Once again, hands shove me away, leading me to my fate, and I wonder if I will ever learn to control my emotions and my mouth, curious as to why neither of them have gotten me killed yet. Eyes watch us, enthralled by the spectacle and glad to have a break from their mundane tasks, but only one pair of eyes capture my attention; they are the only ones I care about: Chase watches, worry etched on his face, creasing his tanned brow, and he follows after me, unconcerned about the repercussions should he be noticed by the arbiters surrounding us. My boots shuffle across the soil, kicking up clouds of dust, coating their shiny, black exterior so that they look dull and worn, matching the footwear of the guards shoving me through the crowd. A crater appears before us, it edges jagged, jutting out in places as though it wishes to slice the air around it, while other parts of it are soft, smoothed down by time and a caressing hand.
Before I have a chance to see how deep it is, my captors throw me in, and I tumble down the walls of the crater, and despite my attempt at tucking in while I roll, my body bounces down the sides, leaving a trail of dust that waves in the wind as though in greeting, or perhaps as a marker of where I am so that Trevors can find me with ease. A protruding rock slams into my side, causing me to wince and gasp for air, but I mustn’t show weakness because it always means death. The rolling stops. I remain on the ground willing the spinning within my head to cease as I try to catch my breath and ignore the pain in my side, feeling another bruise form on my body, a constant factor in my life. Something lands beside me. Knowing I cannot stay here, I lift myself up to my hands and knees before rising to my feet, stumbling a little as my legs wobble, still refusing to find their footing, desiring nothing more than to sit back down instead of being forced to support my weight. I widen my stance, forcing them hold me.
Trevors stands before me, and by the slight shift in his weight, I can tell that he is also a little dizzy and hope that perhaps he injured himself on the way down, but judging by the determined look on his face, I am not going to be that lucky. We stare at one another for a moment, each one waiting for the other to make a move, but I refuse to attack first, remembering what one of my instructors had always said: wait for your opponent to make the first move. I know Trevors. I know his impatience. If I can remain still long enough, he will attack first; he always does.
“Just a moment!” Renal’s voice echoes across the mine. “There are some rules that must be established.”
Such is the way. Arbiters are allowed to challenge other arbiters, but there are always rules put in place to prevent us from killing one another, or causing irreparable damage. Arel cannot have its arbiters mutilating each other.
Disappointment crosses Commandant Gant’s face, but he remains silent, aware of the long-established rules, and the consequences for breaking them.
“The fight ends when one of you taps out,” says Renal. “Neither of you are to cause permanent harm to the other. Any of you who breaks this rule will be met with swift punishment. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” both Trevors and I say at the same time, acknowledging that we understand.
He charges me just like I knew he would. I sidestep, but Trevors anticipates my maneuver and his feet scrape across the dirt as he changes course to counter my dodge, and he wraps his arms around my waist, knocking me to the ground. My back slams into the pebbles and silt coating the ground as I grunt from the impact and from Trevors weight landing on top of me. A fist strikes the left side of my face. Another hits me in the temple. Dazed, and unable to breathe from Trevors crushing weight atop me, my mind races for an idea of what to do. He has always been bigger and stronger than me. His fist heads for me again, and I bring up my arm to block it, but he seizes my wrist and pins it above my head while squeezing his other hand around my throat. My mind panics from the lack of oxygen and I must…
Chase’s face appears from the crowd watching us, dejected, convinced that I have lost before the fight even started, but it is all I need. Trevors leans in for the kill, just within reach of my other arm. Clenching my fist, but allowing one of my knuckles to poke out, I jab him in the throat, causing him to rear back and loosen his grip on my neck and pinned arm. Not wasting time, I bring up my leg, planting, my foot against the ground and push, flipping myself over and flinging him off me. Trevors crashes into the ground on his side, still gasping for air. Before he can retaliate, I roll on my side and kick him in the mouth, but I as I aim another kick for him, he snatches my foot, twists, and flips me over onto my stomach. He jumps up, and I swing my foot out, aiming for his knee, but I miss, catching him in the middle of his tibia. Unphased, Trevors pounces on me, seizing me by the back of the neck while his other hand goes between my legs, lifting me high into the air as he stands up, ready to finish me.
My eyes widen in fear, taking in the hazy sky, while my back braces for what I know Trevors plans to do, and in my mind, I feel it break over his knee. My hands claw at his, but his firm grip remains strong, unrelenting, and it tightens as he prepares to finish me. I have failed. My body lifts and star
ts to plunge downward when a single shot rings out, echoing off the walls of the pit and the hollow caverns of the mine, and as I crane my head to get a look at who fired the gun, I find Renal standing on the edge of the pit with a weapon aimed at Trevors, ready to fire that life-ending bullet. I hang in the air, staring at the tannish sky as swirls of dust encircle us, waiting for Trevors to make his decision: let me go or die.
He throws me to the ground, and I roll across the dirt, coating my uniform in shiny specks of dust, until my body comes to a halt. Lifting my head, I notice specks of blood dripping from a gash on Trevors right cheek where Renal’s bullet grazed him in a warning. His malignant focus is on Renal, not me, as he shifts his anger to a different target. Trevors almost broke the rule to not cause permanent harm to his opponent; he knows this, but he doesn’t care. As I lay on the ground, calculating my next move, Trevors refocuses his attention on me: we still have a match, and neither of us have tapped out. He is too strong for me, too big.
Think, Noni, I tell myself, trying to plan out a method of attack, tired of being on the defensive. “You might be smaller than your opponent, but you are more agile,” I remember Mandi’s words to me one day after I had lost a one on one match to someone twice my size. “Most rely on brute strength to win. You must rely on your mind; you must outthink your opponent.”
What are his weaknesses? Every individual has a weakness. Trevors is overconfident, always believing he has won even before the battle begins, or that his prey is too weak to fight. How can I…
Trevors walks up to me, a smirk on his face, ready to make me pay for his lack of judgement, but every other step, he shifts his stance just a little, and to the untrained eye, it looks as though it is nothing, but I see it for what it is: his right ankle pains him just a little. He does a good job of concealing it, which is why I never noticed it before. Devising a plan, I remain where I am, pretending to be injured and unable to fight back. It works. Trevors marches up to me, leering over me, convinced that he is the victor, and just when he gets within arm’s reach, I fling my arms at him, backhanding him and roll on the ground, turning myself around and hook my feet around his injured ankle, forcing him to his knees. Surprise and rage fill his face, but before he can react, I jump on his shoulders, wrapping my legs around his neck and fling him to the ground, and we both land on our backs with my legs still coiled around his throat with just enough pressure to force him to give up; though I remain aware of Renal’s sharp gaze fixed on me, ready to put me down should I violate the rule about permanent harm. Trevors struggles against my hold, but I remain firm, unwilling to give up. His hand thumps the ground, and I release him.
Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2) Page 15