Standing up, I glance around at the faces staring at me, each with a mixture of mild amusement and praise, until I find Chase’s, who sighs with relief. I have won, but my victory is hollow as we all know that if Renal had not stepped in, Trevors would have killed me. Not waiting to be acknowledged, I climb up the side of the pit and claw my way to the top, heaving myself over the edge, not waiting for, nor expecting, any help. Chase starts to move toward me, but I shake my head at him, urging him to stay where he is so as not to arouse suspicion.
“I challenge you!” yells Trevors, his voice reverberating around us as he points at Renal.
In response to the challenge, Renal takes off his uniform jacket, allowing the sweat that has built on his well-formed and black arms to glisten in the bright sunlight as it evaporates, and tosses it aside, and it lands in crumpled heap in the dirt. Commandant Gant’s eyes widen in enjoyment at the spectacle as Renal slides down the side of the pit and into its center, landing on his feet and keeping his gaze fixed on Trevors. They circle one another for ten seconds, a span of time that seems to stop the motion of the Earth as we all watch with baited breath.
Trevors charges. Renal side-steps, holding his fist out, allowing Trevors to run into it. When they part, Trevors holds his bloody nose for a second before realizing that such an act might appear weak. Renal just glares at him, never speaking, never moving, his stoic face revealing nothing as he awaits Trevors’ next act. Trevors attacks again. Ducking and twisting at the same time, Renal rams the point of his elbow into Trevors’ stomach before seizing him around the shoulders and flipping him onto his back where he lands with a hard thump and miniscule clouds of dust spiral around him, stretching upward into the air where they disperse in the wind. Renal jumps to his feet and steps away, waiting for Trevors to get up, toying with him.
Sitting up, Trevors takes his time getting to his feet, glaring at Renal as he moves, wiping the blood pouring from his nose as he does so, the hatred evident on his face. He paces in front of Renal, who remains still, watching, never taking his eyes off him. Trevors charges again, but Renal kicks him in the stomach before rounding on him, seizing one of his arms and wrenching it behind his back, while placing his own arm around Trevors’ neck. Trevors struggles to get free at first, but the more he struggles, the more Renal tightens his grip before leaning forward and whispering in his ear. I watch, curious as to what Renal tells Trevors when my old enemy from the training facility bows his head and goes limp, conceding the challenge. Renal releases him and climbs out of the pit, leaving Trevors to sulk in his own shame.
“Renal,” I ask, allowing my curiosity to get the better of me, “what did you tell…” I stop speaking the moment Renal jerks his head in my direction and glares at me, bowing my own in acknowledgement of his authority.
“Commandant Gant,” Renal says, putting his jacket back on, unconcerned about knocking the dust off his arms first, “you have your orders. Now, we would appreciate it if you would show us where we will be spending our stay here.”
Commandant Gant waves one of the arbiters under his command over. “He will show you to your quarters.”
As Renal and I follow the arbiter to another part of the mine, I glance at Chase one last time, wishing I could speak with him, but knowing that now is not the time. I will need to find him later, or perhaps he will find me.
Chapter 12
A Familiar Face
The sun dips below the edge of the mine, covering us all in the shadow of the mountain and the ghoulish glow of twilight as I mosey through the exposed eating area, my boots thumping on the rotted floorboards as I make my way to the cast iron pot that stands as high as my waist where plebeians line up with tin bowls, all of them different shapes, waiting for a ladleful of soup. One by one they hold their bent bowls out for their meager meal. I watch them for a moment, the sallow faces, the hollow eyes, all coated in grime and covered in a mishmash of rags that do not deserve to be called clothes. One woman glances at me before directing her curios gaze somewhere else, while holding her hand near her cheek in a feeble effort to cover the swollen welt on it. My gaze follows the line of dark and fair-skinned mixed together and the few eyes that look my way, filled with contempt: they all hate me, something that I have become used to since being commissioned.
Raucous laughter inundates the somber feeding area, spilling over from another where arbiters feast on beans (a common staple as they are easy to ship and cook), meat (dried and reconstituted for cooking), dried vegetables, and fresh greens. Fresh greens? How did they manage to get those here without spoilage? Their boisterous conversation mocks the somber and reserved manner of the workers who await a single bowlful of liquid detritus, unfit even for the rats that roam this place.
Snatching a bowl from the stack near the beginning of the line, I march to the pot, noticing that not even a small amount of steam escapes its rim and shove the bowl in front of the server. He looks at me for a moment, unsure of what to do—the stench of his stain-ridden apron bombards my nostrils, and I will myself not to pull back or acknowledge the putrid smell as it will be sign of weakness—waving it at him, indicating that he should fill it. The ladle scrapes the sides of the cast iron pot as he dips it in the slosh and scoops out a single serving of what passes for nutrition in this place, placing it in my outstretched bowl. I stare at the pail liquid with shreds of what must have been a carrot floating in it accompanied by something thin, something long, something that… moves? I dip my pinky into the soup and brush it. The thing moves again, wiggling in agitation and I realize that it is a maggot. Feeling the heat of the workers’ stares, lift the edge of the bowl to my face and take a sip before spitting out the liquid in an effort to expel its rusty aftertaste from my mouth, but it lingers on my taste buds, refusing to wane away. The maggot still squirms in its putrid broth, angered that I have disturbed its tranquil bath. I toss the bowl aside, allowing its contents to soak the grayed floorboards and drip through the tiny spaces to the silt beneath them.
This isn’t the first time have eaten a maggot, or something just as disgusting. In my sixteenth year as a recruit, we were brought into the mess hall for lunch, but instead of a substantial meal of cooked vegetables, eggs, and slices of roast beef, we found plates crawling with maggots that squirmed and wriggled as they crawled over one another, dropping onto the steel tables in an effort to escape to freedom. Our instructors patrolled the room, their hardened faces not bothering to look at us as we sat down in front of the plates infested with the very things that infest carcasses, our faces twitching in refusal to touch the slimy grubs.
“What are you waiting for?” yelled Molers’ voice over the quiet whispering of grumbling recruits. “Are you not hungry?”
We knew what was expected of us. If we wished to escape this place, this new torment by our instructors, we had to eat the maggots, another test of our willingness to overcome our fears, endure something we find abhorrent, or face the consequences. One recruit pushed his plate of squirming garbage disposals and stood up, refusing to endure another moment of humiliation. Molers grinned when he did, and we all knew that deleterious smile of his well; he enjoyed making examples of recruits who refused to follow his instructions. He stormed over to the recruit with such speed that none of us had time to react, and kicked the feet of the recruit out from under him, forcing him back into the chair where Molers held him down while seizing a fistful of maggots and shoving them into the recruit’s mouth. Seconds crawled by as Molers forced the wriggling monsters into the recruit’s mouth with him choking and coughing, his arms flailing in an effort to get Molers off him, to no effect. The singular tap of a baton against metal rang over the room, stopping Molers as another instructor motioned for him to release the recruit. Angered, but not daring to go against a higher-ranking officer, Molers stepped away, squashing the maggots that had escaped to the floor as he eyed each of us.
“If you wish to leave here,” his voice bellowed, causing us to shrink under its wrath, “you will eat eve
ry last one of these maggots until none remain!”
That day, I shoved the repulsive horde of writhing larvae into my mouth, not bothering to chew as I swallowed, feeling them squirm as they went down and attempt to crawl back up out of my esophagus. Little by little, the maggots disappeared down our gullets and I joined my recruits in the bathrooms later that day, leaning over a toilet and throwing up the grubs, repulsed as I watched them swim in the latrine’s mixture of water and bile.
As the unpleasant memory fades, and I empathize with the workers being forced to consume something that even the rodents refused to call edible. I motion for the man behind the cauldron to step aside, and I take a step back, lift my left leg, and kick the pot of filth over, watching as the filmy liquid washes over the dingy floorboards, seeping through the cracks, and disappearing, leaving only the writhing mess of maggots as they twist and turn in agitation. Bewildered faces stare at me, watching every move I make, saddened that they will not be allowed to eat, even if their meal consists of questionable water that looks more like in belongs in a latrine and the dwellers of dirt and rotting flesh.
“Follow me,” I say to them, my voice even and tight. After a few steps, I pause, realizing that no one has fallen in behind me. “Well?”
Two jump at my command and trail behind me, bowls in hand, as I march to the other end of the compound where the arbiters enjoy a lavish meal, and as the other workers overcome their fears and doubts, they join their compatriots. The guards on duty turn toward us, ready to order the workers back to their side of the camp, but my refusal to acknowledge their presence, stops them; they know they must keep the workers in line, but they are aware that I am not to be questioned, so they allow me to be the one to break protocol, knowing that it is my ass in the end. Feet wrapped in the leather remains of what had once been shoes, kept together by pieces of cloth, stride across the black soil mixed with ore and nails that poke out of the ground waiting to strike any unfortunate enough to step on them. When we reach the eating area of the arbiters, the laughter stops as their confused and irritated expressions glare back at us, but I march through them, ignoring the wall of black faces and uniforms that try to stop me.
“What is the meaning of this?” demands Commandant Gant.
“Commandant Gant,” I say, my voice stern as I speak over him, acting as though his words are nothing more than a mere annoyance, “it appears that you do not understand my orders, so allow me to demonstrate.” I keep my shoulders erect and my hardened gaze fixed upon the commander, copying a technique that I have witnessed Commander Vye use all too often. “Fill their bowls,” I say to the cook as his mouth hangs open and a spoon dangles in his loosened grip, threatening to drop to the ground, while he watches me, unsure of what to do.
“Now, see—”
“It appears that you do not understand what I meant when I said that the workers are to be fed,” I say, interrupting the commander’s attempt at chastising me and snatch a bowl form the hands of one of the workers and shove it into his. “Eat it,” I say, unnerved at how much I sound like Molers at this very moment, but remain firm in my resolve to reprimand the commander, knowing that I will have earned his hatred, a common thing among arbiters.
He looks at it, not wanting to do as I have ordered.
“If you think this is fit for consumption, then eat it,” I growl into his ear, “and then we will see the ones under your command eat it as well.”
He lifts it to his lips, his venomous eyes wishing that I would die a horrible death; he just may get his wish, considering the volatile nature of an arbiter’s existence. Only a few drops of the filmy liquid enter his mouth before the commander spits it out, coughing and gagging from its putrefaction, and I would not be surprised if they had taken that water from a pool that had a corpse rotting in it.
“They are to be fed,” I say to Commandant Gant, “and by the same food that you give your arbiters. If you refuse to eat it, then why should anyone else be forced to?”
“I don’t recall seeing you eat their meal,” Commandant Gant challenges me, and I notice Renal stand up from where he had been hiding amongst them, his ever watchful gaze focused on us.
I snatch another bowl from one of the workers, still filled with the stomach-churning soup and drain it in one gulp, forcing myself to swallow it while refusing to show hesitation to the piece of human garbage standing before me, my eyes never wavering from his smug face. As the seconds pass between us, purposeful clomps radiate over the area as Renal walks up to us, standing behind me.
“You have your orders, commander,” he says, his voice low but with a slight edge to it.
Commandant Gant steps back, salvaging what dignity he has left. “What are you waiting for?” he yells at the cook, who jumps from the commander’s harsh tone. “Feed them!”
I watch as Commandant Gant storms through the crowd and disappears into the fading light, catching a quick glimpse of Trevors, who turns away the moment he notices me looking at him. Feeling uncomfortable with all the faces gaping at me, and knowing that the only reason Commandant Gant obeyed me was because of Renal’s presence, wondering, once again, if there is more to Renal than just an arbiter assigned to the eastern sector, I stalk out of the eating area, desperate to get away from everyone and their accusatory stares. My feet charge into the ever-growing darkness that envelops the mines, hurrying away from the crowded area filled with strangers and leading me up a steep slope. Unable to breathe, I push myself harder. My foot slips in the loose gravel on the hill, forcing me to my hands and knees, but I jump back up and continue my trek up the slope away from the judgmental faces and the constant watch over my actions, wishing I was back in the eastern sector under Commander Vye’s tutelage, relegated to following orders instead of issuing commands. I miss the days of wandering through the wildlands with Chase. Though we struggled to understand one another, it was simpler when it was just him and me fighting to survive.
I reach the top and suck in a lungful of fresh air, not the stale, dust-filled breaths that cause one to choke, but invigorating crisp air that beckons me to leave all this behind and seek a new life elsewhere; but where would I go? I look around at the bushes surrounding me, their limbs only half-alive with faded, wrinkled leaves poking out, their edges browned. Arel looms in the distance, while sparkling lights catch my attention, and I watch them flicker, performing a sort of dance as people retire for the night, secure behind the walls of Arel. I imagine the arbiters along the wall, pacing back and forth in a feeble attempt to remain awake, when deep down all they want is to be in their own beds like everyone else. A low noise, reminding me of the white noise that fills my ears every so often, rises in the night. Curious, I search the star-filled sky, hoping to find the source of the noise, straining my eyes to see anything that doesn’t belong. The noise grows stronger. My heart beats faster from the anticipation of learning the source of the sound just when the three Arelian aircraft appear, zipping overhead and speeding toward the black horizon, away from the city, while I spin on my heels, trying to track them. Where are they going?
Gravel crunches behind me. I whirl around, ready to defend myself from an attack and stop the moment Chase’s face materializes from the shadows. Unable to control my excitement upon seeing him, and forgetting that unwanted eyes might be watching us, I run to him, embracing him and glad when he puts his strong arms around me, not caring that silt covers them.
“Gwen…” he begins.
“She’s fine,” I whisper. “Sheila is watching over her, while I’m here.” Silent moments pass between us before I speak the question on my mind. “Why are you here? You should be in the agricultural sector.”
“I never made it there,” Chase replies, his voice distant.
What? I know that an arbiter’s recommended punishment does not have to be approved by the Ministry of Justice, but this punishment does not fit his offence. If he stays here much longer, he could die and… My trail of thought ceases when I realize that, until now, Faya had bee
n the only person whom I was ever concerned about losing, but the thought of never seeing Chase again sickens me.
“What are you doing here?” asks Chase.
“I’ve been sent here by President Tapiwa to see why this mine’s production quotas are low.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” says Chase.
“None of this makes sense,” I reply. I know that there is no reason for a low-ranking arbiter such as myself to be given this amount of responsibility, not unless there was another purpose behind it; but I know the price of failure. “But I have to see it through.”
“You’re not exactly making friends,” Chase chuckles.
“Arbiters do not have the luxury of friends.” As a rule, we don’t. Sometimes, an arbiter will find one or two they can trust, but, even then, we have to be careful. “Arbiters cannot trust anyone.”
Chase places a gentle finger underneath my chin—its shedding skin scratches mine—forcing my eyes to look into his gray ones. “I will never betray you.”
A single tear escapes the corner of my right eye, despite my mental commands that it stop, and Chase wipes it away with his thumb.
“I thought I lost you in the trial of fears,” he says.
Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2) Page 16