My head begs for relief from the imaginary sledgehammers boring into it as my mind regains consciousness, and I open my eyes, blinking three times in an effort to focus them and clear the dust from them. Echoes from the attack above reach me, but I feel as though I am far away from it, as though a fog has enveloped me, shielding me from it. I wriggle my fingers and toes, satisfied that I can still move, despite the earthquake in my head. Twisting around, I realize that I have somehow gotten thrown back into the back and I am laying sprawled across it with my legs tangled up on the top of the seat near the rear window with my head near the footwell. Groaning from the pain in my skull, I maneuver myself, swinging my legs downward as I position myself right side up, taking a moment to pause as blood flows from my head to the rest of my body, and a tiny bit of dizziness wafts around me, dissipating in seconds, but the pain remains, making me wish the blood vessels would quit pulsating in my temple.
I place my arms on the seat in front of me and haul myself forward, crying out and falling backward as a crippling, stabbing pain seizes my left side. The fog surrounding my brain vanishes, allowing me to feel the full extent of my injuries. With shaking hands, I lift up my jacket and shirt, revealing a massive bruise, the size of two fists, and as I press my fingers against my ribs, I wince, taking in a sharp breath; my ribs are bruised at the very least, maybe even broken. Again, I place my hands on the top of the seat in front of me, forcing myself to ignore the pain like I have been conditioned to do, and haul myself over it and into the front next to the deceased driver. Taking a moment to steady my breathing, I spot the driver's sidearm and seize it, unstrapping its holster from around his waist and place it around mine, wincing as each movement reminds me of my unknown injuries. Though I know that I have the possibility of a cracked rib, there may still be other injuries as well: the silent, fatal kind.
Crunching brush alerts me to another's presence and I crouch behind the dashboard. A figure moves through the trees and underbrush, not bothering to practice any form of stealth, and as I peer closer, I spot the white skin and ragged clothing; the plebeian boy has been sent down to assist me. Before I have a chance to call out to him to be quiet, I sneeze, and the congestion in my sinuses clears for a moment, alerting me to another problem: gas. I glance in the side mirror and curse as I notice gasoline spurting from the tank, admonishing myself for not being aware of this earlier. One spark and we are both dead.
I turn the handle to the passenger door and push against it, but it refuses to budge and allow me to escape. The puddle of gasoline grows. I need to get out. I bring my feet up and kick at the passenger door, and continue kicking it, until it hangs open enough where I know I will fit, and crawl through it, clinging to it the moment I get out. The transport has landed just a few feet away from another drop off. I lean forward a little to glance downward at the tops of the trees and their wide, emerald fronds and the faint mist that envelops them, obscuring the bottom of the gorge and the soft roar below. Is there a river nearby? I try to envision the landscape around me and my place within it, but the pervasive smell of gasoline, jerks me back to my current predicament.
More crunching brush distracts me and I watch as the plebeian boy—Chase? Is that his name?—runs toward me. The fool! Does he not smell the gas? Easing my way around the door, while gripping it as tight as I can to avoid slipping on the loose, mushy soil, I inch my way to the front of the vehicle and onto more solid ground. I have no time to rest or be relieved that I have escaped what could have been my coffin, for the plebeian boy races for me unaware of the danger that awaits.
"Stop!" I shout at him, waving my arms, but he ignores me and continues, while the skirmish above us rages, unconcerned about our plight.
A single zap confirms my worst fear. Knowing I have no choice, I sprint away from the transport, catching the plebeian boy around the middle, doing my best to force him to turn around, but he stumbles, causing me to fall as well. Another spark lights up above the puddle of gas, igniting it. Before I have a chance to regain my balance, both the plebeian and I slide toward the drop off, propelled by the force of the explosion, and disappear over it, plunging to an unknown fate.
I gasp as I strike hard ground and continue to roll downward. I do my best to tuck and roll, but the force of gravity negates my efforts. Bits of dirt fly everywhere, surrounding me, clogging my ears and getting inside my mouth as my world spins, and I hear nothing but the sounds of my grunting and groaning as twigs snap beneath me. A searing pain grips my right leg, and despite me crying out, I never hear it as it is masked by my continued tumble down the steep hill.
The ground vanishes beneath me. I feel as though I am hanging in the air, until I drop, whipped by the wind, before smashing into something hard that gives way underneath me and covers me, drenching my clothes and my hair. I have fallen in a river. I manage to break through the surface of the water long enough to take a deep breath, before being sucked under again by the current as it whisks me away, twisting and turning me in so many directions that I have no idea which way it up or down, as the foamy water fills my ears with its roar, encasing me in a dark and soundless bubble. I kick my legs and I am struck by an intense pain. I open my mouth to cry out, only to find myself choking on frigid water instead, coughing, sputtering, and inhaling more water, despite my attempts to breathe air.
Someone tries to grab me, but I push him away, thinking that he is a threat. I thrust my arms downward, propelling myself upward and out of the water long enough for me to hear a voice shout at me.
"Grab my hand!"
A part of my mind realizes that the plebeian boy is still with me, and it is him yelling at me to take his hand. I fling my arm outward and he seizes it, gripping it in his muscled and callous hand as he hauls me toward him, while he uses his other arm to swim for the riverbank. I try to kick in an effort to help swim, but my right leg does not want to cooperate, and each movement sends a shooting pain up it, causing my injured side to ache even more—a momentary relief from the constant pain I am in. Water gushes over my nose and mouth, forcing me to gag and cough; my convulsions make swimming to shore more difficult. Despite the trouble my actions pose, the plebeian manages to reach the riverbank and drags me onto the moist sand. Bits of it get into the tops of my pants, grating my skin, but I do not care, thankful to be able to breathe without water finding its way down into my lungs. A few more rounds of coughing and I am able to breathe better, but all the relief from that brings is an acute awareness that my leg sits at an odd angle, and the massive bruise on my side beneath my ribs has turned a shade darker.
The plebeian boy lays next to me, gasping for air, no doubt exhausted from having saved both of us, but his presence so close to mine disgusts me. He should not be laying on the ground, but looking for survivors of the attack, or at the very least, getting me something to drink, since my parched throat has decided to make itself known.
"Fetch me some water," I command him.
"Are you kidding me?"
I smack him for his insolence, my reflexive action indicative of what I have always been taught.
He jumps back, but refuses to rub his cheek where my hand has left a mark, glaring at me instead. "If you please, ma'am," he says in a controlled voice, "how am I supposed to do that."
I release an exasperated sigh. "Use one of those broad leaves from the trees. Cup your hands if you must."
He glances at the leaves on the nearby trees which hang over the river, either unaware of our plight, or unconcerned, and sets his mouth in a firm line, as though he hadn't thought of using one of them as a way to hold water. I watch, doing my best not to disturb my leg or side, as he climbs up the trunk of one of the trees, reaches for one of the larger leaves, and jumps to the ground, breaking the frond free of its hold. He twists it into a cone as he steps toward the water, kneeling down and allowing the river to fill it, remaining there as he drinks his fill.
Aghast at how he ignores my need to drink, I struggle to get up, but fall back into the sand cringing in pain. "What are you doing?" I demand.
"Getting a drink," he replies as though it should be obvious.
"Bring me some water this instant."
His empty hand clenches into a fist, but I ignore his irritated demeanor, focusing more on the makeshift cup in his hand that has just been refilled with water. Doing his best not to spill it, he brings it over to me, and though he tries to lower it so that I can take a sip, most of the water tumbles from the cone, covering my face and chest.
"Look what you've done!" I yell at him.
"It was an accident."
Again, he speaks to me as though we are equals. I raise my fist and prepare to strike him, but he catches it in midair, striking me off-guard as no plebeian has ever done such a thing before. It is not allowed.
"Bring me some more water, now," I say.
He drops my fist and the leaf cone, saying, "No."
No? He is refusing my command? "I order you to fetch me some more water."
"Get it yourself." The plebeian boy walks off into the trees, leaving me alone on the riverbank with the few birds I hear singing, the trees, and the river for company, all of them mocking me. I listen as his footsteps fade and all my haughtiness and desire to prove my dominance disappears. Cut off from the people in the transport, and having no idea where I am, I am on my own for survival, but my injuries may just kill me before morning. As my mind wanders into the realm of self-pity, I scold myself, reminding myself that I am an arbiter, trained to be strong and to survive, so as to protect Arel: my city. If I die out here, how will I serve my city? As I ask myself that question, my heart sinks, remembering the outposts Commander Vye and I have visited and the impression they gave, telling me that Arel ignores those outside her walls. I am on my own.
Determined to not go out without a fight, I seize the makeshift cup and force myself onto my stomach, steeling myself for the pain that follows, and grinding my teeth together in an effort to not cry out; though, a few guttural noises do break free from my mouth. Using my one good leg and arms, I crawl toward the river, while my damaged leg screams at me to stop, begging for some relief from the pain that grips it, and judging by the sluggishness it displays, I conclude that it has swollen a great deal; hence, why I am unable to bend it very well. The sounds of the river grow louder as I inch my way for it and lean over the bank, staring at the small waves as the water rushes past below me, unconcerned about my presence. Thankful that I have long arms, I reach down and fill the cone before bringing it to my cracked lips and drink the satisfying liquid in one gulp. I scoop up some more water, devouring that as well.
A shiver runs over my shoulders, and for the first time, I notice that the sky is darkening. Though it can be sweltering during the day, temperatures can drop at night, and to avoid hypothermia, I will need to find some means of staying warm, though I think most of my shivering means my body is going into shock. I wobble on my stomach as I turn myself around and crawl to the tree line where I spot some underbrush, leaving a mangled line in the sand, reminiscent of the trails left by worms in the dirt. When I reach the edge of the trees, I pause, sucking in air in an effort to soothe my burning lungs, while the pain in my leg and side continue to tear at my resolve to survive. A branch shifts, and I think I see a faint shadow dart away, but cannot be certain. Is someone out there?
"Hello?" I call. "Chase?"
I know that I spoke the plebeian's name on the off-chance that he is still nearby and would come back and help me, but when no one responds, I am not surprised, and somewhat relieved. What if a raider is out here, biding his time for the perfect moment to kill me, or make me his slave? Deciding that there is little I can do about it if someone is out there studying me, I inch my way further into the brush and pull it over myself, covering my entire body as best I can, even scooping some dirt over me, hoping that it will act as insulation and keep my body heat contained. My eyes grow heavy after I finish, and I lie on the ground, staring through the latticed canopy at the deep purple sky above me, wondering if I will wake up the next morning, but my desire to remain awake is weaker than my body's insistence that I sleep, so I give in.
A fitful sleep dominates my night as unwanted dreams of the attack, my time at the factory and maternity ward, the riots, and my uncertain future attack me, taunting me, beckoning me to follow them into some dark abyss of nonexistence. A hand touches my shoulder, jerking me awake, and I snatch the weapon I had taken from the dead transport driver and point it at the person who dared to touch me in my moment of weakness. My eyes meet the plebeian's. What color are they?
"It's me!" he says, falling on his bottom in an effort to get away from my crazed expression and weapon.
I relax a little, but remain uncertain of his motives, or why he came back. "I thought you had gone."
"I came back."
"Why?" I demand, not bothering to disguise the anger or arrogance in my voice.
The plebeian glances around and shifts his hand to readjust his balance as he remains on the ground, wondering what I intend to do with my pistol, but his fingers rattle something, and for the first time, I realize there is a flask in the dirt next to us.
"Well?" I prod him.
"Because I will not be allowed back into Arel if I allow a citizen to die out here, and an arbiter at that."
"So, you need me to get back home."
His eyes turn to slits. "We need each other."
I scoff at his statement, though I know he is correct; there is just one problem: no one is looking for me. I remember my lessons well as a recruit, and one of those lessons was about how those who get lost outside the wall are left to die. There are stories that arbiters whisper to one another when they think no one is listening, stories about how some among us were sent outside the wall, either on patrol or to one of the outposts, but never made it back home, having gotten separated from their unit, only to disappear in the wilderness beyond. No search parties were sent, nor was such a notion considered.
"If you are strong and worthy, then you will survive and find your way back. If not, then you will perish," Molers' voice echoes in my mind as I remember one of his many lessons, and this specific instance centered upon a single recruit asking about an arbiter, one whom had decided to initiate the Rite of Conquest—an act where an arbiter challenges a superior officer—and was said to have gone missing beyond the wall. Most arbiters initiate the challenge in the hope of gaining a higher rank or better assignment within Arel, but the challenge can be made for any reason and is one of the few rights that arbiters have. "The weak must be weeded out," Molers' voice finishes in my head.
Therein lies my dilemma. No one will come searching for me. If I tell this plebeian this, he will leave me here to perish, but if I keep this a secret, he will find out at some point when it becomes evident that no one in Arel cares if I am missing. This is to be another testament of my strength and will as an arbiter to prove that I am fit to protect Arel. The only problem is, I need this plebeian to survive out here because I will not get far on a broken leg.
"Plebeian..."
"Chase," he interrupts me.
"What?"
"You know my name, and you know that it is Chase."
Though I do not appreciate being spoken to in such a manner by him, I am in no position to argue. "Very well... Chase... there is something you should know."
A quizzical expression clouds his face at the change in the tone of my voice.
"No one is going to come looking for us."
"Of course they will."
"No, they won't."
He looks into my hardened eyes and the truth of what I have told him strikes him as his disbelief morphs into concern. "Then, how..."
"I'll have to"—his expression sours as I speak—"we'll have to find our way back to Arel."
"So, you know the way back."
That is another problem. I have never been outside the wall and relied on those who drove the transport vehicles to navigate the area and know where to go, and since I had been stuck in the back of the transport, I did not get to see enough of the surrounding area to get my bearings.
"You do know the way back?"
"No."
"Perfect. Don't they teach you people tracking and survival?"
"How dare you question the training of our arbiters! I may not know for certain the way back to Arel, but I can find my way to one of our outposts, and they will get us back home. You insolent..."
I try to stand up, allowing my anger at being questioned to force me to forget that I cannot walk, and the moment I put weight on my injured leg, I crash back into the dirt crying out in agony.
"Stay still, you idiot!"
Out of reflex, I raise my hand to strike him, but he catches my fist in midair and the vehement look in his eyes tells me not to do it again. I jerk my arm free, saying, "You'll have to set the bone."
His furious expression turns to worry. "How?"
"We'll need some sticks or anything that can be used as a splint to keep me from bending my leg. And we'll need rope of some kind. Those vines might work."
He gets up and wanders into the wooded area, searching for fallen limbs that are sturdy enough to be used as a splint. Minutes tick by as he picks up a few and tests them, before tossing them aside. One breaks the moment he touches it and I imagine my leg doing the same when we hit the water of the river yesterday. Soon, he finds two staff-sized branches, which must have come from the upper part of the trees, and sets them next to me, hurrying off to tackle the vines, ripping one from its hold and the strength of his muscles astonishes me. When he finishes, he coils the vine next to the wood and stares at me, waiting for the next set of instructions.
"Find something sharp. You'll have to tear the pants leg away," I tell him.
He does not question me, nor does he get insulted as I issue my command, knowing that setting my broken bone has to be done if we hope to get out of here. He searches the ground for something, leaving me to wonder what he is doing, picking up rock after rock before finding one that he likes and hurries back, using its sharpened edge to cut away my pants leg, exposing the swollen, black and blue skin on my calf and the small bump that indicates where the bone has broken.
"Feel where the bone has broken?"
The pleb—Chase gives me an inquisitive look.
"Feel my leg."
He runs his calloused hand over my lower leg and his expression changes when he feels the area where the bone has snapped. "I..."
"You'll have to push it back in place."
"I'm not a doctor."
I glance away from my leg and stare at him and the genuine concern in his eyes. Neither one of us is a doctor, and this is not an ideal situation, but I know that the bone must be set, or I risk losing my leg from the infection that will set in. Every recruit receives basic medical training—most of which consists of treating infections, tending cuts, sprains, and a broken bone—as part of their survival course. This is all I have to fall back on and my leg needs to be set, or I face amputation, and if I'm fortunate, I'll die out here instead. The crematorium awaits arbiters who are incapable of performing their duties and I have never seen one who was missing their leg.
"Look," I say to him, "we cannot stay out here, but I cannot move unless this bone is set. Otherwise, you might as well just kill me right now."
The plebeian's surprised eyes stare back at mine as though the thought of killing me had never occurred to him.
"You have to push it back into place and hope it sets. Afterward, you will place the splints on each side of my leg, tying the vine around it to hold it still."
Silence looms between us as his mouth forms a grim, but determined, line and he places both his hands where the protruding bump is, which is also the warmest part of my leg, and presses against it, putting all of his weight on it until a loud, crackling pop sounds. I have no time to register the bone-chilling sound, for at that precise moment, agony engulfs my lower leg and I scream from the torment, unable to keep it in, but he ignores my outcry as he sets the splints and wraps the vine around my calf, securing it in a firm bind, but not so tight that it cuts off the circulation. After he finishes, I stare at my leg, wishing for the agony to leave me alone when a knot forms in my throat from lack of water.
"Give me some water," I order him. "Please," I add when he crosses his arms in irritation.
He scoops up the flask and hands it to me. "It had water in it when I found it."
I snatch it from him, popping the top off, and take two big gulps of water before replacing the lid. "Thank you, plebe—" I cut myself off, remembering that I had agreed to refer to him by his name. "Thank you, Chase."
"You're welcome," he says in a dry tone, matching the same one I had just used when thanking him, an idea so foreign to me that I am surprised I managed it. "We need to get you out of here."
He wraps my arm around his shoulder and lifts me up on my remaining good leg, supporting me while I try to hop, as I am unable to put any weight on my injured leg.
"Does it hurt that bad?" he asks, concerned when I wince from the effort of standing.
"My leg isn't the only thing that I injured," I reply, as a sharp pain in my side reminds me of the bruise there and the possibility of a cracked rib. "Don't worry about it. We need to get going."
"Where to?"
"Where it all started. Where we were attacked."