A Solution Through Shadows Chapter II

Oren likened the mines of Caladh to an ugly scab. A blotch on the mountain beside the uniformity of the Market and Housing Districts.

He made his way through winding paths and mismatched wooden housing propped wherever space was available. Many men, furrowed-browed humans or the clay-like humanoids, marched towards the mine with their pickaxes in hand.

Ignoring the people, Oren kept a hand on his bag, swinging with his stride as he watched the shadows cast by the houses for the cutpurses watching him. Oren caught a glimpse of birds feasting upon a body, and turned his attention to the rocky path, steeling his nerves.

Into the mountain was a hole dug over the centuries, and it held Oren’s attention as humanoids entered single filed. The taller ones were surrounded by others, shouting instructions or standing guard with spears, shields, and occasionally a bow and arrow wandering through the proceedings.

The wide, exposed, wooden tower stood tall against the sky as the shapeshifting humanoids climbed and descended. Oren took the stairs up, checking his pa-per for the name as the miners moved around him without comment.

At the tallest floor of the tower, Oren looked to the men gathered around a table with papers spread out or stacked in piles.

“We can’t afford to be late on this payment. Commander Richard expects the ore smelted and fixed for his weapons. King Cenheald wants to reinforce his gates, and Lord Rey demands stock to be readied by Leaf’s Fall!”

“There’s not enough manpower to make it, though! Not with ‘at plague hammerin’ on us.”

“We’ll ‘ave to work with what men we do,”

Oren coughed, drawing the attention of their beady-eyed masks, all sporting different designs, and expressions.

“I've got a delivery for Therm?” Oren rechecked his list, and back to their bodies, shifting towards the humanoid in the corner, excusing himself around the table.

“Good of Wilfred to get ‘round to us,” Therm reached for his side and uncovered a purse from his body, dumping some coin into his hand. Oren glanced at Therm’s rigged mask, sporting one hole for an eye he couldn’t see.

“That ilvanous in the Market District is too far in Rey’s pocket to help us seffas.”

Pulling out a thinner bag from his leather one, Oren accepted the coin as he passed the package to Therm.

“I can’t guarantee Wilfred will be as fast, the next time you request herbs,” Oren admitted, pocketing the coin and eyeing the men around the floor. “Though, the Minin’ District hasn’t been as bad as the Housin’ and Market Districts are.”

“Right.” Therm extended out his left hand to Or-en. “Shouldn’t need more after this. Thank Wilfred for the herbs …. What's ya name?”

Oren hesitated for a moment before reaching out to shake the clay limb, uncomfortable in the unusual way the seffas greeted. “Oren.”

“Then, thanks to ya’ too, Oren.” Therm waved him off, returning to the table as the seffas eyed the hu-man with skepticism.

Oren nodded to the rest of them, and made his way to the Market District, marching up the gray mountainside, hand covering the purse holding the day’s profits.

Clearing the top of the Mining District, Oren met the tightly grouped houses that sat next to one another without space to go between them. Oren took a breath of the clearer air as an occasional hacking from the opened windows and cries of pain made him debate this thought.

He came across a few humans, dressed in richer tunics and dresses, walking the paths and regarded Oren with caution, and upturned noses.

Oren paid them no attention, but focused on a tall, gray stone wall further up the mountain. He recalled how smooth the stone was, impossible to climb up with-out hammering footholds to grab on. Beyond which, tall trees grew farther up until clouds covered them.

The wall conjoined with a tall, black tower bearing down on a square where vendors lined around the perimeter with few humanoids to inspect the goods of the bored merchants eyeing their prey with an open mouth.

It amused Oren, as did the line of armored, hu-man soldiers with gray diamonds emblazoned on their surcoats, guarding a large, wooden archway with swords on their belts, shields in hand, and bouncing on their feet at the foot of the tower. Oren averted his gaze to a side street across the one he came up from, then to the central, expansive road that would lead him back to Wilfred’s home.

Tapping his booted foot to the ground as the time passed, Oren counted his purse several times to ensure the customers had paid their amounts. He frowned after the fifth time, darting his attention between the two paths for Jaye.

“Did Melisende catch you?” Oren sighed, starting down the mountain on the central road, hoping he would cross paths with Jaye.

He turned back to the street of their home, marked with a weathered sign of a painted, green leaf and knocked on the door.

“Jaye?” Oren called out, blinking to adjust to the sudden shade, and wrinkle his nose at the smell of the smoke. He took his bag off his shoulder and tossed it onto the desk.

“All finished, Oren?”

Oren settled his adjusted sight on Wilfred, hunched over a fireplace, tending to a large pot in his ragged tunic, sipping out of his cup as the other hand stirred the pot’s contents.

“Jaye hasn’t come home yet, has she?” Oren asked, pulling his purse away from his belt and laid it on the wooden table.

Wilfred frowned, a sinking pit forming in Oren’s stomach as he recalled Jaye fanning her face and what he had said to her earlier. “Not since the two o’ you left. You haven’t seen her since?”

Oren furrowed his brow. “She’d have been finished by the time I made it to the Minin’ District. Though she got fed up waitin’.”

The old man widened his eyes, dropping the ladle to run a hand through his receding hair and took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have let her go out with how she was feelin’.”

Without another word, Oren ran out the door, down the street, and back up the mountain where Jaye’s route was.

Muscles burned as Oren ran across the rising cobblestone streets and road in his search, but he disregarded the pain with each pass made, eyeing any suspicious humanoids.

“Oren!”

Oren turned to the call of a short girl with short black hair, chain mail, and the gray-diamond surcoat crashing into him.

“Melisende?” Oren gasped as he stepped back, holding onto the girl with worried, gray eyes and pointed in the direction she ran from.

“Jaye.” She struggled to say, tugging on Oren’s arm. “She collapsed!”

Oren’s gut sank as he followed Melisende down a few streets before spotting a crowd of humanoids.

“Move!” he shouted, spooking the men and women away from the person of interest; Jaye struggling to breathe.

“Careful, she’s caught the plague,” one of the women called out as Oren kneeled beside her.

“Was she like this when you found her?” Oren asked Melisende, reaching for the bag beside his friend and found it empty before checking her hip for the coin purse. Still present on her belt and filled with coin.

“I met up with Jaye sometime before,” Melisende said as she kneeled beside Oren. “She complained about havin’ a hard time breathin’. Is it the plague?”

Oren groaned scooping Jaye into his arms, prompting the crowd to steer clear of him, and heaving as he carried the girl.

“What are you goin’ to do?” Melisende walked alongside Oren, but the man stopped and turned to the concerned soldier, mouth hung agape. “Jaye said her father didn’t have much of the herbs left.”

“Wilfred should still have somethin’,” Oren muttered, glancing at Jaye’s reddened face turned into his chest, narrowing his brow to Melisende. “Thanks for gettin’ me, but I don’t think Jaye and your brother would appreciate you gettin’ sick from her. Go wash up. Jaye’s not goin’ to die … too strong-willed to let that happen. I’ll tell you how she’s doing later, okay?”

Melisende hesitated for a moment before step-ping back. “Yeah, come find me when you know how she’s doin’.”

“I will,” Oren said as he started to run again, around the streets and buildings in a streamlined thought, until he came to the herbalist's shop.

“Wilfred!” Oren called out through the window, going back to the door and banged it with his foot.

The door flew open, the wide-eyed Wilfred beside it as he ushered them in.

“Was she attacked?” Wilfred asked as Oren labored through the hallway and pushed a door open with his foot. Behind the door Jaye’s bed beckoned.

“The errands were finished. Nothing was stolen.” Oren laid Jaye on the bed, careful with her head as she mumbled through her labored breathing. “Melisende led me to her, and I’m sure she wouldn’t have let anythin’ happen to Jaye willin’ly. But … there were whispers of her havin’ contracted the plague.”

He turned to Wilfred grimacing as he pressed a hand to Jaye’s forehead.

“Go to the garden,” Wilfred managed. “Scrounge the herbs of everythin’ they have. But do so carefully. If you kill those plants today, we may not be able to break the strain with what we have tomorrow.”

Oren nodded, sprinting out of Jaye’s room, and grabbing his bag to leave the shop once more.

He ran for the Farming District, opposite of the path he delivered on earlier towards a patch of trees where Wilfred’s garden resided, careful not to run through the fields or through other gardens lest he face charges from the law. Oren stopped short of a patch of familiar greens, racking his memory for the list of herbs Wilfred needed.

Collapsing to the dirt, Oren regarded each leaf and flower, fumbling for his pair of scissors. And with each plant passed, Oren heart raced, his hand shook harder, and his focus blurrier in his struggle to finding the ample amount of herbs to help Jaye when he finished his scouring.

“Damn you, Ban Dia,” Oren growled, running a hand through his hair scanning through the garden again, gazing to the others nearby that had the herbs Oren needed. One, in particular brimming with the stock Oren needed, swaying in the breeze that belonged to the herbalist in the Market District.

Oren grabbed at his head, a nagging guilt starting to tug at Oren’s thoughts and bring an ache to his heart. He sulked away from them, hiking up the mountain and back to Wilfred’s home.

“There wasn’t much.” Oren pulled the herbs from his bag and laid them on Wilfred’s table as the old man boiled water.

“I didn’t expect there to be,” Wilfred admitted as he grabbed the herbs and tossed them into his pestle. “But Sylvan probably has some left in his stores that I can work or pay for. I’ll give her some of the echinacea tincture in the morn before I go up.”

“He’s too expensive, there’s gotta be another way.” Oren fell into a chair, thinking of the stick-thin, fuzzy ilvanous as Wilfred worked, his chest aching harder from before.

“I don’t have many options, Oren, and I’ll do what’s possible to save my daughter. While we wait, we’ll just pray to Ban Dia.”

Oren bit his tongue at the mentioning of Ban Dia, picking at his chin as he thought to the other gardens.

“How much more do you think you’ll need to save Jaye?”

“Maybe a pound,” Wilfred muttered as he left the table to grab a cup. “Quality is a big issue; I need fresh ingredients.”

The guilt resonated.

“Sylvan has what I need, anyway. His herbs are of the best in Caladh, so the price is high for a reason. But he’s not around to ask, in the middle of a meetin’ with Lord Rey, so I’ll go talk to him tomorrow. And you’ll need to watch Jaye and the store when I’m out.”

Oren looked away from Wilfred, gripping at the table with the guilt and ache in his chest resonating harder.