A Solution Through Shadows Chapter XI

The numbing poison dissipated as the sky turned orange some time earlier. Oren continued to run his course, unable to find evidence suggesting Kentigern used a tunnel close to the wall.

“Gotta be in the fields.” Oren huffed as he took a small break to collect himself.

He thought the commander had been devising a plan to capture him since the call to arrest was made. What strategy they intended to resort to, Oren couldn’t guess. More men tried their luck after the Sergeant, from a distance, and failed to bring down the criminal running along the wall.

Footsteps, in a building cadence, brought Oren’s attention to a line of Vanguard marching towards him across the path with shields linked together.

Oren glanced to the field of crops before him, presuming the commander would attempt to box him into an execution. He forced his tired limbs forward and ran the path, and the line hurried their pace in a resonating metal march.

Several more fields passed by until he came across an opposing blockade. His eyes glance to the side, where men stepped out of the crop, shrouded field to form the shield wall as the men from behind completed the box.

“There’s nowhere to run now, Oren.” A human male’s voice directed Oren’s attention to the center where a man with short, black hair stood behind the line of men. “We grow tired o’ your game.”

Oren relaxed, stepping toward the line of men opposing him.

“I’m tired too, Captain,” Oren admitted. “All I’m askin’ for is the commander’s ear, then I’ll accept my death. And after this long of a stretch, I’d have thought Commander Richard would oversee this execution himself since I’ve made too great of a mockery out of him not to.”

The captain, unflinching, called his men into formation, tightening the shields and kneeling as archers stepped to the windows and pulled their arrows.

“I’m not interested in wastin’ the commander’s time,” the captain said, looking back to Oren determined in his plan. “I’ll ensure you are dealt with promptly before you attract attention far worse than our own.”

Oren scoffed, bending his knees.

With a wave of his purple-banded arm, the captain’s hand shot up and drew the archers’ breath in a collective sweep. Loud enough for Oren to listen to as he charged forward.

In two counts, Oren slid to the dirt as the captain’s arm finished its descent, and the archers loosened their bows. On the ground, Oren watched the slender shafts soar above him out of harm's way before the sky cleared, and he pushed off the ground and resumed his charge.

“Phalanx: extend!”

Between the shields, spears poked through, pointing towards Oren and forced him to reconsider his approach.

“Archers: again!”

Oren snarled and charged for the line again, rolling forward as more arrows flew, unable to strike him.

“Phalanx, enclose!”

Oren backed away from the line of marching men, spears all directed to him. He scanned the closing square, with only the stone wall unmoving, prompting him to smirk.

Turning around the way he came, Oren ran at the path he had traversed from, earning the direction of the spears before pivoting and followed the other line of men parallel of the field closing in, back to the path he had yet crossed.

His eyes followed the other advance, meeting the captain’s watchful glare before Oren darted for the corner of the wall and a lone soldier stationed against it.

He made three-quarters of the way through before the captain called for the man to step back, running up and along the wall out of reach before the soldier could pull his spear up to intercept him.

Oren rolled across the ground behind the soldier and took off before the men could reposition themselves to shoot at him, disappearing into the green field to deter the archers.

A body collided into Oren, knocking the breath out of the human and onto the dirt path. Oren wrestled with his new opponent, fighting back furry hands belonging to a hooded ackan.

“You bastards again?” Oren managed to say before rolling his captor onto their back. “How many times do I have to tell you I had nothin’ to do with it!”

The ackan coughed, adjusting their sight into Oren’s eyes and caught him off guard.

A female wearing a mask over her face.

“We’ve heard it enough,” the voice came out smooth beneath the metal shroud, unlike the rasps Oren was used to. “It’s about time you were put down.”

Oren’s eyes widened, falling forward as a piercing force struck the back of his right shoulder. The impact stunned the human before another sharp blow lodged itself into Oren’s left calf.

Then his right calf. Then his left arm. Then six to his back, each eliciting a cry of pain from Oren before falling flat to the dirt, unable to move his body.

“Criminal is down, milord,” the female ackan called out, getting up from her spot.

“Good work, Libi,” a male voice came out low and smooth, like water poured into a vessel.

Oren’s vision blurred as he came face to face with a pale man, slender in the cheeks, and long, black wavy hair.

“Best we make an example out of you.”

Oren fell to the side, and watched his shadow glide across the path, as his feet dragged along the dirt.

“Milord,” the captain’s voice called out, though Oren thought it to be feeble.

“I want you and your men to escort me back to the square, Beornraed,” the man said in an even tone. “The example of this boy isn’t the only one I want to make.”

Nothing came out of the vanguard captain, listening to the dragging of his feet until they came to the cobblestone road. Soon enough, whispers and footsteps filled the ambiance, but Oren dared not look to the masses through his peripheral.

Though his body served to be unresponsive, save his eyes, Oren’s chest weighted with an overwhelming sense of humiliation burden him. He didn’t escape deeper into his thoughts to comfort himself with thoughts that would be in vain.

After some time, the ground leveled, and Oren figured the man brought him back to the square in the Market District. Coming to a stop, Oren listened to the following vanguard forming lines away from the two before heavier footsteps echoed across the square, grabbing Oren’s attention.

Armored covered feet, thicker than the other pair belonging to the one keeping him up.

“You intervened,” the gruff, guttural of the male humanoid made Oren flinch in the familiar tone of Commander Richard.

“It was necessary,” the man’s voice came out steady, but with no ease in the tone.

“Your men will give His Majesty reason to regard them a poor excuse of a defensive force for Caladh, once I report the Andubhar’s mockery by the main wall. And I’ll be bold to say he would have surpassed Libi too if the Andubhar hadn’t paused for so long.”

The commander said nothing, as the shuffling of the men charged to arrest him filled the void.

“You needed to take him down with ten arrows,” Richard remarked. “I suppose the Andubhar trained him well.”

“He managed to shake the poison off when he engaged with your son. Not a feat often, but one I’d expect the vanguard capable of if you’d actually train them.”

“That would be torture, Cyrus,” Richard growled. “Would you put yourself through the same ordeal?”

“When have you seen an aleckso struck by an arrow, Commander? Not even the heroides are capable of such a thing.”

The commander didn’t answer, stepping out of Oren’s vision. “Will you turn him to the King? Or will you do the deed yourself?”

Oren’s captor didn’t say anything, continuing to drag the human across the cobblestone.

“I’m stopping by your office tomorrow once I’ve taken care of a few matters,” the aleckso called back. “We have much to discuss.”

“Of course we do,” the commander said, though Oren noted the oozzi held onto the last vowel, as a cold, familiar chill made his eyes blink and glance to a parted guard before his surroundings grew dark.

They were in the black tower, Oren realized, where the Vanguard command resided. Whispers trailed after the duo as the aleckso made several turns in the tight hallways until they opened to a larger room.

Oren made out beds from the corner of his eyes before his body swung into the air and fell onto a bed, still stiff in the numbing paralysis.

The man left without another word, and Oren started fighting through the poison, feeling his fingers begin to twitch. His forearm moved enough to allow Oren to push himself off the bed, into an upright position.

The length of the arrows wavered as he did so. Oren struggled reaching around his body to tear the projectiles away from his calves, taking a moment from the white-flashing pain before bringing his feet to the floor.

“Aren’t you a mess.”

Oren reacted as best he could to the new, light voice by the entrance of the room, an ilvanous woman wearing a long, gray dress and bag by her side leaned against the archway. Her mouth twitched, eyes black and full that Oren couldn’t discern their character.

“With the amount of poison Cyrus lodged into you, you should be dead,” she said, walking into the room without making a sound. “But some of us naturally resist such things. Pray to Ban Dia that you were blessed with such a gift.”

Oren scowled, setting his sights to the bed in front of him as the woman walked around him.

“Don’t appreciate him leaving the bloody work to me, though,” the humanoid muttered, grazing a hand across Oren’s numbed back. “Wouldn’t mind losing some coin, for this bit.”

With a hand pressed against his back, Oren listened to the woman hiss as she wrenched the arrows out, his nerves flashed in a white-hot pain, and found himself standing before an ackan with a whip in their hand.

Oren shook his head towards the beds before him, focusing on his hands, stained with dried blood and dirt, and how muddled they are.

“Does the poison help deal with the extraction?” the woman asked in a light-hearted tone. “My brother and I try to figure out the right amount with the surgeons to numb the patients in surgeries.”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Oren managed in a low tone. “I feel each of the arrows you’re pullin’ out.”

The humanoid slowed from her practice. Oren tried to rub the dirt out of his palm.

“But not the pain, right?”

“The pain’s there,” Oren said.

“Oh,” the woman whispered before continuing the extraction.

Oren thought of what was to come, but the woman’s note of her brother left him curious.

“You’re Sylvan’s sister,” Oren guessed.

“Yeah, the name’s Watseka,” the woman said, a little distracted as she pulled another arrow. “I signed on with the vanguard when Sylvan inherited the shop as is ilvanous tradition. A good fit for him, to work as he does, rather than deal with Lord Rey’s questionable practice. I simply serve as the Vanguard’s physician to get away from Sylvan’s crowd.”

Oren flexed his left hand into a fist. “And what about that questionable practice.”

The ilvanous snorted as her hand reached for the bottom of Oren’s tunic. “Can’t say. Sylvan would lose the shop. Think you’re able to stand? Or at least unbuckle that belt so I can tend to your back?”

Oren obliged with some difficulty but brought the hem of the clothing high enough for Watseka to continue her administrations.

“Right, shouldn’t take—”

The woman stopped, but Oren didn’t react to question what she saw.

“What happened to your back?” She asked in a whisper, brushing along various places.

And still, Oren didn’t respond.

“What happened?”

“Ask Commander Richard,” Oren gave in, glancing up to the doorway. “Or your brother. I’m sure they’ll be more willin’ to tell my tale.”

“And why won’t you?” Watseka asked. “Was it so terrible, you’d rather forget?”

Oren kept his mouth shut, and Watseka continued her job, applying a salve to the tender spots of Oren’s back. Oren moved as needed, watching the entrance for the aleckso to return. Once she finished, Watseka packed her things and stepped into Oren’s vision with a concerned face.

“You don’t cry because of what happened to your back?” the ilvanous pressed, but Oren stared at her without focus, and Watseka sighed in her lingering question as she got up for the hallway.

“Cyrus wanted to inform you an attempt to escape will be futile,” Watseka said. “I think it’s bad enough that you’ve earned the aleckso’s attention. Don’t make it worse.”

Oren frowned at the familiar name. “Cyrus … what does he do?”

Watseka turned back to Oren. “I’ll tell you if you tell me why your back is covered in scars?”

Oren rolled his sight away from the ilvanous, lost in his thoughts on Cyrus.

He recalled Richard calling the aleckso who had caught him, the man in talks with one of Lord Rey’s sons about exploring Air Fhagail as the Journey-Men. Oren wondered about them, and if Cyrus and Kentigern happened to be close.