The Cure - I

[PepsiWhirda]

The food Dobson brought from Darkshire festered in Whirda's gut. She had no taste for it—indeed, it seemed with each hour that passed she grew less hungry, forcing down small portions of nuts and hard cheese only out of some twisted desire to act normally, to pretend the contagion raging inside her, consuming her bit by bit, was little more than a passing inconvenience.

Dobson returned the second day with more supplies: food, water, bedrolls. He hardly spoke, and regarded her suspiciously with eyes grown weary of a lifetime of war. It wasn't his fault, Whirda kept telling herself. He had a duty to his people he couldn't ignore. The third day, that duty—or his own apprehension—must have kept him away.

Not for the first time, Whirda thought to leave. Every moment she wasted waiting for Dobson's mysterious trio of primes, Lady Tyrande and her people suffered. Every moment she wasted, the contagion spread. She ran fevers in what fitful sleep she managed to find, dreamed of electric blue eyes smoldering in the darkness. She woke up screaming, sheathed in cold sweat, her veins black and pulsing, the cocoon of shadow rippling protectively around her.

Yet still, she waited. She tried to hold onto Dobson's words. Perhaps the Primes he spoke of truly could find a cure, bring an end to the blight and to her own suffering. In truth, it was the only hope she had.

On the fourth day, when footsteps approached, Whirda looked up expecting to see Dobson with another pack full of useless, obligatory supplies. Instead, she saw another familiar face—a face all the way back from her arrival in the Omniverse, when this accursed nightmare began.

"I know you," she croaked, her voice hoarse and reluctant from lack of use.

The boy kept his distance, regarding her from behind a pane of what appeared to be opaque glass. He was unlike anyone Whirda had seen in Faerûn, standing closer to four feet than five, with a helmet of polished metal, a gray and red uniform, and a tattered yellow scarf. An abomination of artifice replaced his left hand, bulging outward before tapering down to an open barrel, like a cannon. Although gunpowder had arrived in Faerûn just before her detour to the Omniverse, Whirda was nevertheless familiar with the ballistics of such weapons. Whatever tragedy had befallen the boy, caused him to lose his hand, it seemed he had found a happy enough compromise, turning the appendage into a formidable looking weapon.

"From the fountain," the boy confirmed. "I'm Blues. You must be Whirda Windstrom."

Whirda nodded. "I thought there were three of you."

Her words gave Blues pause. Whirda wished she could see his eyes. She hadn't meant to cause offense, but the slump in the boy's posture indicated she had.

"There have been... casualties," he said quietly. "It's only me now."

"Dobson said you know how to end the blight," Whirda said, changing the subject. "What can I do to help?"

Blues squared his shoulders and drew in a long breath. "There's an archdemon here in the moors. An agent of Diablo, I suspect; at the very least, a vestige of his reign. It controls an army of blighted creatures, operating from The Black Gate. I fear if we don't stop the archdemon, this realm and The Tangled Green will be forfeit."

"An archdemon?" Whirda echoed. "How are we supposed to fight something like that?"

"The normal way," Blues replied. He crooked his left arm at the elbow and the barrel of the cannon charged with shimmering light. The boy's lips twitched into a humorless smile.

Whirda remained silent, chewing the words. She was no stranger to the bravado of young warriors—indeed, it wasn't long ago she would have charged headlong into any conflict, regardless of the odds, trusting her warrior's cunning and the reliability of cold steel to see her through it. But things were different now. Whirda's time in The Omniverse had been nothing if not humbling to the battle-mage. In her world, the cataclysmic spell-plague had warped the landscape, tested even the mighty power of the gods, and claimed thousands in an inferno of tainted magic. Still, it seemed to pale in comparison to the horrors of Omni's twisted game. The fickle god knew no equal and treated everyone beneath his rule with equal parts amusement and disdain. In Faerûn, she had been in control of her own destiny, but here she felt like little more than a pawn in a deadly game of chess conducted by beings whose power threatened to consume her at every turn.

Still, there was no choice but to accompany Blues on his quest. If his story was true—if slaying the shade had been a futile attempt to stop the blight—, then she had failed in her mission. She owed it to Lady Tyrande and her people to see the archdemon banished and the realm restored, regardless of the personal cost.

"Dobson says you're infected," Blues continued, allowing Whirda her silence. "Is it the blight?"

Whirda shook her head. "Nothing so simple as that," she said. "My first forays into the cause of the blight lead me and my companions to the lair of the shade Ahn'Thrix, perhaps an agent of the archdemon you hunt. He gave me this." She pulled the bevor away from her neck to reveal the jagged, black scar.

"What did you give him in return?"

"A quick death," Whirda replied. "I'm infected by his shadow magic. I can feel it... feel it spreading. Every day, I hate it a little less. I need to find a cure before it consumes me entirely."

"What about your companions?" Blues asked.

"Let's just say it's only me now, too."

"Well, I can't promise you'll find what you seek at The Black Gate," Blues said. "But you have my word: once the threat of the archdemon has been extinguished, I'll do everything I can to help you. I can be a powerful ally."

The first genuine smile in years crept onto Whirda's face. Although her new companion was only a boy, she felt emboldened by his words. He felt formidable, so unlike Nyx, who had been a constant liability in her struggle to defeat Ahn'Thrix—had been, as it turned out, an enemy in their midst all along. It was a welcome change to have a friend she wouldn't have to protect.

"I'll help you, Blues," she said, after a time. It felt like the first step toward her salvation. It felt like hope. "Just tell me what I have to do."