The Cure - I

[PepsiWhirda]

They trekked east. The sickly forests at the base of the mountain gave way to sprawling hinterland, devoid of life. Out here, the pervasive chill of the moors gave way to the sun's warmth, if only a little. Whirda found herself squinting more than usual, her hand perpetually held against her brow in a mock salute, shielding her fair features from the light. She felt jittery, sweating and shivering sporadically.

Tired of her irritability and sharp retorts, Blues remained silent for most of the day. The preteen machine projected his overlay every few hours, adjusted their position with a point or a nod, and mostly left Whirda to brood. On foot again, their pace was slow, but, sore and bruised from their run-in with the drow, they both seemed content with steady progress.

Some time after midday, Whirda noticed a single black-skinned scout, perched in the canopy of a copse of aspen. Nearly invisible in the shadows of their leafy boughs, Whirda nevertheless made out her slender silhouette. She spoke low, facing forward. "Don't look, but they're following us. From the trees, to our left."

Blues's expression hardened. "How many?"

"At least one. A scout, probably. Whatever they're planning with their monster, it seems like they know what we're up to." Whirda watched the drow climb nimbly down the tree and disappear into the ground foliage. "What should we do?"

"Keep moving. Keep watching. If there's any chance they plan to lead the beast toward Darkshire, or through a gate... imaging the havoc they could wreak."

Whirda nodded sharply. They had one advantage Blues hadn't likely considered. The contagion, for all the difficulties it brought with it during the day, amplified her combat prowess many times over at night. The drow, conditioned to subterfuge and ambush as opposed to a direct confrontation, would only attempt an attack when she was at the peak of her power.

"I'd keep that thing warmed up," she said dryly, indicating the kid's cannon arm.

At nightfall, they crested a hill and looked down over the remains of a town. It occupied the deepest part of a secluded valley, straddling a river wending lazily through trees and clusters of of empty buildings.

"If we go down there, they're going to try something," Whirda cautioned, looking at Blues. As night fell she felt more comfortable in her own skin. She no longer slept, but felt no worse for wear from the transition. Still, Blues might need to rest, and the cover might provide them some means of setting a trap.

"Not like we have a choice," he muttered. They had only briefly caught sight of their pursuers, once more since the first time, keeping a safe distance and moving furtively between points of cover. They, along with the carrion birds wheeling and cawing overhead, remained the only life this far from Darkshire. Somewhere, further east where the hills grew to mountains, Dracula dwelt in his castle. Perhaps the drow were his agents, as seemed to be every evil figure in the moors.

The news of the Tarrasque troubled Whirda. While the grip of Dracula and the archdemon Scylla dominated the region, theirs was a creeping oppression, a stronghold tightening gradually in order to avoid the wrath of the more powerful Verses. What the Tarrasque promised, while no more frightening in concept, was immediate devastation. And if, as Blues suggested, the drow intended to take the beast through a gate... while it would be dealt with more quickly, it could easily ignite a war spanning many Verses and claiming thousands of lives.

Whirda, more inclined to the martial approach of surgical incision than of all out war, did not intend to let it get that far.