The Blight

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda ducked out of the archives and into the adjoining hallway. She almost ran headlong into Tyrande, who waited just past the doorway. Pulling up short, she brushed wisps of hair from her face and regarded the elf queen.

"That, uh, librarian said you wanted to see me?" she said.

"Indeed," Tyrande said. "I believe I can do something to aid you in your quest. May I see your blades for a moment?"

Whirda took a step back and positioned with her weight on the balls of her feet. In her experience, a question like that never came without a sinister motive. "Why?"

The elf queen showed her palms. "Apologies. In addition to leading the elves of Yggdrassil, as you may know, I am also a priestess of some renown. There is an enchantment—a temporary enchantment—that would serve you well in the Moors."

"My blades haven't failed me yet, Lady Tyrande."

The idea was tempting. Whirda had experienced enchantments before, certainly; they were commonplace in her line of work. But to surrender her weapons, even for a moment—to leave herself vulnerable in the catacombs beneath a tree housing hundreds, perhaps thousands of deadly warriors. It would be a betrayal of every precept her mother had worked so hard to teach her.

"Our scouting party's blades hadn't failed them, either," Tyrande said curtly. "The Pale Moors are crowded with undead, enemies on whom blades can't score even the weakest hits. You're not as strong as you once were, Whirda. It would be foolish to deny this gift."

Whirda hesitated, but her body rocked forward to evenly distribute her weight. Whatever threat she felt passed with the elf queen's words. Still, she fought for a reason not to agree. "I grow stronger every minute. And I will have Nyx with me."

To her surprise, Tyrande chuckled. "Whirda, this enchantment will allow you to split undead flesh as easily as snapping a twig underfoot. It will allow you to bring holy fire to bear, to burn their corpses, else they rise again at your heels—to smite lesser undead with a single blow, and leave only ash in your wake."

There was no logic in Whirda's argument, and she knew it. She flipped her blades and palmed the flat edges of steel, handing them to Tyrande pommels first. "All right, I accept. If only to make my passage quicker through the Moors."

"A wise decision," the elf queen said, accepting the weapons. She held them gingerly, closed her eyes, and incanted a short prayer to a deity whose name Whirda didn't recognize. Her palms glowed, faintly at first, then with blinding intensity. Whirda stepped back, throwing up a hand to shield her face.

When the light faded, her weapons looked the same. Whirda took them from the elf queen to find their weight hadn't changed.

"Repeat after me," Tyrande said. "Aina kala.

Whirda repeated the words, and white fire sprung from both kukris' bolsters, quickly limning the two foot blades. It gave off no heat, but left the tangy pungency of elf magic thick in the air.

"And to dismiss it, hauta.

"Hauta." As soon as the words left Whirda's mouth, the holy fire faded.

"Now," Tyrande said, already walking away. "I must go. There is much, regrettably, to which I must attend. Should you need me, speak to my sentries and they will give you my location. Do you know when you will be departing?"

"Today," Whirda promised. "As soon as possible."

"That is well," Tyrande said, and disappeared around the corner to the lift.

Whirda hefted her blades with a faint smile. "Aina kala. Hauta." The fire spread, and winked from existence. Shaking her head bemusedly, she walked back into the archives.