The Shade

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda trotted a pace in front of Nyx, tilting her chin and staring into the boy's tired eyes. They were pale gray and resigned, like the rest of this forsaken place. He wore the threadbare studded leathers of a town militia, or underfunded city guard. A life of toil and heartache etched itself into his tight features, like scripture into stone.

"Who are you, young master? And what is it you protect?" Whirda asked, taking in all of his gangly, six-foot frame.

The young guard set his jaw and squared his shoulders. His face flashed with something not unlike pride. "I am Dobson of Darkshire," he said. "Second in command of the mayor's militia, and guardian of the gate."

"Finally," Whirda said, "someone who tells us their gods-damned name when prompted."

Nyx chuckled. "I'm Nyx," she said, smiling warmly. "This—" she pointed to Whirda and Cascade—"is Whirda Windstrom. We're from the Tangled Green, on a mission from Lady Tyrande of Yggdrassil." Nyx knew of Darkshire from the books in the archives of elfhome. One of the largest in a cluster of towns and villages in the Moors, and a good place to start their search for the professor.

"Well met, Whirda and Nyx," Dobson said. He sheathed his crude length of steel and seemed to settle into himself, the edge of deeply ingrained suspicion fading. "May I inquire as to the nature of your mission?"

Whirda frowned, narrowing her eyes. The boy was no older than eighteen, still sporting acne scars around his jawline, yet he was second in command of a militia? He spoke with the poise and authority of someone decades his senior. Sometimes she felt like she had stumbled into the caricature of a legitimate realm.

"There's a, uh, blight in the Green," Nyx said. "We're trying to find someone who can cure it."

Dobson's laugh died in the air, stifled to silence by that joyless place. "We know lots about blights 'ere. Who're you looking for?"

"His name is—" Nyx started.

Whirda cut her off with a raised hand. "You say you're second in command of your militia, Dobson?"

"Aye, that I am," he said, puffing up his scrawny chest. "Appointed by the mayor hisself, I was."

"That's great," Whirda said. "Can you take us to him?"

As if unaccustomed to questions not strictly following the script, Dobson faltered. He scratched his tousle of straw-colored hair. "To the mayor? You're meaning to come to Darkshire?"

Nyx followed the conversation with a growing sense of confusion. What was Whirda so worried about, from a kid passing his miserable life playing gate guard? What harm could there be in explaining their mission? Maybe Dobson even knew where they could find the professor.

"As good a place as any to start," Whirda said. "Your mayor wouldn't turn down an audience with a couple of primes, would he?"

Dobson's eyes darted back and forth between them, as if searching for an excuse—any excuse—to refuse their request. Not finding one, he said, "No, I spose not." He turned and beckoned. "Follow me."

"Let's get to it then!" Whirda nudged Cascade into a trot, following Dobson's slouching form.

Nyx threw Whirda a quizzical look, and Whirda grinned. The blood mage sighed and followed. As the gate opened, they got a better look at Darkshire. The town sagged low in the eternal gloom, squat buildings raised too close together to have been intended that way. As they passed into the town, they heard a familiar call. "Who goes there?" Two guards approached, in armor heavier and better wrought than Dobson's. One hoisted a torch, illuminating the road in front of them. The other hefted sword and shield as if expecting a fight. Once Dobson approached, the latter's face split into a sneering grin.

"Why if it ain't Dobby, Lord of the Gate! What news from the least dangerous place in the Moors?"

The guard holding their lantern sniggered until he saw the two primes ride up behind Dobson, atop their mounts, menacing in robes and armor.

Dobson glowered. "Let us pass, Robert."

The armed guard, Robert, stalked up to Dobson and put his face right above the boy's head. Dobson flinched and Robert barked a laugh.

"On 'ose authority, boy? Who're they to request entrance to Darkshire?"

"My authority. I'm second in command," Dobson attempted. He tried and failed to keep the waver from his voice. "I could have your quals for this."

"Daddy's little soldier!" Robert boomed. "Barely out the crib and already assigned to the shittiest watch in the realm!" Robert sobered, eyeing Nyx, then Whirda. "Who're you two then?"

Whirda dismounted and strode up to Robert, who had her by a foot and a hundred pounds. She did not falter as she drew to her full height and stared him in his watery brown eyes.

"I am Whirda Windstrom, prime of the Tangled Green," she said, her tone laced with venom. "I have business with your mayor—business too urgent to deal with bullies and fools."

At the word prime, Robert frowned. "Three of ya in as many days," he muttered. Gods above. World's goin' to shit when there's three primes in Darkshire, you mark my words."

"Out of the way, Robert," Dobson spat. "We're busy."

"Sure." All the fight had fled Robert's hulking frame. He seemed suddenly and profoundly weary. "Get to it, then." The guards parted, and Whirda and Nyx followed Dobson through the square.

"What was all that?" Nyx asked, once they were out of earshot.

"Nothing," Dobson said defensively. He heaved a sigh. "Let's go see the mayor."