The Shade

[PepsiWhirda]

"On it," Whirda exhaled, sprinting off to meet the attackers. Nyx's volleys had weakened the first wave, even taken a few from their feet, but it would fall on Whirda and the enchantment of holy fire to do the brunt of the work.

Nearly three days without rest stole the edge from Whirda's movements. She moved sluggishly, without discipline, but what she lacked in motivation, the undead more than made up for in ineptitude. She met the shambling front line and her weapons found no resistance. Steel met mottled flesh and holy fire did the rest.

Whirda waded into the clumsy undead, ducking a swiping limb, striking out with elbows, knees, and blades. She struck a swath through them, shearing limbs from torsos and heads from shoulders. All the snapping jaws and filthy, scratching nails of the shade's minions could offer no resistance. She emerged from the back line, spinning to dig kukris deep into the rearmost creature's chest. It fell, still groaning, the devouring flames eating ragged clothes and flesh alike.

Whirda pivoted and dove back in, hacking and slashing with abandon. Through the mire of grasping hands and frenzied eyes, she caught glimpses of Nyx and the professor, backpedaling but well in control. The blood mage's hand was upraised, the bandage torn free, and volley after volley of blood and crossbow bolts thinned the ranks, undead stumbling and falling or exploding in flashes of holy fire.

Distracted, Whirda caught herself just as an undead lunged, rotten teeth diving for her exposed wrist. She reversed the grip of her kukris and punched the pommel forward. Instead of skin, the gnashing teeth met hard steel and shattered. The creature howled, stumbling back. Whirda kicked out, catching it just below the sternum and driving it back, it and two of its allies falling in a splay of tangled limbs.

Another glimpse of Van Helsing and the blood mage, now back to back. The professor drew a rune-inscribed longsword, and proved it to be similarly enchanted, hacking an arm off an undead, hungry fire spreading with abandon. Nyx, though, stumbled with fatigue. She was white as a sheet, and running out of blood quickly. Her bolts got smaller and less impactful with each volley, the zombies now shambling forward with impunity.

Whirda drove harder through the ranks, her kukris making quick work of the creatures. A jaundiced eye, flecked with black. A spinning arm, hewn off at the elbow, hand still groping at empty air. Putrid blood spraying high, silhouetted by the moonlight. Then she was free, throwing an elbow and shoving her way forward, leaping over a falling corpse and landing catlike next to Nyx.

Maybe a dozen undead remained. They drove forward with mindless abandon, but fell without resistance to steel and fire. The whole battle took perhaps three minutes, but Whirda slumped and almost fell, hands on her knees, breath only coming in heaves.

Nyx stepped around a globe of Omnilium—presumably more bandages to staunch the blood flowing from her palm. "You all right?" she asked, crimson eyes wide with concern.

"Fine," Whirda replied, composing herself. She sheathed her weapons and swept gore from the sallet concealing the bottom half of her face. "Nothing I can't handle."

"What do you think is in there?" Nyx asked distantly. The blood mage looked past Whirda to the mouth of the cave. The concern in her eyes was mirrored by the butterflies in Whirda's stomach.

All of it seemed to have come to a head. A thirty-six hour journey, without food, without sleep, fraught with danger. Her muscles screamed for rest. Her eyes drooped, and she had to fight off a yawn. The shade knew they were coming—of course it did—, but offered nothing but fodder to slow their approach. If it wanted the fight, it would have it on its own terms.

"Are you ready?" Van Helsing asked, sheathing his sword and mirroring their gaze. The flames in the cave were extinguished. Only darkness awaited.