The Shade

[PepsiWhirda]

"You've killed her," Whirda spat. "You know that? You've gods-damned killed her!"

The professor regained his feet slowly. A rip in his robes where Whirda kicked him revealed the studded leather underneath. Dust fell from the ceiling, settling on his shoulders and in his graying hair. He looked past Whirda, toward the sounds of the approaching undead.

"She will be fine," he said absentmindedly. "The only danger is before us." He hefted his crossbow and started reloading it.

"You can't know that," Whirda said. She clenched her fists till her knuckles drained of blood.

"This whole situation has been engineered by the shade," the professor said. "He wants to wear us down. It has always been his way, to control every aspect of a battle. The little demonling has nothing to fear but herself."

Demonling. Hardly aware of her actions, Whirda shoved him. She pursued as he staggered back, shouldering his stomach and throwing a right hook across his jaw. The crossbow clattered to the ground, and Van Helsing followed with a thud. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"It wasn't your decision to make," she said, backing off. "She is my responsibility." In the firelight, she strode up to the door, pressing her ear against it. There was no sound from the other side.

"It is my mission," the professor said calmly. "I would not have it compromised by her demons."

"She was my responsibility," Whirda repeated She enunciated each word from between clenched teeth

"The girl has a new keeper. Whether you realize it or not."

Whirda started off down the corridor. "I have to find another way around."

"There won't be one, dear girl."

The sounds of the undead drew closer. The putrefied odor of rotting flesh clouded the air. In the light of the holy fire on the wall, a shadow approached.

"Dark and empty," Whirda swore, paying it no attention. Possibilities for rescuing Nyx tumbled through her mind, but none seemed viable. She turned back to see the professor had picked up his crossbow. It was now pointed at her chest.

Van Helsing's face was rigid and uncompromising. In the narrow passageway, she had nowhere to run.

"I am sorry, Whirda Windstrom," he said. "Truly, I am."

The weapon whirred and clicked. Whirda shut her eyes and braced for death.

Death, which did not come.

She felt the wind on her face as the bolt whistled past. The dull thud of metal embedding itself in flesh followed. A preternatural howl followed that. Through her eyelids, she saw the holy fire flare to life.

"There is no time for a nap," the professor chided. He trotted past her. "The shade is near."

Tentatively, Whirda opened her eyes. The corpse of an undead smoldered at her feet, the tail of Van Helsing's bolt visible in the creature's eye socket. Viscous fluid leaked from the wound.

She followed the professor. He rounded a bend ahead, muttering, his robes flapping around his ankles. Whirda turned, and promptly plowed into his frozen frame.

Approaching up the corridor, a mass of rotting zombies filled the space. At least a hundred of them, crammed shoulder to shoulder. Gnashing teeth. Putrid skin. Jaundiced eyes. The stench overwhelmed Whirda's senses. She could hardly draw breath.

"Wake up!" Van Helsing growled.

"There's too many," Whirda murmured. "Too many..."

"But me some time!" The professor was on his knees, pulling vials from the pouches hanging at his waist.

"How?"

The teeming mass shambled forward. An arch extended high above them, scrawled with the same demonic language. The letters glowed sickly green, casting the leering faces in the incandescent hue.

"You are Whirda Windstrom!" Van Helsing roared. "Figure it out!"

Whirda nodded, but the odds and her exhaustion stole her strength. For the first time since Luskan, so many years ago, Whirda Windstrom was afraid.

She thought of Nyx, lost in the darkness. The grip on her kukris tightened.

She thought of Dobson, a pawn in a game far beyond his reach. Her feet ground into the stone, her muscles taut and flexing.

She thought of the elves, powerless to protect their home. Her fear was replaced by furious determination.

She thought of her mother. She attacked.

Whirda met the wall with a primal growl. Her blades blurred in the green light, hacking limbs from bodies, biting deep into decaying tissue. In that moment, she was no longer Whirda Windstrom. She was a consummate, faceless warrior. A swiping limb passed an inch in front of her face. A second later, its grasping hand flew high, spitting brackish blood.

The first row of undead faltered and fell, holy fire devouring everything in its path.

Whirda shifted tactics. A savage gust of wind exploded from her. The undead groped and scrambled for purchase, driven back before the onslaught. But they were clumsy things. Many fell, flailing. The others tripped over their fallen cohorts, mindlessly driven forward by their blood lust.

"Get back!"

She heard the professor's rumbling voice distantly. The image of her mother filled her head. Her face, bloated and lifeless, succumbing rapidly to the assassin's poison. In her rage, she drove forward, into the heart of the writhing mass.

"Whirda! Get back!"

A kukri dove into a gaping mouth. The zombie's head veritably exploded as holy fire ate its way outward, popping its eyes with a spray of gore.

A clenched fist struck the side of her head. She stumbled, nearly fell. The bodies pressed in, sensing weakness, constricting her reach. Her movements became compartmental, the cuts more shallow, relying on Lady Tyrande's enchantment to do the brunt of the work.

Slowly, inexorably, despite herself, Whirda gave ground. Fingernails raked at her armor, seeking skin. Another zombie spun away, the skin of its chest eaten away by fire, revealing organs stubbornly pumping in undeath. Two more took its place.

She turned, looking beseechingly at the professor. Only then did his words register. He gestured frantically, holding a vial between two fingers. The contents bubbled and frothed, spitting coruscating sparks. Whirda jerked her head in a nod.

As the professor hurled the vial, a gust of wind threw Whirda back. The vial passed over her head, landing amidst the throng.

The vial detonated.

Whirda threw a hand over her eyes as blinding purple light filled the space. Destruction spread from the point of impact, ripping the creatures apart. The whole cavern shook with the force of it. The sound was deafening. Whirda tucked into a ball to mitigate the damage of her landing.

The professor caught her in strong arms, skidding back to reduce her momentum. They fell, and she tumbled from his embrace, landing face down on the rough stone. Her ears rang. She spit dirt and gore from her mouth.

When she stood and blinked the spots from her vision, the corridor was empty. No corpses, no blood, no nothing. It was as if the very stone had been scrubbed clean.

Above, the green-glowing arch went dim.