The Shade

[PepsiWhirda]

Miles away, Dobson of Darkshire awoke in darkness. He was in a small room, lying on the floor. Nyx's great cat purred beside him, regarding him warily. He sat up, cracking his neck.

Dobson felt better than he had in months. The professor's salve hadn't just cured him of the undead contagion, it had allowed him some much needed, uninterrupted rest.

"How long has it been?" he wondered aloud. Nyx and Whirda couldn't afford to delay their mission. The shade had to be killed. Darkshire needed its protector back.

He walked outside, rubbing his shoulder where the wolf bite had been. Thanatos padded behind him protectively. "Nyx?" he ventured warily. "Whirda?"

No answer.

"What is going on?" Dobson said.

The cat nudged his leg with a massive paw.

"Yeah, what?" He turned and looked down at the beast.

Thanatos couldn't speak, but the jerk of his head and the doleful look in his eyes communicated all it needed. Nyx and Whirda had gone to the den without him.

"No," Dobson murmured. "They wouldn't... I have to help them."

Thanatos growled his accord, enunciating the urgency of the situation with another jerk of his shaggy head. The cat crouched low, allowing Dobson to scramble atop his back.

He did a quick inventory. Sword, check. Shield, check. Terror, oh, definitely.

"Let's go."

Wasting no time, the cat streaked off across the plain, desperate to be at his master's side again.

[Nyx]

Blinding purple light dazzled the blood mage, and also clued her in as to where her companions were. She was still somewhat bitter about being left to fend for herself, but she would seek her revenge in due time. For now, she had appearances to maintain: predominantly, the appearances of being an innocent and naive young blood mage. How ridiculous that ruse seemed now.

She stalked through the darkness, the voice having fallen silent almost like a sullen child. The demon didn’t seem to appreciate Nyx remembering who she was as much as it thought it would, now that she was back to her ‘normal’ self. The blood mage couldn’t help but wonder whether it was expecting her to be subservient. Clearly, it had misjudged her. In a strange twist of fate, the only individual who hadn’t was Van Helsing, though she’d be damned if she ever let him realize that.

“Nyx? Whirda?”

A familiar voice echoed through the caverns. Judging by how tactless shouting in such a dangerous environment was, there was only one logical conclusion as to who the voice belonged to: Dobson. A plaintive, familiar growl soon followed, which Nyx could only attribute to being that of her nightsaber, Thanatos.

“Keep your voice down!” Nyx hissed, turning to face the direction the voice had come from.

Though the light was dim, the blood mage was able to pick out the features of the rather distinctive young guard – and more importantly, her beloved companion, his eyes glowing a deep red. Thanatos hastily bounded towards her, all resentment towards their parting forgotten, as his hulking form rubbed against her legs like a common house cat. His rumbling purr reverberated throughout the cavern, letting everyone know how much he’d missed her.

“How did you know it was me?” Dobson asked, finally catching up to the nightsaber. The young guard looked much better than he had back at the ruins. Judging by his healthy glow and bright eyes, the blood mage suspected he had had a good night’s sleep. Undoubtedly Thanatos had guarded him with his life.

“You’re quite...” Nyx struggled to find the right word.

“Dashing?” Dobson prompted hopefully, placing his fists on his hips in what he hoped was a heroic pose. Given his somewhat scrawny figure, it didn’t really have the desired effect.

“... Distinctive,” she corrected, her lips curling into a kindly smile to take the edge off of her remark.

Dobson looked past the blood mage, staring eagerly into the darkness. “Where’s Whirda, and the Professor guy?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Nyx admitted, following his gaze. “We got split up. I’ve been trying to find them myself.”

“Let’s look for them together.”

Nyx froze. This was the last thing she wanted. Being lumbered with a mild-mannered guard from Darkshire? She had enough to worry about without having to babysit someone who could barely wield a sword. However, Whirda would be expecting the Nyx she first met in the Nexus... and that Nyx would definitely allow Dobson to accompany her. She would have to grit her teeth and bear it.

“Okay. But stay close, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda's chest heaved as she surveyed the carnage—or lack thereof—the professor's concoction had wrought. Five dozen undead creatures, scrubbed from the face of the Omniverse in seconds. Not a trace left behind.

The battle rage still hadn't abandoned her. She clenched and unclenched her fists. Her teeth felt like they had been ground to dust. In the corridor, the air crackled with the bomb's residue, wisps of purple smoke fading fast.

"Are you all right?" The professor's voice was flecked with concern. He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder.

Whirda shrugged it off. She wasn't all right. She saw red. Her breathing was more akin to snarling. Her head pounded with stress, and fatigue. But she still hadn't forgiven—would never forgive—Van Helsing for what he did to Nyx. After they vanquished the shade and the professor settled his debt with the elves, she would have her revenge. If Nyx didn't insist on it first, anyway. Whirda was true to her word, but after the mission was seen through, well... she wouldn't be held accountable for her actions, then.

"I'm fine," she snapped. Gradually, her breathing settled.

"Good," Van Helsing said. "Then we should continue on."

"I have to find Nyx."

The professor's brow furrowed in frustration. He opened his mouth to reply, thought against it, then settled on a sharp inhale. She could see the proverbial gears whirring as he formulated a response. Whatever he said, Whirda knew, it would be futile. Nyx was her responsibility, and her first priority.

"Whirda," he said finally, "listen to me. Your friend, whatever she is, she is capable of handling herself. You heard her say the demon is in her head, yes? It is no telepathic bond they share. Tell me, did it seem to you like a simple psionic intrusion?"

Whirda chewed the words. "No," she admitted. And it hadn't. She had spoken with psionicists before, and it was as effortless as speaking normally. The effect Nyx's contact with the demon had on her was different, more immersive. "But that doesn't mean she should be abandoned."

"Abandoned! Certainly not!" Van Helsing said. "I do not wish to abandon the girl. To exorcise her, perhaps, but never to abandon her. Trust me, dear girl, she will be a liability in the battle to come."

"She's saved my life enough times, professor. And I, hers. Whatever you think you see in her, you're wrong. And I intend to find her."

Van Helsing's shoulders slumped. "Very well," he said. "We will do as you say."

"Thank you," Whirda exhaled.

"The door is shut behind us," the professor said. "We must continue forward, and hope to find a way back around."

Whirda nodded. It was a relief to have someone on her side. Someone whose goals at last aligned with her own, who didn't require any looking after. She was fond of the blood mage, certainly, but the professor calling her a liability wasn't far from the truth. After they were out of danger, Whirda foresaw a parting of ways between her and Nyx.

It was past time she found a way home.

They started off down the corridor. Residual energy from the bomb raised the hair on the back of Whirda's neck. The air was damp and cloying, even as they delved further underground. Whirda eyed the arch as they neared it. The green light was extinguished, but she could still see the runes inscribed along its length.

"Read it," she said after a moment's hesitation. If it was another incantation, she would deal with the results. The information might be too important to ignore.

They settled beneath the arch. Van Helsing peered up at it, deciphering the words. He began to read.

"At twilight's end,
too much, too soon.
He stole the sun
and doused the moon,
and on the morn
they woke to find
that mem'ry left
so far behind.
To deafened ears
they ask, unseen,
Who can wake us
from this dream?"

Searing pain flashed through Whirda's head. The arch exploded with green light, chunks of stone flying free. A high-pitched keening split the air. Whirda clamped her hands over her ears. She was briefly aware of Van Helsing's arms around her. Then the arch was consumed, and them with it.

Whirda came to consciousness much the same way she always did, except someplace different.

*****

The first things she saw were the cages. Lengths of thick chain suspended them twenty feet off the floor. In the cages, children clung at the bars, wide-eyed. Their screams reverberated through the cavern.

Lengths of wriggling shadow prodded at them from the outside. Their faces were caked with blood and dirt, their arms crisscrossed with scabbing wounds. They screamed the way children screamed: unintelligible, shrill, unburdened by the constructs of language. Pure, unadulterated fear.

Whirda's kukris leaped to her hands, holy fire limning the blades. Her eyes traveled the length of the room. Lanterns, placed equidistantly along the walls—walls draped in murals depicting acts of torture, rape, and savagery. At the far end, three stairs cut crudely into the stone. A resplendent throne of carved obsidian. And sitting on the throne, in all his ebon glory, the shade.

No, not just a shade...

"A lich," Whirda and Van Helsing said in unison.

The undead creature stood, towering, over seven feet tall. His robes were pure black, flowing freely, as if in a strong wind. Shadow serpents wrapped around his wrists. Whirda could see his fingertip bones protruding from the rotten flesh, stark white. His face—gods, his face—was a leering, skeletal thing. The flesh hung off his cheekbones and jaw in shreds. Two eyes smoldered in their sockets like luminous blue stones. Shadow oozed from every orifice like pus from a suppurating wound.

When he spoke, the words came from every place at once but his mouth, booming and mellifluous, filling the entire cavernous room.

"Professor Abraham Van Helsing. At last, we meet."

At Whirda's side, the professor spoke with more bravado than she felt.

"Ahn Thrix," he said, raising his crossbow. "You and I have a debt to settle."

The shade-lich chuckled without moving his shredded lips. "Indeed, indeed. And Whirda Windstrom! I so hoped you would make it this far." From a sheath at his waist, he drew a long, curved dagger. The blade was black as pitch. No light reflected off its length.

Van Helsing's crossbow clicked, the bolt hurtling through space. A moment before it buried itself in Ahn Thrix's head, the shade disappeared. Simply vanished. The professor grabbed Whirda's shoulder and whirled her around.

Ahn Thrix reappeared behind them, his vast form dominating an open doorway. Up close, Whirda could see the wisps of white hair clinging to his scalp. A section of skull had rotted away, revealing the pulsating brain underneath.

"You will have to do better than that," he boomed.

Van Helsing's second bolt caught him in the cheek. His head snapped back from the force. The holy fire sprang to life. The lich hissed, and one of the serpents around his arms dove for his face. It snuffed out the fire in seconds.

It took Whirda longer than that to realize the shade's hissing was laughter.

"Much, much better," Ahn Thrix said.

The lich raised his arms, pulling shadow to him from every corner of the room. The shadows amassed before him, wriggling into place like pieces of a puzzle. A head, arms, legs. Soon, two humanoid shapes stood before him.

"Deal with the others," Ahn Thrix said. The shadow creatures darted from the room, impossibly quick. With a sweep of the lich's hand, the door closed behind them.

"What others?" Whirda found herself asking.

"The demon child and the young guard, of course," the lich said simply.

"If you hurt them," Whirda growled. She let the threat die in the air.

Ahn Thrix hissed another laugh. "Yes, yes. Well threatened, battle mage."

Van Helsing loosed another crossbow bolt. This time, the serpent was quicker. It snatched the projectile from the air a foot from the lich's face. The bolt fell to the ground with a dull clink.

"Now," the shade-lich boomed. "We can begin."

With a cough, as if doused in water, the lanterns sputtered and died.

[Nyx]

Footsteps echoed through hollow walls as Nyx, Dobson and Thanatos made their way deeper into the caverns. The weathered rock offered no clues as to where Whirda and Van Helsing had gone, the darkness swirling around their ankles ruining any hope of tracking their footsteps – not that either Nyx or Dobson would have been able to do so themselves. Using Thanatos to track their scent may have been an option, but the shade’s influence hampered that, too. Instead, their search was led by blind faith.

They walked in silence. The young guard may not have been particularly apt, but he was alert enough to recognize that something had changed, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Whatever it was, it was making him uncomfortable. So uncomfortable, in fact, that the idea of starting a conversation with the blood mage was out of the question. He glanced over at her, but she didn’t seem to register his interest. Her crimson eyes looked glassy and distant, as though her mind was elsewhere. egg

‘You’re not going to like this...’ the demon taunted in a sing-song voice. ‘That thing you’re hunting? It knows you’re coming, and it’s not impressed.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Nyx snapped, upping the pace to more of a brisk walk. Dobson, still staring vapidly at her, jolted into action and fell into stride with her.

‘And ruin all the fun? I don’t think so.’

The ruby on the tip of the blood mage’s staff boiled, a perfect visual representation of her anger. ‘Tell me.’ It was clear that her words were intended as more of a demand than a request.

‘Something’s coming.’

Nyx struggled to bite her tongue, though the urge to snap at the demon was almost irresistible. ‘How vague of you. Could you be a little more specific?’

‘Okay, fine. Two things,’ the demon responded childishly.

The blood mage rolled her eyes, drawing her bloodied gaze back into focus. She was met by a very concerned looking Dobson, who was peering at her as though she’d just regained consciousness. His brows were furrowed into a crease as he studied her intently.

“Are you okay?” he asked tentatively, leaning in a little closer, weaving his head around in front of her to check she could follow her eyes.

The blood mage stared at him blankly, but her eyes followed his. “I’m fine,” she reassured him.

“Then what was that?” Dobson folded his arms, stepping in front of her, still studying her suspiciously.

The blood mage resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and shrugged dismissively. “I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Oh.” The young guard seemed to slump a little, but stepped aside and waited for Nyx to continue guiding him through the cavern. The concern was still painted across his face, as though he didn’t fully believe her. The suspicion he held was more out of concern for her safety than anything else, however.

Nyx took a few steps forward, and then paused. She turned to look over her shoulder, and shot Dobson her best winning smile. “Don’t worry about me!” she insisted airily, beckoning him to follow with a slight nod of her head. “I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

Dobson of Darkshire opened his mouth to complain, but was interjected by the sight of something moving in the distance. A flash of green light quickly followed – Dobson and Nyx raised their hands to shield their eyes in perfect unison, while Thanatos buried his head in his paws. They heard a distant crash, and when they looked up, part of one of the arches in the distance looked broken.

The blood mage and the young guard shared a look, then cautiously moved closer to the broken archway. It was clear that chunks of rock had been blasted away from the ceiling – they lay scattered around the cavern floor. Before they could come any closer, something began to drip from the ceiling.

The blood mage soon realized it was pure shadow. It poured from the cracks in the rock, swirling ominously and eventually beginning to form two figures. She suspected these were the two “things” the demon had alluded to before. As Dobson went to take a step forward, she blocked him with an outstretched arm, drawing her staff with the other. The dark red liquid that boiled within glowed. Both mage and weapon were ready for battle.

The two figures stretched, their bodies still seeming to swirl from the essence of pure shadow. They shared a look with each other and lunged forward to attack with a horrifying cry. It was unlike anything else Nyx had heard – it was guttural, animalistic, terrifying. As the two creatures drew closer, Dobson ducked beneath Nyx’s arm and began to sprint towards them, his sword outstretched.

The shadow beings weren’t entirely sure how to react to having a small human hurtle towards them, and this surprise bought Nyx enough time to slam her staff into the ground, creating a distraction – another illusion of the blood mage, created by blood. The illusion wasted no time in barraging the enemies with blood bolts. The shadows were winded by the impact of the blood bolts, but didn’t seem entirely bothered. They were also trying to avoid Dobson’s slashes and strikes – though many may have refused to take him seriously, something that Nyx was quickly learning was that he could handle a sword.

Watching Dobson strike with a blade was something else. It was as though the sword was just another part of his arm – his movements were fluid and rapid. The blood mage couldn’t account for the strength of the blows – the shadows were dancing around so much that Dobson’s hits were struggling to connect, - but one thing she could safely say was that she would not want to go toe-to-toe with him in a swordfight.

As Dobson and the shadows duelled, Nyx ran around them, until she was facing what seemed to be the back of the shadow creatures. She swung her staff in one long swoop, using the last of the ruby’s energy to barrage the two shadows with blood bolts. The liquid splattered against them, winding them and pushing them closer to Dobson. Whether by luck or skill, one of the shadows was impaled upon Dobson’s blade. It writhed and struggled, its lithe form twisting and wrenching, but something kept it there. Dobson looked shocked at what he’d done, but that didn’t stop him from twisting the blade. The shadow let out an ungodly noise, then withered and disappeared.

“Is it dead?” Dobson asked, slightly bewildered, examining his sword as if for clues. The remaining shadow used this opportunity to smack him on the side of the head. Dobson fell to the floor, his blade skidding along the cavern floor with an uncomfortable screech. It was at this point that Nyx realized she could easily leave the human to die and just blame it on the shadows. It would be the perfect crime.

But then, what would Whirda and the Professor think? The Professor seemed to be baying for her blood anyway; he really didn’t need much more of an excuse to have it in for her. As for Whirda… would she buy the blood mage’s lie, or would she see through it? What would happen, regardless of which way things went? There were so many possibilities to consider that Nyx decided that ultimately, for the time being, she would keep Dobson alive. Perhaps he had further information about Darkshire that both she and Whirda could use to their advantage. If she saved his life from this shadow thing, surely he would owe her?

The young guard hauled himself towards his sword, nails raking against the cavern floor. The shadow loomed over him, and if it had a tangible face, it would most certainly be grinning. It extended a claw-like arm towards Dobson, but was intercepted by Nyx’s staff. She swatted the creature’s arm away and, in perfect sync with her illusion, sent a fresh wave of blood bolts towards the shadow creature. It grunted and groaned as it was pelted with coagulated and congealed blood, shrinking away from the blood mage and buying Dobson enough time to collect his sword.

His fist closed around the hilt of his beloved blade, and with a determined cry, he charged towards the shadow. He impaled it easily upon his blade, and wasted no time in twisting the steel, much to the dismay of the creature writhing and struggling on it. As Dobson withdrew his sword, the shadow dissipated.

“Is that it?” Dobson asked, still looking rather bewildered. He shot an uneasy glance at the blood mage, remembering her method of combat. As if in response, her illusion dissipated, melting into a pool of blood on the floor.

”Too soon to tell,” Nyx admitted darkly. ”Be on your guard. I can’t tell if they’re dead or just hiding.”

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda and Van Helsing stood back to back. The holy fire on their weapons formed a protective bubble, fending off the wriggling shadow appendages. Hundreds of them now poked and prodded forward, retreating only when the light caused them to smolder and crinkle. Whirda marveled at the efficacy of Lady Tyrande's enchantment. Without it, she and Nyx would have perished a dozen times over at the hands of the undead.

In the utter darkness, Ahn Thrix's seething blue eyes narrowed, then disappeared.

"Keep your wits about you, dear girl," Van Helsing whispered. "Not all that you see will be real."

The holy fire danced and sputtered, warping their shadows into twisted, monstrous things. Whirda nodded, searching the darkness for any sign of the shade. Adrenaline and wire-taut fatigue honed her senses. She could smell the lingering oil from the extinguished lanterns, taste the bitter pungency of residual sorcery.

Hear the scuff of feet on stone, approaching from the left.

Ahn Thrix flashed into view, his dagger trailing a haze of opaque ash. Shadow serpents writhed all around him.

Whirda twisted at the waist, positioning her feet and rocking her weight back on her heels. She crossed her kukris as the dagger swept in. Metal clashed with metal, the force of the attack driving Whirda back. The shade loomed over her, grinning maniacally. She could smell his putrid breath as she disengaged, side-stepping as Van Helsing came across, his longsword sweeping down in an overhead chop.

Instead of overbalancing and succumbing to the coordinated assault, Ahn Thrix vanished with a cackle, leaving only a cloud of ash in his wake.

Whirda and Van Helsing reformed their back to back stance. "He's fast," Whirda said. "Too fast."

"Never that," Van Helsing replied. "Focus!"

From everywhere in the cavern came Ahn Thrix's booming voice. "Yes, Whirda Windstrom. Focus." That serpentine laughter filled her ears. The children, silenced before by the descending darkness, started screaming again.

Whirda clenched her teeth to block out some of the noise. This time, she wouldn't be able to hear the shade coming. Her lips quirked in a wry grin. Focus, indeed.

Long seconds bled past them in the dark. Whirda held her kukris out wide, maximizing how far she could see. She thought about Nyx—and, apparently, Dobson!—, alone in the dark. The blood mage had proven herself resilient, certainly, but not powerful. Whatever the creatures were that Ahn Thrix sent after them, she had to hope Nyx could handle herself.

"Right!" Van Helsing cried.

"Left!" Whirda called.

Indeed, the shade was approaching, it seemed, from both sides. Two pairs of electric eyes blazed out of the darkness. Two gaping mouths. Two daggers, leaking ash that clotted in the air and hung fast.

Whirda and the professor spun, so each of them was facing an attacker. "Professor, down!" Whirda hissed. As Van Helsing dropped to the ground, a gust of wind hurled Whirda high above the scene. The shades, taken aback by the shift in tactics, almost collided into each other. One of them disappeared with a crack, but the other remained.

As one, Van Helsing rose, his sword impaling the shade through the chest, and Whirda landed catlike upon his shoulders, her kukris diving through shoulder blade and scoring off bone. The professor's sword emerged from Ahn Thrix's back with a spray of black, pausing just inches in front of Whirda's stomach.

For a long moment, everything stood still.

"Well done," Ahn Thrix's voice boomed. "Now, to make things interesting!"

The shade closest to them exploded into thick ropes of shadow. Whirda was thrown free, somersaulting through the air. She steadied herself with a second gust and landed, tucking into a roll to absorb her momentum. The shadow serpents were on her in seconds, wrapping around her legs, her arms, tangling in her hair. For a moment, she couldn't see, couldn't breathe, could hardly think. Across the way, the professor's cursing told a similar story.

Whirda brought her kukri across, slicing through the serpents on her face. The holy fire devoured them along their length, spreading down her arms and across her chest. In seconds she was free, stumbling forward, throwing her weapons in the air to try to catch sight of the real Ahn Thrix.

From behind, two skeletal hands grasped her wrists and twisted.

Whirda screamed, her kukris skittering across the ground.

Ahn Thrix lifted her up, her wrists bending painfully, that grip, in spite of the shade's emaciated frame, as tight as iron manacles. She kicked and wriggled for purchase, her boots scoring off the shade's chest. She couldn't move him an inch.

Van Helsing rolled free of the serpents, tossing his sword aside and lifting his crossbow. He couldn't find a shot that wouldn't risk hurting Whirda, who Ahn Thrix used as a human shield. "Put her down, shade!" he roared.

"Very well," Ahn Thrix boomed. "But first..."

In her periphery, Whirda saw a flash of blue, followed by the screech of metal on stone. Directly in front of her, the floor beneath the hanging cages was sliding aside. Whirda's discarded weapons glowed fiercely, but could not penetrate the darkness in the shafts. "What... are... you doing?" she grunted, twisting and kicking for effort.

"This," Ahn Thrix said simply. Another flash of blue, and the cages snapped free of their chains. Amidst the screams of the children, and Van Helsing's strangled cry, the cages plunged into the inky blackness of the shafts. A moment later, Whirda heard a splash. Water and foam shot high above the openings in the ground, and the cries were cut immediately short.

"You have a choice, professor!" The shade cackled with all the lunacy he could muster. "Save the girl, or save the children you are sworn to protect!"

Van Helsing looked desperately from Whirda to the shaft. For the first time since she'd met him, the professor looked lost. Defeated. Resigned to losing something he cared about in this pointless battle.

Whirda caught his eye, and winked. "Save them," she said, with all the conviction she could muster.

The professor jerked, trying somehow to nod and shake his head simultaneously. He snatched his sword from the ground and bolted for the closest shaft, diving into the darkness. A second splash told Whirda he had made it into the water. No tricks from the shade, it seemed.

"Now, it is you and me, Whirda Windstrom," Ahn Thrix rumbled. "Such is my—"

The shade would have continued his mindless prattling, had a cyclonic prison not caught him and spun him around. Even at his size, Ahn Thrix was buffeted by the winds, relinquishing his hold on Whirda's wrists. She fell to her knees, diving forward and scooping up her weapons. She came to a stop, thrusting the light high, just as the shade stumbled free of the cyclone and vanished.

"Very good!" he boomed from somewhere else entirely. "But how will you fare without your darling professor?"

Whirda ignored him and ran to the second shaft. Before she could dive inside, it slammed shut. She landed on solid stone, bracing the fall with the palm of her hand and spinning to her feet.

The holy fire sputtered in the darkness, and for the first time since arriving in the Tangled Green, Whirda was hopelessly, utterly alone.

[PepsiWhirda]

Van Helsing sucked in a breath. He hit the water and fought the urge to scream. The freezing cold, brackish stuff stung his eyes and inundated his robes. Overhead, what little light pierced the water in wavering shafts was cut off. The duct plunged into darkness.

The professor pumped his legs and dragged himself through the briny water. His hands groped for any contact with the sinking cage. He prayed—to God, to Omni, to anyone who would listen—that Whirda had made it to the other shaft. If not, the other children would certainly perish.

A second later, his hand brushed cold iron. He kicked again, securing his grip on one of the bars of the cage. A tiny hand grasped clumsily at his, growing cold and stiff.

It occurred to Van Helsing then that he had no idea how to get out of the shaft. This could be the shade's final trick: to appeal to the professor's sense of honor, dooming him to drown with no hope of escape.

He shook his head vigorously in the darkness. No. There had to be a way. Using the bars of the cage to guide him, he dragged himself down. The base of the cage rested on smooth stone. Van Helsing ran his hand across it. Too smooth to exist naturally, with a groove running down the center. A trap door.

The professor clawed at the groove, desperately trying to pry it open. His lungs ached from lack of air. Tiny bubbles escaped between his lips from the exertion. His vision wavered.

The groove did not give.

He flipped himself upright, pounding on the trap door with his feet. The tiny hand brushed across his face, dragged across his nose and forehead, then drifted away. He grabbed it, willing the child to live.

Strength fled his weary limbs by the second. His kicking grew weaker, then stopped altogether. In that moment, Van Helsing knew his fate. He had failed. Failed Ahn Thrix, in the great war. Failed Whirda and the elves, whose home would surely be destroyed. Failed Darkshire, and the children. So much to be done, so much potential, snuffed out in a cave in the darkness.

His grip on the cage bars relinquished. He began to drift upward. It was a peaceful thing, drowning, when you got right down to it. There was no pain.

Pain flashed through his head. His eyes went wide. He had bumped into something, protruding from the wall of the duct. A thin, metal rod. He sensed significance there, but was too weary to pursue it. He continued drifting upward, content to die. After a lifetime of fighting it was so... easy.

His foot hooked on the rod. He blinked his eyes blearily. No... not a rod. A lever!

With the last of his fleeting strength, the professor jerked his foot. With a metallic grind, the lever gave.

A moment later, Van Helsing was falling.

He hit the cavern floor with a gasp. The cage rested on its side in front of him. The children gulped in air and flopped around, choking and sobbing. The professor's first, merciful breath came with searing pain in his lungs. Then another, and a third. Spots flashed in front of his eyes in the spluttering light. He crawled weakly forward, toward the cage, desperate to see if the kids were all right.

Beyond the first cage, the second came into view, standing upright. The drenched kids clung at the bars, screaming his name.

He rolled onto his back and cast his eyes to the sky. "Thank you. Thank you."

In his periphery, a pair of scrawny legs came into view. Threadbare boots. He looked up into a pimply face wrought with concern.

"Dobson of Darkshire," Van Helsing breathed. "Well met."

Another form came into view beside Dobson, wearing sweeping red robes. Nyx's confused expression couldn't hide the flash of black in her eyes.

[Nyx]

The blood mage surveyed the scene impassively. Van Helsing was sprawling on the cavern floor, reaching desperately towards a sprawling mass of children. The fallen cage had strewn its contents across the cavern floor, and the children were too weak to do anything but breathe and reach feebly towards their saviour. They seemed to clamour and scrabble among themselves, all wanting to thank the Professor in their own way, but none of them possessing the strength or the energy to adequately do so. It was a heart wrenching scene, by all accounts – but Nyx didn’t feel anything.

She turned her head towards Dobson, whose eyes were misty with tears. He rushed to the cage, his voice cracking as he reassured the children that “everything will be okay, I’m going to get you out of here, be strong for me, okay?” She saw the pain in his eyes as the children wept at his promises, their faces uttering a thousand ‘thank you’s that their tired and starved bodies couldn’t. She saw determination replace the sadness as Dobson used his sword to pry open the lock on the cage door, freeing the children. But still, Nyx felt nothing.

“You…” Van Helsing uttered huskily. His eyes were wide with fear. He cast a glance at Dobson, who was now helping children out of the cage and helping to steady them as they rose to stand. “Why did you bring her here?”

Dobson held out his arm for the first few children he had helped out of captivity. The youngest, a scrawny blonde girl, clung to his arm as though it was a lifeline. Her knees shook as though she would lose her balance if it wasn’t for his support. When he was satisfied she was stable, he turned back to look at Van Helsing. “Nyx is my friend.”

“She is not your friend,” Van Helsing warned, using every ounce of his strength to sit upright. “She is evil, and must be destroyed.”

The young guard’s brows furrowed into a frown. “You want to kill her?”

“What I want is irrelevant. It is what needs to be done.” Van Helsing’s eyes searched Dobson’s desperately.

Dobson finished guiding the last few children out of the cage, then turned to face the bedraggled Professor. “But why her? What has she done?”

“She is possessed by demons, child. You can see it in her eyes.”

Nyx tore her gaze away from the children and fixed it on the Professor. Still, she felt nothing: well, nothing positive, at any rate. The children writhing and squirming on the wet cavern floor disgusted her, and the fact that Dobson could touch them made her stomach turn. She did her best to keep up appearances, moulding her expression into one of concern and compassion, but she was certain it looked as forced as she felt.

“Can’t you help her?” Dobson pleaded, rising from the floor and standing in front of the blood mage. It was a decisively bold move, by all accounts. It was unusual for anyone to challenge the Professor, let alone a lowly guard like Dobson from Darkshire.

Van Helsing looked weary beyond words, but the hope and love this young boy had for what was essentially a stranger touched him. The aged hunter found himself questioning if he had grown jaded in all the years he had spent tracking and killing undead entities. As the boy’s eyes shone with hope, the older man let out a sigh, nodding in defeat. “I suppose there is one thing we can try.”

“Anything!” Dobson chirped, rushing to the Professor’s side.

“… But if it doesn’t work, I will destroy her,” the Professor warned gravely.

Dobson bit his lip, but nodded his agreement. “Just tell me how to help, and I’ll do it.”

The blood mage realized she had been silent for an awfully long time. With a very measured expression, she looked deeply into the Professor’s eyes, doing her best to channel the ‘old’ Nyx. “Do what you must, Professor. I want to be free of the demon’s influence as much as you do.”

Van Helsing wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to the blood mage’s admission, but didn’t seem to entirely trust her. With his eyes fixated on hers, he addressed Dobson. “Restrain her.”

The young guard’s eyes widened. His eyes searched the cavern for something to use, but found nothing. “What with?” he answered, the quiver in his voice revealing his fear of what the Professor had planned for his friend.

“Rope?” Van Helsing replied simply, as though there was no other alternative.

Dobson frowned. “But I don’t have a--”

“Relax, my friend,” Nyx said soothingly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take care of that.” She held her palm out, and concentrated on summoning a length of rope. Within a few minutes, it had materialized. She handed it to Dobson, regarding him kindly.

“… Thanks,” the young guard mumbled, tentatively binding Nyx’s hands behind her back. He was careful to wrap the rope around her skin tightly, but not so tight it would restrict her blood flow. All the while, he seemed apologetic for his actions. He was met with nothing but feigned compassion from the blood mage.

“Bind her ankles, too,” Van Helsing instructed coldly. He watched impassively as Dobson did so. Soon, the blood mage was fully bound. She sat on the floor with rope binding her wrists and ankles together. “Now take the children and get out of here.”

It was clear that it was intended as more of an instruction than a request, but Dobson of Darkshire didn’t need much prompting. The clumsy human began herding the children out of the room, quickly casting a backwards glance, fearing for Nyx. He had no idea what the Professor had planned for her, or what he intended to do – all he knew was that he wanted to get the children to safety and get back as quickly as possible.

When the Professor was satisfied that they were alone, he rose from the floor. His strength was slowly returning, but his movements were still laboured and impaired by his exhaustion. Straightening his long coat, he reached into one of the pockets, pulling out what looked like a small leather-bound journal. He drummed his fingers across its cover.

“This will be your salvation, my child,” he announced. “Assuming that you are still in there, and are capable of being saved. We will see.”

Nyx watched him carefully, making no attempts to fight against her restraints. She simply accepted that she was at his mercy – for now, at least.

‘You’re not seriously playing along with this, are you? This is ridiculous.’

“What are you going to do to me?” Nyx asked, sounding like a scared little girl as she gazed up at the towering man above her.

“I’m just going to read you a little something. It’ll lure the darkness out of you, if it hasn’t consumed you already. Only time will tell.”

‘He’s not seriously doing this, is he?’ The blood mage could practically hear the demon rolling its eyes.

Van Helsing regarded Nyx with pity as he flipped open his journal. He leafed through the pages until he found the one he wanted. A smile dragged across his lips, seeming almost sadistic in nature – it was clear that he enjoyed the thought of whatever he had planned for the blood mage, and with Dobson gone, he was making no effort to hide it. He slowly walked around to stand directly in front of Nyx, and squatted down until he was at her eye level. His dark eyes burned into hers, then he began to read.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”

‘He is. He really is. Oh seven hells… Does he really think this is going to work?’
‘Shut up and play along. I know what I’m doing.’
‘… You’re the boss. For the record, I still believe this is a ridiculous plan.’

The Professor paused to examine Nyx. She squirmed uncomfortably in her bonds. Satisfied, he continued to read.

“Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion inferalis adversarii…”

The blood mage shuddered violently, beginning to weep. She did her best to plead with the Professor, to encourage him to stop. “I don’t want this, please stop, it’s hurting me…” Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead as she squirmed against her bonds, fighting desperately to get free.

The older male simply stared at her, increasing the pace at which he read. The volume of his voice increased along with it, his voice beginning to rumble through the entirety of the cavern.

“Omnis legio, omnis congregation, ET SECTA DIABOLICA!”

As the last three words passed the hunter’s lips, Nyx’s irises and sclera flooded with black. She threw her head back and screamed. Pure shadow energy erupted from between her lips, flooding the cavern with a thick, smothering fog.

The shadows coalesced and swirled, darting around the cavern walls before eventually taking the form of a robed man. His eyes burned a fiery red and seemed to radiate a heat you’d expect from the very depths of Hell. Bony horns sprouted from either side of his forehead, and wings made of pure shadow unfurled from his shoulder blades. He had claws where his fingers should have been, and his entire presence seemed to darken the area around him. He almost seemed to be made of pure shadow.

He cricked his neck and rolled his shoulders as Nyx fell limp in her bonds. She keeled over and hit the cold cavern floor, unconscious. Casting a nonchalant look over his shoulder, the demon grinned wickedly. “Cheers for that, babe.”

[PepsiWhirda]

"You know, Whirda," the shade droned, almost conversationally, "I've been looking for a disciple. Someone to carry out my operations while my power increases. I grow weary of the front lines, you know?"

"We'll see if your offer stands when you're reduced to ash," Whirda said. She had felt the metallic rumblings beneath the trap door, heard the deep down echo of the cages hitting the cavern floor. It was only a matter of time before Van Helsing rejoined the fight. Time Whirda had to buy, hopefully not with her life.

The chamber seemed to shrink around her. Shadows swarmed in and clumped against the ceiling and walls, as if in eager anticipation. Hazy ash still hung in the air, obscuring her vision. Somewhere, the shade laughed.

"Courageous words for a girl whose friends are all dead," Ahn Thrix said. He approached from the darkness, electric blue eyes crackling. What shreds of his lips remained drew back in a sneer.

With nothing left to lose, and no way to escape, Whirda stepped forward. She gripped her kukris icepick style. "Funny thing," she mused, "a creature who hides in darkness, speaking of courage."

"You'll learn the value of shadows soon enough, child." Ahn Thrix drew to his full height, just feet away. That awful dagger leaked ash. Whirda couldn't even see his skeletal fingers gripping the hilt.

"Dark and empty, just shut up!" Whirda dashed forward, propelled by a gust of wind. She spun, her first weapon grinding against the shade's dagger. She snapped the blade to a conventional grip, forcing the dagger out wide.

The shade skittered back, deceptively quick. Whirda's other kukri sliced only the air in front of him. But the battle mage wasn't through. She tucked into a forward flip, the heel of her boot crashing down on the shade's head. Ahn Thrix staggered, and vanished with a crack.

Whirda turned as Ahn Thrix reappeared behind her. Shock flickered behind his eyes as she double-tapped her kukris on the diving dagger, stealing its momentum. She ducked beneath his weak attack and drove forward, a kukri seeking his heart.

A skeletal hand caught the weapon fast. Whirda grinned, expecting the holy fire to devour the shade's ragged flesh.

That grin was stolen from her lips as shadow serpents dove from within Ahn Thrix's voluminous sleeve. They piled on the blade and swarmed past it, latching onto Whirda's wrists. The holy fire struggled to fight through the shadow. As one serpent was incinerated, two more seemed to take its place. With a hiss, the fire went out. Ahn Thrix cackled.

Whirda struggled to escape the bonds on her wrists. The shade shoved forward, sending her stumbling back. Her breath caught in her throat.

With a twist of his wrist, Ahn Thrix snapped the kukri in two.

The blade met the floor with a hollow clatter and slid away. The hilt fell next. Ahn Thrix leaned in, his breath ragged, sunken eyes sizzling in their sockets.

The serpents held Whirda fast. Her fear stole the courage her words had earlier expressed.

The dagger swept in, leaving a cloud of ash behind it.

[PepsiWhirda]

Professor Abraham Van Helsing stood before the exorcised creature, soaking wet, shivering, and knew he faced a power far greater than himself. God almighty, a demon, occupying the body of an innocent child. Would the horrors of the Omniverse never end? Not for the first time, the professor thought of what he would do next—if he didn't die here. Perhaps he was long overdue for some time in the sun. Somewhere far away from The Pale Moors and its creatures of the night.

First, though, there was unfinished business. His thoughts turned briefly to Whirda, struggling for her life above, struggling for a cause so vast as to have wholly consumed her. He prayed, clutching feebly at the cross around his neck, that she would survive this conflict—that she would not be the latest course in the meal that was Omni's foul game. What strength he yet possessed, he owed to her.

Van Helsing bent clumsily to wrap numb fingers around the hilt of his sword. He strode forward, positioning himself in front of the girl in the blood red robes.

The demon, silent until now, the demon began to laugh.

The professor was not amused. "If it is a fight you want, creature," he said. "Come forth and know your end." He brandished his weapon and settled into a defensive stance, his eyes fixed on the monstrosity before him."

The laughter lasted several long moments, filling the air around him. The professor felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the demon pulsed with mirth.

"Look at you," the demon said dismissively. "You may think yourself noble, professor, but there is no nobility in suicide. To defeat you now, well, it would just be..." The demon swept its hand casually aside, and the professor, with no chance to resist, was flung bodily into the cavern wall with a sickening crunch.

Pain replaced numbness—bright white pain, the pain of shattered bones and mangled flesh.

"Too easy," the demon finished, with a dark laugh. "We will meet again, Van Helsing. I do hope you will rise to the challenge."

The professor coughed, blood oozing thick between his lips. Somehow, he shoved himself upward, onto his hands and knees. He crawled, unable to lift his head, unable to speak through a mouthful of metallic blood, toward Nyx's unconscious form. Reached, losing his balance and hitting the ground again, to grasp a handful of red robe. In his darkening vision, he saw the demon approach, heard distantly the swish of its robes.

In his hand, a rustle of movement. A stirring. Nyx's robes slipped free of his feeble grasp as Nyx rose to her feet.

The professor spat, coughed again. "My—my dear girl. My dear girl, you must—must run... you must..." He slumped, all strength having fled him once more.

He was dimly aware of a hand on his cheek—of the demon's laughter, joined now by the girl's. "I'm sorry, professor," Nyx intoned from somewhere far away. "Goodbye."

Silence crowded into the chamber. Pain lanced through Van Helsing's neck as he lifted his head. Both the demon and the girl had vanished. He had failed.

[PepsiWhirda]

*****

In the chamber above, Whirda struggled to break free of the shadow serpents' hold. She writhed and twisted, her wrists held fast, her remaining weapon held limply in one hand, Lady Tyrande's holy fire sputtering along its blade.

Just inches from her face, the shade cackled. The shadow dagger rested against her throat. Whirda grimaced, her feet kicking at empty air.

"Come now," the shade intoned, eyes smoldering in the darkness. "It won't be so bad, working for me. Why, once you've tasted the power I offer, you won't even have time to mourn. It will be all you care about."

"To hell with your power," Whirda spat. "Just kill me."

"Oh, no, I couldn't do that." Ahn'Thrix bared his rotten teeth in a humorless grin. "What a waste that would be. You seem not to understand, Whirda. Once the shadow is inside you, it ceases to be a choice. It is an addiction. One from which you can never hope for freedom—from which you won't even want to be free."

In the shade's words, Whirda saw an opportunity, a fleeting chance. The idea turned her stomach, brought a fresh sheen of cold sweat to her skin, but it was her only option. She repeated the phrase to herself: her only option. There might be no returning from her choice, but it would be worth it to see Ahn'Thrix fail—to see that crackling light fade from his eyes—to see his corpse reclaimed by the dust and rot and darkness from which it was born.

Whirda Windstrom had a plan, and from that plan she drew courage.

"Is it freedom you fear, shade?" Whirda said, her voice sharp and clear.

"It is freedom we all fear, Whirda Windstrom," said the shade, digging the dagger deeper into her neck.

Whirda smiled. "Well then," she said, calling the holy fire to life. "Allow me to indulge you." She nimbly flipped her remaining kukris toward Ahn'Thrix as fire roared to life along its blade. The shadow serpents lunged, releasing their grasp on her wrists, to protect their master.

With one hand, almost quicker than the eye could follow, Whirda snatched the hilt of her twirling blade, pulling the weapon toward her. With the other, she grabbed the shade's hand—the hand holding the shadow dagger.

The shadow serpents dove past their mark as Whirda pulled her weapon away. Ahn'Thrix tensed his arm, expecting Whirda to pull the weapon away from her throat. The shade never expected her to do the opposite, plunging the blade into her own throat.

Whirda screamed as the blade tore through skin and muscle with a spray of reddish black. She threw all her momentum backward, tugging the surprised shade with her.

It all happened so fast, Ahn'Thrix never saw her other hand, the one now clutching her kukris and unimpeded by the shadow serpents' hold. The shade noticed a moment too late. The weapon darted between two ribs and up into Ahn'Thrix's heart, holy fire greedily devouring tattered flesh and brittle bone. Whirda released her hold on the shade's wrist and on her blade. She fell backward, gasping for air, the shade's dagger still lodged in her throat.

A preternatural scream filled the chamber. Ahn'Thrix disappeared with a crack, only to reappear a fraction of a second later, suspended in the air near the ceiling. The holy fire spread down his arms and legs, up his neck to lick at his exposed teeth and jaw.

Gods, how the shade screamed. The shadow serpents, hundreds of them, raced writhing toward their master, darted in to extinguish the flames, but the pyre that was Ahn'Thrix's dry, decaying body burned too fiercely, holy fire reaching out to envelop them one by one. The conflagration filled the chamber with bright light, illuminating every nook and cranny. Whirda crawled back, one hand flung up to shield her eyes, the other holding the hilt of the shade's dagger as it pumped shadow into her.

The shade's robes wilted away, followed by rotten flesh. The screams continued as Ahn'Thrix's leathery skin peeled back to reveal his yellowed pate. His skull crackled and split, showing the pulsating blue brain underneath. "This is far greater than us, bitch[i]!" the shade howled. "You know nothing of what is to come!"

The holy fire continued its work until only the shade's eyes remained, two orbs of crackling blue in a rapidly darkening chamber. Whirda managed a thin smile as they were snuffed out, the agonized screams dying away. The holy fire, with nothing left to destroy, vanished as well.

Whirda crawled backward, groping in the darkness. She could feel the dagger doing its wicked work. As blood poured from her mouth and the wound in her neck, it was replaced by icy shadow. The chill spread down her arms and legs as it filled her veins. Every part of her was numb. She wrenched the dagger from her throat and flung it aside, collapsing onto her back.

Darkness encroached from all sides, blurring the edges of her vision. It was cold—[i]so cold. She thought of Nyx and Dobson, of the professor, of the elves in their mighty tree, who might look out over The Tangled Green without knowing a sense of dread, and she knew it was worth it.

Then, she thought of nothing at all.

*****

Professor Abraham Van Helsing came back to consciousness on his back, with the expansive sky of The Pale Moors sprawled expansively above him. The moon scudded inexorably overhead, like a doomed man led to execution. Every breath came in a ragged gasp as sharp pain filled his chest. His ribs were broken. He lifted his left arm, bound in a rudimentary splint. His hand was blood-flecked, his nails black with grit, the skin peppered with scrapes and bruises.

"How—" he managed to get out, before a fit of coughing overtook him. He moaned as it subsided, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He heard rustling somewhere to his left, tried to turn his head, but the pain and stiffness were too great. There was the sound of branches parting, followed by a familiar voice.

"You're awake!?" Dobson squeaked, rushing to the professor's side.

"Dobson," Van Helsing wheezed. "My dear boy, what happened?"

"Well..." The boy paused, seemingly unsure what to say next. Sorrow crackled behind his eyes like a storm.

"The truth, Dobson."

"Right. Well, I was taking the kids out of the caverns, just like you said, but I kept getting this feeling, you know? I kept getting this feeling that something wasn't right, with Nyx and that—that thing. So I snuck back to check, and that's when I found you."

"Was there any sign—any sign of the girl, or her—or her—" The pain came in waves with every breath, making it hard to speak.

"No," Dobson said flatly. "Nothing."

"Just as well," Van Helsing muttered. "She was... in league with the demon. It was all a ruse."

"That can't be." Dobson blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the situation. "She was kind. Gentle."

"A trick, dear boy, intended to win our hearts. It pains me to admit it, but we were fooled. Where are we?"

"On our way back to Darkshire," Dobson said. "We found an old cart in that abandoned town. Thanatos has been pulling you."

As if on command, Nyx's great cat padded up to them with a throaty growl. The professor flinched as his gaze met the animal's. "The beast was Nyx's familiar," he said. "We should put it down, else we can never be certain of our safety."

"No." Dobson shook his head, adamant. "Thanatos is mine now. We're friends." The cat sensed Dobson's words and nuzzled into the boy's shoulder.

"Very—very well," Van Helsing whispered. He could feel the exhaustion taking over, beckoning him back into sleep.

"Professor?" Dobson asked, quietly.

The professor stirred, regarding Dobson blearily. "Yes?"

Dobson bit his lip. "What about Whirda?"

Whirda! The thought hadn't occurred to him, that she was still in the caverns, perhaps still embroiled in battle with the shade. "How long has it been?"

"Two days," Dobson said, frowning. "I wanted to go back—I really did want to! But you said to take care of the kids, and, and..." He turned his head to hide the tears leaking down his face. "What if she's dead, professor?"

"There is no helping that now, dear boy," Van Helsing said. "Whatever the outcome of our battle with the shade—whatever the outcome, know that you did well. Those children are safe because of your heroism."

Dobson dragged a hand across his face and squared his shoulders. "Right."

Whatever had transpired in the lair, the professor knew, it was over. If Whirda emerged victorious, she would find her way back. If not, well... it was too late to save her, and besides, he was in no condition to walk much less to fight. The only option remaining was to return to Darkshire, where a better plan could be devised.

"I must rest, dear boy," Van Helsing whispered. "Keep us safe, and you shall be rewarded." He felt guilt, shame, fear, but most of all, the professor felt tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of the constant threats of the Omniverse. Tired of the responsibility of protecting a town of people too proud—too foolish, perhaps—to seek safety. Plagued by the notion of his own failure, Professor Abraham Van Helsing drifted into fitful sleep, the image of Whirda Windstrom haunting his dreams.