Illidan (8 page)

“But at what price, master?”

“They will be foul and fierce, quick to anger and quick to kill. They will be filled with rage and hatred and a hunger for battle.”

“Is there no way we can mitigate those side effects while preserving the changes we need?”

“We will need them all. You have seen what the Burning Legion is like. You have felt its wrath. We need to be just as fierce and just as deadly if we are to have any chance.”

“You think the Legion can be defeated here, Lord?”

“I believe they can be held here.”

“You seek then only to preserve your homeworld of Azeroth, and to do that you would turn this world into a battleground.”

“This world is already a battleground, Akama. And, no, I do not seek only to defend Azeroth. I want to preserve us all.”

“And how do you intend to do that, Lord? By turning us into that which we oppose?” Akama gestured meaningfully at the recumbent orc. His brow was lower. His fangs were larger. His eyes snapped open and he reached up to grab at Illidan, breaking the strap that held him to the gurney. The grip was strong and the clawlike nails bit deep. Illidan shrugged him off and brought his hand down on the orc's windpipe, breaking it. As the creature writhed, Illidan snapped his neck with one twist. He then looked at Akama and smiled. The fel blood still affected him. He had enjoyed the kill.

“That one was a little too fierce, I think.”

“I thought there could be no such thing against those we face.”

Illidan laughed. “I like you, Akama, but do not try my patience. I am not here to play games with words. I am here to win a war.”

“We all are, Lord. Let us hope that we are all fighting the same one.”

A
KAMA WATCHED FROM THE
battlements as the first of the new army emerged from the gates of Hellfire Citadel. A week had passed since Illidan had begun the creation of the new batch of fel orcs. Tens of thousands of transformed fighters strode in time, cursing and howling and grunting. They brandished their weapons in rough salute as they saw Illidan watching. He acknowledged it with a lazy wave. He seemed satisfied. His military power grew. He no longer needed to rely on the backing of Kael'thas and Vashj. He had armies now to match his sorcerous strength. He truly was the lord of Outland.

“They will establish control of all the lands of Hellfire Peninsula,” Illidan said. “Then we shall close the Legion's gates and slow the demons' advance by another increment.”

“I sincerely hope so, Lord,” Akama said. Now more than ever he was convinced that he had made a deal with a demon. It was an insane plan to transform the orcs. Illidan was simply turning himself into a new Magtheridon. Indeed, he might prove to be something worse.

“When that happens, will you return the Temple of Karabor to my people, Lord?”

“Of course, Akama. Never doubt it.”

Akama did, however. He touched the rune-carved stone he kept in his pouch, feeling the magic in it and thinking about the night elf warden who bore its twin.

“Make ready to depart,” Illidan said. “Tomorrow we return to the Black Temple.”

I
LLIDAN STRODE INTO THE
Chamber of Command, his council's meeting room at the Black Temple. Akama hobbled along behind him. Several Broken scuttled around, putting the last of the fittings into place. Great tapestries woven with Illidan's symbol hung from the wall. An enormous table showing a carved three-dimensional map of Outland dominated the space. A group of blood elves huddled around it. They turned and made obeisance as soon as they saw Illidan. Clearly his sudden appearance had taken them by surprise.

The beautiful Lady Malande raised her hand in a languid salute. “Lord Illidan, Prince Kael'thas regrets he could not be present. He has taken a force to close the Legion's gate in the Netherstorm and—”

Before she could complete her explanation, High Nethermancer Zerevor butted in. “The magical defenses of the temple have been rewoven, Lord Illidan. They were in a disgraceful state, but—”

Gathios the Shatterer, broad for a blood elf and encased in the heavy armor of a paladin, interrupted, “There is no sign of Legion activity in Shadowmoon Valley, Lord Illidan. The gates remain as closed as the day we sealed them, and there have been no indications of demonic manifestation.”

Veras Darkshadow leaned back against the table and folded his scarred arms across his chest. Alone among his comrades, he apparently did not feel the urge to fight for Illidan's attention. Illidan shook his head. These blood elves seemed to have nothing better to do than plot against one another for his favor. It was no wonder that Kael'thas had left them behind. Still, they were efficient organizers and brilliant in their respective fields. They represented the absolute best of the sin'dorei forces in Outland. They had taken to calling themselves the Illidari Council, a measure perhaps of their self-importance.

Illidan raised his hand and stared at them until they fell silent. “We are at war with the Burning Legion,” he said to Gathios. “Need I remind you that the demon lord Kil'jaeden is displeased with me? He will make his displeasure felt soon enough.”

Silence settled on the chamber like a shroud. The only sound was Akama's wheezing breath. The sin'dorei looked afraid. That was good, Illidan thought. Fear might keep them all alive. He tilted his head so that Zerevor was aware that he had his full attention. “Are you certain that the wards are ready? They may soon be put to the test.”

Zerevor took a deep breath and considered his words carefully. “They are, Lord Illidan. I would bet my life on it.”

“That is good,” Illidan said. “Because you are doing that. You are betting all our lives on it.”

Illidan turned to Malande. “Send a message to Prince Kael'thas apprising him of the situation. I do not want him taking any unnecessary risks. After me, he is the one Kil'jaeden is most likely to strike at.”

“It shall be done, Lord Illidan. I shall see to it at once.”

“Veras—you have done as I asked?”

“Of course, Lord Illidan. Our best trackers have scoured the routes to Hellfire Citadel and questioned the fel orc clan leaders. A number of night elves were sighted on the heights above the road on the day of your triumphal procession. They killed a group of fel orcs and made their escape. One of them wore burnished armor of the sort Warden Shadowsong wears.”

Illidan bared his fangs, and his underlings flinched. He had been right. He
had
seen Maiev that day. He should have scoured the hills immediately, but it had taken all his power to restrain Magtheridon, and he had not been absolutely certain it was her. The need to impress the clans with his strength had outweighed his suspicions. It would not have looked strong to disrupt the triumphal march of his entire army to search for a few night elves. Still, it was galling to think that she had been so close. “You will find Maiev Shadowsong for me, Veras. You will assign agents to follow up on every rumor of her presence. I am keen to repay her for the hospitality she extended to me.”

“At once, Lord Illidan.” Veras padded silently from the chamber.

“And you, Gathios. I want you to ensure that our sentries are alert, and that a force is ready to respond to any threat.”

“It is already done, Lord Illidan.” Gathios paused for a moment. “I have taken the liberty of surveying the Black Temple's defenses for weak points. The sewer outflows represent one particularly easy point of attack. In your absence I consulted with Lady Vashj. She suggested that one of her champions, High Warlord Naj'entus, should guard the sewers, along with a picked force of her people.”

“It is an unpleasant duty but a necessary one,” Illidan said.

“Then you approve, Lord Illidan?”

“Of course. You have all done well. Let us hope you have done enough.”

Akama, Gathios, Malande, and Zerevor filtered from the chamber to be about their duties, leaving Illidan to contemplate the map of Outland. Soon armies would be moving about it and war would ravage the land. He had better prepare. He had much to do and little time to do it in. This was the moment to move to the next phase of his plan. He must recruit others like him—those willing to hunt the Legion by becoming what they hated most.

V
andel stalked through the dark landscape of Shadowmoon Valley. Behind him, the huge volcano known as the Hand of Gul'dan grumbled. The blazing contrails of enormous green meteors scratched the face of the sky as they crashed downward. The earth trembled like a frightened beast on their impact. In the distance, the gigantic walls of the Black Temple loomed.

Vandel touched the hilts of his scabbarded daggers, then rubbed his weary eyes to remove the ash and grit. He had come a long way to find Illidan's new home. He had come a long way in search of vengeance.

The image of his dead son flickered through his mind. There had been very little left of Khariel's body once the felhound was finished with it. He touched the silver leaf he had given the child for his third and last birthday to make sure it still hung from his neck.

Even after five years, the memory burned white hot. He ground his teeth and let the wave of hatred sweep through him. It would have been better for him if he had died that day along with his family and the rest of his village.

He should have been with them, but instead he was in the woods hunting when the alarm horns sounded. He had raced back through the forest, leaping over the fallen trees, the smell of burning bright in his nostrils.

He pushed the memory down. It was far too easy to give in to it. He had done so many times in the past and been driven to the edge of madness and beyond. In his lucid moments, he admitted that. No sane elf would have spent long years tracking the Betrayer, ferreting out the secrets of those who had followed him. No sane elf would have passed through that magical portal and come to this hellish land.

The wall loomed before him. He crept forward, taking advantage of every patch of shadow. There were many sentries and many warding spells. The Black Temple was a fortress girded for war, and he did not want to be cut down by its guardians before he had finished his business with its master.

Gigantic stones had been piled high to form the outer wall. Here and there clumps of moss clung to them. In places, wind and rain and meteor strikes had eroded the ancient blocks, leaving cracks that could be exploited by someone who had learned to climb amid the great trees of Ashenvale. He sprang as high as he could reach, digging his fingers into the first gap he spotted and pulling himself up.

He hung there for a moment, feeling as if his arm would be pulled out of its socket. Below, a patrol of fel orcs marched closer. He would have offered up a prayer to Elune if he had any faith that the goddess's benevolence could reach this foul place. Instead he made his mind a blank and continued scrambling up the wall, hoping that he would not be overheard by any sentry waiting above.

That did not seem likely. Shadowmoon Valley was a riot of noise. He doubted that any guard could hear him over the thunder of the volcano and the roar of the wind. Nonetheless he allowed himself a moment of stillness and strained his keen ears for any clue that he might have been observed. Beneath him, the patrol went about its rounds.

Vandel looked down into the pools of shadow, and just for a moment he felt the urge to let go. The long drop would break his neck and end his agony. He could join his family in death and end the torment. He resisted the urge. He could not rest while his son was unavenged. His hatred was stronger than his desire for endless peace.

He pulled himself over the edge of the battlements, rolled down onto the balcony behind, and lay in the shadows, catching his breath. So far no sentinels. He felt a brief moment of triumph. He had succeeded where an army would have failed. He had broken into the unholy precincts of the Black Temple.

A batwinged shadow passed across the moon. It seemed that all his wishes were to be granted tonight. Illidan, the Betrayer himself, soared aloft on the night wind. It seemed that he, too, was restless this evening. No doubt there were many things that kept him awake. Perhaps his dark deeds caused nightmares that kept him from his bed.

How long had it been since Vandel had slept without nightmares? He could not recall. All he could remember were the terrible dreams. He touched Khariel's amulet once more.
Not long, my son, not long.

Illidan settled upon a balcony atop the highest tower of the Black Temple. He paced for nine steps, turned, and then shook his head. He leaned against the banister, surveying everything as far as the horizon. Vandel wondered whether the Betrayer could see him. His sightless eyes were known to perceive things that others could not. What would Illidan do if he knew that Vandel was there?

It would not be difficult to reach the tower upon which Illidan stood. The few sentinels scattered along the battlements did not seem completely awake. They were secure in the strength of the walls protecting them. Doubtless they did not expect someone like him. They were there to watch for armies and demons, not a solitary night elf maddened by grief and overmastered by the thirst for revenge.

He stalked forward, telling himself not to be overconfident. Perhaps there were other sentries and he had just not seen them. The long years of hunting the foes of his people had taught him stealth beyond that of most mortals, but he was far from the only one who could hide in shadows. Perhaps even now some deadly sentry watched him unseen and prepared to drive a dagger into his back.

Once more he paused to consider the fact that he might no longer be sane. His mind had shattered once, at the moment he had found his son's corpse being gnawed upon by the felhound. For a moment he could almost smell the scent of burning wood, and night elf blood. He could almost hear the crunching of small bones. He let out a whimper, then cursed silently. Anyone within earshot might have heard. He did not intend to be struck down by a guard because of his own foolishness. No more mistakes. From here on he would concentrate on the mission ahead.

He reached the foot of the tower upon which Illidan stood. Ahead, a ramp curled out of sight around the side of the tower. He prayed that luck was still with him and ran, preferring to trust in speed and stealth and his unexpected good fortune.

He reached the top. The one he had come long leagues to find stood before him.

Illidan's back was turned. His massive wings clung close to his body as if trying to warm him against the chill of the night. He held his great horned head low as he surveyed the distant lights of the great volcano. What was he looking for? What did he see with his eyeless sight?

Illidan turned as if he had known Vandel was there the whole time.

Vandel drew his daggers, checked the mystic runes etched into them, and padded forward. He knelt, and placed his blades at Illidan's hooves. “Forgive the intrusion, Lord Illidan. I did not wish to risk being cut down by your sentries before I had spoken to you.”

Illidan said, “What do you wish of me, nightstalker?”

“I want to slay those who slew my family. I want to slaughter your enemies.”

“There is no shortage of those.”

Vandel said, “I wish to learn what you have learned. I want to hunt demons.”

“Then you have much to learn, and the hour is late.”

“Will you teach me?”

“You and a thousand like you. Go below. Rest. You will find what you seek. Or die in the attempt.”

Illidan turned his back once more and returned to gazing at the horizon. It was clear to Vandel that he was dismissed.

U
NCERTAIN AS TO WHAT
he was supposed to do, Vandel strode down to the base of the tower. Two tattooed figures waited for him. It seemed as if they had been there all along. They were not surprised to see him, nor did they draw any weapons.

One was a tall female with a scarred face. She appeared to be a night elf, yet she had demonic features. Green flames flickered in her empty eye sockets. Small horns curled from her head. Her scanty clothing revealed glittering tattoos that covered her body. Some magic about them drew Vandel's eye and compelled him to try to unravel the pattern as if it were a complex puzzle.

She noticed his look, and her lips twisted to reveal small fangs. Vandel met her cold smile with one of his own, feeling as if somehow he was being tested, as if they were crossing blades in a soundless struggle.

The second figure, also night elven in form, paid no attention to him at all, and Vandel would have been surprised if he did. His eyelids were sewn shut, as were his lips. He was hunched forward, with his head held low and his shoulders high. He was stripped to the waist, revealing even more tattoos than his companion had. A broad leather belt wrapped around his waist held a selection of long, sharp needles, from the ends of which dangled strings of animal hide. Their tips were blotched, and a look at the male's body revealed the fact that he had recently pierced his skin. The crust on the needles' points was dried blood, most likely his own.

“You have spoken with Lord Illidan,” the female said. There was a jealous note in her husky voice. It sounded as if something was wrong with her larynx, as if she had once screamed so loud and so long that she had done it permanent damage.

“Yes,” Vandel said. He did not care for her knowing smile. He was not going to let himself be intimidated.

“You are privileged indeed.”

“Am I?”

“He does not greet every supplicant personally. It seems he has some memory of you. Perhaps he has something special in mind.”

The male raised a finger to his lips, as if she had said too much. A long talon extruded from its tip. The gesture was not threatening, but it was not reassuring, either. The blind male scratched his chin, drawing a bead of blood onto the claw. He put it into his mouth through a tiny aperture left by the thread.

“I would not presume to read Lord Illidan's mind,” Vandel said.

“You show more wisdom than I expected.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I am Elarisiel. He is Needle. If he had another name, it is long since forgotten, even by him.”

Vandel bowed to them both. Elarisiel laughed, malice glittering in her voice. Needle bobbed his head without mockery. Vandel stared hard at him. Obviously the male had no more difficulty seeing than Lord Illidan. What was going on here?

“Lord Illidan told us to take you below.”

Tension tightened Vandel's shoulder blades. “And how did he tell you that?”

“You will find out, eventually, if you live.”

Needle produced one of his long, sharp pins and pierced it into the flesh of his own forearm. He dug around for a minute. Another droplet of blood appeared. He poked the point through the small gap between his lips and made a sucking sound. A blissful look appeared on his face. Vandel had come here doubting his own sanity. Now he doubted that of everyone around him.

T
HE PAIR LED HIM
through a maze of corridors. They passed through a small sally port in the wall of the Black Temple and out into a vast heap of tumbledown ruins.

“This was once part of the Temple of Karabor,” Elarisiel said. “The orcs and the demons did not leave a great deal of the original structure standing. What they did, Lord Illidan and his champions took. We dwell here now under the watchful gaze of Varedis and his companions.”

“Varedis?” Vandel asked.

“The master tutor,” Elarisiel said, but she did not seem inclined to amplify on her remark.

More green meteors scarred the face of the sky as Vandel and his guides passed through a series of terraces. Silken pavilions rose along their length. From them came the sounds of mad laughter. They passed through the camp and came eventually to a tunnel mouth in a ruined wall. Chill air surrounded them as they walked down worn, ancient steps and emerged into a huge hall.

It looked like an asylum or a battlefield hospital. Elves sprawled everywhere. Some lay in pools of greenish light cast by flickering fel lanterns. It made them look sick. Some of the males were bearded and green-haired after the fashion of night elves; some were clean-shaven like the sin'dorei. Some muttered to one another. Some huddled in the shadows between the lanterns as if trying to conceal themselves. Most slept fitfully, talking in their sleep. A mad scream sounded, and a female rose up and raced through the chamber, shouting, “Worms, worms, worms!”