by William King
Illidan sent yet another surge of fel power through the bindings. Magtheridon screamed as agony tore at him. Illidan let the energy flow till the demon’s howls threatened to shatter the stone dome above him. He kept it going until he judged the moment was right. The pit lord was weak enough now. It was time.
“Akama, come forth,” Illidan said.
The door of the chamber opened and Akama entered, shoulders hunched, head down. Long tentacles dribbled from the cowl of his robe. He shuffled over to the dais upon which Illidan stood. Akama’s eyes never left the bound pit lord. He clearly was afraid of Magtheridon. Just as clearly, he hated him for the desecration he had worked on the Temple of Karabor. There was malice in his gaze as well as fear.
Magtheridon gasped, “Tell me, Broken one, has the Betrayer returned your precious temple to you yet?”
“What do you wish of me, master?” Akama tilted his head so that he was facing Illidan, but it was clear he meant to keep the pit lord in his peripheral vision.
“Akama, what do you see?” Illidan asked.
“I see Magtheridon bound. I see great spells in place to hold him. I see you standing in triumph over your fallen foe.”
Illidan smiled. “Are you not curious as to why I have preserved him?”
“I am, Lord.”
Magtheridon’s gurgling laugh boomed through the room. It was pained but there was wicked mirth in it. “He wants my blood, Broken one. But not the same way you do.”
Akama frowned. The shadows of his cowl would have hidden his expression from a normal-sighted individual, but Illidan had no trouble perceiving it. “What does this creature mean, Lord?”
“He is essentially correct. Among other uses, his blood contains the secret to creating fel orcs. It can be distilled into an elixir that gives the orcs might and ferocity.”
“Why would you wish to do that, master?” Akama asked.
“Because I have need of an army, loyal Akama. The Burning Legion is coming for us, and the demons must be opposed.” He slammed his fist into his open palm. “They must be defeated. No matter what it takes. No matter what it costs.”
“But creating more of those foul creatures is…an abomination, Lord Illidan. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but it is true.”
“You have outraged your pet’s sensibilities, little Illidan,” Magtheridon boomed. “And not for the first time, I must tell you. He is a sensitive creature. Treacherous, too. I can read his heart even if you are too blind to see it.”
Illidan spoke a word of power that clamped Magtheridon’s jaw shut. Only muffled groans and unintelligible gasps emerged from him. Illidan had his doubts about Akama, as he had his doubts about every one of his followers, but he would not let that show. There was no sense in allowing Magtheridon to undermine Akama’s loyalty with thoughts that he might be under suspicion.
“We need a mighty army, Akama, and we need it quickly. Otherwise we will be overwhelmed by the force that the Legion can bring to bear. Now do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it.”
Akama placed his hands together and made a bow that set his facial tentacles to touching the ground. Illidan spread his arms wide, and his wings wider still, and brandished a Warglaive of Azzinoth in each fist. He chanted words, and the forces of magic bent to his will. Magtheridon struggled against his bindings, enormous muscles flexing as he tried the strength of his chains. It seemed that the pit lord was not quite as sanguine as he tried to appear at the prospect of the bloodletting.
Illidan strode forward, bounding into the air, wings flexed to hold him there for a moment. He twisted through the movements of an enormous ritual dance, circling ever closer to Magtheridon, blades spinning in his hands. All the while he crooned evil words in the ancient language of demons. Trails of fire appeared behind his blades as he spun them, weaving an intricate net of energy.
He reached Magtheridon and slashed. The blades bit chunks from the demon’s flesh. Green blood dripped from the wounds, dribbled down the pit lord’s columnar legs, and puddled at his feet. Illidan moved around and slashed again, drawing more blood. His blades never sank in beyond a few inches—each blow little more than a scratch on the demon’s thick hide—but more and more blood came forth. A few droplets sprayed his face. The smell of it made Illidan lick his lips. The tang set his tongue to tingling.
Strength flowed into him. The demon’s blood was like a drug. He fought down the urge to plunge his hands into the pool and lap it up. The strength it granted was not worth the price he would have to pay.
What does it matter? part of him asked. There was no greater pleasure than drinking the blood of his demonic enemies and imbibing their power. He needed it. It would enable him to kill ever more demons and absorb their energy until the moment he was strong enough to take on Kil’jaeden himself.
Out of the corner of his vision, he caught sight of Akama’s horrified face. It reminded him that there was another purpose here than mere enjoyment. He needed this blood for other reasons. He needed it to make his army, to give the orc clans surrounding him the strength they craved to overcome their foes and his.
“Now, Akama!” he shouted. “Bind the blood. Set it flowing into the channels.”
Akama cast the spell. The blood responded sluggishly. The demonic taint within it resisted Akama. The plasma swirled and split, flowing into new streams that filled the channels carved in the floor. Akama’s magic grew and drew on more and more power. The spurts formed whirling patterns in the air and flowed down into the vents. The blood pulsed through a system of pipes to be gathered in alchemical tanks. Illidan smiled. He had collected the first of what he needed. The spell would be self-sustaining for hours.
It was time to get to work.
—
ILLIDAN STRODE THROUGH THE long gallery, gazing down at the orcs lying on gurneys there. Pipe connected each to a tank of bubbling greenish fluid, pumping it into their veins. Runes cut into their flesh guided the magic. Scuttling, bent-backed mo’arg servitors moved from orc to orc, checking the procedure. Their metallic claws clinked against the tubes. Their demonic eyes glinted with unholy glee. Akama watched with unconcealed disgust on his face.
“This is an abomination, Lord Illidan,” he said.
“So you have said. But it is necessary.”
“Are you absolutely sure of that, Lord?”
“Are you absolutely sure you wish to face the consequences of questioning me?” Magtheridon’s blood still affected Illidan. Subtle anger twisted his mind. It was one of the dangers of what he had been attempting.
“I mean no disrespect, Lord.”
An orc stirred in his sleep, grinding his teeth and flexing his fingers as he writhed in the grip of some dark nightmare. Doubtless he, too, was feeling the effects of the pit lord’s blood, and he was receiving it in a distilled and magically enhanced form. His skin was blotched an angry red. The epidermis seemed thicker and had a raw look to it. Muscles bulged and nails had become claws. A faint glow was visible even through his closed eyelids.
“They grow larger and heavier as we go down the line,” Akama said.
“It is the effects of the serum. It will make them stronger and faster. It will ensure they heal quicker.”
“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.”
—
AKAMA 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.”
—
ILLIDAN 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.
Vandel 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 flick
ered 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.