by William King
“You drank wine as a child?”
“Sometimes with meals. But mostly it is just the scent. It makes me think of my father and mother sitting down to break bread with their kin.”
“This was before your world was shattered?”
He nodded and his glowing eyes snapped open. “Yes. I am older than I look,” he said, smiling to show that he knew how old he really looked.
“It must have been a terrible time,” Maiev said. She had found that the more she reminded the draenei and the Broken of their suffering, the more likely they were to aid her against those they blamed for it.
“A world shattered?” His tone told her that he thought her words a gross understatement. “Terrible hardly begins to describe it. We thought the world was ending. The sky burned. The continents ripped apart. Lava flowed. Wild magic danced from mountain peak to mountain peak. Sometimes the tips of mountains rose into the air and floated away. Sometimes they crashed down and killed thousands.”
“I have seen such things in Nagrand.”
“That is like comparing a pebble to a boulder, I am afraid.”
“You have been to Nagrand?”
He nodded. “Business sometimes takes me to Telaar. And family responsibilities.”
His smile widened and he placed his hands, palms up, on the table. “But you have not come here to listen to the meanderings of an old innkeeper. Arechron’s letters have told me something about your quest. You seek the undoing of this new lord of Outland, this Illidan.”
He kept his voice low, as if even on his own property, he feared being overheard. If he thought it wise, Maiev decided that it was worth doing the same. “Yes.”
“You have a very small army for such a large undertaking.”
“Are you an expert in such things?”
“I was not always a fat old innkeeper. I have fought. But I have never set myself against such a mighty enemy as you have.”
“I have bested him before.”
“Yet he is free now and he has grown mighty. His agents lurk everywhere, in secret. There are always those who will tell tales for gold. I would be careful of to whom I spoke if I were you, and even more careful what I spoke of.”
“I will bear that in mind. I was told there are those here who might aid me. The naaru, for example.”
“They might, although I fear they have worries of their own.”
“Still, it would not hurt to ask.”
“That is so. She who does not ask, does not get, as they say.” The Broken did not sound particularly hopeful about the success of her mission, but perhaps that was just his manner. “The Born from Light might help one they deem worthy.”
“Born from Light?”
“The Sha’tar. That is what their name means. They are the naaru who were drawn to the ruins of Shattrath when they sensed the Aldor priests performing rites inside the rubble of one of their temples.”
“Arechron mentioned the Aldor.”
“As well he might. They are the servants of the naaru and of the Light. They are recruiting all they can find to oppose the Burning Legion. They would be grateful for any aid you could give them.”
“I have no doubt that theirs is a worthy goal, but I feel I can best serve the Light by overcoming Illidan. He is the greatest champion the Burning Legion has in Outland.”
“Is it not strange, then, that he seems to be at war with them?”
“It may be a deception. Or it may be a temporary disagreement. He has fallen out with his demonic overlords before, only to worm his way back into their favor.”
“You know a great deal about it.”
“I was his jailor for ten thousand years.”
“He must hate you.”
“And fear me, too, I hope.”
“I do not doubt it,” Alexius said.
“Can you arrange for me to see the naaru?”
“You can walk in and talk with them in the Terrace of Light. They will know you are here by now, and they will sense the power within you and give you a hearing.”
“Is it that simple?”
“For you it will be, of that I have no doubt. Your war against the new lord of Outland has not gone unremarked.”
“You said he has agents here. Would they be blood elves?”
“Perhaps, but I would not be too quick to rush to judgment if I were you. The sin’dorei here are sworn to protect the city. The Scryers look most unfavorably on those who aid your Betrayer. They betrayed him themselves.”
“Did they?”
“They were sent by Prince Kael’thas to lay waste to our city. A mighty force they were, the best and brightest of Kael’thas’s army, mighty magi and scholars. The Aldor braced themselves for defense, but the blood elves laid down their arms and asked for an audience with the naaru. It seems their leader, Voren’thal, had a vision. Only by serving the naaru would his people survive.”
“It might well have been a trick.”
“So many thought, but the naaru spoke with this Voren’thal and accepted his fealty. He and his people have served the city ever since.”
“A deception.”
“The naaru can see deep into the minds of those with whom they converse, and they are not easily deceived.”
“If any could do so, it would no doubt be Kael’thas. He is wily.”
“You speak with some bitterness.”
“I, too, once regarded him as an ally.”
“That is troubling. Nonetheless, the blood elves of the Scryer’s Tier would be the next faction I would suggest you seek aid from.”
Maiev felt her face redden. “I would rather seek aid from fel orcs.”
The Broken’s hand went to his mouth, and he stroked his drooping tendrils. “The enemy of my enemy…”
“You are not the first to suggest such a thing to me. But an alliance with the sin’dorei is a step too far.”
“That is a pity, for the Scryers are mighty sorcerers…”
Maiev’s fists clenched. The Broken realized his mistake. “I shall speak no more on the subject.”
“Perhaps that would be wise.” Maiev felt a brief sting of regret. She had nothing to gain by alienating the innkeeper. “I appreciate the aid you have given me. I am a stranger here, and a friendly guide is without price.”
“We are all strangers in this world, Maiev Shadowsong. We must help one another.”
“Is there anyone else who might help me?”
“There is Khadgar the archmage, a trusted ally of the naaru. I believe he is from your homeworld.”
“Tell me of him.”
“Tales swirl around this one, and it is difficult to get at the truth. He is a human. A few of them have found their way to Shattrath. Some say he is a hero who sacrificed himself to close the Dark Portal between Azeroth and Draenor. Others claim he was an apprentice of Medivh, the Guardian who was possessed by Sargeras.”
“That hardly seems like a recommendation to trust him.”
“The Sha’tar do.”
“I fear I cannot.”
“Then it is probably just as well that he is no longer in the city. The naaru have dispatched him to the Netherstorm—or so I have heard. To investigate some strange appearances there.”
“You are uncommonly well informed, Alexius.”
“I am an innkeeper. We hear things, particularly when we keep our ears to the ground.”
“I am glad that you have done so. Of course, I would be displeased to discover that you had been talking about my business with anyone else.”
Alexius looked wounded. “You were sent here by my cousin. It would be a betrayal of all the laws of kinship and hospitality for me to do so.”
“Of course. I just wanted to make sure we understood each other.”
“Now you sound like my cousin. I can see why he liked you.”
—
SO THIS IS THE TERRACE OF LIGHT, Maiev thought. It was impressive in its odd way. The air shimmered. Crystalline notes sounded. Huge glowing blue crystals descended fr
om the roof of the vast circular chamber. The scent of incense twitched her nostrils. At the center, over a massive stone dais, hovered a glowing entity of enormous power. The naaru. Its shape shifted constantly from one geometric form to another, but it returned most often to an outline that resembled that of a star.
Hundreds of petitioners came and went, along with priestly servants who no doubt belonged to the Aldor. Robed blood elves, wearing the tabard of the Scryers, stared at her. They did not look hostile, but they did not look friendly, either. They seemed to be wondering what she was going to do.
She made her way through the crowd, studying her surroundings. Above her the giant domed roof of the terrace echoed back the sounds of prayers and petitions.
It was some time before she confronted the naaru. She was grateful. It gave her a chance to become accustomed to its awesome presence. A’dal shimmered like a chained sun. Unleashed, the naaru’s power might destroy cities or level mountains. The full blast of its attention focused on her when she stepped forward to greet it. It was all she could do to prevent herself from kneeling. She kept her head high and glanced straight into its light. Maiev felt as if the naaru was able to read her the way she might read an unfurled scroll. There was something about this being that made her feel like little more than a child.
“Greetings, Warden Shadowsong,” A’dal said. The naaru radiated serenity. Its calm, pleasant voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Perhaps it was speaking inside her mind. “I am A’dal.”
“Elune shines on the moment of our meeting,” Maiev said.
A’dal said, “How can I aid you?”
“You know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“You know what I do?”
“Yes.”
“I have come to Outland in search of Illidan. I mean to return him to his place of incarceration.”
“An ambitious goal. Illidan styles himself the lord of Outland now. He has the power to make good on that claim. Who are you to oppose him?”
“One who held him bound for ten times a thousand years.”
“A blink in the eye of eternity.”
Maiev’s smile was rueful. “It seemed long enough to me.”
“As you mortals measure time, it was, no doubt.”
“But not as the naaru do?”
“We see these things differently from you. We have no bodies to age. We are beings of Light.”
“Then you know Illidan must be opposed.”
“It is a task you seem admirably suited to.”
“It is the work of my life.”
“I can see that, and it makes me regret all the more that we have no aid to give you at this time.”
“What?” The word burst from her lips before she could stop it.
“Alas, we, too, have a mission in this place. We oppose the Burning Legion. This is a task that takes all our resources.”
“But Illidan serves the Legion. Opposing him can only aid you.”
“At this moment Illidan opposes the Legion. He is its enemy. We take advantage of this to gather our strength.”
“At this moment he opposes the demons. While it suits him. When it no longer does so, he will crawl back to his masters on his belly, as he always has.”
“Your hatred blinds you.”
“It is not hatred. I seek justice for those he has killed, for those he has betrayed, for those he will murder. You cannot tell me that you believe that Illidan is any better than the Burning Legion.”
“You have no concept of the true nature of the Burning Legion, Warden Shadowsong.”
“And you do?”
“We have opposed it for a thousand times your lifetime. We shall oppose it until the end of all that is.”
“I need more than fine words if I am to bring Illidan to justice.”
“Unfortunately, words are all I have for you now. You must find your own path. You are not without allies here, even if you cannot see that. You can find more if you make the attempt. The chief magister of the Scryers waits to speak with you.”
“A blood elf?”
“One of your people.”
“The blood elves are not my people. They turned their back on my people long ago. We have nothing in common.”
“Save perhaps an enemy.”
“I will have nothing to do with those heretics.”
“That would be your choice.”
Maiev reined in her fury. She bowed and turned on her heel without waiting for A’dal to terminate the audience. She heard gasps from nearby blood elves, which gave her some satisfaction. A tall blood elf in the tabard of a Scryer moved toward her. He was most likely the one A’dal had mentioned. She swept by him without giving him the opportunity to speak.
It seemed that she still had some principles. There were those with whom she would not consider a pact. Even to bring down the Betrayer.
Vandel moaned and tried to sit up. His head spun. He stretched out his hands, trying to maintain his balance, but that just made things worse. He crashed back to the hard floor, smacking his head. His forehead felt wet beneath his questing fingers. He had cut himself again. Blood matted his hair from his previous attempts at rising.
He dry heaved. The demon meat in his stomach was fighting its way free. The thought sickened him, and yet it also made his mouth water.
All around, he could hear screams and groans and babbling. Sometimes he recognized the voices of his fellow aspirants. Sometimes, he thought it was all his imagination, that he was trapped in a private hell of his own making. The air stank of rotting flesh, gangrene, pus, and excrement.
At regular intervals, the hooves of Broken servants clattered on the stone floor as they cleaned the chambers and washed the sick. Twice they had swabbed him with sponges, and he had tried to force them away. All he wanted was to be left alone.
Glowworms of color writhed across his field of vision. At first they had given him hope that he might be starting to see again, but now he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, pretending to see things whenever he heard others near.
“Broken moon, demon moon, blood moon!” He knew that shouting voice from somewhere, but he was not sure from where. “Demons approach. A demon approaches.”
Leathery wings snapped. Displaced air swirled around his face.
“On your feet,” Illidan’s voice said. “You have rested long enough.”
It was the first time Vandel had heard the Betrayer’s voice since the ritual. He felt his lips tighten into a sneer. “What is the point? I cannot see.”
“I thought the same thing once. But now I can see to the end of the universe. It is closer than most think.”
Remembering the march of the Burning Legion through countless devastated worlds, Vandel understood the bitter humor of the Betrayer’s words. “I know.”
“Then you also know what we fight. And why.” There was an arrogant certainty in Illidan’s tone that Vandel resented. There was a challenge, too.
The demonic thing within him stirred, responding to Illidan’s presence with something like hunger. It lent Vandel strength and goaded him to speak. “How can you fight against what I saw? It is impossible.”
Impossible, impossible, impossible, whispered the voice in the back of his head. It still sounded like his own, only clotted with hatred. The felhound had grafted itself to his soul, and its spirit seemed able to use his mind and his memories now.
“Be quiet,” Vandel told it.
He heard the creak of wings as Illidan moved. The Betrayer ignored his words as if he sensed to whom Vandel was speaking. “We must fight. Countless worlds have fallen to the Legion, and ours will be next unless we stop it.”
Fragments of apocalyptic visions swirled through Vandel’s mind. He saw worlds burning and nations dying, and through it all he saw the Legion marching, its victory as inevitable as death. The thing at the back of his mind snickered. “Be quiet,” he repeated, but it ignored him.
“Stand up,” Illidan commanded, and ther
e was no disobeying that voice. Even the thing in Vandel’s mind quailed. He lurched to his feet and stood there, swaying. His stomach heaved. The world spun once more. A clawed hand dug into his shoulder and held him upright. Writhing worms of light shimmered beside him, slithering away from the point of contact.
“I cannot see,” Vandel said.
“You can see everything.”
Vandel’s head spun faster. Lights flickered all around him.
He lashed out with his hand, seeking to strike at the lights. They moved away. Rage surged within him. The worms of light were everywhere, covering everything. They filled the space surrounding him. He heard a whimpering sound from a mass of sickly green, knew it was a feverish elf.
He twisted to where Illidan stood, and he saw a blaze of light. If he looked closely, it appeared to be a winged shape.
“You tricked me, Betrayer. You told me you would give me the power to fight demons, to avenge my family.” His anger was a bonfire as bright as Illidan’s aura. It gave him strength. Hatred tasted like bile in his mouth. He wanted to smash his fists into Illidan’s face and beat him till the bones broke. He wanted to drink his blood and eat his heart and be filled with the power that burned before him.
The dizziness was gone now. He had no trouble moving. He wished he had his blades.
“I have given you all that and more.” The blaze of Illidan’s aura moved. Vandel turned his head, tracking it, and he realized that he was also tracking the source of the voice. This did not make him less angry. Frustration built up in him. He wanted to rend and tear. He bit his lip until blood flowed. He was going to kill the Betrayer. He was going to supplant him.
He sprang forward. He heard a rustling sound. His fist smashed into something leathery but lined with bone. A wing. Illidan’s wing. A moment later it buffeted him from his feet. He hit the ground and rolled toward another swirling mass of light. He felt the contact of flesh when he reached it, heard a feverish voice groan.
No doubt about it—in some way, he was perceiving where things were.
He sniffed the air, smelled soiled bandages, unwashed flesh, and beneath that the tainted odor of demon, repulsing him and arousing his hunger at the same time. He wanted to feast upon it. He dived forward, jaws clamping on the sick elf’s arm. A powerful hand caught him by the neck and lifted him like an elf might lift a nightsaber cub.