Illidan

  He had scuttled through the gloomy orc-haunted precincts of Gorefiend’s Vigil and eluded the gaze of even the most alert of the Shadowmoon clan. He had inspected their magical forges, and witnessed their spellcasters animating the bones of the dead. He had looked down upon the vast training area where demons marshaled and the Dragonmaw orcs trained their dragons amid the hulls of gigantic war machines. He had clambered across the battlements and looked out across the plains toward Warden’s Cage, where Maiev Shadowsong was imprisoned. But the Grand Promenade was the place he liked the best.

  The fountains tinkled. It was the sound of running water that first attracted him, and the scent of plants, some of them familiar from the forests of Ashenvale. It reminded him of home, of the night elf he had once been. It was a sweet torment. It brought back memories of his family. There were times when that calmed him. He could pick a blossom and sniff it and remember the times when he had brought back bouquets for his wife when she had been pregnant with Khariel.

  At other times it stirred up the demon within him and fed its vengeful fury. Tonight it made him envy the sinful laughter of the blood elves at play.

  He reached out from the undergrowth and plucked a bottle of ethermead from the hamper. The revelers were too involved with one another to notice him. He uncorked it and took a sip. It tingled on his tongue, and for a moment he felt relaxed.

  Briefly he wondered whether the demon had encouraged him to do it. Tonight he did not care. Tonight he wanted to remember other things than the battles of the past few weeks, the rumors that the Burning Legion was mustering for a new offensive.

  His nostrils caught the musky aroma of succubus blown from the terraces below by the hot night wind. His mouth watered. The hunger to kill banked up within him. These demons might be bound. They might be sworn to serve Illidan. They might be allies but still they felt like enemies. They felt like prey.

  Trudging along the path near the revelers came Akama. The Broken moved through the garden from the direction of the council chamber, heading back down into the depths of the temple. Doubtless he had come from some late-night meeting with Illidan himself. His head was down. His gaze focused on nothing. A great weight pressed down on his shoulders.

  A blood elf raised his head and shouted, “Come, old Broken, join us for a drink!”

  One of the girls tittered. “Oh, Luzen. He is so ugly.”

  “Anyone is ugly compared with you, Alesha. Hey, old Broken. Stop your hobbling for a minute and drink with us! Damn you, Alesha! Where is that bottle of ethermead? Did you gulp it down while I was not looking?”

  Vandel raised it in mocking toast to the blood elf. He was so deep in shadow that no one could see him.

  Akama hobbled on.

  “Hey, old monster, are you too good to be seen drinking with us?” There was anger in Luzen’s voice now. He sounded as if he was ready for violence.

  Akama stopped. His head turned, and he gazed upon the blood elves. He did not say anything. All present could feel the power in him. He ceased to be an old, worn-out Broken and grew into something vast and powerful and terrible. Not something to be mocked by sin’dorei aesthetes.

  Menace filled the night, and the blood elves froze like rabbits seeing the shadow of an owl. For a moment, all was still, and a premonition of violence hung in the air. Then Akama shrugged and smiled and made a gesture of benediction like a senile old priest blessing a group of children. He hobbled away.

  The blood elves were silent for a long time after that. Vandel stole away, wondering about Akama and his secret sorrows.

  —

  AKAMA TOOK THE WALKWAY into the Sanctuary of Shadows and fought down the urge to lengthen his stride as he passed the refectory. As always, when he passed that dreadful place, he was filled with a sense of horror. He did not want to look upon the thing he knew was in there, bound by Ashtongue channelers. It was part of him. It was all the darkness from his soul and a great portion of his pride, ambition, and will. It was being fed evil magical energies, and if allowed to go free, it would devour him utterly and walk the world in his body.

  The thing in the refectory would eat him from the inside and use his voice to turn his followers over to the darkness. Already many of them were a long way down that road. They owed more loyalty to Illidan than they did to the ideals of their own people.

  Well were they named, the Broken. The demons had shattered their spirit almost beyond repair. They had become so used to drifting that they would follow any strong voice, and there was none stronger than the Betrayer.

  Some of Akama’s people responded to their master as slaves responded to the lash. They obeyed quickly, unquestioningly, with total obedience. They had lost all ability to think for themselves and would perform any dark deed required of them, passing the blame and the responsibility on to the one who gave the orders.

  Akama looked upon the satyrs and the other demons profaning what had once been the most sacred spot of his people. It made him want to weep, just as the sight of those arrogant blood elves lolling around in what had once been the beautiful temple garden made him want to howl in fury.

  What had happened to the Temple of Karabor was symbolic of what had happened to the draenei. Every evil thing that had ever happened to them had taken root here. And over the whole dark cavalcade, Illidan presided.

  The triumphant demons strutting through the sanctuary mocked his passage. They knew what had been done to him. They looked at him and they saw only a decrepit Broken bound by the same monstrous will that had bound them.

  They saw what he wanted them to see.

  They could not look into the secret chambers of his mind, where his thoughts were still his own. He kept them shielded even in his sleep. Not even Illidan could look within those warded areas.

  At least that was what he told himself. There were times when he wondered whether the spell that bound him also deceived him. Perhaps it allowed him these illusions of freedom, all the better to lull him into submission. Perhaps Akama was more like his people than he knew. Perhaps he was, after all, the perfect broken leader for a perfectly broken people.

  No. The day was coming when he would move against Illidan, as sure as the sun rose over Outland. He had to believe that. He would use the secret network of agents he had built up under Illidan’s very nose. He would find new allies and use them to oppose Illidan’s will. The Betrayer would regret that he had been too wrapped up in his mad schemes to pay attention to his lowly Broken servant. Akama ground his teeth together. He would make Illidan pay for what he had done to the souls of the Broken at the Hand of Gul’dan. The lord of Outland would have cause to lament that he had spared the life of Maiev Shadowsong.

  Akama paused and unclenched his fists. He let his mouth fall open. He made sure that once again he looked the part of the chastened, humble Broken.

  The hollowness within his soul mocked him. Perhaps he was being allowed to do all these things. Perhaps he was just a lure to draw out those whom Illidan could not trust. Perhaps he was bait in a trap for Illidan’s enemies as he had been for Maiev.

  He took a deep breath through his flat nostrils, and exhaled, as he had been taught to do back when he had been a novice in the Temple of Karabor. He remembered when this place had been a haven of peace and purity, a sanctuary for the sick and the weak. The thought calmed him for a moment, but then he caught sight of his own distorted shadow cast against the wall. He was just as twisted now as the temple, and he wondered if either of them would ever find their way back to what they had once been.

  Curse you, Illidan. Curse you and all your schemes. What are you up to now?

  —

  HIGH NETHERMANCER ZEREVOR HELD the Seal of Argus. He turned it over and over in his hands. The blood elf’s silver crown glinted as he tilted his head to one side. An expression of interest appeared in eyes resembling pools of fel green light. “I understand why you sought this so long, Lord. It should allow you to find what you are seeking. It is a compass for locating Argus.”
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  Illidan snapped his wings open, then settled them back around his shoulders. He allowed a note of irony to show in his voice. “Really? You are certain?”

  Zerevor flinched at the mockery. “As certain as anyone can ever be when dealing with the magic of the Burning Legion.”

  Lady Malande’s laughter tinkled around the council chamber. “And, as ever, you try to cover yourself in case of error, Zerevor.”

  Gathios the Shatterer, resplendent in his gleaming paladin armor, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then shut it again. He rarely spoke when matters were not concerned with warfare. Instead he exchanged a knowing glance with Veras Darkshadow. The lean assassin smiled in acknowledgment. Had they been plotting against their companions again?

  Impatience curled Illidan’s fist. “Let him finish, Malande.”

  The lovely priestess shot him a hurt look. Her beauty had driven many an elf to distraction. She seemed to regard his own indifference as a challenge.

  A cold smile flickered across Zerevor’s face. “It could be used to steer us through the Burning Legion’s network of portals and gateways. It could guide us all the way back to Kil’jaeden and legendary Argus.”

  “I know this,” Illidan said. “I have always known this. Why do you bring it up now? What is your point?”

  The high nethermancer looked over at the schemata spread on the trestle table. They represented Illidan’s masterwork, but clearly something about them had Zerevor worried. “We could use their own gateways to reach Argus. There is no need for this new portal of yours, Lord. It is a work of genius, but why reinvent the wheel? With but the simplest modification, you could use your spell to tap into the Legion’s system of portals.”

  “Because if we use the Legion’s network, we will need to pass through multiple portals, giving the demons an opportunity to block us every step of the way. This gateway will take us to Argus in one jump. It will let us attack by surprise. It will ensure our lines of communication are short and can be easily maintained.”

  The other three councilors nodded as if they agreed with every word. Zerevor persisted in his questioning. “If it works, Lord. You are taking a titanic risk. The expenditure of energy needed will be on a scale unlike anything we have ever used before. Would it not be simpler to take advantage of what already exists?”

  “Simpler but far more dangerous. The Legion outnumbers us by a factor of thousands. Its forces are dispersed, but if we give them time to assemble, they will crush us.”

  Zerevor held up the seal to eye level, as if by doing so, he could conceal his expression from Illidan’s perceptions. “And attempting to open this gateway could shatter the world again as Ner’zhul shattered Draenor. If the spell is not perfectly cast. If there are any mistakes in the calculations.”

  Illidan reached out and took the seal from his grasp. “There are no mistakes in the calculations. The spell will be perfectly cast. I will do it myself.”

  “And if you are wrong, Lord?”

  “I am not wrong.” Illidan focused his attention completely on his councilor. He loomed over him, letting him feel the breeze from his slowly moving wings.

  Zerevor looked away, shoulders slumped, palms open. “As you say, Lord. As you say.”

  Then the high nethermancer’s face went pale. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He closed his eyes and frowned in concentration.

  “What is it?” Illidan demanded.

  “The warding spells I set over the Dark Portal have just been tripped. The gateway has become fully operational. Someone has opened a pathway between Outland and Azeroth so wide that you could bring an army through. And that appears to be exactly what is happening.”

  From the ridge, they had a fine view of the Dark Portal, and a demoralizing one, Vandel thought. The gateway to Azeroth glowed darkly within a mighty arch, reached by the titanic steps of the Stair of Destiny. It was not the sight of it that depressed him. It was the army surrounding it.

  Since the confrontation with Highlord Kruul, the Burning Legion had rushed armies into Outland so quickly they could not be contained. Most of them seemed to be down there now, in the valley and along the road leading to the Dark Portal. Thousands of demons and tens of thousands of their worshippers camped out. They had come through scores of portals, all opened simultaneously in such numbers that not all could be closed. It seemed as if they were intent on proving to Lord Illidan how futile his plans for opposing them were.

  More and more of the Legion’s troops marched along the road from Zangarmarsh into Hellfire Peninsula. The Legion’s forces were moving with a terrible purpose, and that could only be a new invasion of Azeroth. The way to his homeworld was open again, and for days now the Legion had poured forces through.

  So many and yet so few. All those soldiers and demons and war engines down there looked imposing, but recollecting the vision he had during the ritual of transformation, Vandel knew that they were but the tiniest fraction of what the Burning Legion could bring to bear.

  Every day more and more of them arrived. He tried to imagine the uncountable distance they covered to reach this place, the vast gulfs between worlds they had passed through, and he could not.

  The Dark Portal itself was daunting enough. The two robed stone giants on either side of the titanic arch reminded him of similar sculpted figures within the Black Temple. They leaned on blades large enough to smash the walls of Stormwind City. Lights shimmered within the portal, glittering like trapped stars.

  Another convoy moved along the road to deliver its cargo of soldiers and munitions to the vast encampment in the portal’s shadow. The Illidari had tried to stop the convoys from getting through. They had set ambushes, attacked head-on, but it was pointless. Their enemies were too numerous and too powerful, and they were merely throwing away resources that would be needed to defend the Black Temple when the final attack came.

  Illidan’s boast that he was going to take the war to Kil’jaeden also seemed pointless now, no more threatening than a child dressing up in his father’s armor and waving his father’s sword would be to a veteran soldier.

  Vandel looked from face to face. Illidan’s wore a sneer, as if this whole vast army was beneath his contempt. Needle’s face twisted in a mad grin that stretched the seams stitched in his lips. Elarisiel looked quite frankly afraid, and Vandel wondered whether her demon was taking over her mind and manipulating it.

  His own inner demon radiated a sense of satisfaction. This demonstration of strength by the Burning Legion pleased it. It would be welcome down there among that mighty force. He could join its invincible ranks at any time and have worlds as his playthings until the universe fell into ruin and was reborn.

  Why are we here? Vandel wondered. Had Illidan brought them here merely to depress them? Such was not his way. There must be a purpose to it.

  Vandel remembered what the Betrayer had done to the portal to Nathreza. Perhaps he planned the same thing here—a suicidal charge at the gate, a spell of destruction to make it explode, and then that whole army down there would be gone.

  As would the demon hunters. The Burning Legion could always find more troops. Who would be left to oppose it once Illidan’s forces were in their graves?

  Why should it be opposed? his inner demon whispered. Why should you even try? You belong to it. You always have.

  Even as the thought occurred to him, the flow of power around the gate increased a thousandfold. Troops surged through the portal, coming from Azeroth. Orcs moved alongside humans, night elves beside blood elves. Gryphons soared into the sky above the gateway. Wyverns flew beside them.

  Spells shimmered in the air. Magical weapons cleaved through demon hide. A squad of felguard moved to block the Stair of Destiny, but a huge orc armed with a mighty hammer smashed his way through them. Beside him a human carrying a shield watched his back.

  It was astonishing to see these peoples fighting alongside one another. Clearly the threat of Kruul’s forces had done much to unite them.
It looked as if the Alliance and the Horde together were invading Outland.

  Once the advance force of heroes was through, more and more troops emerged, marching in closely knit groups to secure the perimeter.

  A massive wrathguard smashed through one human line, a mighty axe clutched in each hand, the demon’s body encased in gleaming armor.

  A company of orcs rushed to intercept him. A lightning bolt crackled and the wrathguard halted for a moment. The orcs dragged him down. More and more Azerothian troops poured through the gate. Their casualties were appalling but still they fought. For every human or orc or troll dragged down, another stepped into place.

  There must be a huge army assembled on the other side of the Dark Portal, Vandel thought, remembering the size of the Legion force that had passed through. All the kingdoms of the Alliance and all the realms of the Horde must have been stripped bare of combatants. The might of an entire world had been assembled to stand against the Burning Legion. Vandel could only pray that it would be enough.

  In the center of the Legion camp, he could see Highlord Kruul shouting orders to his force. Did he relish the coming combat or did he regret shoving a stick into this hornet’s nest?

  Illidan crouched down for a moment, wings spreading wide behind him. He tilted his head to one side. A puzzled expression flickered across his face. “Did Kruul expect this? Did he want it?”

  His voice was soft, as if he was speaking to himself.

  “Why would he want to provoke an attack from both the Horde and the Alliance?” Vandel asked.

  Illidan’s gaze remained locked on the conflict. “To draw out the forces of Azeroth, perhaps. To lure them away from their home ground into a place where they can be more easily destroyed.”

  “You think this is a trap, Lord Illidan?”

  “It has the feel of one. The question is, for whom? There is something here that I dislike.”

  Vandel understood. The feeling of satisfaction his own demon radiated was troubling. Was it reacting on some level to something it sensed about this situation? If that was the case for Vandel, how much greater must the disturbance be for Illidan, who was so much more powerful and experienced?