William King: Illidan

Illidan sent another surge of energy through the chains. Magtheridon’s agonized bellow almost deafened him. The pit lord collapsed like a bull hit with a butcher’s cleaver. He lay there gasping for a moment, then pulled himself up onto his knees.

“I am not the only one who has been defeated,” Magtheridon said. There was a sardonic note in his voice. “I wonder what Lord Kil’jaeden will say when he learns of your latest failure. I believe this was your last chance.”

“How do you know I have failed?” Illidan was curious. In the weeks since he had returned from Azeroth, he had been recovering from his wounds and gathering his strength for this moment. Had some of the jailors made the mistake of speaking to the pit lord? If so, he would make sure they never made another such error again.

“Come now, little Illidan. One need not be as clever as you to understand such things. I see that unpleasant scratch on your side. It does not take any great intelligence to work out what happened since you have been away. You have the stink of the walking dead on you, and the taint of that great blade, Frostmourne. You encountered Arthas, did you not? And you were defeated.”

It was the truth. Illidan had gone to Azeroth, fought against the renegade death knight, and lost. With that defeat, Illidan’s last chance of destroying the Lich King and appeasing the wrath of Kil’jaeden had vanished. Ultimately it did not matter. The break would have had to come sooner or later.

“Yes, yes, little Illidan. I smell spiderwebs and walking dead and the subtle tang of strange plagues. And I know you are still closing the gates the Legion has opened to Outland. Even through your binding spells, I can sense such sorceries. You will not escape great Kil’jaeden’s wrath that way, nor will you spare Azeroth. His invasion of your precious homeworld may be delayed by a year or two, but it cannot be stopped.”

Casually this time, Illidan lanced the pit lord with another surge of pain. Magtheridon managed to remain upright. Defiance twisted his lips. Illidan was careful not to kill him, for Magtheridon must still serve his purpose. He studied the shimmering aura of the demon. He was almost weak enough now. Almost. Illidan needed some more of Magtheridon’s power to be bled away, some more of his will weakened. “Does it gall you that you will not be there, pit lord?”

Magtheridon laughed. “Yes, little Illidan, it does. I would enjoy the destruction of your pathetic world. I would enjoy burning your precious forests. The screams of a million sacrifices would give me great pleasure. I will miss the conquest of your world, but there will be others. A few more are left before the Legion’s final triumph. It is a pity you have forsaken all possibility of participating in such delights. There is something in you that enjoys these things, too. We both know it. Great Kil’jaeden will not be gentle when he takes his vengeance on you. He is not known for his mercy. And to you he will show none. You have changed sides for the last time, Betrayer.”

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.