William King - Illidan

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.”