William King: Illidan

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 flickered 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.

That did not seem likely. Shadowmoon Valley was a riot of noise. He doubted that any guard could hear him over the thunder of the volcano and the roar of the wind. Nonetheless he allowed himself a moment of stillness and strained his keen ears for any clue that he might have been observed. Beneath him, the patrol went about its rounds.

Vandel looked down into the pools of shadow, and just for a moment he felt the urge to let go. The long drop would break his neck and end his agony. He could join his family in death and end the torment. He resisted the urge. He could not rest while his son was unavenged. His hatred was stronger than his desire for endless peace.

He pulled himself over the edge of the battlements, rolled down onto the balcony behind, and lay in the shadows, catching his breath. So far no sentinels. He felt a brief moment of triumph. He had succeeded where an army would have failed. He had broken into the unholy precincts of the Black Temple.

A batwinged shadow passed across the moon. It seemed that all his wishes were to be granted tonight. Illidan, the Betrayer himself, soared aloft on the night wind. It seemed that he, too, was restless this evening. No doubt there were many things that kept him awake. Perhaps his dark deeds caused nightmares that kept him from his bed.

How long had it been since Vandel had slept without nightmares? He could not recall. All he could remember were the terrible dreams. He touched Khariel’s amulet once more. Not long, my son, not long.

Illidan settled upon a balcony atop the highest tower of the Black Temple. He paced for nine steps, turned, and then shook his head. He leaned against the banister, surveying everything as far as the horizon. Vandel wondered whether the Betrayer could see him. His sightless eyes were known to perceive things that others could not. What would Illidan do if he knew that Vandel was there?

It would not be difficult to reach the tower upon which Illidan stood. The few sentinels scattered along the battlements did not seem completely awake. They were secure in the strength of the walls protecting them. Doubtless they did not expect someone like him. They were there to watch for armies and demons, not a solitary night elf maddened by grief and overmastered by the thirst for revenge.