William King - Illidan

He stalked forward, telling himself not to be overconfident. Perhaps there were other sentries and he had just not seen them. The long years of hunting the foes of his people had taught him stealth beyond that of most mortals, but he was far from the only one who could hide in shadows. Perhaps even now some deadly sentry watched him unseen and prepared to drive a dagger into his back.

Once more he paused to consider the fact that he might no longer be sane. His mind had shattered once, at the moment he had found his son’s corpse being gnawed upon by the felhound. For a moment he could almost smell the scent of burning wood, and night elf blood. He could almost hear the crunching of small bones. He let out a whimper, then cursed silently. Anyone within earshot might have heard. He did not intend to be struck down by a guard because of his own foolishness. No more mistakes. From here on he would concentrate on the mission ahead.

He reached the foot of the tower upon which Illidan stood. Ahead, a ramp curled out of sight around the side of the tower. He prayed that luck was still with him and ran, preferring to trust in speed and stealth and his unexpected good fortune.

He reached the top. The one he had come long leagues to find stood before him.

Illidan’s back was turned. His massive wings clung close to his body as if trying to warm him against the chill of the night. He held his great horned head low as he surveyed the distant lights of the great volcano. What was he looking for? What did he see with his eyeless sight?

Illidan turned as if he had known Vandel was there the whole time.

Vandel drew his daggers, checked the mystic runes etched into them, and padded forward. He knelt, and placed his blades at Illidan’s hooves. “Forgive the intrusion, Lord Illidan. I did not wish to risk being cut down by your sentries before I had spoken to you.”

Illidan said, “What do you wish of me, nightstalker?”

“I want to slay those who slew my family. I want to slaughter your enemies.”

“There is no shortage of those.”

Vandel said, “I wish to learn what you have learned. I want to hunt demons.”

“Then you have much to learn, and the hour is late.”

“Will you teach me?”

“You and a thousand like you. Go below. Rest. You will find what you seek. Or die in the attempt.”

Illidan turned his back once more and returned to gazing at the horizon. It was clear to Vandel that he was dismissed.

Uncertain as to what he was supposed to do, Vandel strode down to the base of the tower. Two tattooed figures waited for him. It seemed as if they had been there all along. They were not surprised to see him, nor did they draw any weapons.

One was a tall female with a scarred face. She appeared to be a night elf, yet she had demonic features. Green flames flickered in her empty eye sockets. Small horns curled from her head. Her scanty clothing revealed glittering tattoos that covered her body. Some magic about them drew Vandel’s eye and compelled him to try to unravel the pattern as if it were a complex puzzle.

She noticed his look, and her lips twisted to reveal small fangs. Vandel met her cold smile with one of his own, feeling as if somehow he was being tested, as if they were crossing blades in a soundless struggle.

The second figure, also night elven in form, paid no attention to him at all, and Vandel would have been surprised if he did. His eyelids were sewn shut, as were his lips. He was hunched forward, with his head held low and his shoulders high. He was stripped to the waist, revealing even more tattoos than his companion had. A broad leather belt wrapped around his waist held a selection of long, sharp needles, from the ends of which dangled strings of animal hide. Their tips were blotched, and a look at the male’s body revealed the fact that he had recently pierced his skin. The crust on the needles’ points was dried blood, most likely his own.

“You have spoken with Lord Illidan,” the female said. There was a jealous note in her husky voice. It sounded as if something was wrong with her larynx, as if she had once screamed so loud and so long that she had done it permanent damage.

“Yes,” Vandel said. He did not care for her knowing smile. He was not going to let himself be intimidated.

“You are privileged indeed.”

“Am I?”

“He does not greet every supplicant personally. It seems he has some memory of you. Perhaps he has something special in mind.”

The male raised a finger to his lips, as if she had said too much. A long talon extruded from its tip. The gesture was not threatening, but it was not reassuring, either. The blind male scratched his chin, drawing a bead of blood onto the claw. He put it into his mouth through a tiny aperture left by the thread.

“I would not presume to read Lord Illidan’s mind,” Vandel said.

“You show more wisdom than I expected.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I am Elarisiel. He is Needle. If he had another name, it is long since forgotten, even by him.”

Vandel bowed to them both. Elarisiel laughed, malice glittering in her voice. Needle bobbed his head without mockery. Vandel stared hard at him. Obviously the male had no more difficulty seeing than Lord Illidan. What was going on here?

“Lord Illidan told us to take you below.”

Tension tightened Vandel’s shoulder blades. “And how did he tell you that?”

“You will find out, eventually, if you live.”

Needle produced one of his long, sharp pins and pierced it into the flesh of his own forearm. He dug around for a minute. Another droplet of blood appeared. He poked the point through the small gap between his lips and made a sucking sound. A blissful look appeared on his face. Vandel had come here doubting his own sanity. Now he doubted that of everyone around him.

The pair led him through a maze of corridors. They passed through a small sally port in the wall of the Black Temple and out into a vast heap of tumbledown ruins.

“This was once part of the Temple of Karabor,” Elarisiel said. “The orcs and the demons did not leave a great deal of the original structure standing. What they did, Lord Illidan and his champions took. We dwell here now under the watchful gaze of Varedis and his companions.”

“Varedis?” Vandel asked.

“The master tutor,” Elarisiel said, but she did not seem inclined to amplify on her remark.

More green meteors scarred the face of the sky as Vandel and his guides passed through a series of terraces. Silken pavilions rose along their length. From them came the sounds of mad laughter. They passed through the camp and came eventually to a tunnel mouth in a ruined wall. Chill air surrounded them as they walked down worn, ancient steps and emerged into a huge hall.

It looked like an asylum or a battlefield hospital. Elves sprawled everywhere. Some lay in pools of greenish light cast by flickering fel lanterns. It made them look sick. Some of the males were bearded and green-haired after the fashion of night elves; some were clean-shaven like the sin’dorei. Some muttered to one another. Some huddled in the shadows between the lanterns as if trying to conceal themselves. Most slept fitfully, talking in their sleep. A mad scream sounded, and a female rose up and raced through the chamber, shouting, “Worms, worms, worms!”

The shout roused many from sleep, but they did not seem disturbed by it. Only one tall blood elf rose from the soiled cloak in which he lay wrapped, and he chased the maniac through the chamber. They disappeared out of sight.

“As you can see, you are not the only one who has found their way here. Many have sought out Lord Illidan. Only a few will live to enter his service.”

“What do you mean?”

Elarisiel’s silvery laugh rang out. “You will find out soon enough, kaldorei. Pick out any place and get some rest. You will need your strength for the trials ahead.”