William King: Illidan

Tyrande said, “Then let us hurry back to the surface! The demons’ corruption spreads with every second we waste.”

And that was it. All the greeting he was going to get after the long, wasted millennia. No apologies. No remorse. She had helped cast him into this dreadful place, and now she needed his aid. And the worst of it was that he would give it.

Bodies lay strewn outside his cell. It was clear that there had been a mighty battle here and that Tyrande had fought her way in to free him. She must be desperate indeed to perform such an act. Looking down at the massive carcass of the keeper of the grove, he realized that if the Burning Legion had returned, she had reason to be. The Legion destroyed worlds the way armies destroyed cities.

“Did you slay him?” Illidan asked, pointing at the dead body of Califax.

“I did,” said Tyrande. “The keeper of the grove would not let you loose.”

Illidan laughed. “Maiev will be angry. He was one of her favorites.”

Tyrande’s face flushed. “This is not a reason for laughter,” she said.

“I have had little enough cause for mirth in the thousands of years since you imprisoned me. Forgive me if my sense of humor seems a little warped.”

“Ten thousand,” she said.

“What?”

“It has been more than ten thousand years since you were imprisoned.”

The laughter died on his lips. The weight of her words pressed down on him like the weight of the earth above their heads.

“So long,” he said, his voice soft. He looked at the ancient vault of his prison, traced the weave of the spells that had held him. He lengthened his stride, determined to leave this place and never come back.

“Why did you really set me free?” he asked, still hoping that she might show some shred of remorse about what she had done.

“As I said, the Burning Legion has returned. No one knows more about them than you. No one has slain more demons.”

“You do not fear my treachery, then? Remember, I am called the Betrayer.”

“Betrayer you were, but in the end you chose the right side.”

He gestured at his surroundings with one tattooed hand. “And look what it got me.”

“You could be dead. Like so many of our people.”

“Our people. You keep harping on about our people. They are not our people. They are your people.”

“Do you hate us so?”

“Yes,” he said. His lip twisted into a sneer. “But fortunately for you, I hate the demons more.”

She nodded as if he had confirmed something she wanted to hear. A suspicion flickered through his mind. He had been imprisoned not from any false act of mercy, but because she had known that one day he would again be needed. He had been stored here like a weapon hung in an armory.

Ahead he sensed a being of enormous—and familiar—power, his brother. He might have known that wherever Tyrande was, her lover, Malfurion, would be close by. Illidan’s whole body tensed, prepared to spring into battle.

His companion sensed it as well. She rushed forward and then halted, barred by the mighty presence of the archdruid Malfurion Stormrage. Illidan’s brother was massive. Antlers protruded from his head. His handsome face held a look of dismay at seeing Illidan free. Clearly the archdruid had not come to aid Tyrande.

Four Druids of the Claw flanked Malfurion, each in the form of a bear. They flexed their taloned paws and growled at Illidan. They had been set here to guard against his escape, and they seemed determined still to prevent it.

Tyrande said, “Mal!”

Illidan fought to keep his anger in check. Here was the brother who had condemned him. His words, when he found them, were bitter. “It has been an eternity, Brother. An eternity spent in darkness!”

Malfurion met his gaze evenly. “You were sentenced to pay for your sins, nothing more.”

The hypocrisy of it was breathtaking. What sort of brother could condemn his own flesh and blood to ten thousand years entombed? “And who were you to judge me? We fought the demons side by side, if you recall!”

Tension crackled in the air between them. In that moment, they were both ready to fight, to kill.

Tyrande shouted, “Enough of this, both of you! What is done is done.”

She focused the full force of her attention on Malfurion. “My love, with Illidan’s help, we will drive the demons back once again and save what is left of our beloved land!”

Malfurion shook his head. “Have you even considered the cost, Tyrande? This betrayer’s aid may doom us all before the end. I will have nothing to do with this.”

Illidan schooled his face to impassivity. His own brother obviously still thought of him as nothing but a monster, a puppet for the Legion. He would show him. He would show them all that the demons had no power over him.

“Cower in your weakness and indecision, then, Brother, but do so elsewhere,” Illidan said. “I have work to do. And little time to do it in.”

Illidan sent forth a burst of energy from the power he had been steadily regaining, tossing those assembled around him into the stone walls. He strode past the dazed forms and out of his prison, knowing in his heart that before this was over, he would be named Betrayer once more, and he would deserve it.

He was never going to be imprisoned again.

Green meteors ripped through the dark clouds that perpetually obscured the heavens over Shadowmoon Valley. The ground shook as the monstrously ornate demonic siege engines on the walls of the Black Temple rained death down on the blood elf forces of Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider, strewing the red earth of Outland with their corpses. Despite their losses, the elves pushed forward, determined to take the citadel of Magtheridon, lord of Outland, the Burning Legion’s satrap in this shattered world.

Illidan paused for a moment and studied the Black Temple. To inexperienced eyes, the defenses might look immeasurably strong, but he saw that they had been neglected. There were too few sentries for the span of the towering walls, the warding spells were starting to unravel, and the metal struts of the gates were stained with rust and verdigris. The defenders responded slowly, as if they could not quite believe they were being assaulted by a force so much smaller than their own. Perhaps they expected to be relieved by demonic allies. If so, they were doomed to disappointment. Illidan and his companions had spent the whole long, hot Outland day sealing the gates through which the demons were summoned. No aid was coming from that source.

Illidan glanced over at Prince Kael’thas. “Magtheridon has grown strong over the years, but he has had few real foes to contend with. He has become decadent and complacent. The boisterous cur cannot match our cunning or our will.”

The tall, fair blood elf prince looked up at him. The fierce joy of combat blazed in his eyes. “This will be a glorious battle, master. Though Magtheridon’s forces vastly outnumber ours, your soldiers are prepared to fight to the end.”

Illidan hoped that would not prove necessary. He needed to seize the Black Temple and mastery of Outland quickly if he was to make himself secure against the vengeance of the demon lord Kil’jaeden. Kil’jaeden had set Illidan a task after he rejoined the Burning Legion—to destroy the Frozen Throne and hence eliminate a rebellious servant—and he had not completed it. The Deceiver did not reward failure. Illidan believed that closing the demonic portals could thwart Kil’jaeden’s attempts to locate him. Winning this fortress would give him a stronger base of operations for keeping the portals closed.

An elven sorcerer raised his hand and sent a bolt of arcane energy lancing toward the walls. Badly maintained or not, the defenses were enough to prevent it from striking the siege engine. A ball of fire arced down toward the mage, gouging the blood-red earth as the defenders sought his range. A company of Kael’thas’s soldiers raced past en route to the shelter of the walls.