William King - Illidan

The felhound looked up at Vandel. Its stalked sensors waved like the antennae of a huge cockroach. Khariel’s blood stained its fangs. Seeing the little boy, only that morning so filled with life and laughter, cold and stark on the ground, sent a lance of agony through Vandel’s heart.

Sweet, sweet pain. The voice came from somewhere deep within him.

His heart felt as if it were breaking, his head as if it were going to explode. He could not endure this again.

But you will, many, many times. And I will feast upon it as I devour your soul.

There was an alien presence in his mind. The voice sounded like his own, but it was not. It belonged to something that looked upon all this horror, drank it in, and loved every instant of it.

Your horror feeds me. It makes me stronger.

The felhound moved toward him, tail lashing, distracting him from the voice. Its short legs carried it at surprising speed. Its mouth yawned to reveal sharp teeth. Vandel sprang to one side, avoiding the strike, wheeled and lashed out with his blade, cutting a bloody green weal along the creature’s side. Rage and hate drove the blow. The tear of flesh satisfied both.

Yes. Take your vengeance. Feed me.

Vandel paused, shocked, and the felhound almost got him. He sprang forward, tripped over the corpse of his wife, and rolled to his feet, back against the wall as the demon bounded closer. It sprang. There was no way to avoid it. Vandel leapt to meet it, chest-to-chest, grasping its armored throat with one hand, driving his blade into the spot where the felhound’s heart should be. The creature’s sulfurous breath stank in his nostrils. Its claws scrabbled against his chest, digging deep wounds, shredding his leather jerkin.

Such delicious agony.

The pain almost immobilized him, but he threw his weight forward. The felhound toppled onto its back. He jumped astride its chest, pinning it to the ground. Taking the hilt of his dagger in both hands, he stabbed the demon again and again until its struggles ceased and it lay still.

Smoke filled the air. Weak from his wounds, Vandel lay on the ground. His head was next to Khariel’s. He reached out with long fingers and closed the little boy’s eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He could not move. He did not want to move. He would lie here until the flames turned his home into his pyre.

Such nutritious grief.

What are you? Vandel thought. The image of him devouring a still-pulsing demon’s heart flickered through his mind.

You believed you were consuming me, but I am consuming you.

For a moment, Vandel felt the demon’s flesh burrowing outward through his own, fusing with it, even as he felt the demon’s spirit merge with his. The reality of the burning village wavered. He looked up and saw Illidan at the grounds of the Black Temple, gazing down upon him. He tried to shake himself free from the nightmare, but it returned, filling his mind, driving out all sense of being anywhere but in the ruins of his home, reliving the memory as if it were the present.

A massive figure filled the doorway, blocking out the light of the burning village. A demon. Vandel struggled to his feet. It was one thing to burn to death. It was another to let an enemy kill him.

He tottered forward, blade arcing down. Effortlessly the intruder caught his wrist and, with a flick of his arm, tossed Vandel out of the house and into the street. He landed rolling and rose. Glancing around, he saw the other demons were all dead. Only corpses lay on the ground.

His assailant turned, and Vandel saw that he was different. He appeared to be another night elf, albeit one taller than most, and with demonic features. Glowing tattoos covered his body. The face of a fallen god looked down on Vandel, somehow able to see despite the strip of runecloth shielding where his eyes should be. To his horror, Vandel recognized this figure. Here was a being around whom dark legends clustered.

“Illidan,” he said. “Betrayer! You are behind this.”

Vandel clutched his dagger tighter, gathered all his strength, and threw himself forward. It was a perfect thrust, expertly aimed. Never before had he struck a blow so pure. It had all the weight of destiny behind it. He was going to be the one who would end the Betrayer’s life.

The tip of the blade touched the tattooed skin over Illidan’s heart. A steely grip caught Vandel’s wrist and halted it there.

“I am not the enemy here,” Illidan said.

“I am going to kill you for what you have done.”

A bitter laugh emerged from Illidan’s lips. “You will not be the first to try. But you are wasting your hatred. The Burning Legion did this.”

“You serve the Legion.”

“I serve myself.”

“You lie. You always lie.”

“So my enemies would have you believe.”

Vandel leaned all his weight forward. The blade did not move. Sweat beaded on his brow from the effort. Illidan gave no sign of feeling any strain.

“Because of you, my family is dead.” Grief forced the words from Vandel’s lips.

“Look around you. Do you see any demons? They are dead. I killed them.”

“Liar.”

“I arrived too late to save this place, which galls me, for I have fond memories of it. I was happy here once, briefly, ten thousand years ago.”

Vandel formed his right hand into a fist and attempted to strike Illidan with it. “Liar!”

Illidan blocked the blow easily. “I grow tired of your petulance. I thought there was some strength in you. It is not given to just anyone to defeat a demon, armed only with a hunting knife. Are you going to lie there whimpering, or are you going to seek vengeance on those who did this? Join me, and you will have your revenge.”

Vandel stared directly at the Betrayer’s face. The runecloth made it impossible to read his expression. “I will never serve you.”

“You have only two roads from this place. One of them leads to madness and death; the other, into my shadow.”

“Never.”

With casual strength, Illidan backhanded Vandel away. “The end of all things approaches, and I have no time to waste on fools. If you would have your vengeance, seek me out.”

Darkness flickered across Vandel’s field of vision. The updrafts of the burning village drove smoke and sparks into his face. When his sight cleared, Illidan was gone, leaving Vandel alone amid the ruins of his suddenly shattered life.

Mockery dripped from the demonic voice in his head. He spoke the truth. You know that now. You knew it as soon as you had time to absorb your grief. You spent all the long years of your wandering trying to find him. Now you have. Too late for it to do you any good. You are mine, and I will have you.

The scene shimmered. The village vanished. Vandel stood naked and alone in a tortured landscape. He had no weapons. In front of him stood the felhound he thought he had killed, alive and well. Only one thing was different. It possessed the eyes of a night elf. It took him only a moment to realize that they were identical to his own.

The creature stalked forward. Its movements were confident, those of a hunter that knew its prey couldn’t escape, that was going to take its time toying with it. Vandel flexed his hands. They were empty. He glanced around, seeking an edged rock, a boulder, anything he might use as a weapon. There was nothing. Claws scratched the stone in front of him. The felhound had taken the opportunity to close the distance between them. It reared up, huge mouth open wide.

Vandel caught the jaws just before they could close on his throat. Their points slashed the flesh of his fingers. He scrambled for a purchase that was not razor-edged, inserted his fingers into the flap of flesh between gum and lip. His right hand was not so fortunate. It snagged on sharp teeth. The pain was agonizing. The tingling of the flesh where demon saliva touched did nothing to ease the torment. It seemed to amplify it.