William King - Illidan

Remembering the march of the Burning Legion through countless devastated worlds, Vandel understood the bitter humor of the Betrayer’s words. “I know.”

“Then you also know what we fight. And why.” There was an arrogant certainty in Illidan’s tone that Vandel resented. There was a challenge, too.

The demonic thing within him stirred, responding to Illidan’s presence with something like hunger. It lent Vandel strength and goaded him to speak. “How can you fight against what I saw? It is impossible.”

Impossible, impossible, impossible, whispered the voice in the back of his head. It still sounded like his own, only clotted with hatred. The felhound had grafted itself to his soul, and its spirit seemed able to use his mind and his memories now.

“Be quiet,” Vandel told it.

He heard the creak of wings as Illidan moved. The Betrayer ignored his words as if he sensed to whom Vandel was speaking. “We must fight. Countless worlds have fallen to the Legion, and ours will be next unless we stop it.”

Fragments of apocalyptic visions swirled through Vandel’s mind. He saw worlds burning and nations dying, and through it all he saw the Legion marching, its victory as inevitable as death. The thing at the back of his mind snickered. “Be quiet,” he repeated, but it ignored him.

“Stand up,” Illidan commanded, and there was no disobeying that voice. Even the thing in Vandel’s mind quailed. He lurched to his feet and stood there, swaying. His stomach heaved. The world spun once more. A clawed hand dug into his shoulder and held him upright. Writhing worms of light shimmered beside him, slithering away from the point of contact.

“I cannot see,” Vandel said.

“You can see everything.”

Vandel’s head spun faster. Lights flickered all around him.

He lashed out with his hand, seeking to strike at the lights. They moved away. Rage surged within him. The worms of light were everywhere, covering everything. They filled the space surrounding him. He heard a whimpering sound from a mass of sickly green, knew it was a feverish elf.

He twisted to where Illidan stood, and he saw a blaze of light. If he looked closely, it appeared to be a winged shape.

“You tricked me, Betrayer. You told me you would give me the power to fight demons, to avenge my family.” His anger was a bonfire as bright as Illidan’s aura. It gave him strength. Hatred tasted like bile in his mouth. He wanted to smash his fists into Illidan’s face and beat him till the bones broke. He wanted to drink his blood and eat his heart and be filled with the power that burned before him.

The dizziness was gone now. He had no trouble moving. He wished he had his blades.

“I have given you all that and more.” The blaze of Illidan’s aura moved. Vandel turned his head, tracking it, and he realized that he was also tracking the source of the voice. This did not make him less angry. Frustration built up in him. He wanted to rend and tear. He bit his lip until blood flowed. He was going to kill the Betrayer. He was going to supplant him.

He sprang forward. He heard a rustling sound. His fist smashed into something leathery but lined with bone. A wing. Illidan’s wing. A moment later it buffeted him from his feet. He hit the ground and rolled toward another swirling mass of light. He felt the contact of flesh when he reached it, heard a feverish voice groan.

No doubt about it—in some way, he was perceiving where things were.

He sniffed the air, smelled soiled bandages, unwashed flesh, and beneath that the tainted odor of demon, repulsing him and arousing his hunger at the same time. He wanted to feast upon it. He dived forward, jaws clamping on the sick elf’s arm. A powerful hand caught him by the neck and lifted him like an elf might lift a nightsaber cub.

Illidan said, “Enough. You must learn to control that which lies within you, or it will control you.”

Rage goaded Vandel to aim an elbow backward. Once again he felt himself cast across the room. Air rushed by. He sensed the cold presence of the wall before he hit it, and he let himself go limp. The impact hurt but not as much as it ought to. He rolled once again to his feet.

The Betrayer was keeping him from his prey. Vandel coiled his muscles to leap. Illidan’s aura became sharper, its greenish-yellow light blazing. Motes of it swirled in the air around him, shifting into new patterns as the Betrayer moved his fingers and arms. Vandel realized he was seeing fel magic being bound to Illidan’s will as he drew upon its power. A moment later a bolt of it leapt from Illidan’s finger and impacted on Vandel’s chest. Strength drained from his body like wine from an upended goblet. The dizziness returned, multiplied a thousandfold. He crashed into the stone at Illidan’s hooves, rage departing in proportion to his strength.

He felt like himself once more, but he understood now what he was seeing, what had happened to him. “The demon I devoured. It is still within me, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Illidan, “and it wants to be free.”

“How can I control it?”

“You take the first step along that road today. Walk with me.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you here? Why are you helping me?”

“Because you know who the true enemy is, and you have the potential to be a great hunter of demons. I saw that the day your village burned. I see it now. I will have need of fighters like you before the end.”

Still dizzy and weak, Vandel forced himself to his feet. His true foes were the innumerable forces of the Burning Legion, which even now prepared to strike at his homeworld.

He stood for a moment, calming his mind, listening for any internal voice that was not his own. He heard nothing, but he knew that didn’t mean anything. He did not doubt that the demon was still in there, waiting for the opportunity to break free once more.

He was aware now of the ebb and flow of energies all around. The lights were auras of living things, some bright, some filled with energy. The brightest of all came from the being who stood beside him.

“Is this how you see the world?” Vandel asked.

“It is one way. Your mind becomes accustomed to it eventually. It maps its new way of seeing onto its old way of understanding reality. There will come a time when you will be able to perceive the world as once you did. It is a much narrower way of seeing, but our minds crave familiarity.”

“You are saying you can shift from seeing the world like this to seeing it as if you had eyes?”

“Indeed, and many gradations between.”

He tried to imagine Illidan as he had previously seen him, and slowly a very rough image of the Betrayer stood before him, like a child’s illustration drawn in mud. Its mud mouth moved as Illidan spoke. “In a way it is like working magic. You get a feel for the flows of power. You get a sense of the souls of the living and the unliving.”

They walked toward a doorway. Vandel sensed its lack of density in the air and the solid matter around it. He was not sure how. He also sensed there were living things beyond it. There was power in them, too. They were waiting for something.

Illidan pushed him forward. He collided with something at about waist height. It felt like the edge of a table. “Lie down on it.”

“Why?” Vandel asked.

“You are about to receive your first tattoos.”

Vandel fumbled at the table with his hands, feeling the rough texture of the wood. It came to him then how much he had taken his sense of touch for granted, and how inaccurate it used to be. Now he could feel every grain of the wood, every knot, every splinter. He felt areas that were slightly rougher, as if the carpenter had been sloppy with his planing. It seemed like his various senses were now many times magnified.