William King - Illidan

He will fail, Vandel’s inner demon whispered. He has always failed. He cannot oppose the will of Sargeras. Nothing can.

Vandel took a deep breath and tried to empty his mind. It did not help. It just made him more aware of the magical energy surging around him. He wanted to gather it to him and use it. He wanted to unleash a volcanic tide of destruction upon the distant demonic presences. He wanted to slay them and take their essence into himself. He wanted to feed.

Yes, the demon whispered. That will make you strong enough to challenge even Illidan.

He concentrated on his surroundings in an effort to ignore the mad whispers. This planetoid was carved from pure magical energy congealed into pulsing, chromatic stone. Whenever he touched the surrounding rocks his flesh tingled.

His heart thundered in his chest. He tried to focus his concentration on the approaching enemy. He told himself that he was ready for this.

Illidan studied the distant demons. At the moment, they were merely remote shadows thrown upon his mind by their auras of power. Their numbers dwarfed those of his own force. It did not matter. Magic would decide this battle.

Fel energy swirled around him. He resisted the temptation to reach out and draw upon it. He ran his hand over the wound that Arthas had given him. It tingled as if some small part of the Lich King’s evil blade, Frostmourne, were still lodged in it. He moved his fingers away to avoid being reminded of his previous defeats. Now was not the time to dwell on such things.

Illidan sensed the nervousness of his troops, felt their inner battles. His smile became a snarl. His followers were like hounds sensing prey. He had shaped them to be so. Now was the ultimate test. Now he would find out whether all the centuries of planning had paid off. If this force failed him, he would die, and all his millennia-long designs would come to naught.

That was not going to happen. They were not going to fail at this last hurdle. He had schemed too long to let that happen.

He expanded his awareness. The wave front of his magically extended senses swept over the approaching enemy. Within a heartbeat he had counted their numbers. There were scores of dreadlords, all with their own retinues of hundreds of felhounds and infernals and every other manner of demonic creature.

They are strong. Perhaps too strong.

The thought nagged at him. He shook his horned head. He flexed his wings and caught the updraft of air sweeping the cliffside.

You have miscalculated. And not for the first time.

No. He could not be wrong. He was ready. His force was ready.

The enemy was almost upon them. The demonic army flowed across the alien landscape, an unstoppable tide intent on swamping the ridge on which Illidan waited. The huge dreadlords stalked amid their companies of lesser demons. Their enormous batwings fluttered even though there was no wind. Their horned heads turned as they surveyed their surroundings for foes. The glowing runes on their armor marked their status as much as the size of their retinues did.

Evilly beautiful succubi cracked whips and flexed tails and danced lasciviously. Scuttling felhounds sniffed the air as if they sought prey, sensor stalks twitching, shark teeth gleaming. Armored felguard brandished huge axes as they awaited orders from their commanders. Towering, six-armed shivarra shimmered on the edge of Illidan’s perception, near invisible even to his keen senses.

These were soldiers of the Burning Legion, the force that had devoured worlds beyond number. They were intent on reducing the entire cosmos to smoldering ashes in the name of their master, Sargeras.

Illidan stood apparently alone. His force remained concealed. It would be revealed when he was ready and not before. The gate he had opened on the surface of this barren world drew his enemies. They had come to punish whoever dared transgress upon their realm. It was not often anyone carried the fight within the borders of the Burning Legion. In all his long lifetime, Illidan could not think of more than a handful of such events.

The army came to a halt on the plain below. The greatest of the dreadlords raised a clenched fist, then pointed at Illidan and laughed. His evil mirth echoed across the landscape and was echoed from the throats of hundreds of other dreadlords. Their mockery was obvious. Some of them might have thought the joke was upon them. They had mobilized an army to confront this single figure.

Illidan crossed his arms over his chest and flexed his wings to their greatest extent. He glared down upon his enemies, mirroring their contempt. The mirth of the dreadlords guttered in their throats. It ceased to resound among the rocks. Quiet fell upon the ranks of the huge army. Only the sputtering of the molten skins of the infernals broke the silence. The leader of the dreadlords swept down his raised fist. A gigantic meteor dropped from the sky. A thunderclap boomed. The sound echoed over the site of the coming battle and made the air vibrate.

Vandel was glad TO be in the cover of the rocks. So far none of the demons had noticed him. He felt their malice rolling toward him, a fog of unleashed hatred and evil that somehow congealed out of the magic in the air.

Join them, the demon voice whispered inside him. Join them and you will be rewarded as no soul in the history of the cosmos has been rewarded.

He felt the temptation. The demon was telling the truth as it understood it. He touched the hilts of his rune-encrusted blades. It would be the simplest of actions to plunge them into Illidan’s back. Was he not the Betrayer? Had ever an elf in history been more deserving of death?

Slay him, his demon whispered. Slay Illidan and achieve eternal glory. Slay the Betrayer and become a dark god.

The sound of the thunderclap faded as the army of the nathrezim advanced. The great meteor hit the ground, shaking the earth, disgorging a gigantic blazing infernal. It pulled itself out of the impact crater and lumbered forward along with the rest of the dreadlords’ army.

Vandel felt the temptation rise within him. If he slaughtered Illidan, he would be welcomed by his demonic kindred. He could put his mortality behind him forever, live untroubled by fear and regret. He could bury all traces of guilt about failing his family, all remorse, any semblance of kinship with these weak, frail creatures of flesh and blood.

He could transcend what he was, join the Burning Legion, and become a conqueror, cleansing the universe of the foul disease of life. He could help bring creation crashing down so that a new universe could be born, one shaped in his image, by his desires.

For a moment, he wavered. He listened to the voice of his inner demon and realized that it was his own. His soul had been tainted when he devoured the felhound. It had absorbed the demon’s evil and been twisted. There was really no other demon than himself.

To give in to the voice of temptation would be to forswear his quest for vengeance and break faith with his dead wife and child.

He did not want to kill Illidan. He wanted to kill the things that had made Illidan into what he was. He understood now as he never had before what the Betrayer stood for, because of what he stood against. For all his gigantic flaws, Illidan was the only being who really grasped what they fought, and he was prepared to do whatever it took to end the threat. He might well be mad. His schemes might well be doomed to failure. But he was better than the alternative.

The demons of the Legion advanced toward the ridge. It was time to do battle with the real enemy.

The army of the nathrezim moved upslope. A mortal force would have been slowed by the effort, but they seemed tireless. Felhounds loped ahead, infernals lumbered in their wake, scores of gigantic winged dreadlords bellowed orders to their followers.