William King - Illidan

“I learned that there is no way that the Legion can be defeated by simply waiting for it to come to you.

“The Legion is too strong. If you turn it back once, it will return. If you turn it back a thousand times, it will return. And every time, it will be stronger. Its commanders will have learned from their mistakes. Its generals will be prepared for your strategies.

“They are immortal. Their souls cannot be destroyed in most places. They can be merely thrown back into the Twisting Nether. Eventually they are reborn there, with all the knowledge of their previous lives. Imagine fighting a warrior who, every time you kill him, comes back. And this warrior remembers the trick you used to defeat him previously, and returns prepared for it. Eventually you run out of tricks. You run out of luck. That is why the Legion cannot be beaten on Azeroth. The spirits of demons can only be destroyed in the Twisting Nether, in places where it bleeds into the world of mortals, or in places utterly saturated with the demonic energies of the Burning Legion. Nathreza was one such place. Argus is another.

“There have been those who thought they had defeated the Burning Legion. Dreadlords stride through the ashes of their worlds. Infernals desecrate the tombs of their children. You cannot beat the Legion by fighting it on its terms. In the end you can only lose.

“There is only one way of winning: to assault the Burning Legion where it can be destroyed. It is a slim chance, but it is our only one. We do not have a choice. All we can do is stand and wait to die, or we can take the war to Sargeras and his minions. We will destroy the lieutenants who motivate the Legion’s forces. We will slay Kil’jaeden, and Archimonde, too, if he has been reborn. Sargeras needs commanders to control his soldiers. Without them, the eredar will fall to fighting among one another, and piecemeal may be destroyed.”

Akama and most of Illidan’s other advisers stared, in horror and in wonder. The demon hunters merely nodded. “I will take this war to Argus. You!” Illidan swept his arm about the room, gesturing to the assembled tattooed fighters. “All of you claimed you wanted to take your vengeance on the Burning Legion. I am offering you the greatest chance anyone has ever had to do that. We will take demon lives as a reaper takes wheat, and we will kill their commanders in a place from which they cannot return. All of you have proved yourselves worthy to accompany me.”

He let that sink in. He was not asking them to accompany him. He was telling them that they were worthy, and it was the truth. He saw them, one by one, nod their agreement.

“Go now. Tell the others. Prepare for the opening of the way to Argus.”

“Where are you going?” Akama asked. His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. He tugged at the tendrils on his chin, appalled.

“To a place where there are many souls waiting for dissolution. To Auchindoun.”

“The mausoleum of the draenei, Lord? But it is sacred.”

Illidan focused his attention on Akama. Had there been a note of rebelliousness in his voice? “Not to me, faithful Akama.”

Akama lowered his head slowly. His shoulders slumped. Illidan knew he did not like what was going on, but for the sake of his own soul and those of his people, he would have to accept it. “As you say, Lord.”

Illidan spread his arms and wings wide. “Go now, all of you. You will all have parts to play before the end.”

Vandel watched the others depart from the room. He took a last glance at the great map board with its counters representing scattered armies. It looked like a toy now, a child’s puzzle that had nothing to do with the business they were undertaking.

As he followed the others out of the council chamber, he thought about Illidan’s words and the vision Vandel had seen when he consumed the demon’s flesh.

He did not for a moment doubt that what Illidan had said was true. The Burning Legion was invincible when opposed by any normal means. There was no defensive strategy that could defeat an army that had unlimited resources and immortal soldiers. The real question was whether Illidan’s plan made any difference. For the past few months the Betrayer had seemed even less sane than ever. And now Vandel understood why. All his schemes were nearing a climax.

Illidan did not care about Outland. He did not care about Hellfire Citadel or Coilfang Reservoir. None of it meant anything to him. None of it ever had, save as a stepping-stone to his ultimate destination.

Vandel saw what many of the other advisers did not. Illidan had no plan beyond this point. He was standing on the edge of a great abyss, planning on a long leap into darkness. Everything that happened—the taking of citadels, the coming of the Alliance and the Horde—was a sideshow to him. Vandel knew that come what may, all of this was going to go to pieces within the next few months. None of them were going to live much longer. Whether they followed Illidan to Argus or remained here to fight against the Legion or the Alliance and the Horde, it made no difference. They were all going to die.

The question then became what gave their deaths the greatest meaning. If what Illidan had said was in the slightest true, there was only one thing to be done. Vandel touched the amulet he had made for Khariel so long ago. He had come here with a purpose in mind. To oppose the Burning Legion and take vengeance if he could. He would see that through to the bitter end.

He glanced around at the other demon hunters and saw that they had come to a similar conclusion. The blood elves, as always, looked as if they were thinking of some way to take advantage of the situation.

Vandel knew that whatever happened, he would follow Illidan. He glanced over his shoulder into the council chamber. The Betrayer was still there, shoulders slumped, wings wrapped forlornly around them. He paced nine steps and then turned. As if sensing he was watched, Illidan stood taller, flexed his wings, and crossed his arms upon his chest. As the doors slid silently shut, Vandel knew that even their leader was consumed by doubt.

Illidan considered the silent war room. Emptiness made the giant chamber larger. The lack of living sounds turned the place dead. He walked over to the map table and considered the fallen fortresses of his Outland empire. Each of those overturned models and carved blocks represented thousands of deaths, lakes of blood spilled. The thought occurred to him that he had long ago ceased to care about such things. In the game he played, tens of thousands of lost lives were a negligible cost.

There had been a time, long ago, when those deaths would have troubled him. He knew that intellectually, but he no longer felt the emotion, could not even begin to remember what it would have been like, and that bothered him. He had spent so long armoring himself against doubt, forcing himself only to ask questions that were relevant to his struggle. Now, in this empty chamber, he could hear only the echoes of voices no longer speaking.

Both Vandel’s doubts and Akama’s were justified. It was possible he was wrong. It was possible that he was as insane as he had often been accused of being. He picked up one of the pieces—an orc warrior carved from clefthoof ivory—and turned it over and over in his fingers. How many fel orcs had he sent to their deaths without a second thought? He could calculate the number if he wished. His sorcerously trained mind was capable of remembering all of the orders of battle and supply lists. That was not the point.

He thought about the demon hunters. They were his own people. He shared a kinship with the elves that he shared with no others, but even that seemed a remote thing. He had walked paths that separated him from even them. He had spent ten thousand years in isolation, with only Maiev and her Watchers for company, and they were mostly distant presences. Ten thousand years alone, with nothing but his thoughts and his plans and his visions. Ten thousand years of dark dreams and testing bonds that could not be broken until finally Tyrande had freed him. He considered visiting Maiev and inflicting a fraction of the punishment she deserved. The chess piece crumbled in his grip.