William King - Illidan

“What do you think, Lord?” Gathios asked. “What should we do?”

Suddenly he was tired of all this. He was tired of listening to this petty, pointless bickering over matters that were no longer of any concern to him. He was tired of the feeling of weakness and lassitude that filled him.

Time was running out and he had important work to do and this was a needless distraction.

Illidan dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Get out of my sight,” he said.

Illidan looked around the great chamber of transference. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, he had created the last and greatest portal spell he would ever weave. Every line had been etched in the floor by his own hand. He had boiled the alembics of truesilver himself and filled out line after line. He had inscribed the runes around the edges in demon ichor mixed with his own blood. Each wall was covered in intricate warding symbols based on his tattoos. At junctions in the pattern, he had placed the skulls of demons and sorcerers, each etched with miniature versions of their section of the pattern to help channel the flow of energy. These additions reflected the star beacons in the sky over Argus. At the center of the weave lay the Seal of Argus. It pulsed with power now, a direct link to the world of Kil’jaeden that would guide the unleashed energies of the portal.

Everything still had an unfinished, incomplete look to it. The spell engines that would feed power from the soul siphon into the pattern were untested. The generators, great machines of copper and brass and fel iron, intricate as gnomish engines, stood almost ready. The whole vast pattern was falling into place but too slowly. He had strengthened his weakened body with magic to give him the energy and concentration of a dozen lesser sorcerers, but it was still not enough. It would take many more moons to complete sorcery so vast and intricate, and he could feel the sands running through his life’s hourglass far too quickly.

Now was not the time to allow himself to panic. Impatience led to mistakes, and in an undertaking as complex as this one, the slightest error could lead to catastrophe. He needed just to focus on the matter at hand, to do what must be done this day, this hour, this minute.

He needed to complete the link between Outland and Argus. He must set the terminal runes. He placed the incense and invoked the spell. One by one the magical engines sprang to life, filling the air with the stench of ozone and brimstone. Tiny trickles of energy, the slightest breath of power compared with the great roaring gale that would mark the portal’s opening, leapt from the engines. The lines of truesilver shimmered. A mirror image of their pattern appeared in the air above them, projected from the Seal of Argus. He let his spirit exit his weary body.

It was easier to let go, as if using the soul siphon in Auchindoun had somehow weakened the link between his spirit and his flesh. He reached out and wove the flows of energy from the pattern into subtle threads, then gathered them to his spirit.

He followed the intricate pattern of runes out into the Twisting Nether. His spirit flashed through the void, and once again, Argus appeared beneath him. He looked down on the once glittering and beautiful world, then sent his spirit soaring downward into its glass canyons and diamond-edged mountains. He moved as cautiously as he could.

This time he sought to establish a terminal point for the portal. A web of magical energy linked him to Outland. He had done his best to conceal it, but a sufficiently adroit sorcerer—and this was a world full of them—might still detect him unless he was extremely careful.

The thought of the being he had encountered last time troubled him. It had seemingly aided him, but he knew how subtle and cunning the demons of the Burning Legion could be. Kil’jaeden was well named the Deceiver.

Illidan flew closer to the palace city where the demonic rulers of the Burning Legion dwelled. He feared that his comet trails of magic leading back to Outland might be spotted no matter how thin they were, no matter how well he had concealed them. He slowed his advance to a crawl.

A tingling of his spectral senses warned him that he was under observation. He tried to track whatever spied on him, but it eluded his perception. Alarm pulsed through his mind. The fact that it could elude his powers of observation even when he was alert spoke of tremendous sorcerous ability. The thing might attack him by surprise while he was most vulnerable, placing the points of resonance for the portal.

He waited for long moments, but nothing happened. Perhaps he was caught up in the backwash of some defensive spell designed to induce paranoia and doubt. Kil’jaeden was capable of such subtle magic. Every moment Illidan spent here was a moment wasted, one that increased his chances of being discovered. He needed to either proceed with his plan or retreat and wait for a more auspicious time.

It was now or never. He plunged toward Kil’jaeden’s enormous crystalline palace, found the part he was looking for, and wove the spells. A small, temporary whirlwind of force appeared, a tiny echo of the vast pattern back in the Black Temple. Illidan glanced around, waiting for the hammer to fall. If he had been detected, now would be the time. No ward spell sprang to life. No alarm triggered. The vortex faded virtually to nonexistence, leaving behind a well-nigh undetectable residue of power.

As it did so, Illidan thought he was under observation once more. The sense of the watching presence returned, intensified. He felt as if something looked upon his action with immense curiosity, but when he sought out the source, he could not find it.

Wait. What was that? That faint aura of shimmering light. He focused on it, but even as he did so, it vanished from his perception—as if the owner had somehow withdrawn below the skin of the universe.

He needed to concentrate on the work at hand. He was distracted when he could least afford to be. He flitted through the crystalline palace to a new location, a vast chamber in which succubi danced for the amusement of demonic generals. He invoked the portal-anchoring spell once more, fixing it in place as swiftly as he could. He was closer to the throne room of Kil’jaeden now, and the danger of detection increased with that nearness.

He felt as if something vast and powerful loomed behind him, watching him work, studying the way he invoked the spell, observing how the anchor fell into place. He dared not interrupt the casting to try to catch it, otherwise the whole ritual would fail.

It was all he could do to focus on the work at hand when, at any moment, a blast of power might cast him into oblivion. He forced himself to concentrate on completing the anchoring spell, then swiftly attempted to bring his observer into view. Once again it eluded him.

Even in the reduced emotional state that came with being in spirit form, he was angry. He did not like being toyed with, and he felt that this was what was happening now. Kil’jaeden knew he was here and was playing with him. He was being allowed to get near the completion of his spell—and at the last moment his spirit would be captured and imprisoned.

He had only three more anchors to set, and one way or another the thing would be over. Part of him wanted to attempt an escape or draw his attacker out and get into battle, no matter how one-sided that conflict might prove to be.

The next two anchor points went down easily. Each time he felt himself observed, and he sensed the same deep curiosity about what he was doing radiating from the hidden watcher, but try as he might he could not find any way to make the creature reveal itself.

Now he moved cautiously closer to the great throne room. An enormous concentration of demonic power lay there. Kil’jaeden was in residence, and many of his generals were there, too. Illidan needed to be extraordinarily cautious now. In his spirit form, that assembled force could crush him as if he were an insect. All of them were, without a doubt, sorcerers capable enough to detect him unless he shielded himself with supreme skill and laid the anchoring spell with the utmost care.