William King: Illidan

His councilors looked shocked. One or two of them smiled and tried to put a brave face on things, as if they believed that he had a plan that could save them. “We trust in your judgment, Lord,” said Gathios the Shatterer.

“Trust in the walls of the Black Temple,” Illidan replied, “and in your own spells and blades. Go below and prepare for battle. I do not think our new guests will be leaving anytime soon, and we should ready a proper reception for them.”

Illidan considered ordering that Maiev be executed before she could be rescued. It would be a small morsel of vengeance, perhaps the only one he would get. Who would do it? Akama, perhaps. Where was the Broken? Illidan invoked the spell he had used upon the leader of the Ashtongue. It was still in place. The shade was bound and could be unleashed if it should prove necessary. There was a certain satisfaction to be had in knowing it was so. No. He would not kill Maiev yet, not while there was still a chance she could be made to suffer.

A group of draenei paladins in the tabard of the Alliance charged down the road toward the gates of the Black Temple. Of course, those sanctimonious oafs would be leading the charge. They believed in opposing evil wherever they found it, and he fit into their simple-minded view of what evil was. To them he even looked the part. A mass of his demonic guardians raced to meet them. Magical hammers clashed against fel weapons. It was difficult to see who had won amid the swirling melee; then the Alliance soldiers were thrown back.

A company of brutish-looking Horde trolls moved to reinforce the paladins. Among them flitted shadowy figures who struck with astonishing power and deadliness when the demons’ backs were turned. Illidan could see the shimmer of spells concealing them. Apparently his demonic allies could not.

It looked as if the attackers would prevail—but then a shower of meteors crashed into the ground around the combat and broke asunder, revealing themselves to be infernals. One of the warlocks within the temple had taken a hand.

Illidan took stock of the situation. The temple was well supplied, and the sorcerers within it could summon demonic aid almost indefinitely. But there were magi out there among the attackers, and others who could counter his warlocks.

Plumes of dust in the distance announced the arrival of reinforcements for the attackers. They had the advantage of numbers, and that was only likely to keep growing. The Alliance and the Horde had the resources of a world to draw on, and armies that had been honed in endless battles. Their presence beyond his walls showed exactly how strong they had grown.

He studied his own defenses. In the training grounds, the Dragonmaw clan orcs had gathered. Overhead their dragons flew in formation. Their armies mustered in companies around the siege engines. At the entrance to the Sanctuary of Shadows, Supremus stood. The abyssal loomed over even the gigantic Illidari fearbringers who stalked through the courtyard, wings flapping, weapons held at the ready.

Any attacker who got beyond Supremus would have to enter the Sanctuary of Shadows and face more bound demons and sorcerers. And beyond them, layer after layer of defenses waited.

Illidan returned to contemplating the assaulting army. A huge disturbance loomed around the gates. Enormous battering rams rolled forward, propelled by sorcery. Wave after wave of Aldor and Scryer troops did battle with his demonic defenders.

It did not matter how strong his defenses were. Enough force was being brought to bear that the temple would eventually fall.

Deceiver, they called Kil’jaeden. It seemed he had deceived them all once again. He had not committed his own forces here because he knew he did not have to. His enemies could only be weakened by fighting each other. When this battle was over, the Legion would intervene and destroy them. By defending the temple strongly, Illidan was only doing Kil’jaeden’s work for him.

But what else could he do? Surrender would serve no purpose. His enemies were sworn to slay him. He just needed to hold on until the portal was complete, and then…

Illidan had made a mistake, concentrating all his attention on the Burning Legion and the quest for Argus. His wings curled tightly around his form for a moment until he forced them to relax.

This was a sideshow. The Black Temple was the greatest fortress in Outland. He had time to complete the creation of the gateway to Argus. He needed to make a start now.

Illidan returned to his casting chamber. His head ached. His body felt weak. Doubts assailed him from every side. Did he really have enough time to complete the gate? What if the forces besieging his citadel found a weak spot in the defenses? What if he had miscalculated even that? There was still the way in through the sewers. He should reinforce High Warlord Naj’entus with more naga and elementals.

He studied the half-complete pattern. It would have been his masterpiece. He picked up the Skull of Gul’dan and turned it over and over in his hands. Is this how you felt at the end, old orc? Defeated before you could even start?

He walked to the edge of the pattern, studied symbols inscribed in his own blood, read the messages of power there that were almost ready to spring to life and open a passage across the entire face of the universe.

He had thought he had factored everything into his plan. He had thought he had time. He turned the skull so that he looked into its empty eye sockets. Its death’s-head grin mocked him.

He remembered the vision the naaru had given him. Was that a mockery, too? He tightened his grip on the skull, almost ready to crush it into tiny pieces.

This was not over. He would rally the defenses of the Black Temple. If need be, he could provide an anchor for the gateway himself. He could hold a way open by pure force of will if he had to. He was not going to fail now at this final hurdle.

He would strike at the heart of the Burning Legion, no matter what it cost.

Maiev inspected the immense walls of the Black Temple. The fortress loomed over them, radiating terrible strength. Huge stone spikes emerged from the walls like blades thrusting at the sky.

Akama looked upon the structure as one dying of thirst in the desert might gaze upon a fountain of sparkling water. Hope and desperation warred in his eyes. He completely ignored the sights and sounds of the battle going on nearby. He had eyes only for the holy place itself.

Maiev could not ignore the war raging all around her. Already the combined forces of the Aldor and the Scryers had begun the assault that would provide cover for Akama’s attempt to infiltrate the Black Temple.

Bitterness ate at her heart as the naaru Xi’ri wove spells of protection around her, Akama, and his new allies from Azeroth. The Sha’tar had not consented to aid her when she had gone after Illidan. Things might have turned out differently on the Hand of Gul’dan if they had. Her companions might still be alive.

Maiev glanced at the Azerothian adventurers. She sensed their power and their nervousness. They had been secretly aiding Akama for weeks, acting as his agents to perform missions he could not. Now they were preparing to strike at Illidan himself. The prospect of infiltrating the Black Temple excited and scared them. Maiev herself could barely wait for the naaru to finish weaving its spells. The hour of her vengeance was almost at hand. This time the Betrayer would not escape.

Nearby she sensed the terrible presence of demons. Their brimstone scent filled the air, along with the stink of burning flesh and opened entrails. Something in it stirred her to the core. This was the scent of a battle worth fighting in, a war for the fate of worlds.