Illidan Page 2

  Illidan clenched his fists as he sensed the demons within the temple. Here in the foreign world of Outland, he felt the temptation of demonic magic even more strongly than usual, especially after he had consumed the potency within the Skull of Gul’dan. The surge of evil energy from that artifact had transformed him, changing both his physical form and the depth of his power, but it had put him off balance for months. He flexed his newly gained demonic wings, earning a concerned glance from Prince Kael’thas. Illidan took a deep breath and forced himself to be calm.

  It was a long, strange road that had brought him to this pass. Since Tyrande had freed him, he had seen the overthrow of the Burning Legion on his homeworld of Azeroth, made a pact with a demon lord, and fled to Outland to evade his enemies, both night elven and demonic. He had been recaptured by his old nemesis, Maiev, and then freed by his allies, the young prince Kael’thas—whose allegiance Illidan had earned by pledging to help the blood elves sate their addiction to magic—and Lady Vashj, a leader of the naga. Now he found himself scheming to overthrow the pit lord who ruled this shattered world in the name of the Burning Legion.

  Kael’thas stared at him, expecting an answer to his promise of loyalty. Illidan said, “I am pleased by your people’s zeal, young Kael. Their spirits and powers have been honed in this harsh wilderness. Their courage alone may be enough to—”

  “Lord Illidan, new arrivals come to greet you.” The voice of Lady Vashj cut him off as she slithered into view. Great bands of muscle pulsed and bulged as she moved, twisting the coils of her lower body. Her oddly beautiful face, reminiscent of a night elf’s, contrasted with the horror of her serpentine form.

  Illidan turned to look in the direction she indicated. A pack of monstrous figures lumbered into view. Illidan recognized them at once. They were Broken, corrupted and devolved former members of the draenei race who had inhabited Draenor before it was shattered into Outland. They, too, were part of Illidan’s coalition, bound to him by promises of aid against their common enemy, Magtheridon.

  The Broken were hulking, ungraceful monsters, bearing primitive weapons in their huge hands. Illidan’s mystical senses detected that more of them were nearby, potent magic concealing them from those who lacked his spectral sight.

  One of the Broken, even more massive and twisted of form than the rest, limped forward on hoofed feet. “We have fought the orcs and their demon masters for generations,” the figure said. His voice rasped from within his chest. It seemed to pain him to speak. “Now, at last, we will end their curse forever. We are yours to command, Lord Illidan.”

  It was Akama, leader of the Broken. He was not a reassuring figure. Fangs jutted up from his lower jaw. Tentacles writhed out from the bottom half of his face.

  “You have arrived just in time,” said Illidan. “Those machines on the walls must be silenced, and the gate must be opened.”

  Akama nodded and gestured. The near-invisible Broken swarmed forward across the open ground and clambered up the walls of the Black Temple. A small force of blood elves and naga took shelter against the monstrous fortifications, beneath the firing arcs of the demonic engines. Illidan, Kael’thas, and Lady Vashj moved to join them, along with Akama and his bodyguards.

  Once again, the so-called lord of Outland’s overconfidence was revealed. A properly prepared fortress would have vats of boiling oil or alchemical fire ready to pour down on attackers. The defenders did nothing. Long minutes ticked by. This close to the walls, Illidan could hear the hum of the magical generators that powered the demonic war machines.

  Suddenly the sounds of combat came from within the walls, and the great gates of the Black Temple swung open. Akama and his bodyguards raced forward to join the fray. Explosions sounded as the Broken destroyed the generators, and the war machines on the walls fell silent. The main bulk of the naga and blood elf force advanced toward the gate once more.

  Akama returned, hideous face jubilant. He had waited a long time for this day. Illidan smiled and said, “As I promised, your people shall have their vengeance, Akama. By night’s end, we will all be drunk with it. Vashj, Kael, give the final order to strike. The hour of wrath has come!”

  Through the open gates, Illidan could see a vast courtyard stacked high with bones. Red-skinned fel orcs milled around in confusion as their leaders bellowed commands and tried to get them into some semblance of order to repel the invaders.

  Within the Black Temple, there were probably ten fel orcs for every one of Illidan’s troops. Each had been twisted by foul magic into something far stronger and fiercer than a normal orc. It counted for nothing now. Illidan’s forces swept into the courtyard, a tight wedge that cleaved through their disorganized enemy as easily as their blades sliced orcish flesh.

  Illidan plunged his talons into the chest of a fel orc. Bone crunched as he closed his fingers and ripped open a cavity to pull the heart free. The fel orc roared and lunged forward, jaws snapping in an attempt to tear out Illidan’s throat even as the creature died.

  Illidan raised the corpse above his head and tossed it into the onrushing squad of red-skinned defenders. Its weight bowled them over, sending them tumbling to the ground. He leapt amid them, freeing his warglaives from their sheaths. He lashed out, striking to left and right with irresistible force. His enemies fell, decapitated, limbless, mutilated. Blood covered him. He licked it from his lips and moved forward, slashing and slicing as he went.

  All around, the dying screamed. Magic thundered as Prince Kael’thas and Lady Vashj unleashed their spells. Illidan was tempted to do so himself, but he wanted to preserve his strength for the final conflict with Magtheridon.

  Part of him took pleasure in the clash of arms. There was nothing quite like shedding the blood of your foes with your own hands. Deep within him, the chained demon part of his nature enjoyed feeding this way.

  The fel orcs fought well, but they were no match for Illidan and his comrades. The naga were much larger and more physically powerful. They wrapped their enemies within their serpentine coils and squeezed the life out of them.

  The blood elves were masters of sorcery and swords. They might not be as strong as the fel orcs, but they were faster and more agile, and bonds of loyalty stronger than life itself drove them to defend their prince.

  The Broken fought with the determination of a people driven to free their homeland from the grip of demons. The howls of dying fel orcs rose to the heavens in protest as they dropped before the hungry blades of their enemies. Within minutes the courtyard was cleared, the fel orcs were routed, and the way into the Black Temple’s inner citadel and Magtheridon’s chambers lay open.

  “Victory is ours,” said Akama. “The Temple of Karabor will belong to my people once again.”

  “The temple will be returned to your people,” Illidan said. He replaced his warglaives in their sheaths. “In good time.” It was true. He fully intended to give back the Black Temple to the Broken. Once he had achieved his goals.

  Akama looked at him with rheumy eyes. He interlaced his stubby fingers and bobbed his head, his need to believe etched on his face. The Temple of Karabor had been the most sacred site of his people before Magtheridon’s desecration turned it into the Black Temple. Illidan sensed it had a deep personal significance to the Broken himself. That was a string that could be tugged to make him dance, if the need arose. Not that what Akama wanted counted for anything. Illidan’s purpose far outweighed the desires of any Broken. He had planned too long to let scruples stand in his way.

  “When we overcome the pit lord, most of his fel orc lieutenants will support us,” Illidan said. “They follow the strongest, and we will have shown that their faith in Magtheridon was misplaced. Such summoned demons as remain within the temple will be bound in fealty to me, or they will die their final death.”

  Vashj nodded. “Cut off the head and the body falls,” she said.

  “You will slay Magtheridon, Lord?” Akama asked.

  Illidan allowed himself a cruel smile. “We shall
do much worse than that,” he said.

  “And what would that be?” Akama spoke slowly. Illidan heard the doubt in his voice. Clearly, Akama had reservations about what they were doing.

  “You will need to wait and see,” Illidan said.

  “As you wish, Lord,” Akama said. “So shall it be.”

  “Then let us be about our business,” said Illidan. “We have a world to conquer.”

  —

  THE DOORWAY TO THE throne room slid open. The stench of demon assaulted Illidan’s nostrils. Flames leapt around Magtheridon’s throne of bones. The pit lord loomed more than five times the height of a blood elf, a centaur-like creature with two arms and a quadruped lower half, as massive as a dragon. Magtheridon’s legs were like the columns supporting the roof of some ancient temple. They lifted his underbelly so high that an elf could walk beneath it. In one huge hand, he held a glaive as long as the mast of an oceangoing ship, weighty as a battering ram. Flanking him were two gigantic, batwinged doomguard, each almost as tall as their master, and a force of lesser demons. Illidan sensed their power and their hostility.

  The pit lord turned his burning eyes upon Illidan. When he spoke, his voice was deep and guttural. “I do not know you, stranger, but your power is vast. Are you an agent of the Legion? Have you been sent here to test me?”

  Illidan laughed. “I have come to replace you. You are a relic, Magtheridon, a ghost of a past age. The future is mine. From this moment on, Outland and all its denizens will bow to me.”

  The pit lord lumbered forward, raising his gigantic glaive. The earth shook beneath his tread. “I will crush you like the insect you are. I will feast upon your pulped flesh and devour your soul with it.”

  He spoke with the overweening self-confidence of one who thought his might was unchallengeable. His demonic bodyguards advanced. Illidan sprang, warglaives scything through the air to bite into demon flesh. His blow slashed the arm from a felguard, forcing the creature to drop his axe. A heartbeat later Illidan’s left-hand warglaive sliced his opponent open from neck to groin.

  Illidan’s own forces advanced into the fray. The doomguard were mighty, but they were few. Buffeted by the spells of Kael’thas and Vashj and surrounded by assailants, the doomguard were slain like bears being dragged down by a pack of hounds.

  Illidan bounded forward to confront Magtheridon himself. The pit lord’s huge glaive crashed down, biting into the stone where Illidan had stood. He was already away, rolling between the lord of Outland’s columnar legs, hamstringing each of the front ones with a double swipe of his blades. The pit lord roared with fury and struck again. Illidan tumbled forward under his foe’s belly, drawing forth ichor with his strikes. He vaulted onto Magtheridon’s massive tail, ran up his spine, and drove his blades into the demon’s thick neck.

  From Illidan’s vantage point, he could see that his forces had felled the pit lord’s bodyguards. The demons were finished. Illidan raised his hands high and chanted the spell of binding. A wave of unleashed magical energy hit the pit lord. Magtheridon flinched as the spell began to bite.

  Illidan’s heart thundered as he exerted his will. He felt as if he were engaged in a tug-of-war with a giant. Magtheridon’s advance slowed. His face twisted as if he, too, felt the strain.

  “You are strong—for a mortal,” the pit lord said.

  “I am not a mortal,” said Illidan.

  “Anything that can be killed is mortal.”

  Sweat beaded on Illidan’s brow. His breath rasped from his chest. He spread his wings and rose into the air above Magtheridon, signaling the others. It was time. Lady Vashj nodded, raised her hands, and began to chant. Lines of fire blazed across Illidan’s sight, forming intricate patterns around the pit lord. Magtheridon roared as he understood what was happening.

  Illidan fed more power into the spell. The pit lord stood transfixed, unable to proceed. His tombstone-sized fangs glistened, reflecting the light of magical energy. He reared up, fighting against the magic as much with his huge strength as with his own sorcerous might.

  Illidan strained against him and glanced at Prince Kael’thas. The blood elf licked his lips like an epicure catching sight of a feast. All this unleashed magic clearly aroused something within him.

  “Kael’thas,” Illidan croaked. His words carried to the elf’s ears. Kael’thas spread his arms and added his voice to the spell. Colossal magical energies smashed down. The spell locked into place. The pit lord screamed his rage and defiance, but to no avail. He was held by bindings so strong, not even he could overcome them. Illidan smiled. Victory was his. The first stage of his long-dreamed plan was complete.

  —

  AKAMA LISTENED AS LORD ILLIDAN howled the final words of binding. Magtheridon stood frozen, impotent, and full of baffled rage. He flexed his mighty body, but he was held.

  It was done. The pit lord was vanquished. The defeat of Akama’s people had been avenged. The Temple of Karabor would be free of the demon’s baleful influence.

  Akama allowed himself a moment of triumph. His strength, combined with that of the outworld sorcerers, had been enough to overcome even so potent a demon as Magtheridon.

  Illidan descended to the ground. His wings snapped closed and slumped around his shoulders, and the glow faded from his magical tattoos. His arms dropped. Akama rushed to his side.

  “Victory is ours, oh lord,” Akama said.

  “Yes, faithful Akama, it is,” Illidan said. Was there a note of mockery in the way he stressed the word faithful? It mattered not.

  “You have freed the Temple of Karabor.”

  “We have freed the Temple of Karabor.”

  “May I ask when I may begin, Lord?”

  “Begin what?”

  A cold hand clutched at Akama’s heart. He looked up at Illidan’s face. He could not read the expression there. The demon hunter’s features were a mask. A strip of runecloth concealed his empty eye sockets. Perhaps it was to be as Akama had feared all along.

  “We must purify the temple, Lord, and prepare it to be returned to holiness. My brethren and I will work day and night to finish the required rituals. It will be as if Magtheridon’s vile touch never tainted this place.”

  Illidan nodded slowly. “There will be time for that afterward.”

  “Afterward, Lord Illidan?”

  “After my business is concluded. There is much to do before Outland is freed.”

  “But the temple is free now, is it not, Lord?”

  “Nowhere is free while the Burning Legion reaches out for conquest. We must fortify this place. It must become a beacon to all who oppose the demons.”

  Akama swallowed his disappointment. He had been half expecting something like this. He let none of his thoughts show on his face. Instead he cast his eyes down and said, “It is, no doubt, as you say, Lord Illidan. May I withdraw and share the glad news with my people?”

  “You may,” said Illidan. He paused for a moment and said, “The temple will be returned to the Broken, Akama. Just not today.”

  “Of course, Lord. I do not doubt it.” Akama hurried out of Magtheridon’s throne room. He must prepare to travel. He had business with one who might be able to help. As he departed, he noticed that Prince Kael’thas’s mocking gaze followed him. The prince had known all along what was going to happen. So had Lady Vashj. Fortunately, the Broken had not entirely trusted Illidan’s benevolence. Akama had laid such contingency plans as had seemed wise when entering into any agreement with one known as the Betrayer.

  If the hunter of demons would not help him regain the Temple of Karabor, there were those who would. It was time to seek new allies. The holy place of Akama’s people would be purified no matter what Illidan wanted.

  —

  ILLIDAN STOOD WITH KAEL’THAS and Vashj on the highest rooftop of the Black Temple, looking out over the bleak landscape of Shadowmoon Valley. The demon hunter had proclaimed his victory to the world of Outland from the battlements, but now he was restless. He did not feel as trium
phant as he had expected. Instead he felt a sense of growing dread.

  In the distance the sky was red as blood. Crimson clouds raced toward the Black Temple. Powerful winds plucked at Illidan’s wings. Rivers of reddish dust flowed through the air. Illidan’s skin tingled, and he noticed motes of fel magic all around.

  Prince Kael’thas shouted, “What is this, Vashj? Where did this storm come from?”

  The naga matron replied, “Keep your head down, fool! Something terrible is drawing near!”

  The motes of magic grew brighter. A shimmering aura formed in the air near the roof, coalescing into a gigantic glowing figure. It hovered above them, large as a fortress tower. Something about its shape reminded Illidan of the Broken, of the draenei. It was horned. Its skin burned, and flames flickered around its hooves, illuminating its whole body. It radiated power that dwarfed even that of the pit lord. Illidan knew he was once more in the presence of Kil’jaeden, the demon lord who commanded much of the Burning Legion.

  Kil’jaeden glared down at Illidan. “Foolish little mongrel. You failed to destroy the Frozen Throne as I commanded. And still you thought to hide from me in this forsaken backwater! I thought you to be more cunning, Illidan.”

  It was impossible to do anything but meet Kil’jaeden’s gaze. The Deceiver’s eyes were magnetic. They compelled adoration and awe. They held an infinity of promises and an eternity of terrors.

  A link was established between them. The thrill of contact was electric. Illidan felt Kil’jaeden’s cruel mind inspect his own. He caught flickers of his adversary’s surface thoughts. He saw worlds laid to waste, empires become playthings, ultimate power answer to the will of this mighty being and his servants. It was all part of the Deceiver’s technique of seduction. This, too, can be yours, those eyes promised, and they left no doubt about the truth of that pledge. Obey Kil’jaeden, and your enemies would be destroyed, your dreams of dominion fulfilled. Whatever you wished could be yours. Disobey Kil’jaeden, and…