Illidan Page 9
Among the night elves was Seladan, who had come all the way from Eversong Woods. His body had been burned by a dozen fist blows from an infernal. The whole right side of his face had been caved in around the jawline. A night elf so burned should not have been able to move without pain, but somehow he did, as lithe as when he had been a village guard.
Beautiful Isteth had lost all three of her children when the Burning Legion struck. She carried the burned corpse of her baby in a pouch against her chest. Vandel had pieced together her story from her ravings. There were nights when she could not stop screaming about the burning. One of the blood elves had tried to silence her forcibly. She had killed him with one blow of her knife.
Mavelith smiled and smiled and smiled. He found everything funny. It was disconcerting when he laughed at nothing, or at the distress of some companion. There was something in his eyes that suggested he took pleasure from the pain of others.
There was Cyana. She seemed almost normal except for her keenness to come to grips with the Legion. She never spoke of what the demons had done to her, but she gave the impression that she, too, thirsted for vengeance with all her being.
Ravael said not to trust the blood elves. They had been twisted by their addiction to arcane magic. Vandel did not care. He did not pay any attention to the prejudices his own people had acquired since the Burning Legion’s invasion. He had been too caught up in his own hate-driven quest.
He knew one thing, though. All the elves here had reasons to hate the Burning Legion that went far beyond those of most who had suffered because of the demons. They were like him, and he felt an odd sense of companionship with them all.
It was clear that he and his comrades were not the first to walk this path. There were others, who kept mostly to themselves or were sometimes seen practicing. They were a breed apart—marked by their tattoos and their scars and strange mutations.
Not all of them seemed blind, but all of them had altered eyes. It marked them as being part of a separate, elite group. The servants and soldiers around the Black Temple treated them with fear and exaggerated respect. The aspirants looked upon them with a mixture of awe and envy. They had something all of the supplicants wanted—poise and power and confidence. Mystery cloaked them. It hinted that they possessed other, unseen powers. Rumor had it that these tattooed soldiers had already slain demons.
There were times when Vandel sensed the presence of the Burning Legion. He told himself it was because the Black Temple housed Illidan’s bound servants, but sometimes he had the skin-crawling feeling of being watched by demons, and he would turn to see Needle or Elarisiel looking at him. The tattooed fighters with their strange vision made him deeply uneasy. It had been a long, long time since anything had caused him such disquiet. There were other tales among the aspirants—that Illidan himself had become part demon, that their tutors emulated him in all things, and that in order to slay demons, you had to become like them.
The Black Temple itself was a profoundly disturbing place. It had been transformed from a shrine into something else by the presence of Magtheridon. Illidan’s people, the so-called Illidari, had done nothing to change the atmosphere. For one who called himself a demon hunter, Illidan counted an enormous number of demons among his followers. Even amid the ruins of Karabor, gigantic batwinged doomguard stalked, polluting the stones with their hooves. Vandel had heard the bellowing of monsters echo from the Black Temple. Stories of succubi and satyrs abounded among the aspirants.
Vandel was so deep in reverie that he did not notice the first time Ravael shook his shoulder. He turned to look when he became aware of the shaking, and his gaze followed his companion’s pointing finger. Illidan stooped like a hawk, dropping from the darkening sky into the courtyard, as if they were his prey.
Vandel stood his ground as the Betrayer landed in front of him, arresting his descent with a flap of his huge leathery wings. His sightless eyes seemed focused on the distance, but his taloned fingers pointed straight at the crowd.
A mocking smile twisted the Betrayer’s lips. “And now we begin.”
Begin what? Vandel wondered. So far it had all been weapons training and listening to his disturbed companions. Did this mean Illidan was finally ready to share his dark knowledge? Were they finally going to learn how to kill demons, rather than simply spar with one another and listen to endless lectures from Varedis and his ilk?
Illidan’s cold smile vanished. “Take a look around you. There are more than five hundred of you here. By the time this is over, there will be less than a hundred.”
He paused to let that sink in; then he laughed. “You all swore you were willing to give your lives to strike at the Burning Legion. You now have a chance to prove that. Who will be the first?”
At first there was no response. Everyone waited to see what the others would do. Now that the moment had come, no one wanted to break ranks and see what waited for them. Suspense and fear hung over the supplicants and paralyzed them.
Vandel took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I will have my vengeance or I will die. Whatever is needed, I will do.”
Illidan nodded. Vandel thought that the Betrayer had expected this of him, or perhaps he was just imagining things. “Very well,” he said. “Step into the summoning circle.”
Illidan gestured. Lines of fire etched a complex geometric pattern on the stone.
Vandel passed into a vast pentacle surrounded by glowing runes. They pulsed with a meaning that he felt he could grasp if only he was given another heartbeat to contemplate them—yet somehow the meaning never came. As he watched, the symbols blurred hypnotically. His skin tingled. His mouth felt dry. Motes of greenish-yellow light swirled around him.
Illidan spoke a word of power. Fel energy surged. The temperature dropped. The air shimmered and congealed, and a felhound materialized. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it bore a startling resemblance to the one that had killed his son, Khariel.
The felhound shrieked and bounded toward him, long tentacles bobbing. Jaws gaped wide, revealing teeth like a shark’s. Vandel drew his runic daggers and leapt to meet it, the similarity of the beast to his son’s killer stoking his rage ever higher. His blades stabbed forward at the tentacles. He writhed to one side to avoid the snapping jaws. His blades made contact, slicing the sensory stalks. The felhound twisted, still attempting to bury its fangs into his flesh.
His arm burned where the felhound’s jaws made contact. Razor teeth sliced his flesh. His thirst for vengeance had blinded him to the creature’s surprising speed. He sprang backward and away. Something tingled at his back, and he found that he could not exit the circle. Magic imprisoned him, as if the very air had solidified. He flipped himself forward, and the demon’s jaws snapped closed inches from his face. He smelled its brimstone breath even as he drove his blade up through the roof of its mouth, into the place where its brain ought to be.
The felhound tried to close its mouth, but the dagger was wedged between its jaws. The attempt merely drove the spell-wound point deeper into its skull. A gasping wheeze passed through the creature’s lips. It keeled over and lay there, tail lashing in a death spasm.
Vandel looked over at Illidan, filled with the first faint surge of triumph. What next? he wondered. Illidan stepped into the circle, unhampered by any restraining spells.
Illidan reached down and with one clawed hand pulled the felhound’s still-pulsing heart from within its chest. He presented it to Vandel.
“Eat it,” he said.
This was not what Vandel expected. Looking at the disgusting mass of foul meat, Vandel considered refusing. But only for a moment. Something in the Betrayer’s stance told him that defiance was not an option. He instead took the heart in both hands. The demon flesh was wet and sticky beneath his fingers. What might have been veins dripped greenish acidic ichor. His palms tingled and felt as if they were about to burn.
He glanced around and saw even through the shimmering air of the circle that all eyes were upon him. Every
one waited to see what he did. Vandel raised the meat to his lips. He reached out with his tongue. It tingled and burned just as his hands were doing. He suspected that the flesh was saturated with fel magic.
He bit into the moist meat and forced himself to chew. The flesh was tough, and he thought it squirmed as it came into contact with his lips. He swallowed and it seemed to expand in his throat as if the demon, even in death, was determined to choke him. He gagged and swallowed again, trying to force it down. It was like having a slug slither down his throat.
Illidan indicated the blood pooling around the corpse. “Drink it.”
Vandel bent down and, with both hands cupped, scooped up some blood. The tingling in his fingers increased. Nausea and dizziness made his head spin, but he managed to gulp down the foul liquid. It burned like rotgut alcohol from a goblin still. Vandel wondered if it would poison him. His stomach rebelled. He wanted to vomit. To his horror, he felt as if something was kicking within his belly. He imagined the demon flesh coiling in his gut, trying to break free, gnawing its way out.
Illidan chanted. Great spheres of greenish light orbited him, burning like shimmering emerald suns. They blazed with heat and magical power, and Vandel felt as if his skin would crack. Bolts of lightning leapt from orb to orb, forming a cage of crackling energy; then at a word from the Betrayer, the bolts speared into Vandel. He screamed in agony as the magic saturated his body.
His legs gave way and he collapsed onto the ground, clutching his head, rolling over and over like someone whose clothes were on fire, trying to beat out flames. The pain was intense, and he knew in that moment that the Betrayer was going to kill him. He looked up and saw Illidan standing over him, transformed. He no longer looked remotely like an elf. A dark aura crackled all around him, his form distorted and shimmering. Pure malevolence blazed in his eye sockets, visible even through the cloth covering them. Vandel felt as if he were falling forward into those pools of evil light, tumbling downward into an endless void.
Strange emotions filled him. Rage burned in his heart. He reached up toward Illidan, wanting to choke the life from him. His body would not respond. His senses blended. He heard the sizzle of the green light, saw the words that Illidan chanted as perfectly formed runes. Beneath him he felt the pulse of magic flowing through the stones of the Black Temple, and he became aware that out of the void within him, something was rising, something vast and powerful and evil that had come to devour his soul.
The world shimmered and vanished.
All around him the village blazed. The leaves of the ancient trees shriveled. The gabled log houses crackled and burned. The smell of scorched pine needles filled the air. Sap bubbled within the wood, popping in the heat.
He raced through the smoke-filled streets, shouting for his wife and child. In one hand he held his long hunting knife. Demons cavorted amid the ruins. Imps lobbed firebolts into blazing buildings. Massive infernals lumbered through the streets. Masked and armored mo’arg waddled along, spraying anything they saw with magical fire from their weapons. On the roof beam of the central long house, the towering winged figure of a dreadlord loomed.
Ahead Vandel saw his home, and for a brief moment, hope filled his heart. Khariel’s head thrust through the door. He seemed to be beckoning for his father.
It all seemed so real, as if the five miserable years he had spent wandering had evaporated and he had been given a second chance to save his son. And yet he knew that this was not the case. As in a nightmare, he knew what was going to happen next—and it did.
The little boy disappeared back into the house, his tiny fist the last thing to go. Vandel sprang over the threshold. Khariel lay there. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling. On his chest crouched a felhound, gnawing at his flesh. The tiny silver leaf the child had been so proud of still glittered on his throat.
The felhound looked up at Vandel. Its stalked sensors waved like the antennae of a huge cockroach. Khariel’s blood stained its fangs. Seeing the little boy, only that morning so filled with life and laughter, cold and stark on the ground, sent a lance of agony through Vandel’s heart.
Sweet, sweet pain. The voice came from somewhere deep within him.
His heart felt as if it were breaking, his head as if it were going to explode. He could not endure this again.
But you will, many, many times. And I will feast upon it as I devour your soul.
There was an alien presence in his mind. The voice sounded like his own, but it was not. It belonged to something that looked upon all this horror, drank it in, and loved every instant of it.
Your horror feeds me. It makes me stronger.
The felhound moved toward him, tail lashing, distracting him from the voice. Its short legs carried it at surprising speed. Its mouth yawned to reveal sharp teeth. Vandel sprang to one side, avoiding the strike, wheeled and lashed out with his blade, cutting a bloody green weal along the creature’s side. Rage and hate drove the blow. The tear of flesh satisfied both.
Yes. Take your vengeance. Feed me.
Vandel paused, shocked, and the felhound almost got him. He sprang forward, tripped over the corpse of his wife, and rolled to his feet, back against the wall as the demon bounded closer. It sprang. There was no way to avoid it. Vandel leapt to meet it, chest-to-chest, grasping its armored throat with one hand, driving his blade into the spot where the felhound’s heart should be. The creature’s sulfurous breath stank in his nostrils. Its claws scrabbled against his chest, digging deep wounds, shredding his leather jerkin.
Such delicious agony.
The pain almost immobilized him, but he threw his weight forward. The felhound toppled onto its back. He jumped astride its chest, pinning it to the ground. Taking the hilt of his dagger in both hands, he stabbed the demon again and again until its struggles ceased and it lay still.
Smoke filled the air. Weak from his wounds, Vandel lay on the ground. His head was next to Khariel’s. He reached out with long fingers and closed the little boy’s eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He could not move. He did not want to move. He would lie here until the flames turned his home into his pyre.
Such nutritious grief.
What are you? Vandel thought. The image of him devouring a still-pulsing demon’s heart flickered through his mind.
You believed you were consuming me, but I am consuming you.
For a moment, Vandel felt the demon’s flesh burrowing outward through his own, fusing with it, even as he felt the demon’s spirit merge with his. The reality of the burning village wavered. He looked up and saw Illidan at the grounds of the Black Temple, gazing down upon him. He tried to shake himself free from the nightmare, but it returned, filling his mind, driving out all sense of being anywhere but in the ruins of his home, reliving the memory as if it were the present.
A massive figure filled the doorway, blocking out the light of the burning village. A demon. Vandel struggled to his feet. It was one thing to burn to death. It was another to let an enemy kill him.
He tottered forward, blade arcing down. Effortlessly the intruder caught his wrist and, with a flick of his arm, tossed Vandel out of the house and into the street. He landed rolling and rose. Glancing around, he saw the other demons were all dead. Only corpses lay on the ground.
His assailant turned, and Vandel saw that he was different. He appeared to be another night elf, albeit one taller than most, and with demonic features. Glowing tattoos covered his body. The face of a fallen god looked down on Vandel, somehow able to see despite the strip of runecloth shielding where his eyes should be. To his horror, Vandel recognized this figure. Here was a being around whom dark legends clustered.
“Illidan,” he said. “Betrayer! You are behind this.”
Vandel clutched his dagger tighter, gathered all his strength, and threw himself forward. It was a perfect thrust, expertly aimed. Never before had he struck a blow so pure. It had all the weight of destiny behind it. He was going to be the one who would end the Betrayer’s life.
“I am not the enemy here,” Illidan said.
“I am going to kill you for what you have done.”
A bitter laugh emerged from Illidan’s lips. “You will not be the first to try. But you are wasting your hatred. The Burning Legion did this.”
“You serve the Legion.”
“I serve myself.”
“You lie. You always lie.”
“So my enemies would have you believe.”
Vandel leaned all his weight forward. The blade did not move. Sweat beaded on his brow from the effort. Illidan gave no sign of feeling any strain.
“Because of you, my family is dead.” Grief forced the words from Vandel’s lips.
“Look around you. Do you see any demons? They are dead. I killed them.”
“Liar.”
“I arrived too late to save this place, which galls me, for I have fond memories of it. I was happy here once, briefly, ten thousand years ago.”
Vandel formed his right hand into a fist and attempted to strike Illidan with it. “Liar!”
Illidan blocked the blow easily. “I grow tired of your petulance. I thought there was some strength in you. It is not given to just anyone to defeat a demon, armed only with a hunting knife. Are you going to lie there whimpering, or are you going to seek vengeance on those who did this? Join me, and you will have your revenge.”
Vandel stared directly at the Betrayer’s face. The runecloth made it impossible to read his expression. “I will never serve you.”
“You have only two roads from this place. One of them leads to madness and death; the other, into my shadow.”
“Never.”