by William King
That did not seem likely. Shadowmoon Valley was a riot of noise. He doubted that any guard could hear him over the thunder of the volcano and the roar of the wind. Nonetheless he allowed himself a moment of stillness and strained his keen ears for any clue that he might have been observed. Beneath him, the patrol went about its rounds.
Vandel looked down into the pools of shadow, and just for a moment he felt the urge to let go. The long drop would break his neck and end his agony. He could join his family in death and end the torment. He resisted the urge. He could not rest while his son was unavenged. His hatred was stronger than his desire for endless peace.
He pulled himself over the edge of the battlements, rolled down onto the balcony behind, and lay in the shadows, catching his breath. So far no sentinels. He felt a brief moment of triumph. He had succeeded where an army would have failed. He had broken into the unholy precincts of the Black Temple.
A batwinged shadow passed across the moon. It seemed that all his wishes were to be granted tonight. Illidan, the Betrayer himself, soared aloft on the night wind. It seemed that he, too, was restless this evening. No doubt there were many things that kept him awake. Perhaps his dark deeds caused nightmares that kept him from his bed.
How long had it been since Vandel had slept without nightmares? He could not recall. All he could remember were the terrible dreams. He touched Khariel’s amulet once more. Not long, my son, not long.
Illidan settled upon a balcony atop the highest tower of the Black Temple. He paced for nine steps, turned, and then shook his head. He leaned against the banister, surveying everything as far as the horizon. Vandel wondered whether the Betrayer could see him. His sightless eyes were known to perceive things that others could not. What would Illidan do if he knew that Vandel was there?
It would not be difficult to reach the tower upon which Illidan stood. The few sentinels scattered along the battlements did not seem completely awake. They were secure in the strength of the walls protecting them. Doubtless they did not expect someone like him. They were there to watch for armies and demons, not a solitary night elf maddened by grief and overmastered by the thirst for revenge.
He stalked forward, telling himself not to be overconfident. Perhaps there were other sentries and he had just not seen them. The long years of hunting the foes of his people had taught him stealth beyond that of most mortals, but he was far from the only one who could hide in shadows. Perhaps even now some deadly sentry watched him unseen and prepared to drive a dagger into his back.
Once more he paused to consider the fact that he might no longer be sane. His mind had shattered once, at the moment he had found his son’s corpse being gnawed upon by the felhound. For a moment he could almost smell the scent of burning wood, and night elf blood. He could almost hear the crunching of small bones. He let out a whimper, then cursed silently. Anyone within earshot might have heard. He did not intend to be struck down by a guard because of his own foolishness. No more mistakes. From here on he would concentrate on the mission ahead.
He reached the foot of the tower upon which Illidan stood. Ahead, a ramp curled out of sight around the side of the tower. He prayed that luck was still with him and ran, preferring to trust in speed and stealth and his unexpected good fortune.
He reached the top. The one he had come long leagues to find stood before him.
Illidan’s back was turned. His massive wings clung close to his body as if trying to warm him against the chill of the night. He held his great horned head low as he surveyed the distant lights of the great volcano. What was he looking for? What did he see with his eyeless sight?
Illidan turned as if he had known Vandel was there the whole time.
Vandel drew his daggers, checked the mystic runes etched into them, and padded forward. He knelt, and placed his blades at Illidan’s hooves. “Forgive the intrusion, Lord Illidan. I did not wish to risk being cut down by your sentries before I had spoken to you.”
Illidan said, “What do you wish of me, nightstalker?”
“I want to slay those who slew my family. I want to slaughter your enemies.”
“There is no shortage of those.”
Vandel said, “I wish to learn what you have learned. I want to hunt demons.”
“Then you have much to learn, and the hour is late.”
“Will you teach me?”
“You and a thousand like you. Go below. Rest. You will find what you seek. Or die in the attempt.”
Illidan turned his back once more and returned to gazing at the horizon. It was clear to Vandel that he was dismissed.
—
UNCERTAIN AS TO WHAT he was supposed to do, Vandel strode down to the base of the tower. Two tattooed figures waited for him. It seemed as if they had been there all along. They were not surprised to see him, nor did they draw any weapons.
One was a tall female with a scarred face. She appeared to be a night elf, yet she had demonic features. Green flames flickered in her empty eye sockets. Small horns curled from her head. Her scanty clothing revealed glittering tattoos that covered her body. Some magic about them drew Vandel’s eye and compelled him to try to unravel the pattern as if it were a complex puzzle.
She noticed his look, and her lips twisted to reveal small fangs. Vandel met her cold smile with one of his own, feeling as if somehow he was being tested, as if they were crossing blades in a soundless struggle.
The second figure, also night elven in form, paid no attention to him at all, and Vandel would have been surprised if he did. His eyelids were sewn shut, as were his lips. He was hunched forward, with his head held low and his shoulders high. He was stripped to the waist, revealing even more tattoos than his companion had. A broad leather belt wrapped around his waist held a selection of long, sharp needles, from the ends of which dangled strings of animal hide. Their tips were blotched, and a look at the male’s body revealed the fact that he had recently pierced his skin. The crust on the needles’ points was dried blood, most likely his own.
“You have spoken with Lord Illidan,” the female said. There was a jealous note in her husky voice. It sounded as if something was wrong with her larynx, as if she had once screamed so loud and so long that she had done it permanent damage.
“Yes,” Vandel said. He did not care for her knowing smile. He was not going to let himself be intimidated.
“You are privileged indeed.”
“Am I?”
“He does not greet every supplicant personally. It seems he has some memory of you. Perhaps he has something special in mind.”
The male raised a finger to his lips, as if she had said too much. A long talon extruded from its tip. The gesture was not threatening, but it was not reassuring, either. The blind male scratched his chin, drawing a bead of blood onto the claw. He put it into his mouth through a tiny aperture left by the thread.
“I would not presume to read Lord Illidan’s mind,” Vandel said.
“You show more wisdom than I expected.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I am Elarisiel. He is Needle. If he had another name, it is long since forgotten, even by him.”
Vandel bowed to them both. Elarisiel laughed, malice glittering in her voice. Needle bobbed his head without mockery. Vandel stared hard at him. Obviously the male had no more difficulty seeing than Lord Illidan. What was going on here?
“Lord Illidan told us to take you below.”
Tension tightened Vandel’s shoulder blades. “And how did he tell you that?”
“You will find out, eventually, if you live.”
Needle produced one of his long, sharp pins and pierced it into the flesh of his own forearm. He dug around for a minute. Another droplet of blood appeared. He poked the point through the small gap between his lips and made a sucking sound. A blissful look appeared on his face. Vandel had come here doubting his own sanity. Now he doubted that of everyone around him.
—
THE PAIR LED HIM through a maze of corridors. They p
assed through a small sally port in the wall of the Black Temple and out into a vast heap of tumbledown ruins.
“This was once part of the Temple of Karabor,” Elarisiel said. “The orcs and the demons did not leave a great deal of the original structure standing. What they did, Lord Illidan and his champions took. We dwell here now under the watchful gaze of Varedis and his companions.”
“Varedis?” Vandel asked.
“The master tutor,” Elarisiel said, but she did not seem inclined to amplify on her remark.
More green meteors scarred the face of the sky as Vandel and his guides passed through a series of terraces. Silken pavilions rose along their length. From them came the sounds of mad laughter. They passed through the camp and came eventually to a tunnel mouth in a ruined wall. Chill air surrounded them as they walked down worn, ancient steps and emerged into a huge hall.
It looked like an asylum or a battlefield hospital. Elves sprawled everywhere. Some lay in pools of greenish light cast by flickering fel lanterns. It made them look sick. Some of the males were bearded and green-haired after the fashion of night elves; some were clean-shaven like the sin’dorei. Some muttered to one another. Some huddled in the shadows between the lanterns as if trying to conceal themselves. Most slept fitfully, talking in their sleep. A mad scream sounded, and a female rose up and raced through the chamber, shouting, “Worms, worms, worms!”
The shout roused many from sleep, but they did not seem disturbed by it. Only one tall blood elf rose from the soiled cloak in which he lay wrapped, and he chased the maniac through the chamber. They disappeared out of sight.
“As you can see, you are not the only one who has found their way here. Many have sought out Lord Illidan. Only a few will live to enter his service.”
“What do you mean?”
Elarisiel’s silvery laugh rang out. “You will find out soon enough, kaldorei. Pick out any place and get some rest. You will need your strength for the trials ahead.”
She spun on her heel and departed. Needle raised a finger to his forehead and turned his hand through a half circle, then stepped back into a shadow and seemed to simply vanish.
“Do not pay too much attention to Elarisiel,” said a friendly voice from nearby. “She just likes to scare the new recruits. I suspect someone did the same to her when she first came here, and she likes to spread the misery.”
Vandel inspected the speaker. He had the ageless look of a mature night elf, which meant he could be any age from twenty years to fifteen thousand. As far as Vandel could see, he had no scars or tattoos. When he considered the matter and then looked around, he saw that none of the others in the hall did, either.
The speaker continued. “You are a thoughtful one. And I know what you are thinking…”
The unspoken question hung in the air.
“Vandel is my name.”
“Elune shines on the moment of our meeting, Vandel. I am Ravael.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance. You were about to tell me what I was thinking. I am curious to know, since I am unsure myself.”
“You are thinking what every newcomer who has ever been led into this hall thinks. That the guides are strange. You are also wondering why none of us have tattoos and all of us have eyes.”
“There are more like that pair, then.”
“Oh yes, my friend. Lots more. Lord Illidan is building an army of the blind.”
“Only they are not blind, are they?”
“No.”
“And they have tattoos like his, only less intricate.”
“Yes.”
“And they are changed in ways he has changed.”
“You are observant.”
“I would have to be blind not to notice these things,” Vandel said before realizing the ridiculousness of that statement.
“You think the blind here see less well than you?” Ravael asked, and just for a moment a note of hysteria sounded in his voice. Vandel was almost glad. Until that moment, Ravael had seemed so normal as to be out of place in this madhouse.
“I think they probably see more. They had no trouble guiding me here, or avoiding anyone in their way. It is possible to memorize routes, but I cannot imagine everyone in this hall occupies the same place the whole time.”
“You have thought things through, it seems.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to take vengeance, to learn to fight demons. The same reason you are here, I am guessing.”
Vandel considered that for a moment. “Perhaps Elarisiel was right. Perhaps I am not so special.”
“I am sure you are. After all, you got here without dying. How common do you think that is?”
Vandel took a deep breath and looked around again. He had assumed that everyone here was mad or an invalid, but he could see now that many of them bore scars, and all of them had weapons close at hand. There were warriors here, and magi, and hunters.
“You lost someone?” Vandel asked.
“I lost everything,” said Ravael. He made no move to expand on that. Thinking of his own loss, Vandel saw no reason to prod him.
“I know what that feels like,” he said.
Ravael looked around. “Somehow, though, in this place, I feel we have even more to lose.”
Maiev felt almost relaxed. Clefthoof meat filled her belly. The long, sunny day had provided rare sport as she and her followers hunted the beasts. Enough hide lay nearby to make armor for a score of draenei soldiers. A few of them picked through it, sawing away with knives, flensing the skin. It reminded her of her long-gone youth, when she had hunted in the woods with her mother. They had made their own clothes then, cut from leather, sewn with needles of bone, using thread of sinew. The memory brought a brief smile to her face and then the return of horror. Her mother was dead, killed by the Burning Legion. That thought sent her mind circling back once more to Illidan.
The Betrayer was still at large, and his power was growing. The strength of his legions mocked her own efforts. She tried to blank her mind, reclaim her earlier good mood. It had been a long time since she had experienced a moment of unalloyed happiness.
She liked this Nagrand. The air was clean and the sky was blue and the wind was fresh. It was not like the forests of her homeland, but as long as you did not look too closely, it felt natural. Of course, you could still see the effects of the world-splitting magic that had been inflicted on Draenor. Huge islands floated in the sky, hovering on the wind. It seemed as if at any moment, they might crash to the earth—but they did not. According to the locals, they had been stable for years. And even here there were rumors of Illidan’s war with his demonic masters. It seemed that the Burning Legion had established bases in the far west of Nagrand, and the demons were preparing some new attack.
Anyndra lay on her stomach near the fire, playing an improvised game of nexus with Sarius, using a hexagonal board slashed into the earth and stones of different colors. The lieutenant saw Maiev looking at her and raised her hand in salute. Her hair was bleached almost lime green by the Outland sun, and her skin was desiccated. Her tunic was patched in a dozen places. Like the rest of the surviving Watchers, she had refused to part with it. It was a connection with their home, and there were few enough of those left.
Sarius remained focused on the game. He was competitive in everything. He had acquired a dozen new scars. Some of them were pale and old, but two were from more recent skirmishes. They had been deep wounds. Druids healed quickly and easily from most injuries. Maybe he had left them as they were as reminders or tributes to his vanity. Males could be like that sometimes. They liked to have scars to flaunt and tell tales about.
The two had proved to be loyal and good soldiers in the years they had roamed through Outland seeking the key to Illidan’s destruction. They had kept Maiev’s troops alive under very trying circumstances. She cursed when she thought of all the months they had wasted scouting the grounds around Hellfire Citadel, making war with the naga in Zangarmarsh, watching t
he walls of the Black Temple. It felt as if they had achieved nothing. Illidan’s power had increased a thousandfold during that period.
She glanced around her camp. Her force had grown but she could not yet call it an army. It numbered in the hundreds and consisted mainly of disaffected draenei youths recruited on her travels. There were always those who saw the need to oppose evil and the threat Illidan represented. Not enough, though.
What had she really achieved here? Nothing. Over the years, Illidan had grown ever stronger. For every draenei who joined her, a hundred orcs marched into his citadel and emerged transformed into even more brutal, powerful fighters. There were fools out there who believed that he opposed the Legion, and they joined him willingly. They did not know him as well as she did. She knew that he was summoning more and more demons from the Twisting Nether and binding them to his will. There could be no good purpose to that.
Illidan played some deep game here. She could not see the logic of it, but she knew it must be there. There were those who claimed that Kil’jaeden sought his head. Perhaps the demon lord did. It would not be the first time that evildoers had fallen out with each other. Illidan had switched sides before, though, and he would do so again when it suited him. His evil nature would always win out. He had corrupted everything he ever touched. This time would be no different.
A commotion sounded at the edge of the camp. The sentries were challenging someone. Weapons sprang into her troops’ hands. Every Watcher stood ready. Maiev moved to investigate. Ogres had been spotted in this area, but she doubted it was them. Fighting would already have erupted. She raced closer and saw a group of unfamiliar Broken, garbed as hunters. They exchanged words with one of the sentries. They did not look hostile. But it might be a trick.
Maiev circled behind them, scouting the area. There were no signs of any enemy infiltration. No Broken hid in the shadows. In the distance she heard the growl of a nightsaber. A wind elemental roared across the evening sky.
She stepped out of the shadows. The strangers’ leader flinched at her sudden appearance, but he recovered his composure.
