Illidan (15 page)

Akama's smile matched her own only for a moment. “Illidan may have found a new source of power.”

A chill of foreboding passed through Maiev. Perhaps the Betrayer had a trick to play yet. It would not be the first time. “What is it?”

“I am not certain, which is why I wanted to talk to you. They are recruited entirely from your people…”

“My people?”

“Elves. Desperate, ruthless elves, hardened fighters all, and all with a grudge against the Burning Legion, as far as I can tell. He takes them and he kills them.”

“What?”

“He infuses them with fel magic. Most of them die during the process, and those who live are changed, and not for the better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Their bodies are saturated with evil power, and there is something in them that reeks of the demonic.”

Horror twisted Maiev's face. “He is transforming elves into demons.”

“Unless I miss my guess, he is remaking them in his own image. He works rituals upon them. He supervises as they receive tattoos like his. He teaches them magic, or at least so I gather from the rumors picked up by my agents. All of this takes place in sealed courtyards far from the everyday business of the temple.”

What new monstrousness is Illidan planning?
Maiev wondered. Knowing him, it could not be anything good. “You must find out more of this.”

“I am doing my best, but it is difficult and dangerous. The Betrayer has taken great pains to hide his intentions for this new army. If I ask too many questions, I may be found out. If Illidan learns of our association, I am worse than dead. I must move cautiously.”

“Cautiously, cautiously, it is always cautiously with you.”

“That is easy for you to say. I am the one who will face the wrath of the Betrayer if things go wrong.” Akama paused and took a rasping breath. “You do not know what it is like. Every time I leave the Temple of Karabor, I must lie. I think already Illidan suspects something…I feel as if I am being watched.”

It came to Maiev that in her impatience, she was in danger of taking the wrong tack. Akama was clearly frightened, and not without good reason.

Akama took another deep breath and spoke in a more measured tone. “It is not the first time tattooed fighters have appeared around the temple. There have been others like this before, but only seen in ones or twos, and never for long before they went on their way. This time all of them are here, and he seems bent on creating many more like them.”

“The first of them could have been experiments, intended to test the magic used in creating these demon elves.”

“Such was my thought. Now there seem to be many more of them. Illidan spends lives like a drunken mercenary squanders ill-gotten silver in order to create them. For every ten who go into the hidden courts, perhaps one comes out.”

This news changed Maiev's mood. Her earlier good humor about Kael'thas's disappearance had evaporated. She knew in her heart of hearts that Illidan planned some new deviltry.

“I do not like this at all,” Maiev said.

Akama shrugged. “These new creatures are powerful. I have been called upon to heal them, and I sense strong, dark magic within them. Perhaps Illidan feels they will tip the scales back in his favor.”

“Do you think that is possible?”

“He seems determined to create hundreds of these creatures, if not thousands. If they are all as mighty as the ones I have seen, they could change the balance of power in Outland. All I know is that the Betrayer is in a frenzy to recruit as many of them as possible. I have sensed that he has a purpose in mind, and whatever it is, time is running out.”

“Time is certainly running out for him,” Maiev said, trying to re-create her earlier mood. “Without Kael'thas's support, there is a chance to unseat him.”

“Indeed,” said Akama. “I will return to the Temple of Karabor and begin preparations. If we are to move, we must move quickly, before his new army is ready.”

Satisfaction filled Maiev's mind. It was the first time the Broken had expressed a definite commitment to action. It seemed that he, just as much as the Betrayer, felt time was getting short.

A
KAMA PASSED THROUGH THE
portal and stepped into the Temple of Karabor. Despite all the corruption about him, it still felt like coming home. He rubbed his hands together, took a deep breath, and tried to push his worries away.

Confronting Maiev was always nerve racking. She was so full of rage and hate, and she was so determined to take Illidan to task for all his wrongdoing. She really did not seem to realize that she had turned herself into the Betrayer's mirror image.

The Broken hurried through the corridors toward his chambers. One of the abominable eyeless soldiers glanced at him as he passed. It was eerie how those blind-seeming heads turned to track him as he went by.

All around, the temple buzzed with activity. Soldiers marched, magi wove spells. The defenses were being strengthened night and day.

He reached the sanctuary of his people. His bodyguard gave him a warning sign, and as he passed the entrance, he understood why. Illidan waited within the chamber. In his hand, he had a precious crystal statue that Akama had preserved from the destruction of the temple. He held it up to the light, turning it this way and that.

He did not look around as the Broken entered. He just said, “Ah, Akama, you have been hard to find today.”

There had been a time when this simple trick would have disconcerted Akama, but he was used to it now. “I went traveling to Orebor Harborage. I had much to think about, and it helps clear my head.”

“You have been doing that a lot over the past few years.”

Akama's stomach lurched. Did the Betrayer suspect what was going on? Had he seen through the deceptions?

Illidan walked over and placed an arm around Akama's shoulder. The tips of his talons dug gently into the cloth of the Broken's tunic. “Walk with me to the refectory. It has been some time since we talked. I would learn more of these jaunts of yours.”

With irresistible strength, he guided Akama through the exit that led into the temple's Sanctuary of Shadows. Demons moved into position all around him. Akama glanced at the great chains hanging from the darkened pillars that rose so high above. They seemed like a dark omen.

Soon screams rang out as if from someone whose soul was being ripped from his body.

V
andel leapt through the blazing ring, hit the ground rolling, ducked under the swinging blade. It passed him by a hair's breadth. He rose, sprang forward over the flame pit. He was first again. He had passed through all the obstacles without taking a scratch.

Cyana was just behind him, not even breathing hard. She smiled at him, but he sensed that she was piqued that he had beaten her again. She was very competitive. Ravael was next, lithe and swift. The others filtered in one after another.

In the weeks after the ritual, there had been many losses. Mavelith and Seladan and Isteth had hurled themselves from the battlements, unable to bear what they had become. Mavelith and Seladan had grown progressively more monstrous looking as the days dragged into weeks, but Isteth still had the beauty that Vandel had noticed during the first days. It was her mind that had been twisted. He hoped she was at peace now, joined at last with her dead children.

Any hope that the ritual had winnowed out those who could not face the consequences of their choices was gone. Over half of those transformed had died in the process. Their hearts had stopped, or their minds had cracked and they had needed to be put down. More had gone mad in the aftermath, unable to bear the visions they witnessed or to live with the things resident inside them.

Vandel had no doubt that their demons had pushed them over the edge. The thing within him made its presence felt every day, and he was by no means certain that he would win this struggle in the long run. There were days when depression and self-loathing made his life unbearable. There were times when he was so filled with rage that he could barely restrain himself from running through the temple and slashing elves with his blades until the guards dragged him down.

Selenis had gone out that way, and Balambor and Turanis. They had taken a lot of others with them. All of the survivors of the ritual understood what they had felt. Vandel had come within a hair's breadth of doing it himself. He sometimes wondered if the difference between him and the berserkers was just that he had not quite reached the brink yet. He clutched the amulet he had made for Khariel tight in his hand, a talisman of protection against the possibility, a reminder to himself of why he fought with his demon every day.
Vengeance, Son. One day you will have vengeance.

Something at the back of his mind mocked him, but for today, at least he could ignore it.

Things had gotten worse since the supernatural part of the training started. Their instructors, Varedis, Alandien, and Netharel, taught them how to tap the fel powers of the demons within them, how to channel the darkest energies in creation.

In a way it was thrilling. Vandel knew now how to augment his strength and speed manyfold. He could drive the blade of his dagger into a boulder and rip it free. He had cast bolts of fel energy capable of burning through the strongest of armor. He could heal himself by draining the souls of his fallen victims.

He had battled summoned demons, learning how to kill them. At first the aspirants had fought in groups, but as the weeks passed, they had been trained how to win in single combat. Scores had died during that period, and one night a felguard had broken free and rampaged through the corridors of the ruins of Karabor until Varedis had brought him down. Vandel fingered the long scar down his right side that the demon had given him. The felguard's axe had ripped through the inking of his tattoos, distorting them and making it hard to draw on fel energies when he tried to cast certain spells.

He had learned an enormous amount in a very brief time, but it seemed no matter how much he grasped, his instructors always wanted him to try harder, master more. They were as driven as Illidan, and he could not help but feel there was some great purpose behind this, that the day was coming when all he had learned would be put to use in the Betrayer's service. There was an urgency about this process, and a desperation. Every day the great ritual was performed. Every day more and more candidates were fed into the hungry maw of the training process. A few of them survived to be threshed through a system that often seemed intended as much to kill the weak as to teach the strong.

Kill the weak. Kill the weak. Kill the weak,
the demonic voice whispered. Images of Khariel's half-devoured body flickered mockingly through his mind.
Kill them all. All are weak.

His dreams were things of horror. One night he woke to find himself standing, clutching his blade. He wondered then if the thing within him gained a measure of control during his nightmares. Tabelius had sneaked through the cells, slitting throats, until Needle ended his nocturnal adventuring forever by putting a skewer through each empty eye socket.

There were times when Vandel felt as if he were locked in a cage with murderous beasts, and he was not the least murderous of them.

He looked around him again. Illidan had been right. He could see things now as well as ever he had seen when he possessed eyes of flesh. Better. Darkness obscured nothing. Something in his mind adjusted his perceptions. He suspected the demon aided him. It wanted him to master these powers, as if the more he mastered, the more vulnerable he became to the temptations the demon put before him.

No matter. He wanted the strength. He was glad he could see. He was glad he could hear better than any elf had a right to. He was glad he was strong as an ogre and swifter than a nightsaber. His appearance reflected the changes. He could extend claws from his fingertips, and did so in moments of danger. Massive scars marked where he had gouged himself with his dagger. The mirror showed him that a fel green glow had replaced his eyes. It intensified when he used the power.

A hand descended on his shoulder. “Exhausted, are you, old one?” Cyana asked.

Vandel shook his head. “I am just getting started.”

“I hope so,” said Ravael. “This sparring session, I am going to beat you. Do not give in too easily. When you struggle, it only makes my victory all the sweeter.”

Victory is sweet,
said the voice in his head. Every day it sounded more like his own.
Flesh is sweeter still.

T
HEY ENTERED THE COURTYARD.
The high, crumbling walls of Karabor's ruins loomed over the aspirants, massive and imprisoning. Tattooed elves crowded the open spaces between the training rings, waiting for their chance to fight. Greenish-yellow glowing runes, chiseled into the flagstones, formed the circumference of the mystic circles. The runes' shapes suggested similarities to the tattoos inked on the aspirants' skin.

Each ring contained two combatants fighting under the supervision of one of the trainers. Spell-wrought auras surrounded their weapons and blunted the force of their blows, turning them from fatal into something merely bruising and painful.

Vandel watched a pair of fighters circle and strike until one knocked the other down. “I claim victory!” the winner shouted, while the loser lolled on the ground in defeat.

Varedis nodded and raised his hand, and the combat was over. The circle emptied. The trainer gestured for Ravael and Vandel to begin.

Ravael stepped into the circle, a scythe in each hand. Protective auras shimmered around their blades. Varedis put the spell on Vandel's runic dagger and the other blade he had taken from the temple armory. Vandel stepped into the circle.

Ravael made an obscene gesture with his right-hand weapon. “Today you will learn the meaning of defeat.”

He sprang, blazingly fast, uncannily precise in his movements. The ritual had granted Ravael even more strength and speed than it had given Vandel. It had gifted him with huge claws and twisted, circular horns. Now, in the arena, as he drew upon his demonic powers, those attributes seemed even more pronounced. The scythe impacted on Vandel's biceps with numbing force.

“If this were a real fight, you would have lost your arm,” Ravael taunted.

Anger surged deep within Vandel. That had not been fair. He dismissed the thought. In combat, no demon would give him a fair chance. “In a real fight, I would come and tear your heart out.”

He meant the words to sound mocking, but they came out utterly serious, and he knew, even as they left his lips, that he meant them. Ravael unleashed a flurry of blows, but this time Vandel was ready. Dagger clattered against scythe. The sound of metal on metal rang around the courtyard. Every blow Ravael launched, Vandel parried.

At the end of the storm of attacks, he reached out and struck Ravael just above the heart with his dagger. If he had been a fraction quicker, he would have struck the equivalent of a killing blow, but as it was, he would merely have wounded his foe.

“A scratch,” said Ravael.

A spark of berserk rage ignited within Vandel's chest. He would not be mocked. Not by one as weak and pitiful as this. Something in Ravael sensed his mood and responded. The air between them crackled with tension. Vandel threw himself forward, aiming at Ravael's head. Ravael raised both scythes, caught his blade, and twisted, but as he did so Vandel's second blade connected with his stomach.

“And now you would be dead,” Vandel said, and something within him wished his foe was. “I win again.”

He was about to turn away when he heard Ravael growling. A low, bestial sound emerged from deep within the other elf's chest. Spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth. His eye sockets were pools of blood in which witch fires danced. Balls of ruddy light flickered around the tips of his horns.

“I am not defeated,” said Ravael. His voice was thick and guttural and full of hate.

Power clotted in the air around him. A sheen of shadow passed across his body, turning his skin first gray and then blacker than night. Great wings of shadow lifted from Ravael's back. Vandel felt the air displaced by their movement. He could smell brimstone and the aura of demon, stronger in his nostrils than at any time save when he had fought with real denizens of the Nether realms.

Ravael sprang forward, bringing his blades down. Both blows impacted painfully on Vandel's arms. This time there was no doubt he would be either crippled or dead if the fight had been a real one. It was not enough for his opponent. Ravael rained down blow after agonizing blow. Vandel brought his own blades up and managed to parry the first scythe. The second one caught him above the temple. Pain lanced his brow. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils.

Shadow had engulfed the scythes in Ravael's hands, drowning out the protective spells. His power overcame the wards upon the blades. The scythes were deadly now, and Ravael was intent upon using them.

No one made any move to intervene. Spectators licked their lips. Varedis made a careless gesture, indicating that the fight should continue. He looked more interested than worried by this latest development. The scythes flicked out. More blood flowed. Ravael smiled. White fangs became visible within his shadowy outline. “This time I will win.”

No one was going to intervene as long as Ravael did not leave the circle. Vandel could step outside it himself and put an end to things by admitting defeat. He was tempted to do so, but something in him responded to the smell of his own blood and the feeling of pain. Rage reddened his vision, and with it came power. He raised his hands and wove a thunderbolt of fel energy. It surged out from his pointing finger and smashed into Ravael. The ravenous green energy tore at the shadowy integument, shredding it to blackened tatters.

He fed more strength into the spell. Ravael screamed as his flesh roasted. Vandel knew that he should stop, but part of him did not want to, and it was not just the demonic part. He wanted Ravael to experience the same pain that he had. He poured more and more of his strength into the bolt. His heart sounded loud as a drumbeat. Breath emerged in ragged gasps. He changed the focus of the spell once he knew Ravael was dead, drawing shadowy globules of the defeated elf's corrupted soul into his own, channeling the stolen power and using it to heal his wounds.