Illidan

27

Illidan sat on the throne in his council chamber. It had been weeks since his return from Auchindoun and still he was weak. His power had not returned to anything like what it had been before his use of the soul siphon.

Not for the first time, he considered dispatching an expedition to root out the necromancers. He could not waste the resources. He looked at the great map table. His armies were shattered. His empire, crumbling. Among them, the Alliance, the Horde, and the Burning Legion had riven his Outland realm. It was all his followers could do to hold together the last remaining outposts in Shadowmoon Valley. The reports from his captains, when he had felt well enough to listen, had been very far from encouraging.

He had only himself to blame. He had decided to go to Auchindoun accompanied only by his fel orc bodyguards. He had chosen to reserve the power of the demon hunters for the final confrontation, not understanding the very real danger that awaited him in the city of the dead. That overconfidence was going to cost him, and perhaps all who lived, dearly.

He pushed the thought aside. He could not afford to let himself think like that. There must be hope, some chance of victory. If he could not win the battle himself, perhaps his demon hunters could. They were powerful, and they had been trained for this fight. It might cost all of their lives, but victory could still be theirs.

Keep telling yourself that, and perhaps you might actually come to believe it. The sour thought crept into his mind no matter how much he tried to keep it out. Doubt was a demon against which he had no defense.

One by one, his blood elf advisers filtered into the chamber. He could tell by their expressions that the news was not going to be good. He rose from his throne, concealing the pain that hampered his movements as best he could, but all eyes followed him, measuring and judging. Those present were ruthless, ambitious, and unbound by any conventional ideas of morality.

They studied him as wolves might study the ailing leader of their pack. His empire might have shrunk, but it was still an empire, and many others no doubt thought themselves capable of ruling it and even reclaiming what was lost. Perhaps they were right about that.

It did not matter. Illidan resented being here, resented having to go through with this charade. Every minute spent placating his advisers was a minute not used finalizing his plans to end the threat of the Burning Legion. He forced himself to look around the room. Every one of those present had to meet the baleful power of his eyeless gaze.

High Nethermancer Zerevor spoke first. “The news from the Netherstorm is interesting. Tempest Keep and our treacherous former prince have fallen. Whether this is good or bad for us, I do not know…”

Illidan made an impatient gesture, cutting him off. Kael’thas had sided with Kil’jaeden, so he deserved whatever evil fate had befallen him. He was not worth any more of Illidan’s time. He turned to Lady Malande. “And the news from the Blade’s Edge Mountains?”

“Lord Illidan, Gruul the Dragonkiller has been overthrown. I can find other allies. All it will take is a little more time.”

Malande was wrong. No allies would be coming from the mountains. Illidan nodded as if he believed her, though. The matter was irrelevant. He needed to get back to building the portal to Argus. He needed to perform the final ritual that would set up the terminus point.

“With all respect, Lord Illidan,” said Gathios. “Time is just one of the resources we are running short of. We need to mount counterstrikes against both the Alliance and the Horde, teach them to fear us, regain our lost territories.”

Gathios had been pushing for that for weeks, ever since the extent of the invaders’ conquests had become clear. In purely military terms, he was correct. If Illidan’s only concern were holding on to Outland, then he should be counterattacking. Although things had probably gone too far for that. They no longer had the forces to fight a war on three fronts.

Veras Darkshadow pointed that out, and added, “We could offer an alliance to one side or the other. Play them off against each other. It might buy us some time.”

Veras clearly thought he knew what Illidan wanted to hear. It was also something that Zerevor and Malande would disagree with.

The blood elves fell to arguing. In his mind Illidan reviewed the plans for the portal to Argus. There was still too much work to do. He needed more truesilver for the inlays. He needed to reinforce the dampening spells that would feed power from the soul siphon to the portal itself. There would need to be ways of making sure that the flow of energy was even and swift, that the gate opened smoothly. He needed the visualization to be absolutely clear. Nothing could go wrong. There would only be one chance to get this right. At the moment, as things stood, he might be able to open the gateway, but it could not stay open without a guiding will to keep it stable. He needed to find a way to ensure that it would remain steady once they passed through it. There was so much to be done.

“What do you think, Lord?” Gathios asked. “What should we do?”

Suddenly he was tired of all this. He was tired of listening to this petty, pointless bickering over matters that were no longer of any concern to him. He was tired of the feeling of weakness and lassitude that filled him.

Time was running out and he had important work to do and this was a needless distraction.

Illidan dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Get out of my sight,” he said.

Illidan looked around the great chamber of transference. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, he had created the last and greatest portal spell he would ever weave. Every line had been etched in the floor by his own hand. He had boiled the alembics of truesilver himself and filled out line after line. He had inscribed the runes around the edges in demon ichor mixed with his own blood. Each wall was covered in intricate warding symbols based on his tattoos. At junctions in the pattern, he had placed the skulls of demons and sorcerers, each etched with miniature versions of their section of the pattern to help channel the flow of energy. These additions reflected the star beacons in the sky over Argus. At the center of the weave lay the Seal of Argus. It pulsed with power now, a direct link to the world of Kil’jaeden that would guide the unleashed energies of the portal.

Everything still had an unfinished, incomplete look to it. The spell engines that would feed power from the soul siphon into the pattern were untested. The generators, great machines of copper and brass and fel iron, intricate as gnomish engines, stood almost ready. The whole vast pattern was falling into place but too slowly. He had strengthened his weakened body with magic to give him the energy and concentration of a dozen lesser sorcerers, but it was still not enough. It would take many more moons to complete sorcery so vast and intricate, and he could feel the sands running through his life’s hourglass far too quickly.

Now was not the time to allow himself to panic. Impatience led to mistakes, and in an undertaking as complex as this one, the slightest error could lead to catastrophe. He needed just to focus on the matter at hand, to do what must be done this day, this hour, this minute.

He needed to complete the link between Outland and Argus. He must set the terminal runes. He placed the incense and invoked the spell. One by one the magical engines sprang to life, filling the air with the stench of ozone and brimstone. Tiny trickles of energy, the slightest breath of power compared with the great roaring gale that would mark the portal’s opening, leapt from the engines. The lines of truesilver shimmered. A mirror image of their pattern appeared in the air above them, projected from the Seal of Argus. He let his spirit exit his weary body.

It was easier to let go, as if using the soul siphon in Auchindoun had somehow weakened the link between his spirit and his flesh. He reached out and wove the flows of energy from the pattern into subtle threads, then gathered them to his spirit.

He followed the intricate pattern of runes out into the Twisting Nether. His spirit flashed through the void, and once again, Argus appeared beneath him. He looked down on the once glittering and beautiful world, then sent his spirit soaring downward into its glass canyons and diamond-edged mountains. He moved as cautiously as he could.

This time he sought to establish a terminal point for the portal. A web of magical energy linked him to Outland. He had done his best to conceal it, but a sufficiently adroit sorcerer—and this was a world full of them—might still detect him unless he was extremely careful.

The thought of the being he had encountered last time troubled him. It had seemingly aided him, but he knew how subtle and cunning the demons of the Burning Legion could be. Kil’jaeden was well named the Deceiver.

Illidan flew closer to the palace city where the demonic rulers of the Burning Legion dwelled. He feared that his comet trails of magic leading back to Outland might be spotted no matter how thin they were, no matter how well he had concealed them. He slowed his advance to a crawl.

A tingling of his spectral senses warned him that he was under observation. He tried to track whatever spied on him, but it eluded his perception. Alarm pulsed through his mind. The fact that it could elude his powers of observation even when he was alert spoke of tremendous sorcerous ability. The thing might attack him by surprise while he was most vulnerable, placing the points of resonance for the portal.

He waited for long moments, but nothing happened. Perhaps he was caught up in the backwash of some defensive spell designed to induce paranoia and doubt. Kil’jaeden was capable of such subtle magic. Every moment Illidan spent here was a moment wasted, one that increased his chances of being discovered. He needed to either proceed with his plan or retreat and wait for a more auspicious time.

It was now or never. He plunged toward Kil’jaeden’s enormous crystalline palace, found the part he was looking for, and wove the spells. A small, temporary whirlwind of force appeared, a tiny echo of the vast pattern back in the Black Temple. Illidan glanced around, waiting for the hammer to fall. If he had been detected, now would be the time. No ward spell sprang to life. No alarm triggered. The vortex faded virtually to nonexistence, leaving behind a well-nigh undetectable residue of power.

As it did so, Illidan thought he was under observation once more. The sense of the watching presence returned, intensified. He felt as if something looked upon his action with immense curiosity, but when he sought out the source, he could not find it.

Wait. What was that? That faint aura of shimmering light. He focused on it, but even as he did so, it vanished from his perception—as if the owner had somehow withdrawn below the skin of the universe.

He needed to concentrate on the work at hand. He was distracted when he could least afford to be. He flitted through the crystalline palace to a new location, a vast chamber in which succubi danced for the amusement of demonic generals. He invoked the portal-anchoring spell once more, fixing it in place as swiftly as he could. He was closer to the throne room of Kil’jaeden now, and the danger of detection increased with that nearness.

He felt as if something vast and powerful loomed behind him, watching him work, studying the way he invoked the spell, observing how the anchor fell into place. He dared not interrupt the casting to try to catch it, otherwise the whole ritual would fail.

It was all he could do to focus on the work at hand when, at any moment, a blast of power might cast him into oblivion. He forced himself to concentrate on completing the anchoring spell, then swiftly attempted to bring his observer into view. Once again it eluded him.

Even in the reduced emotional state that came with being in spirit form, he was angry. He did not like being toyed with, and he felt that this was what was happening now. Kil’jaeden knew he was here and was playing with him. He was being allowed to get near the completion of his spell—and at the last moment his spirit would be captured and imprisoned.

He had only three more anchors to set, and one way or another the thing would be over. Part of him wanted to attempt an escape or draw his attacker out and get into battle, no matter how one-sided that conflict might prove to be.

The next two anchor points went down easily. Each time he felt himself observed, and he sensed the same deep curiosity about what he was doing radiating from the hidden watcher, but try as he might he could not find any way to make the creature reveal itself.

Now he moved cautiously closer to the great throne room. An enormous concentration of demonic power lay there. Kil’jaeden was in residence, and many of his generals were there, too. Illidan needed to be extraordinarily cautious now. In his spirit form, that assembled force could crush him as if he were an insect. All of them were, without a doubt, sorcerers capable enough to detect him unless he shielded himself with supreme skill and laid the anchoring spell with the utmost care.

He paused again, silently cursing his hidden observer, knowing that the attack would soon come, raging at the futility of what he was attempting but realizing he had no other choice. Perhaps another might be able to complete his great work even if he was captured here. It was the most forlorn of hopes. There were few sorcerers of sufficient skill in Azeroth or Outland, and they would be most unlikely to finish his work. What else could he do, though? He had come this far. He needed to continue.

He steeled himself and invoked the last anchor for the spell. This was the most dangerous moment. Instead of simply taking form and fading, this vortex sent out a pulse of force, leaping to the farthest anchor and then the next, forming a great pentacle and then filling in the complex web of runes until it had replicated the magical energy of the pattern in his sanctum in Outland.

The principle of harmonic resonance established a connection between the two great symbols. Despite his wariness, he felt a flush of triumph. The link between Argus and Outland was established. The portal could be activated once the pattern was finished. He had but a heartbeat to enjoy his victory, and then the attack came.

The power of it was astonishing. His spirit form was swept up like an infant being snatched by an orc.

He was like a swimmer caught in an oceanic undertow. No matter how much he struggled, he could not break free. He stopped, determined to preserve his strength for when the worst came.

He emerged onto a plain of Light. Before him glittered a being of perfect geometric lines. They twisted in a way that made them seem to disappear and reappear a moment later in a completely different arrangement. It baffled his brain trying to follow the changes.

Illidan braced himself to unleash the most destructive spell he could in spirit form, but the creature did not attack. He realized he had seen its like before, in the Terrace of Light in Shattrath. If anything, this creature was possessed of even more power than A’dal and its followers.

“You are a naaru,” Illidan said eventually, when he wearied of the silence.

“I am an elder naaru. Possibly the eldest now remaining in these universes.”

“Why are you here? Do you serve Sargeras or Kil’jaeden?”

Gentle mirth emanated from the naaru. Sparkles of light shifted around its form, like the notes of laughter made visible. “I do not.”

A faint sense of relief swept over Illidan. It might be a trick, though, meant to take him off guard. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“You knew I would come?”

“You or someone like you was bound to. The universe throws up champions in the face of those who would destroy it.”

“It could perhaps have picked a better one.” The words emerged from his mouth before he could stop them.

“I do not think so. You are what you are. All your days have forged you into that. A weapon aimed at the heart of a great demon.”

“I would like to think I am somewhat more sentient than my warglaives.”

“That is what makes you dangerous.”

“So the universe has anointed me to slay Kil’jaeden.” His tone was sardonic, but hope flickered inside Illidan. Perhaps, if what this naaru said was true, there was some chance of victory after all.

The swirl of lights indicated a negative. “No. Your enemy is far greater than Kil’jaeden. Greater even than Sargeras and his Burning Legion.”

“Wonderful,” Illidan said. “As if they were not strong enough.”

The suspicion that this was all a subtle, mocking trap set by Kil’jaeden sidled once more into his mind. He fought down bitterness. It seemed as if all his sacrifices had gone for naught. If this was a trap, his struggle was ended. If it was not, then things were even worse than he had thought.

“The Void is a more potent foe by far than the Burning Legion. It is the ultimate opponent of the Light. It will take all the peoples of Azeroth and Outland united to oppose it.” The naaru stopped pulsing. “You do not believe me? You lose faith and hope. Then know this.”

Before Illidan could defend himself in any way, a bolt of pure Light blasted from the naaru. It struck his empty eye sockets and filled them with a golden glow. Illidan braced himself for a blast of agony that did not come. In the past such magic had always racked him with pain. It would normally have done the same to any user of fel magic. His vision shimmered and faded, and he found himself looking down on a terrible battlefield.

Amid mountains of corpses, a winged figure battled at the head of the legions of Light. A golden glow surrounded his warglaives. He cleft demons asunder with mighty blows. The soldiers surrounding him gazed up in awe and wonder at their leader. It took Illidan a moment to realize that this being’s features were his own, transformed, his eyes glowing fiercely. This avatar of the Light looked calm and strong and at peace. His face was filled with confidence, shorn of all suffering.

As Illidan watched, the winged figure rose above the battle, defying gigantic entities of darkness, creations of the evil of the Void. A halo played around his head. His body began to glow brighter than the sun, and from his outstretched arms, rays of Light emerged to strike down his foes.

There was a sense of rightness about this, as if he looked upon a vision of the unborn future. For a moment he could believe in it, but then his doubts rushed back. This could not be true. It was not any path he had ever set out on. It was not who he was. He was a fighter and a killer, as driven by darkness and his own desires as he was by any urge to do right.

“You will defy death,” the naaru’s voice said as the vision faded. “I have seen this. Whatever you were, whatever you are, a champion of Light is what you will be.”

There was utter certainty in the naaru’s voice, and it communicated itself to Illidan. For a moment, he felt the Light embrace him, and his heart was at rest. He had been given a vision of redemption beyond any he had hoped for. Peace filled him as he communed silently with the naaru. The moment lasted only a heartbeat, but when it ended, Illidan felt as if it might have been a lifetime.

“You will be a hero,” said the naaru. “But there will be a price.”

“There always is.”

The moment ended. Illidan stood, suffused by a feeling of peace. The lattice of Light, the shimmering plain, faded, and Argus appeared around him and the naaru. It had always been there, he realized. The reality he had stood within with the being was entirely a product of its power, an illusion.

Sudden fear stabbed at him. He might have been detected. The minions of the Burning Legion could be closing in. Whether the naaru was friendly or not, it was placing both of them in danger.

“Farewell,” the naaru said. A limb of Light flickered out of its body and touched Illidan on the forehead. He felt a sense of contact, as if another tattoo had been added to his flesh. It burned strangely, at war with the fel power contained within his other tattoos; then it merged with them and disappeared.

The contact was broken, and the naaru vanished from his sight as if it had never been. The image of himself transformed once again played through his mind. Could it be true? Was there really a path to redemption for him? He had never dared think such a thing was possible, and yet the naaru believed it would be so. It believed in him. Just for a moment, he let himself believe, too. Then he pushed the thought to one side, for future consideration. There was still work to be done.

Illidan studied the anchor points of the portal. He could just sense them, and he knew they were there. Hopefully they would remain hidden from any demon who sought them. It was time to go. He had been here too long.

He ended the spell of astral travel, and his spirit hurtled through the Twisting Nether and thundered back into his body. In front of his forehead, visible to his spectral senses, a rune floated. He knew its blaze mirrored the mark the naaru had left on him. Even as that realization hit him, the rune faded into invisibility, vanished as if the encounter had never happened.

He paused to recollect the meeting, using every trick of memory his sorcerer’s mind possessed. It had been real, he felt certain, and the vision the naaru had given him felt true. Of course, that meant nothing if the creature was playing games with his mind. But if it was powerful enough to do that…

One could go mad thinking about such things.

As he adjusted to being corporeal once more, he heard the banging on the door, audible even through the spells of warding and protection he had set. He spoke the words that unlocked the sanctum, and the door slid open to reveal his advisers standing there.

“Lord Illidan,” said High Nethermancer Zerevor. “You must come with us to see what is happening for yourself. The Black Temple is under attack.”

There was an urgency in his voice that kept Illidan from dismissing him out of hand. Illidan rose from his posture of meditation and moved to accompany them. It was only then that it occurred to him that one of his advisers was missing.

Where was Akama?