The Sundering

Two

Zin-Azshari. Once the glorious epitome of the night elf civilization. A sprawling city at the edge of the basis of the night elves’ power, the Well. The home of the revered queen, Azshara, for whom her adoring subjects had renamed the capital.

Zin-Azshari… a ruined graveyard, the launching point of the Burning Legion.

Lupine felbeasts sniffed through the rubble, ever seeking the unmistakable smell of life and magic. Twin tentacles jutting up from near their furred shoulders darted around as if with minds of their own. The toothy suckers at the end of each opened and closed hungrily. Felbeasts savored draining a sorcerer dry of both his power and his life, but the rows of sharp teeth displayed in the scaly monsters’ mouths gave warning that flesh was a tasty tidbit to them, too.

Two demonic hounds rummaging through the collapsed wreckage of what had once been a five-story tree home quickly gazed up at the sound of marching feet and the clatter of arms and armor. Rows upon rows of fierce warriors churned past, their destination the night elven defenders days away. The Fel Guard were the backbone of the invaders, their numbers dwarfing all the rest combined. They stood nine feet high, but while broad at the shoulder and chest, were oddly narrow, even gaunt, in their midsection. A pair of huge, curled horns thrust up from their almost fleshless heads. Their bloodred eyes warily watched the devastated landscape. Although they marched with precision, there was a general impatience among the Fel Guard, for they lived only for carnage. Now and then, one of the fanged warriors would jostle another and the threat of anarchy would break out.

But a quick flash of whip from above ever kept the warriors in line. Fiery-winged Doomguard fluttered above the ranks of every regiment, watching for disorder. Slightly taller, they differed little else from their brethren below, save in their lesser numbers and greater intelligence.

Though a dread mist covered Zin-Azshari now, the monstrous armies had no difficulty maneuvering through it. The mist was as much a part of them as the swords, axes, and lances they wielded. Its sickly green tint matched exactly the color of the fearsome flames that radiated from each demon.

The skulls of night elves watched mournfully from the ruins as the Burning Legion marched. They and countless others like them had perished early on, betrayed by the very queen they worshipped. The only night elves still alive in the capital were the Highborne, the servants of the queen. Their secluded quarter of the city, surrounded by gargantuan walls, kept the visions of the slaughter from their delicate sensibilities. Clad in the garish, multicolored robes of their elite rank, they tended to their needs while awaiting the commands of Azshara.

The warriors of the palace guard still lined the walls, their eyes filled with a fanatic glare worthy of the Legion. They were commanded by Captain Varo’then — more a general these days than a simple officer, despite his title — who acted as the eyes and mouth of his monarch when she could not be troubled from her recreation. Given the order, the soldiers would have stood side by side with the demons against their own people. They had already watched without emotion the massacre of the city’s inhabitants. As with most all within the palace, they were both Azshara’s creatures and servants to the lord of the Burning Legion.

Sargeras.

One who was neither the queen’s nor the demon’s puppet hung in a cell deep beneath the palace, trying to stifle the gnawing fear in her gut by constant prayer to her goddess.

Tyrande Whisperwind had woken to a nightmare. The last that she could recall, the priestess of Elune — the Mother Moon — had been in the middle of a terrible battle. Tossed from her dying mount, she had struck her head. Malfurion had dragged her to safety… and then from there everything had turned muddled. Vaguely, Tyrande recalled horrific images and sounds. Goatlike creatures with leering mouths. Clawed, furred hands clutching her. Malfurion’s desperate voice and then —

And then the priestess had awakened here.

Long, elegant eyes of silver surveyed her prison for the thousandth time. Graceful lips parted in regret and grim acknowledgment of her situation. She shook her head, her long, dusky blue hair — the silver streaks in it more prominent now that she did not wear her war helmet — flowing in waves with each change of direction. Nothing had altered since last Tyrande had looked around. Had she really expected anything to do so?

Chains did not bind her wrists and ankles, but she might as well have been held by such. A shimmering, green sphere floating a foot or so above the dank, stone floor surrounded her from head to toe. In it, she stood with arms stretched over her head and her legs sealed tightly together. Try as she might, the recently-anointed high priestess could not separate her limbs. The magic of the great demon, Archimonde, ever proved too powerful in that regard.

But if his magic had imprisoned Tyrande utterly, Archimonde had failed in his ultimate intention. There had been no doubt as to his desire to torture her, to bend her to his will and, thus, to that of his own master. At his hand, Archimonde had not only had his own terrifying imagination, but the dire skills of the Highborne and the sadistic satyrs.

Yet, the moment that the demon had attempted to harm her physically, a faint aura the color of moonlight had draped around Elune’s acolyte. Nothing Archimonde or his minions could do could penetrate it. Against such evil effort, the plated armor surrounding her lithe form would have proven as useful as the thin, silver cloak that they had ripped from her early on, but the transparent aura acted like an iron wall a mile thick. Archimonde had battered himself against it time and time again to no avail. In his rage, the giant, tattooed figure had finally seized an unsuspecting fel guard by the neck, crushing in the other demon’s throat without the least effort.

Since then, they had left her alone, their efforts to eradicate the night elf host more important than a lone priestess. That did not mean that they did not have future intentions for her, for the satyrs who had carried her through the magical portal at the battle site had informed their master that she was close to one whom Archimonde had marked… Malfurion. At the very least, they would use Tyrande against him, and that was the basis for much of her present fear. Tyrande did not want to be the cause of Malfurion’s downfall.

Marching feet alerted her to newcomers in the dungeon corridors. She glanced up in apprehension just as someone unlocked the door. As it swung open, a figure she dreaded at least as much as Archimonde stepped inside. The scarred officer wore armor of a glittering emerald green with a bright pattern of golden sunbursts across the chest. Behind him fluttered a flowing cape that matched the sunbursts in color. His narrow eyes never seemed to blink and when they alighted on her, their intensity was such that Tyrande could not look directly into them.

“She is conscious,” Captain Varo’then remarked to someone behind him.

“Then, by all means,” responded a languid, feminine voice. “Let us see what Lord Archimonde so prizes…”

With a bow, Varo’then swept aside for the speaker. Tyrande bit back a gasp, even though she had expected who it was.

Queen Azshara was as beautiful, as perfect, as the storytellers said. Luxurious silver hair cascaded down her back. Her eyes were golden and half-veiled, her lips full and seductive. She wore a silken gown that matched her hair, one so thin that it gave ample hint of the sleek form beneath. Jeweled bracelets hung on each wrist and matching earrings hung almost all the way to her exquisite, bare shoulders. The arched tiara in her hair held a ruby that reflected the dull light from the torch a guard carried to almost blinding effect.

Behind her followed another female, one who would have also been considered quite beautiful, but who, in the presence of Azshara, paled in comparison. The handmaiden dressed in garments similar to her mistress, save that their quality was more than a step below. She also wore her hair as much like the queen as possible, although the silver in it had clearly come from a dye and did not even approach the intensity of Azshara’s mane. In truth, the only thing that stood out were her eyes — silver as with most night elves, but with an exotic, feline curve to them.

“This is her?” the queen asked with unconcealed disappointment as she studied the captive.

In truth, in Azshara’s presence, Tyrande felt even mousier than the handmaiden. She wanted to at least wipe the grime and blood away from her face and form, but could not. Even aware that the queen had betrayed her people, the priestess felt the desire to kneel at Azshara’s slim, sandaled feet, so charismatic was the monarch.

“She’s not to be underestimated, Light of Lights,” the captain replied. When his eyes fixed upon Azshara, they did so with burning desire. “She appears favored by Elune.”

The queen did not find this at all impressive. Perfect nose wrinkling, she asked, “What is Elune to the great Sargeras?”

“Spoken so wisely, your majesty.”

Azshara approached closely. Even her least movement appeared calculated for maximum impact on her audience. Tyrande again felt the urge to kneel before her.

“Pretty, in a coarse way,” the silver-tressed figure added offhandedly. “Perhaps worthy to be a handmaiden. Would you like that — what was her name again, captain?”

“Tyrande,” Varo’then replied with a brief bow.

“Tyrande… would you like to be my handmaiden? Live in the palace? Be a favored of mine and my lord? Mmm?”

The other female started at this suggestion, the feline eyes seeming to flay the priestess. There was no attempt to hide intense jealousy.

Gritting her teeth, the young night elf gasped, “I am sworn to the Mother Moon, my life and my heart hers…”

The queen’s beauty was suddenly marred by a brief look that rivaled Captain Varo’then’s for its evil. “Ungrateful little trollop! And such a liar, too! Your heart you actually give rather easily, don’t you? First to one brother, then another brother! Are there others besides?” When Tyrande did not respond, Azshara continued, “Are males not delightful to play with? It is so fun to have lovers fight over you, isn’t it? So tasty to see them draw blood in your name! Actually, I must commend you! Brothers — especially twins — are such a splendid touch! Peeling away their familial bonds until they wish to rip out each other’s throats, betray each other… all for your favor!”

Varo’then chuckled. The handmaiden smiled darkly. Tyrande felt a tear slip from her eye and silently cursed her emotions.

“Oh, dear! Have I brought up tender subjects? I do apologize! Poor Malfurion and Illidan… those were their names, weren’t they? Poor Illidan, most of all. Such a tragedy, what happened to him. Small wonder he chose to do what he did!”

Despite herself, Tyrande blurted, “What about Illidan? What do you mean?”

But Azshara had turned back to Varo’then and the handmaiden. “She needs her rest, don’t you agree, captain? Come, Lady Vashj! Let us see if there is any progress on the portal! I want to be ready when Sargeras crosses over…” The queen practically preened at mention of the demon’s name. “I want to look my best for him…”

The guards stepped aside as Captain Varo’then led Azshara and the Lady Vashj to the door. Just out in the hall, the ruler of the night elves glanced over her shoulder at the captive priestess. “You really should reconsider whether to be my handmaiden, dear girl! You could have had both of them alive and yours to play with… after I’d grown tired of them, of course.”

The slamming of the iron door echoed the dying of Tyrande’s hopes. She saw in her mind both Malfurion and Illidan. Malfurion had been there when she had been kidnapped and Tyrande knew that he was grief-stricken by his failure to protect her. She feared that such emotions would make him reckless, an easy target for the demons.

And then there was Illidan. Just before the last battle, he had discovered which direction her feelings lay and had not taken it well. Although Azshara’s remarks had certainly been designed to further cut down her resolve, Tyrande could not help put some credence to them. She knew Illidan well and knew how wild he could become. Had that streak, fueled by her rejection, made him do something terrible?

“Elune, Mother Moon, watch over them both,” she whispered. Tyrande could not deny that she was concerned most of all for Malfurion, but she still cared for his twin. The priestess also knew how horrible Malfurion would feel if anything befell his brother.

Thinking of that, Tyrande added, “Mother Moon, whatever fate should take me, please save Illidan, at least for Malfurion! Give them one another! Let not Illidan — ”

And at that moment, she sensed another presence near her, one certainly within the castle walls, so close it felt. The encounter was brief, so very brief, yet, for all that, the priestess knew exactly who she had sensed.

Illidan! Illidan in Zin-Azshari… in the palace!

The discovery shook her to the bone. She imagined him a prisoner, tortured horribly since he did not have the miraculous love of Elune protecting him as it did her. Tyrande saw him screaming as the demons flayed him alive, their magic ensuring that he remained fully conscious through each agonizing moment. They would torture him not just because of what he had done against the Legion, but also for Malfurion’s efforts, too.

She tried again to touch his thoughts, but to no avail. Yet, as she made the attempt, something about the brief contact began to bother her. Tyrande puzzled over it, delving deep within herself. She had sensed something about Illidan’s emotions that did not sit well, something very wrong —

When she realized just what it was, Tyrande grew cold with dread. It could not be! Not from Illidan, whatever the past!

“He would not become so…” Tyrande insisted to herself. “Not for any reason…”

Now she understood some of what the queen had said. Illidan — as impossible as it was to believe — had come to Zin-Azshari of his own desire.

He wanted to serve the lord of the Burning Legion.

The southernmost tower of Azshara’s palace was ablaze in sorcerous energies, be it day or night the work of the Highborne never ceasing. Sentries on duty nearby tried not to stare in the direction of the tall structure for fear that the powerful magicks might somehow engulf them.

Within, the Highborne, their hooded, elegantly-embroidered robes of turquoise hanging on their gaunt forms, stood alternating with sinister, horned figures whose lower halves resembled that of goats. Once, they, too, had been night elves, and even though their upper torsos still showed some indication of that, through guile and witchery they had become something more. Something that was now a part of the Burning Legion, not the world of Azeroth.

Satyrs.

But even the satyrs looked weary as they struggled with their former brethren on the spell taking place within the hexagonal pattern. Floating eye-level over the design, the fiery mass had as its center a darkness that seemed to go on forever, giving witness to how far beyond their plane of existence the spellcasters had reached. They delved beyond the edge of reason, beyond the limits of order… and into the chaos from which the demons had come.

Into the realm of Sargeras, lord of the Legion.

A huge shadow loomed over the sweating spellcasters. The winged monstrosity moved on four tree-trunk legs. His froglike face included great tusks. Beneath a thick brow ridge, blazing orbs glared at the tinier figures. The top of his scaly head nearly scraped the ceiling.

His massive tail sliding back and forth across the floor, Mannoroth rumbled, “Keep it stabilized! I’ll rip off your heads and drink your blood from your necks if it fails!”

Despite his words, however, he sweated as much as the rest. They had attempted a new spell in the hopes of making the portal larger and stronger — enough so that Sargeras himself could enter through it — but had, instead, nearly lost control. Such a failure would mean execution of some of the sorcerers, but it also might mean Mannoroth’s own horrific demise. Archimonde brooked no more mistakes.

“If I might be permitted?” asked a voice from near the chamber entrance.

With a snarl, Mannoroth glanced at the puny night elf. His unsettling amber eyes aside, he saw little of interest in this distrusted newcomer called Illidan Stormrage. Archimonde suffered the creature to live because of some potential he sensed, but Mannoroth would have preferred nothing more than to hang the arrogant ant by hooks through his eyes, then slowly dismember him a limb at a time. It would be some vengeance against Illidan’s brother, the druid who had caused Mannoroth so much disaster and shame.

But such entertainment would have to wait. For no reason other than to perhaps watch Illidan fail miserably, Mannoroth indicated with one huge, taloned paw that the night elf should proceed. Illidan, clad in black leather jerkin and pants and with his hair bound tight in a tail, strode past the great demon with utter disregard as to Mannoroth’s station. It was worse than dealing with Azshara’s pet soldier, Varo’then.

Illidan stopped at the circle, surveying the work. He nodded after a moment, then, with a relaxed wave of his hand, opened up a space for himself between a startled satyr and a Highborne.

The portal rippled. Mannoroth ground his yellowed fangs. If the night elf caused the portal to fail, Archimonde could not fault his second in command for splattering the culprit against the wall.

Illidan made a single gesture toward the fiery gap — and it suddenly held. The fraying that the demon had sensed vanished. If anything, the portal was now stronger than before.

Mannoroth’s green brow furrowed. Could this puny creature have the power to —

Before he could follow the notion further, a presence suddenly filled the chamber, a presence whose point of origin lay far, far inside the portal.

“To your knees!” the four-legged demon quickly roared. Everyone — spellcasters and guards alike — immediately dropped.

Everyone… save Illidan.

He calmly stood before the portal despite it being impossible that he did not sense the overwhelming presence reaching out from it. Illidan stared into the blackness, almost expectant.

You are the one… came the voice of Sargeras.

The torches flickered wildly. In the dancing shadows they caused, one almost appeared more alive than the rest. It rose not only to the ceiling, but across it, coming to a head exactly above the fiery gap.

Illidan noted the manifestation with the same seeming indifference he had all else. Mannoroth could only mark him as the biggest fool the demon had ever encountered.

You are the one who has done what others could not…

Finally, the night elf showed some sense by lowering his head slightly in deference to the voice. “I deemed it necessary to act.”

You are strong… Sargeras said from the beyond. There was a moment of silence, then, but not strong enough…

Meaning that, despite his power, Illidan did not possess the wherewithal to enable the portal to allow the lord of the Legion through to the mortal plane. Mannoroth found his own thoughts in conflict, frustrated that the way was still not open for Sargeras, but pleased that the night elf had come up lacking.

“I might know of a method, though,” Illidan unexpectedly remarked.

Again, there was complete silence. Mannoroth grew troubled as it stretched long, for he had never witnessed Sargeras so quiet.

Finally… Speak.

Illidan held up his left palm. In it, the illusion of an object formed. Mannoroth stretched up so as to better view it. He felt quite disappointed. Instead of some intricate amulet or blazing crystal, all the night elf revealed was a rather plain golden disk whose greatest aspect was that it filled the palm. Had the actual piece lain before him, the winged behemoth would have trampled right over it without pause.

He expected Sargeras to punish Illidan for wasting his time, but instead, the lord of the Legion responded with obvious interest. Explain…

Without preamble, the renegade sorcerer said, “This is the key. This has the power. This is the Dragon Soul.”

Now Mannoroth and the others paid much more attention. They had all witnessed its fury, felt its overwhelming power. With it, the black dragon had slaughtered demons and night elves alike by the hundreds. He had churned up the earth for miles around and even cast out the other dragons when they had sought to stop him.

All this from so humble-looking a piece.

“You have seen it, even from where you wait,” Illidan went on. “You’ve sensed its glorious might and you rightly hunger for it to be yours.”

Yes…

“It could slay thousands simply through your will. It could sweep clear a land of all resisting life… all life, period.”

Yes…

“But you didn’t consider that it might be the source of power you need to reach this world, did you?”

Sargeras did not answer, which was answer enough. Mannoroth grunted. The night elf was too clever for his own good. The Burning Legion coveted the artifact, but it was still in the possession of the black dragon. Eventually, the demons would have the strength and resources to hunt the beast, but not while they had Illidan’s people to still slaughter.

It has the power, the lord of the Legion at last declared. It could open the way… if it was ours…

“I have the means by which to track its location, to know where the dragon’s hidden it.”

Another telling pause, then, the black beast has shielded himself well… Sargeras responded. Even from me…

Illidan nodded, the smile on his face one that, had it been on anyone else’s, the lord of the Legion would surely have ripped it — and every bit of flesh and sinew attached — off even from the beyond.

“But he’s not shielded from me… because I know how to track him… with this.”

The night elf gestured and in his left hand there suddenly appeared an almost triangular, ebony plate the size of his head. Mannoroth leaned forward. At first he believed it a small piece of armor from one of the world’s defenders, but then he saw that it was not metal.

A dragon’s scale.

The black dragon’s scale.

“A very tiny bit, easily missed by so large a beast,” Illidan remarked, turning it over. “He was struck several times in the combat with the red. I knew there had to be at least one broken scale… and so I rode out and searched for it. Once I found what I wanted, I then continued on to here.”

Mannoroth glared. Was there no end to the sorcerer’s audacity? Unable to keep silent any longer, he growled, “Why? Why not bring it back to your friends? Your brother?”

The night elf looked over his shoulder. “Because I deserve power, reward.”

The demon expected more, but Illidan was finished. The sorcerer turned back to the portal.

“I need unrestricted access to the Well’s energies. The dragon is mighty, especially with the artifact. But, with the Well to fuel me, I’ll find him no matter where he is!”

“And then you’ll just take it from him, mortal?” The tusked demon sneered. “Or will he simply give it to you?”

“I’ll relieve the beast of it one way or another,” Illidan casually replied, still staring into the raging abyss. “And bring it here.”

Mannoroth started to laugh — then cut off as a pressure tightened around his throat. It vanished almost immediately after, but the message was clear. Whatever the winged demon’s own thoughts, the lord of the Legion was interested in the miscreant’s words.

You would bring the dragon’s creation to me, Sargeras declared to Illidan.

“Yes.”

And you will be rewarded greatly for your efforts, should you succeed.

The night elf bowed his head. “Nothing would please me more than to stand before you with the Dragon Soul in my hand.”

Sargeras seemed to chuckle. Such loyalty deserves a mark of favor, a mark that will at the same time aid in the fulfillment of your quest, night elf…

Illidan looked up. For the first time, the barest hint of uncertainty graced his narrow features. “My Lord Sargeras, your crossing to Azeroth will be favor enough and I need no other aid in my — ”

But… I insist.

And from out of the portal shot forth twin tentacles of dark green flame.

Mannoroth immediately shielded his eyes. Illidan — the focus of Sargeras’s spellwork — had no such opportunity, not that it would have done him any good to do so.

The flames poured into his eyes.

The soft tissue was seared instantly. Illidan’s scream echoed throughout the chamber and likely well beyond the palace walls. All trace of arrogance had left his expression. There was only agony, pure and unadulterated.

The flames intensified. Arms spread wide, Illidan was dragged up above the floor. He arched backward, nearly breaking in two. Supernatural fire continued to pour into his blackened sockets even after the last bit of the eyes had long burned away.

The Highborne and satyrs dared not leave their task, but they cringed and tried to shy away from the struggling night elf as much as they could. Even the guards shifted a step or two further back.

Then, as suddenly as they had shot forth, the flames withdrew.

Illidan fell to the hard stone floor, somehow managing to land on his hands and knees. His breath came out in pained gasps. His head hung nearly to the floor. There remained, at least outwardly, no hint of his earlier brashness.

The voice of Sargeras filled the minds of everyone there. Look up, my faithful servant…

Illidan obeyed.

There was no sign of the eyes. Only the sockets remained, sockets scorched black and fleshless. Around the rims could be seen parts of the skull itself, so absolutely had Sargeras removed the orbs.

But if he had taken away the night elf’s eyes, the lord of the Legion had replaced them with something else. There now burned within twin flames, fiery balls the same vicious hue as that which had wreaked such havoc on the sorcerer. The fires burned wildly for several more seconds… then faded until they seemed but smoky remnants. The smoke, however, remained, neither dwindling away nor growing stronger.

Your eyes are now my eyes, night elf, their gifts to serve me as well as you…

Illidan said nothing, clearly too distraught from pain.

Sargeras suddenly reached out to Mannoroth in particular. Send him to his rest. When he is recovered, he will set forth to prove his devotion to me… and seize the artifact…

At Mannoroth’s gesture, two Fel Guard strode up and seized the shaking Illidan. They all but dragged him out of the chamber to his quarters.

The moment the night elf was out of earshot, Sargeras’s lieutenant rumbled, “It’s a mistake to leave this mortal to his own devices, even so humbled!”

He will not journey alone… there will be another. The night elf called Varo’then may be spared for this.

The demon’s broad wings flexed at this news. Mannoroth grinned, a macabre sight at best. “Varo’then?”

Azshara’s hound will keep good watch on the sorcerer. If Illidan Stormrage fulfills his promise, the sorcerer will be granted a place among us…

Such an elevation Mannoroth disliked. “And if the sorcerer proves treacherous?”

Then Varo’then will instead be granted the favor I would bestow upon the druid’s twin… once the captain has delivered onto me the dragon’s creation… and Illidan Stormrage’s beating heart…

Mannoroth’s grin grew wider.