Illidan

9

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.

The tip of the blade touched the tattooed skin over Illidan’s heart. A steely grip caught Vandel’s wrist and halted it there.

“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.”

With casual strength, Illidan backhanded Vandel away. “The end of all things approaches, and I have no time to waste on fools. If you would have your vengeance, seek me out.”

Darkness flickered across Vandel’s field of vision. The updrafts of the burning village drove smoke and sparks into his face. When his sight cleared, Illidan was gone, leaving Vandel alone amid the ruins of his suddenly shattered life.

Mockery dripped from the demonic voice in his head. He spoke the truth. You know that now. You knew it as soon as you had time to absorb your grief. You spent all the long years of your wandering trying to find him. Now you have. Too late for it to do you any good. You are mine, and I will have you.

The scene shimmered. The village vanished. Vandel stood naked and alone in a tortured landscape. He had no weapons. In front of him stood the felhound he thought he had killed, alive and well. Only one thing was different. It possessed the eyes of a night elf. It took him only a moment to realize that they were identical to his own.

The creature stalked forward. Its movements were confident, those of a hunter that knew its prey couldn’t escape, that was going to take its time toying with it. Vandel flexed his hands. They were empty. He glanced around, seeking an edged rock, a boulder, anything he might use as a weapon. There was nothing. Claws scratched the stone in front of him. The felhound had taken the opportunity to close the distance between them. It reared up, huge mouth open wide.

Vandel caught the jaws just before they could close on his throat. Their points slashed the flesh of his fingers. He scrambled for a purchase that was not razor-edged, inserted his fingers into the flap of flesh between gum and lip. His right hand was not so fortunate. It snagged on sharp teeth. The pain was agonizing. The tingling of the flesh where demon saliva touched did nothing to ease the torment. It seemed to amplify it.

This is not real, he told himself.

It is very real, and if you die here in this spell-born dream, you die forever, and I will have your soul and your body. Already I have infected you. Already I can use your skills, your thoughts. Already I am so much more than I once was.

He tried to pull the jaws apart, but it took all his strength to keep them from closing. The teeth sawed into his fingers. He knew it was only a matter of time before he lost this struggle.

He lowered his head, trying to get it out of reach of the snapping jaws by resting it against the demon hound’s short neck. The creature’s claws bit into his unprotected chest, ripping strands of flesh free, tearing ribbons from muscle and rib. He knew he had only one chance. He let go of the beast’s jaws, got his body underneath it, and raised it on high. It struggled frantically, trying to overbalance him. He held it above his head then brought it down, snapping its spine across his knee.

The felhound thrashed, all control of its limbs lost. Vandel brought his foot down on its throat and crushed its windpipe until it stopped moving.

Then driven by an instinct he could not understand, he kicked open its squelching stomach, reached into its chest cavity, and pulled out its heart. He held it up, squeezed green blood from the ventricles into his mouth, and then devoured the meat.

It tingled as it went down, but this time he felt he was gaining strength from it. The world shimmered and went dark. Nausea filled him. He fell forward over the body of his enemy. A wrenching, tearing sensation tugged at his bowels.

He stood above his own corpse where it sprawled atop the dead felhound. Slowly, impelled by some external force, his spirit rose and drifted out into the blackness. He saw that Outland was but a tiny speck in the infinity of the Great Dark Beyond. A tiny worldlet that floated in a void too vast for any mind to encompass. He became aware that all around him in that void were millions upon millions of worlds, teeming with life and glittering with promise.

He focused on one and saw a golden land, bright with sunshine, where a carefree people harvested. Then he saw a portal tear open in the fabric of reality. Through that rent poured the unstoppable forces of the Burning Legion, invincible armies of demons, bent only on destruction and slaughter.

All of this had happened many years ago. Long before the Legion had ever reached Azeroth, it had smashed its way across countless worlds, destroying everything that got in its path. Its sole relentless purpose was to kill.

There were times and places where the Legion was halted, but it always came back, stronger than before. Sometimes worlds were not destroyed; they were conquered and incorporated into the Legion’s structure, producing more soldiers to feed its unceasing war engine.

He was not the only parent who had ever lost a child to the Legion. Every moment, somewhere, ten thousand children were killed by its unrelenting savagery.

Images of innumerable dead worlds flickered through his mind. He saw gigantic ruins, toppled buildings that had once reached the sky, lakes of glass where proud cities had once stood, endless plains of rubble. He saw the lights of life in the universe winking slowly out until only a few remained.

He never doubted the truth of what he was seeing. The Burning Legion left behind a trail of smoldering worlds in its wake.

There was madness here on an incomprehensible scale. The Legion existed only to destroy. It would not stop until everything everywhere was dead, and then it would turn on itself with all its savagery until nothing remained. It was a vision of unspeakable horror. The worst of it was that he knew now how strong the Legion was. Nowhere in all the worlds in all existence was any force capable of defeating it.

Now you know the truth. Join us. The voice was back. This time there was a wheedling, pleading note, but he sensed the same hunger lay behind it.

Never.

Reality shifted. He stood amid the shattered heart of a tower. A carpet of blackened bones crunched beneath his feet. A felhound lurched forward, determined to kill him. He stooped, picked up a broken rib, and stabbed the demon through the heart. It was easier this time and he felt stronger, as if each time he slew the beast, he gained part of its strength. Once again, he opened its chest cavity, drank its blood, and devoured its heart.

A titanic vision smashed into his brain. This time he saw not just one universe but a near infinity of them, a complex fractal structure, where new worlds were born each minute from the decisions made a heartbeat before.

Everywhere the Burning Legion marched, destroying world after world. Every death narrowed the range of possible worlds, till eventually all the multitude of possibilities narrowed to but a few. In every one of them, the Legion marched triumphant, leaving futures stillborn and presents empty of all life. He saw countless Azeroths, countless Vandels, and countless Khariels, and to every one of them came death. He saw his child die in an infinity of different ways, and in every one of those possible worlds, he was powerless to prevent it.

In every world, in every future, the Burning Legion strode, invincible, unstoppable, dooming the universe to eternal darkness in its wake. Behind it all, he saw the looming demonic figures of its leaders: Archimonde—who was believed dead by so many—Kil’jaeden, and above all others, Sargeras the fallen titan, once sworn to guard the universe, now bent on destroying it.

On and on the visions roared, tearing through his brain, goading him to the edge of madness and beyond. And every time he saw one, part of him died, and the demon within him fed on his agony and gloated. He covered his eyes with his hands, but it did not stop the horrors from flowing in. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, but still he saw and saw and saw, until he could bear no more.

Drowning in horror, he inserted his fingers into his eye sockets, feeling the blood flow and the jelly puncture beneath his nails. He pulled and pulled and pulled, straining against muscle and optic nerve until his eyeballs came free with a hideous sucking sound.

At the last moment, before horror overwhelmed him, he realized this was what Illidan once saw. This was what had turned him into what he was. The Betrayer had walked this path before him. This whole ritual was intended to re-create his experience.

Pain seared through Vandel’s skull.

Darkness.

Silence.

Vandel woke in agony. He had no idea where he was. He could see nothing around him, only flickers of shimmering light. He reached up and touched his ruined face with fumbling fingers and found, as he had feared he would, that his eye sockets were empty. He had indeed torn out his eyes.

Fear flashed through him. Was he alive? He could see nothing. Perhaps he had died in the aftermath of the ritual. Perhaps his soul wandered in that cold wasteland where it had drifted during its voyage. Fragments of memory returned to haunt him, shards of the terrible vision eating the demon’s heart had given him. He could recall only a tiny portion of what he had seen. He was grateful he could not remember more. The mind was not meant to hold such a tidal wave of horror.

He tried to stand upright but felt himself totter and fall. His head banged into the cold stone and sent tiny flickers through the darkness around him. He allowed himself to hope that perhaps it was his sight returning, but he knew it was not. He was blind and he was useless.

Mad laughter bubbled from his lips. He had wanted the power to kill demons. Now he could not even see. He had been filled with the desire to oppose the Burning Legion, and now he knew it was invincible.

Hopelessness flooded through his mind. Somewhere deep inside him, a demon was feeding. It took nourishment from his bleak mood and gloated over every crumb of wretchedness.

He would have wept if he still could. He covered his empty eye sockets in despair.