“This is an abomination, Lord Illidan,” he said.
“So you have said. But it is necessary.”
“Are you absolutely sure of that, Lord?”
“Are you absolutely sure you wish to face the consequences of questioning me?” Magtheridon’s blood still affected Illidan. Subtle anger twisted his mind. It was one of the dangers of what he had been attempting.
“I mean no disrespect, Lord.”
An orc stirred in his sleep, grinding his teeth and flexing his fingers as he writhed in the grip of some dark nightmare. Doubtless he, too, was feeling the effects of the pit lord’s blood, and he was receiving it in a distilled and magically enhanced form. His skin was blotched an angry red. The epidermis seemed thicker and had a raw look to it. Muscles bulged and nails had become claws. A faint glow was visible even through his closed eyelids.
“They grow larger and heavier as we go down the line,” Akama said.
“It is the effects of the serum. It will make them stronger and faster. It will ensure they heal quicker.”
“But at what price, master?”
“They will be foul and fierce, quick to anger and quick to kill. They will be filled with rage and hatred and a hunger for battle.”
“Is there no way we can mitigate those side effects while preserving the changes we need?”
“We will need them all. You have seen what the Burning Legion is like. You have felt its wrath. We need to be just as fierce and just as deadly if we are to have any chance.”
“You think the Legion can be defeated here, Lord?”
“I believe they can be held here.”
“You seek then only to preserve your homeworld of Azeroth, and to do that you would turn this world into a battleground.”
“This world is already a battleground, Akama. And, no, I do not seek only to defend Azeroth. I want to preserve us all.”
“And how do you intend to do that, Lord? By turning us into that which we oppose?” Akama gestured meaningfully at the recumbent orc. His brow was lower. His fangs were larger. His eyes snapped open and he reached up to grab at Illidan, breaking the strap that held him to the gurney. The grip was strong and the clawlike nails bit deep. Illidan shrugged him off and brought his hand down on the orc’s windpipe, breaking it. As the creature writhed, Illidan snapped his neck with one twist. He then looked at Akama and smiled. The fel blood still affected him. He had enjoyed the kill.
“That one was a little too fierce, I think.”
“I thought there could be no such thing against those we face.”
Illidan laughed. “I like you, Akama, but do not try my patience. I am not here to play games with words. I am here to win a war.”
“We all are, Lord. Let us hope that we are all fighting the same one.”
Akama watched from the battlements as the first of the new army emerged from the gates of Hellfire Citadel. A week had passed since Illidan had begun the creation of the new batch of fel orcs. Tens of thousands of transformed fighters strode in time, cursing and howling and grunting. They brandished their weapons in rough salute as they saw Illidan watching. He acknowledged it with a lazy wave. He seemed satisfied. His military power grew. He no longer needed to rely on the backing of Kael’thas and Vashj. He had armies now to match his sorcerous strength. He truly was the lord of Outland.
“They will establish control of all the lands of Hellfire Peninsula,” Illidan said. “Then we shall close the Legion’s gates and slow the demons’ advance by another increment.”
“I sincerely hope so, Lord,” Akama said. Now more than ever he was convinced that he had made a deal with a demon. It was an insane plan to transform the orcs. Illidan was simply turning himself into a new Magtheridon. Indeed, he might prove to be something worse.
“When that happens, will you return the Temple of Karabor to my people, Lord?”
“Of course, Akama. Never doubt it.”
Akama did, however. He touched the rune-carved stone he kept in his pouch, feeling the magic in it and thinking about the night elf warden who bore its twin.
“Make ready to depart,” Illidan said. “Tomorrow we return to the Black Temple.”
Illidan strode into the Chamber of Command, his council’s meeting room at the Black Temple. Akama hobbled along behind him. Several Broken scuttled around, putting the last of the fittings into place. Great tapestries woven with Illidan’s symbol hung from the wall. An enormous table showing a carved three-dimensional map of Outland dominated the space. A group of blood elves huddled around it. They turned and made obeisance as soon as they saw Illidan. Clearly his sudden appearance had taken them by surprise.
The beautiful Lady Malande raised her hand in a languid salute. “Lord Illidan, Prince Kael’thas regrets he could not be present. He has taken a force to close the Legion’s gate in the Netherstorm and—”
Before she could complete her explanation, High Nethermancer Zerevor butted in. “The magical defenses of the temple have been rewoven, Lord Illidan. They were in a disgraceful state, but—”
Gathios the Shatterer, broad for a blood elf and encased in the heavy armor of a paladin, interrupted, “There is no sign of Legion activity in Shadowmoon Valley, Lord Illidan. The gates remain as closed as the day we sealed them, and there have been no indications of demonic manifestation.”
Veras Darkshadow leaned back against the table and folded his scarred arms across his chest. Alone among his comrades, he apparently did not feel the urge to fight for Illidan’s attention. Illidan shook his head. These blood elves seemed to have nothing better to do than plot against one another for his favor. It was no wonder that Kael’thas had left them behind. Still, they were efficient organizers and brilliant in their respective fields. They represented the absolute best of the sin’dorei forces in Outland. They had taken to calling themselves the Illidari Council, a measure perhaps of their self-importance.
Illidan raised his hand and stared at them until they fell silent. “We are at war with the Burning Legion,” he said to Gathios. “Need I remind you that the demon lord Kil’jaeden is displeased with me? He will make his displeasure felt soon enough.”
Silence settled on the chamber like a shroud. The only sound was Akama’s wheezing breath. The sin’dorei looked afraid. That was good, Illidan thought. Fear might keep them all alive. He tilted his head so that Zerevor was aware that he had his full attention. “Are you certain that the wards are ready? They may soon be put to the test.”
Zerevor took a deep breath and considered his words carefully. “They are, Lord Illidan. I would bet my life on it.”
“That is good,” Illidan said. “Because you are doing that. You are betting all our lives on it.”
Illidan turned to Malande. “Send a message to Prince Kael’thas apprising him of the situation. I do not want him taking any unnecessary risks. After me, he is the one Kil’jaeden is most likely to strike at.”
“It shall be done, Lord Illidan. I shall see to it at once.”
“Veras—you have done as I asked?”
“Of course, Lord Illidan. Our best trackers have scoured the routes to Hellfire Citadel and questioned the fel orc clan leaders. A number of night elves were sighted on the heights above the road on the day of your triumphal procession. They killed a group of fel orcs and made their escape. One of them wore burnished armor of the sort Warden Shadowsong wears.”
Illidan bared his fangs, and his underlings flinched. He had been right. He had seen Maiev that day. He should have scoured the hills immediately, but it had taken all his power to restrain Magtheridon, and he had not been absolutely certain it was her. The need to impress the clans with his strength had outweighed his suspicions. It would not have looked strong to disrupt the triumphal march of his entire army to search for a few night elves. Still, it was galling to think that she had been so close. “You will find Maiev Shadowsong for me, Veras. You will assign agents to follow up on every rumor of her presence. I am keen to repay her for the hospitality she extended to me.”