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.
13
Vandel 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.