Approval rippled through the ranks of the demon hunters as the realization of what they had done settled into their minds. They had been concentrating only on fighting and survival. Now they began to feel their triumph in their bones. Smiles appeared on faces whose owners had never expected to smile again. For a moment demonic rage vanished, to be replaced with something almost like calm.
“We have slain thousands and lured their armies into a trap that killed a hundred times that number, and we have this!” He brandished the disk he had taken from the archives, held it aloft with both hands so that it caught the light and sparkled. The demon hunters and the sorcerers present could all see the power it contained. The sensitive among them could catch a faint whiff of the auras permeating it, even at the distance they stood from him.
There might be spies present, he told himself, but glee loosened his tongue.
“We have found the key to the homeworld of Kil’jaeden and Archimonde, to a place where the Legion’s commanders can be finally slain. We have uncovered the location of Argus.
“The Legion has destroyed world after world, enslaved and massacred nation after nation. Now it will reap what it has sown. Today we have slaughtered the nathrezim, and that is only the first step. Today we put our feet on the path to ultimate victory. Today we found the means to cut off the head that guides our foe. We are taking the war to Kil’jaeden. We are going to teach him the meaning of defeat.”
Let there be spies present, Illidan thought. Let them report that to the Burning Legion. Let them think about what I have done this day and tremble.
20
Maiev woke. She ached as she had every one of the days since she had found herself in this place. She was somewhere deep underground. Nearby she could hear water drip. The air held the brimstone taint of demons, and the unwashed smell of Broken.
She rose to her feet and tested the bars of her cage once more. They had not become any weaker since the previous day. They had been forged to hold something with the power of a pit lord, and then they had been reinforced with layers of runes and spells.
She inspected the runes about her. There were spells of nourishment and restoration. She could not starve herself to death. Any wounds she inflicted on her own body were healed as swiftly as she might make them. She well knew this type of spell. It was similar to the ones used to imprison Illidan. She had discovered this when she had attempted to batter her way out with her bare hands. She had struck the blows in impatient fury, the pain goading her on even as her bones healed, knitting back together as quickly as her flesh had rent.
She suspected that the spells would bring her back from death if she found some way of killing herself. Her spirit was bound here. There was no way to set it free unless her captors willed it.
At first she had expected the Betrayer to appear at any moment to begin tormenting her, but he had not done so. He was too busy to claim his vengeance, or more likely he was just allowing her horror to mount in anticipation of his arrival. He was certainly capable of such mental cruelty.
There had been no shortage of petty torments from her guards. She had been spat upon, poked with sharp sticks, and given food in which the Ashtongue had urinated. Demons had mocked her with words that flayed like knives. A spectacularly arrogant dreadlord named Vagath had explained in great detail exactly what tortures he was going to inflict on her when the order came. She had endured all the slights with calm, unwilling to give her tormentors any satisfaction. So far it seemed they had been ordered against any worse abuse by Illidan himself. He wanted no one taking vengeance before he did.
There were other torments. Hot days on which she went without water. Days when she had been given no food and her stomach had growled like an angry nightsaber. The spells kept her going, would not allow her to die, but they did not relieve her from thirst or hunger.
And she inflicted worse torments on herself. She had led those who had trusted her to their doom. In seeking her vengeance on Illidan, she had caused the deaths of Anyndra and Sarius and all the others who had placed their faith in her leadership.
She told herself they had done so voluntarily, but it did not help. When she lay awake, she could see their faces, and they gave her looks full of reproach. In her dreams she saw them die again and again. She cursed all of those who had refused to help: the naaru, the Aldor, Arechron in Telaar. If they had listened to her, none of this would have happened, and the Betrayer would be where he deserved to be, imprisoned once more or in his grave.
It gave her no relief.
She knew whose will it was that had driven the crusade against the Betrayer. She knew whom the others had put their faith in. She had let them down. She could try to blame whomever she liked, but at the end of the day, she had to take responsibility for her own failure.
Perhaps that was the worst injury of all. She had failed. Illidan was not only free but stronger than he had ever been. It galled her worse than poison, worse than hunger, worse than torture. Illidan was free and there was nothing she could do about it. She was doomed to stay in this cage, helpless, until he chose to take her life. It was being made clear to her that she lived or died entirely at his whim.
Now he was ignoring her, letting her know how insignificant she was in the great scheme of things.
There were times when she hoped that some of her force had escaped and would come free her, and there were times when she despaired of it. Even if a few had made it clear of the ambush, why would they come back for the leader who had led their comrades to their deaths? She had filled their heads with tales of victory and glory, and their reward had been defeat. She knew, though, that no one was coming. All her troops were dead. She had seen them fall.
She cursed Akama once more. She had believed in the faithless leader of the Ashtongue faction. He had convinced her that he hated Illidan as much as she did, and that he had as much reason to want the Betrayer’s downfall. How he must be laughing now, at the way he had deceived her, at the way in which she had believed his lies. She cursed the memory of their every meeting.
When had the betrayal started and why had she not spotted it? Had he planned this from the beginning, back when they first met in Orebor Harborage? Even then were he and Illidan laughing at the way she was being led to her doom? She refused to believe that she could be so easily gulled. Akama must have meant some of what he said. His resentment of what the Betrayer had done to the Temple of Karabor was real enough.
Looking back, she could see there was a moment when he had changed. At their last meeting in Orebor Harborage, he had seemed even more aged, weaker, and listless. Perhaps he had been finally unmasked, captured, tortured. Perhaps Illidan had used some powerful binding spell on him.
Or perhaps Illidan had simply made him a better offer, promised him something his venal soul could not resist. The Betrayer could be persuasive and cloak his malice in honeyed words. What could he possibly have offered the Broken?
No. Unless she was much mistaken, Akama had been as surprised as she was at what had happened during the opening of the gate. He had spoken out against the ritual destruction of the Broken’s souls even at risk to his own life. Things were not quite as simple as she feared in the depths of her despair.
It took her moments to realize that her guards had gone silent. Looking up, she saw why. Limping toward her, looking older and more tired than ever, was Akama.