Illidan by William King

Doubtless they did not expect someone like him. They were there to watch for armies and demons, not a solitary night elf maddened by grief and overmastered by the thirst for revenge.
    He stalked forward, telling himself not to be overconfident. Perhaps there were other sentries and he had just not seen them. The long years of hunting the foes of his people had taught him stealth beyond that of most mortals, but he was far from the only one who could hide in shadows. Perhaps even now some deadly sentry watched him unseen and prepared to drive a dagger into his back.
    Once more he paused to consider the fact that he might no longer be sane. His mind had shattered once, at the moment he had found his son’s corpse being gnawed upon by the felhound. For a moment he could almost smell the scent of burning wood, and night elf blood. He could almost hear the crunching of small bones. He let out a whimper, then cursed silently. Anyone within earshot might have heard. He did not intend to be struck down by a guard because of his own foolishness. No more mistakes. From here on he would concentrate on the mission ahead.
    He reached the foot of the tower upon which Illidan stood. Ahead, a ramp curled out of sight around the side of the tower. He prayed that luck was still with him and ran, preferring to trust in speed and stealth and his unexpected good fortune.
    He reached the top. The one he had come long leagues to find stood before him.
    Illidan’s back was turned. His massive wings clung close to his body as if trying to warm him against the chill of the night. He held his great horned head low as he surveyed the distant lights of the great volcano. What was he looking for? What did he see with his eyeless sight?
    Illidan turned as if he had known Vandel was there the whole time.
    Vandel drew his daggers, checked the mystic runes etched into them, and padded forward. He knelt, and placed his blades at Illidan’s hooves. “Forgive the intrusion, Lord Illidan. I did not wish to risk being cut down by your sentries before I had spoken to you.”
    Illidan said, “What do you wish of me, nightstalker?”
    “I want to slay those who slew my family. I want to slaughter your enemies.”
    “There is no shortage of those.”
    Vandel said, “I wish to learn what you have learned. I want to hunt demons.”
    “Then you have much to learn, and the hour is late.”
    “Will you teach me?”
    “You and a thousand like you. Go below. Rest. You will find what you seek. Or die in the attempt.”
    Illidan turned his back once more and returned to gazing at the horizon. It was clear to Vandel that he was dismissed.
    —
    U NCERTAIN AS TO WHAT he was supposed to do, Vandel strode down to the base of the tower. Two tattooed figures waited for him. It seemed as if they had been there all along. They were not surprised to see him, nor did they draw any weapons.
    One was a tall female with a scarred face. She appeared to be a night elf, yet she had demonic features. Green flames flickered in her empty eye sockets. Small horns curled from her head. Her scanty clothing revealed glittering tattoos that covered her body. Some magic about them drew Vandel’s eye and compelled him to try to unravel the pattern as if it were a complex puzzle.
    She noticed his look, and her lips twisted to reveal small fangs. Vandel met her cold smile with one of his own, feeling as if somehow he was being tested, as if they were crossing blades in a soundless struggle.
    The second figure, also night elven in form, paid no attention to him at all, and Vandel would have been surprised if he did. His eyelids were sewn shut, as were his lips. He was hunched forward, with his head held low and his shoulders high. He was stripped to the waist, revealing even more tattoos than his companion had. A broad leather belt wrapped around his waist held a selection of long, sharp needles, from the ends of which dangled strings of animal hide. Their tips were blotched, and a look at the