Illidan by William King Page A

male’s body revealed the fact that he had recently pierced his skin. The crust on the needles’ points was dried blood, most likely his own.
    “You have spoken with Lord Illidan,” the female said. There was a jealous note in her husky voice. It sounded as if something was wrong with her larynx, as if she had once screamed so loud and so long that she had done it permanent damage.
    “Yes,” Vandel said. He did not care for her knowing smile. He was not going to let himself be intimidated.
    “You are privileged indeed.”
    “Am I?”
    “He does not greet every supplicant personally. It seems he has some memory of you. Perhaps he has something special in mind.”
    The male raised a finger to his lips, as if she had said too much. A long talon extruded from its tip. The gesture was not threatening, but it was not reassuring, either. The blind male scratched his chin, drawing a bead of blood onto the claw. He put it into his mouth through a tiny aperture left by the thread.
    “I would not presume to read Lord Illidan’s mind,” Vandel said.
    “You show more wisdom than I expected.”
    “Do you have a name?”
    “I am Elarisiel. He is Needle. If he had another name, it is long since forgotten, even by him.”
    Vandel bowed to them both. Elarisiel laughed, malice glittering in her voice. Needle bobbed his head without mockery. Vandel stared hard at him. Obviously the male had no more difficulty seeing than Lord Illidan. What was going on here?
    “Lord Illidan told us to take you below.”
    Tension tightened Vandel’s shoulder blades. “And how did he tell you that?”
    “You will find out, eventually, if you live.”
    Needle produced one of his long, sharp pins and pierced it into the flesh of his own forearm. He dug around for a minute. Another droplet of blood appeared. He poked the point through the small gap between his lips and made a sucking sound. A blissful look appeared on his face. Vandel had come here doubting his own sanity. Now he doubted that of everyone around him.
    —
    T HE PAIR LED HIM through a maze of corridors. They passed through a small sally port in the wall of the Black Temple and out into a vast heap of tumbledown ruins.
    “This was once part of the Temple of Karabor,” Elarisiel said. “The orcs and the demons did not leave a great deal of the original structure standing. What they did, Lord Illidan and his champions took. We dwell here now under the watchful gaze of Varedis and his companions.”
    “Varedis?” Vandel asked.
    “The master tutor,” Elarisiel said, but she did not seem inclined to amplify on her remark.
    More green meteors scarred the face of the sky as Vandel and his guides passed through a series of terraces. Silken pavilions rose along their length. From them came the sounds of mad laughter. They passed through the camp and came eventually to a tunnel mouth in a ruined wall. Chill air surrounded them as they walked down worn, ancient steps and emerged into a huge hall.
    It looked like an asylum or a battlefield hospital. Elves sprawled everywhere. Some lay in pools of greenish light cast by flickering fel lanterns. It made them look sick. Some of the males were bearded and green-haired after the fashion of night elves; some were clean-shaven like the sin’dorei. Some muttered to one another. Some huddled in the shadows between the lanterns as if trying to conceal themselves. Most slept fitfully, talking in their sleep. A mad scream sounded, and a female rose up and raced through the chamber, shouting, “Worms, worms, worms!”
    The shout roused many from sleep, but they did not seem disturbed by it. Only one tall blood elf rose from the soiled cloak in which he lay wrapped, and he chased the maniac through the chamber. They disappeared out of sight.
    “As you can see, you are not the only one who has found their way here. Many have sought out Lord Illidan. Only a few will live to enter his service.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Elarisiel’s silvery laugh rang