Snakes and Ladders

[Illidan Stormrage]

The familiar stale air of the Pale Moors rustled Illidan's fine black hair. Leathery wings flapped and then flattened to let the night elf demon soar leisurely through the sky. He zipped through wispy tendrils of cloud that curled beneath its fluffy mass, flying just beneath the grey thickness, knowing that his bat-like silhouette was visible for all creatures below to see. He privately hoped that some human witnessed his stark outline in the heavens above them and took it for a dark omen.
 
The excursion to Dante's Abyss had been less than fruitful. Although he engaged in battle with a number of powerful individuals and learned that there were indeed a great pool of other Primes that could pose a threat to him, he ultimately failed to demonstrate his true might. He had conserved his strength, waiting for the opportune moments to unleash the inner monster within him, but the few battles he participated in did not call for his full strength. He wished he had been less austere with it; at least his demonic form could have been beamed into the eyes of all that tuned in to watch the death tournament, strengthening the reputation of Dracula.
 
Very few times had Illidan spoken to his lord; twice, in fact, and only once in person. How the vampire master would take the night elf demon's performance was beyond him. Dracula had rarely acted in any fashion after Stormrage's deeds, neither positively or negatively. If he hadn't felt those piercing canines puncture his throat for himself, Illidan likely would have doubted that Dracula even existed. Maybe it was time for him to pay a visit to his lord and entreat him directly?
 
Another time. Although his body enjoyed an incredible rest during the last moments of Dante's Abyss, Illidan's mind had not. Other than the insistent tug-of-war for his sanity against the demons in his head, the lord of Poenari Castle worried about the state of his fortress. Tensions were strained when he allowed Torandril to assume command, even believing the man-bat that delivered his Dante's Abyss 'invite' belonged to a rebel group sent to attack him. Maybe he worried for nothing, but Illidan had not been a leader of cursed, spurned outcasts and not been on the receiving end of betrayal. Regis' constant rebukes against his leadership brought the situation to the forefront of his thoughts more often than he would have liked, but he knew it continued to pester him for a reason.
 
However, Torandril and Lady Vashj were to be trusted. If anyone could maintain a grip on the forces of the castle in Illidan's stead, it would be them. Yet it wasn't their loyalty Illidan was concerned about.
 
 Regis' pruned face lingered in the demon hunter's thoughts. His countenance normally subdued, even bored, it twitched and creased as he spoke of Dracula's forces. His tone hardened, pumped with emotion, when he issued the submerged threat.
 
Perhaps Illidan needed to cut his losses and excise the bulk of Dracula's forces from within his own. The mental burden of a perpetual uprising grew heavier by the hour. There was simply too much he needed to accomplish without worrying about traitors in his own ranks.
 
The black outline of Poenari Castle jutted up over the horizon, the glinting emerald gem shimmering above its tallest spire. Even from his position, Illidan felt the pull of demonic energies within the spinning crystal. He hadn't utilised any of its true functions yet, but hopefully in his absence other creatures that sipped at the Burning Legion's font would have been attracted to its heady lure and his forces would have been bolstered.
 
A flare of green light bloomed from the outer walls of his keep. Illidan frowned. What could have caused that? He dipped lower through the sky as the neglected castle came racing closer to him.
 
Another lime flash, followed by red and orange. The chaotic din of dozens of shouts barely tickled his ears, but there was no mistaking it. Black shadows darted above the towers and the courtyard as bolts of all colours chased them, some colliding with their targets and erasing them from Illidan's sight. Stones peeled away from the parapets and walls of the castle, flung to the wind by rumbling balls of flame.
 
A knot balled in Illidan's stomach. He scowled as he drew his wings closer to his body and dove towards the courtyard. The shouting grew louder; roars of commands and anger, screams of pain and death, and shrieks of feral beasts. The dull thuds he heard before changed into muffled explosions and the showering of stone and dirt. The stench of burned flesh and distended organs rushed to him on the wind.
 
All that he feared had come to pass. The revolution had begun in his absence.
 
A tangle of misdirected electricity whipped past the night elf demon as he plunged into the battlefield. He swept over, gauging the progress of the struggle. Bodies carpeted the courtyard of both his forces and Dracula's. Demon hunters and naga warriors meshed into the fray while the naga witches and a handful of eredar warlocks, who hadn't been present when Illidan left for Dante's Abyss, kept their distance and lobbed a storm of spells, some offensive while others supported their frontline forces.
 
"Dammit!" Illidan clenched his fists as he circled over the carnage, his frantic vision scanning for any of his officers. Torandril, the most gifted demon hunter Illidan had ever trained, danced within the ranks of Dracula's traitorous throng, his warglaives painting the dirt with vivid crimson splatters. He moved with a fluidity and grace that left werewolves and stiff undead swiping at air as he parted heads from shoulders with effortless arcs of his blades.
 
Stormrage considered calling out to him, but breaking his battle frenzy would leave him vulnerable to attack while he processed his lord's return. No, Torandril could handle himself. Illidan would soon join him in the heated exchange, but he needed more intelligence first.
 
Torandril finished a helicopter flourish of his warglaives, slashing the circumference of undead that surrounded him. A lumbering zombie lunged at him, and the night elf pared its rotting arms from its shoulders. Unbeknownst to him, a reanimated skeleton shambled from behind, raising his sword in clicking, jerky motions. Illidan tensed, summoning crackling green lightning around his forearm. As he pointed his index and middle fingers at the target, a werewolf leapt from nowhere and tackled the ghoul, savaging it. When the beast was done, the skeleton lay in a jumble of useless bones.
 
The Fel Shock spell dissipated as Illidan recognised Torandril's saviour. Clawfang? Was he actually helping the night elf, or did he miss his target in his haste?
 
As the werewolf's claws ruined the face of a downed necromancer, Illidan knew the answer. Contrary to his expectations, Clawfang remained loyal, turning on his original forces. If that crazy beast survived the fight, he would be promoted.
 
Sweeping his gaze over the spellcasters of his forces again, the Betrayer caught sight of Lady Vashj. She stood at the front of the naga witches, her sextuplet of arms flailing at her sides, her slitted eyes snapping from target to target, blue vapour burning from her scaly fingers. She shone like an azure beacon in Illidan's magical sight, imbuing her troops' spells with greater power and potency while directing their fire on the most important targets. Again, her contributions to the struggle were too vital for interruption.
 
The only officer unaccounted for was Regis. Had he kept his promise to serve, or had he sided with those discontented with Stormrage's rule? His warnings had been stern and constant, but Illidan didn't know what the old necromancer saw as the way forward. Did his concerns spring from a desire to protect Illidan's authority, or to warn him of the inevitable conflict that had now broken out?
 
He followed the foul yellow lights that laced the earth, the magical trail attached to the practitioners of necromancy. Mostly elderly humans, they hunched around each other as they waved hands and fingers about, commanding their risen corpses like the marionettes of a puppeteer. There, in their centre with a straight back and staff raised to the sky, was Regis.
 
The old man's eyes, normally half lidded and disinterested, shone with vigour and fear, finding the soaring night elf demon. He shouted something, and the tip of his wooden staff blazed with a new light.
 
That insubordinate wretch! Illidan's knotted stomach unfurled as a searing heat rose from its pit and scorched his chest. His clawed fingers shook as that bastard stared up at him unapologetically, his wrinkled lips moving silently as he gathered whatever dark magic he planned to use on him.
 
Illidan wouldn't give him that chance. He would rain felfire on those deceitful cretins, reducing them to smoking ashes. He hadn't come this far to lose it all to Regis.
 
A screech rattled Illidan's ears and he flung himself about. A man-bat snarled at him, dashing towards him through the sky with blood soaked claws and fangs. Illidan caught the monster's furry shoulders as it collided with him, keeping it away at arm's length while it gnashed at him furiously. Its lean arms flailed, its rough claws scratching at the outside of his forearms and elbows, its wings flapping all the while, pressing down on him. Stormrage saw the bloodlust in its untamed eyes, smelt the stomach-turning aroma of raw flesh on its rasping breath.
 
With a yell and a great heave, Illidan spun and hurled the man-bat towards the ground, using its ferocious momentum against it. Spreading its leathery wings, the humanoid aberration halted its trajectory and shot a baleful stare upwards. Grimacing, the night elf demon birthed a flaming green orb between his palms and flung it. An emerald blaze tore the man-bat asunder, its fading shriek the last remnants of its obliterated existence.
 
A cacophony of grating screams filled the skies. Illidan turned as a flock of man-bats honed in on him. Snapping his fingers, the night elf demon summoned his warglaives in a puff of black smoke, preparing to cut down  the horde of monstrosities as they convened on him.
 
This was his damn castle. His soldiers fought and died for him. His officers gave everything they had to preserve his command. These defiant curs would surrender to his all-consuming power or die like all those before them.
 
A generous pulse of amber light crackled through the air, moving like a lightning bolt. Illidan's hands moved in a flurry, initiating a counter-spell, as the energy crashed into him. The magic dug into his skin and penetrated his veins, cutting deep into him and leaving agonising, flaming streaks within. Stormrage doubled over in pain, shaking fingers losing their grip of warglaives, letting them spin wildly to the ground. He grimaced, biting his tongue as burning pain suffused his entire body. It ran through his limbs and branched into his wings. The flaming torment constricted his muscles, paralysing them in crooked positions.
 
Illidan could resist no longer and screamed. His strained body plummeted from the sky. He barely felt the collision with the dirt; the dull bruising sensation actually helped numb the torturous spell in his flank for a moment. He curled stiffly on the ground, unable to think, his mind arrested by the pain.
 
Fel magic, for its most potent and unstoppable effects, required sacrifice. Whether it was a life, a wound or simply pain, the insidious school thrived on suffering. As Illidan strung that agony into an implement, funnelling his torture into a weapon, it slipped through his grasp. He tried again and again, having no other options, but every time the collected power fell to nothing. How had Regis been able to pierce so deeply that even Illidan's spell-crafting was affected?
 
The demon hunter opened fluttering eyelids to see Regis step out of the throng. Strands of yellow magic channelled into his frail body from somewhere behind him, no doubt being fed to him by a group of other necromancers to enhance his abilities.
 
"Look what you did," Regis said, tapping his staff on the ground. "Look at the death and ruin your leadership has wrought. If you only listened to me instead of ignoring me, if you heeded my warnings ... all of this could have been averted."
 
Illidan's face twitched, slathered in sweat. His rage commanded his lips into obedience. "You ... you have no idea ... what fate will await you ... when I am free. You will wish ... you were never born."
 
Regis scoffed. An amber light burst to life at his staff's tip. "I'm doing this to end the bloodshed. In a game of chess, all the pieces on the board are made inert when the king is captured." He lowered his staff at Illidan, and an amber sphere engulfed the night elf demon. Instantly the blinding suffering stopped. Illidan's first instinct was to leap to his feet. He ordered his limbs into action, but they remained stiff, as if concrete had settled over them.
 
Lifting his cane, Regis levitated the sphere. Illidan soon noticed all fighting ceased as the battlefield's eyes rested upon his imprisoned body.
 
"Enough!" Regis' voice boomed over the courtyard, uncharacteristically authoritative. "The impudent leader, Illidan Stormrage, has been bested! You who stand with him will lay down your weapons and spells and surrender, or he will be killed!"
 
"They would never surrender to you," Illidan snarled, finding his lips still malleable. "My death in this reality is naught but a stumbling block. I am a prime. I will return and wreak horrible vengeance on you all!"
 
"That may be true," Regis said. "But you could see the state of the battle from the skies. You already know that without you, the fight started with your soldiers on the back foot. Let me assure you that it hasn't improved a whisker since it began. Should they choose to let you die, they will have no one to stop their inevitable slaughter."
 
Illidan scowled. A moment passed in silence. "Nonsense. No battle is lost unless-"
 
"Did you hear his hesitation?" Regis called out to the stilled participants of the battle. "He knows you are all going to lose. You scratch and scrape at a fate that is unavoidable."
 
"And if I am dead, what is their impetus to surrender? Why not fight to the death?"
 
"Oh, I'm sure they would," Regis said. "You inspire great devotion in many of your subordinates, that is undeniable. Not in enough of them, though, or this conflict would never have happened. But that's beside the point. It's not that the forces of the great Illidan Stormrage will baulk at sacrifice in their lord's name. It's that their lord would not throw away their lives for no reason. Whether it's for strategic or sentimental purposes, letting your forces die amidst certain loss leaves you with nothing. You can come back from death, but they can't. And when it's you, and only you ... Count Dracula's forces will have no cause to fear you."
 
Illidan swallowed. He was right. The mutinous necromancer was right. It had taken months of effort and negotiation to establish his foothold in the Pale Moors, and it was all crumbling before his eyes. Death would not be the end of him, but it would obliterate everything he had built.
 
"And what's to say you won't slaughter them like livestock if they do surrender?" Illidan countered.
 
Regis' cold eyes settled on him. "Count Dracula desires hegemony of the Pale Moors. He needs those who will do his bidding. There has been too much loss of his forces since the ill-fated march on Darkshire. The infighting of Count Dracula's armies must end for him to achieve his goals. Those who surrender will be permitted to join our lord without punishment. But even if such an offer was presented to them, this is their only chance for survival."
 
"Don't worry, Lord Illidan!" Torandril yelled. "As long as there is breath in my lungs and blood in my veins, I will-"
 
"No!" Illidan shouted. Regis had won. The only acceptable way forward was for him to surrender, and hope the necromancer truly had Dracula's best interests in mind. In all of the night elf demon's dealings with Regis, that one note had always rung true. "There is no honour in dying for nothing. Everyone who pleads allegiance to me ... surrender."
 
"But my lord," Lady Vashj's hissed. "We pledged to serve-"
 
"Do not argue!" Illidan snapped. "Surrender!"
 
A few moments of quiet bewilderment passed. Illidan's rage drummed in his temples as he heard weapons thump into the dirt and stone. How could he have let his happen?
 
Regis guided Stormrage back to the earth as he watched his soldiers kneel, their hands on their heads. I will make up for this atrocity, I swear it.
 
"Congratulations," Regis said, the passion drained from his face. "Your actions just saved a lot of lives and contributed to Count Dracula's war on the light."
 
"I should've known," Illidan spat. "You are as traitorous as that bloodsucker Ronaldo was. I will sear the eyes from your head, flay the skin from your bones and throw you to the wolves."
 
"Do not blame me," Regis said, turning his head. The crowd amassed behind the necromancer jostled as someone moved to the front. "I simply sided with those that represented Count Dracula's interests the best. The one who reached out to me is approaching. The one who initiated the rebellion."
 
Illidan refrained from asking. Such a question would paint him as a fool, as if he did not know the machinations of his own forces. Yet that was the truth, but he would not expose it. Whoever instigated the rebellion would soon be in his sights, and once Illidan was free, this head traitor would join Regis as a bleeding steak for the wild animals of the forests to consume, strip by agonising strip.
 
The crowd of horrors parted as the rebellion leader made it to the front. His pale skin and blonde hair were marred with splotches of blood. A number of superficial scratches decorated his naked torso. Gripping a pair of sickles, their curved edges desecrated with red, he stabbed them into the dirt and squatted down by the night elf demon.
 
Illidan frowned. This was not what he expected at all. "You ... you are not one of Count Dracula's ghouls. You are ..."
 
The blood elf smirked, adjusting his ebony blindfold. "A demon hunter."
 
"Yes, that's right," Regis said. "Not only were you betrayed, but it was by one of your own."