Snakes and Ladders

[Illidan Stormrage]

Creatures of darkness scuttled away from the demonic night elf. Despite their terrible and haunting visages, they fled like ants at the sight of Illidan’s full powered form as he hovered above, beating wings that lashed smoke from his blackened skin. From the dungeon entrance, his warriors poured forth in pursuit of the fleeing traitors, their single-minded purpose akin to Illidan’s own.
 
Colours of green and yellow writhed in the night elf demon’s magic vision; the stench of necromancy and other dark, corruptive magic. They trailed like steam from their owners, but one amber beacon blazed through all of the interference. The sigils and enchantments etched into Poenari Castle’s walls could not shield the intensity of power that brimmed from that source.
 
“Regis...” Illidan growled.
 
He shot from the sky and summoned his warglaives in a puff of smoke as he neared the downed portcullis. His blades exploded in green flame as he pared through the rusted gates and he burst inside.
 
Stormrage followed the thinning yellow fog that catalogued the old necromancer’s path through the castle. Any undead creature or warlock not of Illidan’s forces unlucky enough to encounter him fell in a mangled pile, their wounds hot and festooned with emerald fire. This new power he drew from the Twisting Nether made all of these peons little more than momentary distractions.
 
Dashing around a corner and lopping off a warlock’s head in the process, Illidan reached the end of the necromantic trail. Regis sat in the stone throne of Illidan’s throne room, clutching his staff with gnarled, pallid fingers, the amber gem at its apex glowing faintly. Scores of defenders filled the room. Some belonged to Dracula’s original forces while others were of Stormrage’s own ilk who had defected. Many visibly tensed as the warlock’s decapitated head bounced with a wet, slopping thud through the throne room’s threshold with a blackened, smoking demon hunter close behind.
 
“Illidan,” Regis said, his voice reverting to the listless tone he often used when addressing his former lord. “Remarkable that you managed to escape your prison. Those shackles were specifically designed to restrict your magical capabilities.”
 
“You underestimated me again, necromancer,” Illidan said. “And you gave too much slack in your little pet’s leash. You can thank your treacherous puppet Lavir for providing the keys. Not that you will have the chance to do so in person. Though maybe once I tear your skull from your neck and stick it on a pike, I can bob your jaw up and down in a symbolic gesture of atonement.”
 
“I’m guessing from that elaborate threat that mercy is off the table?” Regis said, leaning against the armrest of his uncomfortable stone chair. “I can smell that you’ve been busy in your down-time. I’m sure you would have brought this power to bear in our earlier fight if you had half the chance.”
 
Illidan took a few steps forward. The clopping of his hooves on the cold stone echoed through the room. “As intuitive as ever.”
 
“You never cease to surprise, Illidan.”
 
“Why?” the night elf demon said. “Why did you betray me? What did I do to warrant the knife in my back? You didn’t even challenge me head-on. You waited until I left before you ransacked my castle and slaughtered my soldiers.”
 
“I think the answer to that should be self evident,” Regis said. “I followed you because I believed you brought vitality and purpose back to Count Dracula’s campaign. When I realised that this perception was all a mirage, I took measures to stop any further damage to the cause.”
 
“And at what point did my history of service and sacrifice to Count Dracula make you decide I was unworthy of leadership?” Illidan asked, baring his sharp teeth in a grimace.
 
Regis’ brow angled lightly, as if Stormrage had abruptly become more interesting. “I’m not blind to the actions of the self-interested. You were building your own forces of soldiers loyal only to you and not Count Dracula. You repeatedly ignored my warnings about Count Dracula’s underlings growing bored and complacent running guard duty. You have manipulated and killed everyone who has had an advantage over you in some way. It was only a matter of time before your inflated ambitions came into conflict with the will of Count Dracula.”
 
“And so you acted to nip my nascent influence in the bud before I bloomed into this imaginary threat to our lord?” Illidan said. “While I still performed my duties to Count Dracula, participating in the Dante’s Abyss tournament, you set out to undermine me. No doubt to wrest the reins of leadership from me. You always harboured dreams of being one of Count Dracula’s elite and you saw the chance to snatch that dream... at my expense, and at our lord’s.” Illidan dropped into a fighting stance, bending at the knees and turning side-on to the warriors blocking his path. “His influence is all that much weaker from this pathetic in-fighting and we only have you to blame. I’m sure Count Dracula won’t mind if I add your traitorous corpse to the piles that already line my castle grounds.”
 
“A fable,” Regis said. “My only interest is to secure the Pale Moors for my lord, and then beyond the reaches of this verse. When a threat to that plan is established, it is my duty to destroy it.”
 
“Why try talking your way out of this now, Regis? You’ve played your hand. You might as well embrace it.”
 
Illidan read the faces of the guards before Regis. Steely countenances were in rich supply but some of his old followers frowned or their stature faulted, their feet shifting and shoulders rolling. He could see their argument was exposing the doubts in their minds.
 
Regis smirked. “Do you think that all of these fighters stand even a chance of defeating you?” he said, gesturing with an open hand to the abominations and turncoats defending their master.
 
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Illidan said. “You don’t stand a chance and you’re much more powerful than this blade fodder you have arranged before you.”
 
Regis climbed to his feet and tapped the base of his staff on stone. The amber crystal at its top sparked. “You know... I think you’re right. A warrior as skilled and strong as you are would find little challenge in them. In fact, forcing you to fight them all here is really just a waste of time.”
 
Illidan furrowed his brow. Where was he going with this?
 
Regis raised his staff. The spark of light in the amber gem flared like a small star. The magical colour saturated Illidan’s vision. “Count Dracula thanks you for your loyal and steadfast service. Know that your contributions to his goals will go a long way to victory.”
 
Bolts of golden lightning burst from the shining staff’s apex and tore through the warriors. Illidan hurled himself out of the way as a crackling finger scorched the stone. Screams shook the throne room as skeletons, zombies, werewolves, warlocks, demon hunters and naga writhed in a blanket of horrible yellow energy. Illidan blinked his eyes shut, his felfire eyes licking the back of his blackened and cracked eyelids, and turned away, unable to witness the intense spell any longer.
 
“Don’t look away now, Illidan!” Regis voice, brimming with vigour and life, pierced through the static. “Your final battle is upon you!”
 
The night elf demon broke his eyelids apart. Desiccated corpses filled the throne room. Their skin wrinkled and clung to their skeletons. Their hair had whitened in the cases where it hadn’t fallen out entirely and framed the skin pulled tight over their skulls. Eyes stared ahead into emptiness, the whites infested with red veins.
 
Illidan slowly lifted his gaze to Regis. A blazing aura of amber surrounded his new body. Black smoke seeped out of his finger tips. His eyes blazed white. He pulled back the green hood over his head and the crinkles and lines that tarnished his wizened face had receded. He stood tall, the arch in his back replaced with a straight spine. Veins of ebony ran up and down his white skin like the barren branches of a tree.
 
“You’re not the only one who can draw power from other sources,” Regis said, his eyes ablaze with youth and confidence. He levelled the pulsing amber gem at the night elf demon. “Now we’re on a more even footing.”
 
Illidan flared his wings. “You have never been in my league, and you still aren’t.”
 
The Betrayer dashed towards Regis, his blades igniting in green fire. Regis swung his staff around as Illidan lunged, their weapons connecting in a shower of sparks. Tensing muscles, they pressed against each other, the impact point growing bright and white. In a simultaneous roar and final push, the energy exploded, launching them backwards and obliterating the roof, sending chunks of stone skyward like grey fireworks. The walls peeled away and tumbled to the ground far below.
 
Illidan rose to his feet, as did Regis. The unceasing clouds of the Pale Moors rolled overhead. Lightning cracked and the sky rumbled with its fury.
 
“Let’s try and deal with this quickly,” Regis said, aiming the staff at Illidan. “I don’t want us to destroy more of my castle than is needed to dispose of you.”
 
“Funny. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
 
Regis thrust his staff forward and a set of deep purple projectiles screamed outwards like frenzied bats. Illidan dodged past them, feeling the ungodly heat as they almost sliced through his black flesh. Still more they came, salvo after salvo of conjured arrowheads. A powerful slap of his wings and Stormrage bounded off the decimated throne room and into the musty air. He ducked and dove through the gaps in between each projectile, though his margin for error was slim.
 
“You can’t dodge my attacks forever, Stormrage!” Regis shouted, his once depressed countenance alive with premature victory. “Count Dracula will have this fortress!”
 
A spear of darkness slashed Illidan’s side and he faltered, grunting as the pain flared unnaturally. He collapsed his wings and slammed onto the open throne room as Regis redirected the stream towards him. Illidan yelled with force and agony as he hurled both of his warglaives at his enemy. Immediately he clutched his side, feeling the warm purple blood ooze from the wound and run down his fingers.
 
Regis cut off his attack and swung his staff into the spinning warglaives, sending them flying away with ease. One careened out of sight while another flopped to the ground away from the night elf demon.
 
That staff... Illidan could see the power wafting from the arcane object. Much of its strength resided in the gem and flowed through the wood and into Regis’ body. Slowly he witnessed the tendrils of magic wend their way into the necromancer’s flesh, burrowing that stolen energy into his spirit, but slowly was the operative word. Over time, the life force burned from the wrinkled corpses in the throne room would seep into Regis permanently, but it wouldn’t happen over the course of this fight.
 
A beam of yellow energy fired from the tip of Regis’ staff. Illidan’s eyes widened as a familiar containment spell wrapped around his body and formed a sphere around him. Regis drew the immobilised demon hunter closer to him.
 
“Don’t you remember our last altercation? One spell to capture you and you were powerless to resist. How did you not see this coming?”
 
Illidan snarled. “If you chain me again, I’ll break free again until I kill you.”
 
“In that case,” Regis said, his empty white eyes beaming, “I better kill you.”
 
The night elf demon grinned. “You won’t get that chance, fool.”
 
Illidan reached out and placed a hand on the amber sphere that surrounded him. Green light crackled from his skin.
 
“No...” Regis said. “You... you are supposed to be frozen... paralysed...”
 
“The power of fel towers over your pathetic corpse-rising!” Illidan spat as sparks of emerald energy raced around the sphere and channelled into the amber gem of Regis’ staff.
 
“No!”
 
The gem splintered as the yellow luminance dulled completely. A moment later, it shone a brilliant green and exploded. The spell encircling Stormrage disintegrated like amber dust and his cloven hooves clanked on the stone floor. Regis staggered backwards, staring at the shattered, smoking stump of his staff in disbelief. His skin grew more haggard and the dark veins in his skin had shrunk away from prominence. A fog of yellow wafted above.
 
 Illidan loomed over the prone necromancer. Lightning snaked through the sky. He picked up a warglaive. “Any last words, betrayer?”
 
“Yes,” Regis said, raising a hand. “Never assume victory until you have it in your grasp!”
 
The yellow mist above, the remnants of the staff’s gem, sucked down into Regis’ waiting fingers. It coalesced into a ball of light, and Illidan instantly felt the spell’s power.
 
“No!” Illidan raised his warglaive and swung.
 
“Yes!” Regis projected a beam of amber energy from his hand.
 
Stormrage jerked his head to the side, pivoting as the deathly concentration of necromantic magic flew inches away from his face. He tumbled in a controlled spin to the ground, though the warglaive slipped from his fingers, clanging on the stone and falling over the room’s edge.
 
He rolled back to his feet as Regis aimed at his target, rage etched in his aging features. The searing beam of magic descended on Illidan.
 
Grabbing his blindfold, the night elf demon tore it free and from his fiery eyes issued forth a torrent of sickly green fel energy. His eye beams collided with Regis’ last-ditch spell, their frenzied struggle bursting at the seams with molten magic that splashed thickly on the stone floor. Two colossal forces waged war against the other, shaking Poenari Castle and infuriating the sky.
 
“The power of so many souls cannot be resisted!” Regis boasted. “You do not have the strength to stop them!”
 
“The trouble with your flimsy spell,” Illidan shouted, “is that you used a finite power supply. And an evaporating one at that. The spiritual residue you sucked from your staff’s destruction will only last you so long. In fact, it must be time for it to run out.”
 
The thickness of Regis’ spell shrunk. Even through the green haze, Illidan could see the unadulterated shock on the old necromancer’s face.
 
“Oh, and one last thing before I scour you from this reality...” Illidan said. “Dracula will break beneath my heel!”
 
“...Betrayer!”
 
Illidan’s eye beams dissected the yellow column of magic, plunging through its core and blasting into Regis. A flaming green explosion engulfed the old necromancer and threw Stormrage from the castle. The night elf demon flexed his wings and flapped above the smouldering room. A blackened rib cage secured the space where Regis once was; Illidan thought he saw the arm and leg bones cartwheeling towards the courtyard. A charcoal skull dropped from the sky and broke into dust as it hit the throne room floor.
 
The squabble for leadership was finally finished. Illidan alighted on the roofless throne room and watched a moment as the winds gradually eroded the rib cage away, the black dust swirling into the sky. Content that Regis was not coming back, Illidan flared his wings and glided to the ground, a stream of coal-black smoke marking his descent.
 
His loyal followers had regathered in the courtyard, awaiting their leader outside the rusted iron portcullis of Poenari Castle. Touching down on the ground, his acolytes parted to make room, in the process revealing two bound figures on the ground. One struggled with all his unholy might while the other lay in defeat, or perhaps acceptance.
 
“Let me free, Stormrage!” Azzinoth bellowed, squirming against his restraints, wings pressed awkwardly against his muscular body. “Let’s have a true fight and see who is the strongest!”
 
Lavir lifted his glowing green eyes to Illidan but didn’t say a word. Illidan let his gaze linger on the blood elf before he addressed his warriors.
 
“Today is a great day,” Illidan said. “We have reclaimed what is ours and sent the disloyal host of Count Dracula to the winds. It will take time to rebuild, but we shall. Ours will be a strength without end and without compare!”
 
The crowd cheered but it quickly died down. Torandril sidled up to the night elf demon. “My lord. We have brought these two before you for judgement. The others wish to know what you will do with them.”
 
Illidan pointed a finger at the demon whose blades he stole thousands of years ago. “Take this filth to the dungeons and chain him. Ensure he cannot escape. He will be dealt with when I see fit.”
 
A group of demon hunters bore Azzinoth in their arms and trudged towards the underground dungeon, the demon struggling and spitting threats all the while.
 
“As for this one...” Illidan said, his head jerking to Lavir. “He betrayed his lord and set a traitor to rule over us all. He benefited from this arrangement and he wasn’t even a demon hunter! However, he has shown regret for his actions, and his betrayal was driven by fear rather than greed or ambition.” Illidan paused as he considered his options. “Ultimately, he is not of our stock. He cannot stand at our sides as a brother on the battlefield against the Burning Legion. He simply does not have what it takes.”
 
Lavir lowered his head, his face blank.
 
“And yet I do not believe death is a fair punishment. Without his cowardice, Regis would still be scheming and plotting to take my power from me, and perhaps another avenue without Lavir would have seen him successful.” Illidan turned to Clawfang. “Unbind him.”
 
The werewolf raised his hairy brow but complied. He stomped over to Lavir and tore his binds to shreds with his claws. The blood elf sat motionless, staring at Illidan.
 
“That’s it?” Lavir said.
 
“You may live,” Illidan said. “But it will not be with the Illidari. You are banished from Poenari Castle and any other lands I will one day claim.”
 
“But... where will I go?”
 
“Darkshire is not far from here. The portal out of this verse is further but leads to better places. I care not which you choose, but you will not remain here. Take what provisions you need for the journey and be on your way.”
 
Lavir stood and brushed the dust from his pale skin. He looked around at the hard gazes of Illidan’s forces. “I... understand. You are merciful to let me live at all. Thank you... Lord Stormrage.”
 
The blood elf passed through the crowd that ringed him and vanished.
 
“Now my warriors,” Illidan said. “Rest. We have been through much in recent times. We will restore Poenari Castle to its former glory and restock our forces, but let us take heart that we have won the day!”
 
Illidan looked his fortress up and down as his followers cheered. If Regis did all of this to his forces, what hope did they have of moving forward?