Let Darkness Come

[Illidan Stormrage]

A yellow glow hugged the crest of the hill as they climbed, thickening the further they ascended. The necromantic energy in the valley was invisible to Gerald, and likely the inexperienced Milton, but Illidan knew that the brightness from this distance meant that the other side of the hill was saturated in it. Gerald may have been uncertain about the veracity of the claims about the necromancer's location, but the night elf had no doubt in his mind that it was correct.
 
Although looking ahead, Illidan also inspected his two companions climbing either side of him, though neither were as fit or well-rested as he was. Gerald held his sword in a death grip, his wrists shaking. Face sullen, eyes wide and darting in every direction, he was hardly the image of a brave knight questing to save his true love from the clutches of nefarious evil. It'd be an achievement if he didn't soil himself.
 
Milton's face also depicted a man under stress, but not because of overwhelming terror. The gradient of the hill lowered the old man to a half crawl, scrabbling at the thin grass with his hands as he hunched over. Spellcasters, and the elderly in general, often lacked proper constitution for travel and battle, and Milton was both combined. Still, even though he thrashed his way up the incline, he did so with surprising vigour, belying his creased skin and bleary eyes.
 
At the top of the hill, Illidan glanced into the valley below. A veritable fog of swirling yellow energy suffocated the space. Built a short distance from the hill's base was an old wooden cathedral, ostensibly abandoned from its damaged and worn exterior. Random breaks and holes in the planks dappled its outside walls, and most of the once white paint had peeled off or been beaten by the relentless sun into pallid grey. What remained of the glass windows jutted out in spiked daggers, clinging to the rim, while irregular shards lay smothered in dust and grime on the sills. One of the double doors that permitted entry swung precariously on a single rusted hinge, while the other had given up the fight a long time ago.
 
Illidan strengthened his grasp on his warglaives as his gaze wandered from the defiled cathedral and settled upon the roaming undead. Reawakened corpses of all shapes and degrees of degradation traipsed ungainly back and forth, their subtle moans barely reaching the night elf atop the hill. They appeared to be guarding the condemned building, though none came within ten metres of the hall. If they were indeed patrolling, they either needed glasses or simply were too distant to spot Illidan scouting the area, since none made a move towards him.
 
Gerald lumbered up the last few sloped steps and stuck hands on his knees, sucking in air loudly. Physical exertion and fear are a bad combination. "Just ... just give me ... a moment ..."
 
The skin about Illidan's nose grew taut, pulling his upper lip. "Take all the time you need." What a pathetic specimen of humanity. How did a creature ruled by fright and lethargy receive the honour of guarding his kin?
 
Milton scrambled up to the crest of the hill a few moments later. Though he too panted for breath, he stood upright and surveyed the valley without a care while Gerald, red faced, still wiped the sweat from his brow.
 
"Looks like the boy's information was good," Milton said with a subdued smile. "As was mine."
 
Gerald's face was already stained white from the climb, but Illidan swore it paled another shade when he witnessed the undead army below. "Oh ... oh gods ... Marie is down there? So many undead ..."
 
Illidan's fingers stiffened, a blazing pressure ballooning in his chest. This buffoon wouldn't make it three steps before he forfeited his blade and begged the merciless zombies for mercy. He threw down the warglaives and seized Gerald by the collar of his sweat stained undershirt, forcing the shorter man's eyes into the burning green of his, the unholy light piercing the tan blindfold.
 
"Enough of this cowardice!" Illidan strained each syllable while keeping his voice low. The last thing he wanted was a tide of undead crashing over the hill as he berated the failure of a guard. "Your fear will be your death if you don't master it right now! The undead will not forgive you for trespassing on their land, nor will they react to your screams as they cannabalise you while you still breathe! This is no game, this is not pretend heroes-and-villains that you played at with toy swords and your imagination! If you want to save your woman, you better find your courage, or else you will be the distraction I use to escape from here! Am I clear?!"
 
Gerald's face ran with sweat, though he had recovered from the climb. He swallowed, a slow and laboured movement. "Y-yes, uh ... sir. I-I understand."
 
Illidan released the soldier like he dropped a piece of trash. Gerald stumbled, stopping a tumble down the hill with the point of his sword.
 
Milton smiled, though his eyes did not crinkle with it. "A bit hard on the boy, weren't you?"
 
"Don't you start," Illidan said, though the passion had left him. Rage was a funny emotion; it could be stoked instantly, like oil spilling into fire, but could be doused just as quick if it served its purpose. "Same goes for you, by the way."
 
"Nice to know how you treat your allies."
 
"You are guides, at best," Illidan reminded him. "It is more accurate to say you are here with me as a matter of happenstance than of planning and camaraderie."
 
Milton shrugged his bony shoulders. "At least you didn't wrinkle my cloak and bluster in my face."
 
"There's still time, old man. Now shut up." The night elf angled his brows. The swathes of risen thralls hadn't so much as moved an inch closer to the hill. In fact, a pack of them stumbled towards the cathedral but stiffened a few steps in, then hobbled an about-face and dragged themselves away.
 
"Wh ... what's happening? What are they doing?" Gerald asked, curiosity claiming his terror addled mind for at least a moment. "They're not defending the cathedral at all."
 
Milton looked at the soldier. "So what do you think that means, son?"
 
Gerald massaged his cheeks, fingers on one side and thumb on the other. "That ... the necromancer isn't in the building? It's just an old church, but he's further out into the plain, out there somewhere?"
 
Illidan scoffed at the human's appraisal. "If you followed that logic, you'd be dead seconds within reaching the base of the hill."
 
Gerald pouted and looked at his boots. Milton, however, glared at the night elf. "So if you're so smart, which I do wonder about since you fight without even a shirt to protect you, what are they doing?"
 
Illidan rolled his neck to face the wizened man. "It's obvious. The necromancer knows we're here."
 
"But how?" Gerald asked.
 
"It could be a number of reasons," Illidan said. "First and foremost, we've been killing the dead he's raised. He would've sensed that. Also, we've been walking on his land. There are likely enchantments that are signalling our intrusion even now." Gerald gulped at that. "And that's assuming he can't sense my power. Put all of that together and he's had plenty of warning that we're coming."
 
Gerald frowned, gazing out at the horde. "That doesn't make sense. If he knows we're here, why doesn't he send the undead up here to kill us?"
 
"Why indeed," Illidan replied.
 
Gerald cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah ... why?"
 
Milton skirted around Illidan and placed a withered hand on the soldier's shoulder. "There's only one reason why a necromancer wouldn't attack us this far out from Darkshire. So why would that be? What does he have to gain from keeping us alive?"
 
Scratching his head, Gerald moved his lips as he dwelled on the question. "Um ..."
 
"It's because we have something he wants." Illidan folded his arms over his chest. "And he knows he can retrieve it easier if we come to him. There's an ambush waiting for us down there."
 
"An ... an ambush?" Gerald's inquisitiveness died off, eaten by his voracious fear. "S-so he's waiting for us to just ... walk into our deaths?"
 
"He's certainly not inviting us to lunch," Milton said. He paused. "Unless he has a vampire friend."
 
"V-vampire?"
 
"Stop frightening him," Illidan said, though not out of an abundance of compassion. "He'll freeze on his feet as soon as anything happens if you keep stoking his paranoia." Stealing his warglaives from the ground, he slashed them through the empty air in front of him, the steel singing. He didn't know what this necromancer wanted from him, but he had to be prepared. His death was the only thing Illidan sought.
 
The night elf halted his blades by his sides. "Are you prepared?"
 
Milton waggled his thin fingers. "Always ready to rip apart some undead."
 
Gerald swung his weapon before him, confident and rigid, perhaps forcing the bravado he would need to survive. He looked straight ahead, refusing to meet Illidan's gaze. "I'm doing this for Marie. But if we find she isn't there ... I'm leaving. I hope you understand."
 
"What you do is of little concern to me," Illidan said. "Let's go, and stay quiet."
 
As one, delicately, they snuck down the other side of the hill. Illidan skulked deliberately, so that his associates wouldn't be left behind completely, but he also didn't desire a flood of hungry corpses to rush at him after being spooked. While he banked on the fact that the necromancer held the marauding horrors at bay, he had been wrong before. Besides, there was every chance his foe would bore of the wait and sic the monsters on them.
 
Gerald and Milton kept pace easily enough, though the descent seemed to pain the old man, as if his frail bones couldn't support his feather-light weight when going against the grain of gravity. Gerald, on the other hand, gradually shed the helpless villager act the further they travelled down the mountain. Straightening his back, firming his footsteps, weapon unsheathed and poised for battle, it was as if he was literally stepping into the warrior he would need to be. Whether it stemmed from concern for his beloved or simple acceptance of his imminent death, it steeled him, making him less of a liability.
 
They reached the base of the hill, staring through the broken double doors of the cathedral. The free-range undead hadn't reacted one iota to their presence, even though Illidan was positive a handful had looked directly at him. Through the gap created by the missing door, darkness shrouded the interior. No sound or movement, not even a solitary candle burned to ward away the black. Too far away to scan with his spectral sight.
 
"Here's how we're going to play this," Illidan whispered. "I'll lead. Gerald, if your wife is inside, you will follow. When I've ensured that everything is safe, you get her out." Illidan omitted the part where he believed that wouldn't be possible. "Old man,-"
 
"Milton."
 
"Old man, you stay outside. Keep your eye around the corner. Make sure the undead don't decide to join us all of the sudden. If you can hold them off, good. If not, warn us. Does everyone understand?"
 
Gerald nodded fiercely. Milton shot a sour look at Illidan, but grudgingly nodded.
 
"Then let's do this."
 
Blades bared and shimmering in the moonlight, Illidan crept closer towards the cathedral. With each step, a putrid stench strengthened, stinging his nostrils. He breathed through slitted lips instead. Yet as they reached the threshold of the building, tiptoeing around the fallen door, the rotten odour slithered up his nose regardless. Gerald stifled a wave of nausea behind him. Milton's footsteps were so light that Illidan barely registered them.
 
Focusing, Illidan quested into the dark cathedral with his magically enhanced sight. Pews lined either side of the long aisle, the wood splintered and brittle, but whole. Dust coated the walls and seats with a thick film, but the aisle and dais at the far end of the structure had been disrupted, where channels had been wrought by feet. Brass candelabras were stockpiled at the sides of the dais, supporting unlit but melted candles. A lectern looked over the eerie congregation, a thick book closed on top of it. Sulphuric fog laced the air within, densest at the lectern. No one moved inside, but he sensed a body. Something insubstantial and ethereal stopped his vision from forming any further, as if he were looking into a rippling pond. He withdrew. Some spell activated at the presence of his own magic. This was the right place.
 
Illidan touched Milton on the shoulder and breathed. "Stay here." The old man nodded.
 
The night elf calmed his nerves and focused. The necromancer was somewhere inside, concealed. Whatever happened, no matter what he said or falsely promised, he had to remember - he was here to kill him. Practitioners of the undead were foul, twisted beings, undeserving of the vast magical powers they wielded. Making a deal with one would be like succumbing to the Burning Legion ... bad example. Or perhaps, a good one. Illidan had learned through torturous experience how foolish and short-sighted it had been to ally himself with such all-encompassing evil.
 
On the other hand, the power ...
 
Illidan grunted. No. I am a demon hunter, not a demon.
 
Through the doorway he went, Gerald on his heels. The cathedral opened up before him, the barrier that confused his sight dispelling. He slinked forward, purposefully, one foot after the other, warglaives menacingly on display. Rows of empty, long abandoned pews slid past him at a snail's pace, the quiet undercut by Gerald's deep breaths. Illidan remained alert, scanning over his shoulders, detailing every feature of the room.
 
Scratches, some from human fingernails, marred the walls, as did liberal splashes of dried blood. The stench almost brought tears to Illidan's eyes, if he were capable of crying, though it tossed his stomach like a boat in a maelstrom. A soft tinkling sounded from above, a glass chandelier swayed faintly by the wind that oozed in through the door. In the front pews, on either side, sat a skeleton, both manipulated to face the pulpit attentively, bleached hands in their laps. A sick joke, perhaps.
 
They reached the dais without incident. A large arched  window presided above the lectern, the only window in the whole cathedral that remained intact, though caked with dust. Illidan stepped onto the dais, glancing at the book on the lectern. Its thick cover was inscribed with golden lettering, though what language the symbols belonged to he couldn't say. Against the wall, to the side of a mountain of scrolls and parchments in the far corner, slouched a body, pinned to the wall by manacles around their wrists.
 
A sharp intake of breath from behind. "Marie ...?"
 
Gerald dashed past him, sagged to his knees and dropped his sword. Hands reached for her slumping head, raising her face to his. She didn't look good at all. Her clothes, while lacking blood stains, had been pawed and torn. Whether starved or drained of some vital essences, her body looked marginally better than Milton's, her skin moulded about bones.
 
"Marie?" Gerald asked, his voice tight. All vestiges of courage he collected on the way down the hill had fled him, replaced by desperation. "Marie?! Please, can you hear me?"
 
She didn't respond, but Illidan thought to point out what Gerald had missed in his blinding terror. "She's still breathing. She's still alive."
 
Gerald thrust his ear against Marie's ridged chest, eyes wide, then closed them, uttering a moan of relief as tears fell down his cheeks, whispering, "she's alive, she's alive."
 
Illidan spun about the dais. "Can you free her?"
 
Lifting his sword, Gerald jammed it into the manacle and levered against the seam. He grunted, muscles bulging, until the manacle cracked open. Marie collapsed towards the ground, dangling by her other captive arm. Gerald made quick work of the last restraint, and caught her as she drooped. Hugging her fiercely, the soldier sat with his beloved, embracing the moment of sheer joy.
 
However, since finding Marie had reduced him to an emotional wreck, Gerald no longer factored into Illidan's plans. They had to get out of the cathedral, lest they become a ripe target for the necromancer, when he decided to reveal himself. The night elf hurried to the soldier and toed him in the ribs. "Get up! Get out of here!"
 
Light bloomed on either side of the dais. The candelabras burned with a myriad of tiny flames.
 
The night elf's chest felt like something was crushing it. "No-"
 
Searing lightning ripped through Illidan's body. He shook on the spot, fingers loosing on his warglaives. It suffused his skin, igniting every pain receptor it could attack, locking his bones in place. His vision blurred, fiery hot agony splashing through his bones. He tried to scream and roar, give his torture a voice, but his jaw set in place like stone. All thoughts were drenched in the inescapable, unmitigated death that forked beyond his body and into his soul. As the lava in his veins crescendoed, reaching heights of physical anguish Illidan had only suffered through at the hands of the Burning Legion, it cut off. He swayed, somehow on his knees, and then everything went black.
 
Darkness receded. Illidan opened his fire-eyes, laying awkwardly on his side for a few blank moments, devoid of any awareness. His gaze settled on two other bodies, smoking against the wall. Like a nightsaber pouncing on its prey, his memory shrieked back.
 
He shot up and swore at the stinging that flared through his skeleton. It wore off quickly, but every movement, as he changed from a kneel to a standing position, awoke the stabbing in his joints. Where did that attack come from? Spinning towards the cathedral doors, he came face to face with his assailant.
 
Milton grinned, revealing hordes of tiny, yellowed teeth. His outstretched fingers summoned an otherworldly yellow light about them. "Oh come on. Don't tell me this was a big surprise?"
 
"You?" Illidan croaked, discovering that his lips moved like thick molasses. "How-?"
 
"How did I find you?" Milton paced, emaciated arms behind his back. "You killed my perimeter undead. They were supposed to catch one of the humans, you know. They were intentionally left close to Darkshire for that explicit purpose. But no, you had to wipe them out, didn't you?"
 
"No," Illidan said, regaining control his jaw, though his tongue grated against the dryness of his mouth. "How ... did you manage to hide in plain sight from me?"
 
"Not hard when you're hiding from a blind man!" That horrid cackling again, chilling his blood. "Or should I say, blind night elf?"
 
"I'm ... I'm not blind," Illidan said, slapping a hand on the lectern. The pain in his bones was bleeding away. "I can sense the taint of evil like you see fog. I saw it ... everywhere. On the undead. In this cathedral. But I never saw it on you."
 
"Oh? Well that's easy to explain." Milton's tight skin twisted into a devilish smile. "I'm much, much stronger than you are. I could hide the 'taint,' as you call it, from your fledgling skills. Though I find it odd that you couldn't sense my power when I unwound those undead before."
 
"I did sense it, albeit briefly," Illidan said. He had to stall for time. Where were his warglaives? They weren't on the dais anymore. "But I bought your ridiculous lie."
 
Another mocking, macabre grin. "Yes, that was rather naive of you, wasn't it? How many old men that aren't necromancers do you know that can unbind the magicks holding the undead together?"
 
Spectral sight scuttled over the cathedral walls. The warglaives, clear in his vision now, criss-crossed each other ... behind Milton. He hadn't wasted any time while Illidan had been dead to the world. "So why do any of it? Why did you walk with me all this way? Why the lies?"
 
Milton cleared his throat, his countenance hardening. "You're not the only one who can sense dark magic. As soon as you dispatched the first corpse in the trap, I felt it radiating from across the plains. While I haven't been impressed with the power I've found in you, after closer inspection, at the time I didn't know that pulse, that yearning heart beat, didn't belong to you. I thought what I felt was your innate ability, so I came to investigate. It turns out that, much to my pleasant surprise, it wasn't someone bent on killing me, someone whose skill and mastery of the craft eclipsed mine."
 
"No, I didn't rate you as the threat I first believed. But there was something remarkable about you. Or rather ..." That damn cocky grin again. "That remarkable something hanging from your belt."
 
Illidan's throat constricted. A stone sunk deep into his gut. His hand slapped his side.
 
The Skull of Gul'dan was gone.
 
A gnarled hand fished into Milton's robe and extracted the missing artefact. "This is it, isn't it?" He breathed deeply, holding the skull to his nose. "Oh, how glorious! Such power housed in a dead man's head!"
 
Illidan's heart raced. Not the skull! No matter what he chose to do with it, it was his and his alone. A sickness saturated his stomach at the thought of that much eldritch energy being at the disposal of anyone except him.
 
He thought about rushing the bastard. Demon hunters were spry and agile; there was a good chance he could avoid the magical attacks that would surely fly his way, though guessing at something so critical was a stupid, impetuous idea. Normally Illidan loved those ideas, but not when something so valuable was being gambled. He needed more time. More information wouldn't hurt, either, since Milton liked to marinate in his own ego.
 
"You didn't answer my question!" Illidan roared, hoping the fury in his voice would bring the necromancer back to the conversation. Only some of the rage was embellished.
 
"No, I guess I didn't," Milton said thoughtfully. "I travelled with you and led you here because I was being cautious. I see now that I could've stolen the skull easily, but at the time I was concerned you shrouded your true power, as I did from you. A brazen attempt on the skull might've earned your ire and brought your full strength to bear." He chuckled. "Though I vastly overestimated you, it seems. Anyway, no matter your abilities, I knew I could claim the skull if I attacked you with your guard down. And I wasn't wrong."
 
Illidan twisted his neck to the corner of the room. Gerald and Marie lay in a tangled mess, smoke rising from their skin, unmoving.
 
"They're not dead, in case you're wondering," Milton said. "They're not in the best of health either, but not dead. Actually, even with this skull, I think I'll still use them."
 
"For what?" Illidan asked. How much force would it take to rip the ceiling down? Would it even faze the necromancer?
 
Milton lifted the Skull of Gul'dan to his eyes, peering into the black sockets. "Before I found you, I was preparing a sacrifice for the great Count Dracula," Milton met Illidan's gaze. "Remember him? I taught you all about him." Eyes back to the skull. "Anyway, I've wanted to join his elite for some time now, and thanks to a new policy, he will grant anyone an audience who brings a severed soldier head and an innocent person. If he finds them worthy, he grants them a portion of his power. Now that I have this skull and the two tickets to Count Dracula's good graces, just think of the strength I'll possess!" He threw his head back and laughed, the sound of a maniac fulfilling his wildest dreams.
 
As Illidan supported himself on the pulpit, the air pungent with death, he realised the only option available to him. Part of him knew it would come to this again, but a younger, less jaded part hoped it wouldn't. If things had turned out better, maybe he could've remained a demon hunter.
 
Maybe Tyrande ...
 
Illidan threw out a hand, willing the magic in his blood to rise. Invisible fingers clasped around the skull, and he pulled. Milton's laughter cut off and he pulled back. The night elf struggled, his telekinetic spell grappling with the counter spell of the decrepit necromancer.
 
"Finders keepers, night elf!" Milton roared.
 
Sweat blotted his purple skin. He couldn't tear the skull free. Milton, even without the fortification of the orc warlock's head, outranked him. But Illidan wouldn't be beaten. Strength may have prevailed when he slew Arthas, but this time he needed to employ something more.
 
With his other hand, Illidan bid the first warglaive to levitate. It hovered in mid-air, the blades turning over themselves.
 
Milton looked over his shoulder. "You won't succeed!"
 
A rush of invisible energy crashed into Illidan's chest, knocking him off his feet. Milton lifted the Skull of Gul'dan aloft, grinning. "Is that all you've got?"
 
Illidan sat up. Eyes burned sickly green behind his blindfold. "You've forced my hand."
 
The warglaive soared end over end, slicing into Milton's back. Pale red blood sprayed up into the air like a fountain. His mouth opened in a scream but no sound left his lips.
 
Again Illidan grasped the skull from across the room. The counter defence had fallen. With a desperate yank, the night elf flung the artefact across the cathedral and into his awaiting hands. An instant relief flooded his chest.
 
"No!"
 
Milton stood on his feet, a curved blade sticking out of his chest. Blood seeped from the impalement, but if it bothered him in any way, the necromancer refused to show it. His pasty, bloodshot eyes burned, skin so taut over his face as to expose the hideous skull beneath. With surprising flexibility, Milton sprinted at Illidan, the warglaive not slowing him down in the slightest. Swirling yellow energy pooled in his clawed hands.
 
"It's mine!"
 
No time left. Illidan focused on his last untainted moment and sucked in the horrifying powers of the Burning Legion raging within the Skull of Gul'dan. Black smoke steamed from the cavities and coiled around Illidan's skin, seeping through his eyes, mouth, nose, ears, even the tiny pores of his skin, until the inky blackness of the Twisting Nether consumed him from the inside out.
 
Illidan heard one last brutal scream from Milton, a bone-shaking explosion, and fell into a yawning, hungry void.