King of the Castle

[Illidan Stormrage]

Illidan's hooves sunk into the gravel and ash in the castle bailey. His magic sight took in faint yellow streaks bleeding over the landscape, some pulsing while others melting away. The wind whistled over the inner wall, stirring discarded rags and fallen flags around him. The night elf demon's skin prickled at the magic thrumming through the old, abandoned stones. Nothing stirred but the loose items fiddled at by the breeze.
 
Where are the other spirits? Illidan stepped forward, pressing lightly on his hooves. The gravel shifted and cracked beneath him, but nothing rushed forward like the spectre had outside the walls. His spectral gaze never lied; sorcery draped over the empty castle, slinking through every crevice and crack. Illidan swallowed, setting his jaw. The rush of air through his lungs cancelled out the silence, but it shouldn't have. A haunted castle without ghosts raised more questions than answers.
 
Unimpeded by hostiles, Illidan strode through the bailey, passing taverns, forges and living quarters once bustling with humans and serving the needs of this King Aragorn now crumbling and bereft of purpose. Swords, axes and bows scattered over the path, but no sign of the soldiers who relinquished their arms in death. No dented plate mail, no steel helmets scarred by blood, no rusting chainmail arranged over rib cages. Had a battle even taken place here, or had the humans thrown down their weapons and retreated? Assuming that to be the case, there should be evidence of the slower or unluckier soldiers who couldn't outrun the onslaught.
 
A black lump of fur snagged the night elf demon's attention further down the path. As he approached it, its features coalesced from the gloom. The creature's back arched backwards, its clawed feet drawn tightly against its chest, wings spread over the ground. Its fox-like snout hung open, a grey tongue rolling out, its beady yellow eyes glassed over. Illidan kneeled by the man-bat and pressed fingers to its cold throat. Dead.
 
As he stood and removed his fingers, a blue, smoky thread wrapped about them. Illidan tugged back on it, yanking more eerie fog to steam from the dead man-bat's fur. The blue cloud shimmered and condensed, reforming until it resembled a humanoid shape. The thread about his fingers bloated and morphed into an ethereal hand gripping him. Its pale skull face housed blazing yellow balls of light in its eye sockets, and its bony jaw dropped open.
 
Illidan's pulse quickened. He knew what this phantom planned to do. A heat rose in his chest and green tattoos lit with a warm ambience as fel magic arose to his command.
 
The phantom tilted its head at the emerald light spilling from Illidan's skin and tightened its grasp. A stream of cold energy poured down Illidan's arm and splashed into his core, dousing the kiln that had ignited. The night elf demon resisted the dampening, stoking the magical energies within him, but the chill remained, spreading out like the roots of a tree. Still the eldritch light blazed from Illidan's arcane tattoos, as if the magic had not vanished. Was it still there, yet the phantom was somehow dividing him from his own fel energy?
 
The blue spirit's jaw dangled but no sound came out. It threw itself at Illidan, passing through his skin like it was gossamer, and winter crystallised inside him. The night elf demon's thoughts dwindled as the cold clutched icy fingers around his brain. He felt the thud of his knees diving into the gravel, and then
 
the firm leather of a gloved hand grabbing mine and hoisting me to my feet.
 
"You're a bit off today, huh?" John Boy said, dusting his hand on his waist.
 
"Yeah, I guess so," I said. A hot pain prickled below my temple. I pressed fingers against the skin to stop it, but rubbing only mitigated it to a degree.
 
"Didn't mean to crack you so hard," John Boy said, tossing his wooden sword to his free hand and back again. "You've been putting up a good defence lately."
 
 I bent over and collected my practice sword from the ground. Swords felt foreign and unwieldy in my hands; give me a bow and quiver any day. But I had to learn how to protect myself in close quarters. An arrow is no defence for a horde of screaming demons charging metres away from me.
 
"Kind of you to say so, but it doesn't feel any easier," I said, swiping the wooden stick through the empty air. "I don't know how you do it, but I'm not sure I'll be ready to use one of these for real any time soon." I rolled my shoulder and an ache protested the motion. "Arrow wound's still acting up too."
 
John Boy shook his head. "Nothing to it. Swing the steel, cut up demon flesh. Easy."
 
"Easy for you. You're in this army 'cause you know how to do that. I've always preferred picking off enemies from a distance."
 
"Yeah, sure. But you can't rely on that any more. The demons have become stronger, grouping, patrols are more frequent. The better you're trained, the better off everyone will be."
 
I stabbed the rounded nub of the stick into the gravel. John Boy was right, but he deftly avoided mentioning when the enemy developed into the greater threat. He always did. And every time he brought it up, it was all I could do to forget the day, up on the parapets, when they first attacked with their own archers. When I held onto Kat's hand as the crimson of her life flowed from her neck, her grip slipping away ...
 
"Hey!"
 
I snapped back to reality. "I'm here."
 
John Boy stared at me for a moment. "Maybe we should break there for the day."
 
I rolled my sore shoulder again. "Yeah."
 
John Boy took my wooden sword and gave me a final glance. "You can't let it eat you up, Rob. People die in war." I gazed back with hard eyes. "You're changing, Rob. You used to be a prankster, making the troop laugh ... I'm worried about you."
 
I turned. "I'm still alive. That's all that matters, right?"
 
Silence hung between us for a long moment, until it broke beneath the footsteps of John Boy heading away.
 
I walked off without looking over my shoulder.
 
I passed by strangers and comrades, all a little less jubilant than they were a month ago. The ambience in the air, while still jovial from the tavern, felt heavier in every other place in the castle. We all thought this was a sweet gig, hunting weak parties of goblins and bipedal beasts, gaining experience and the kudos of our commanders. Now we all knew what we were in for. On that day a month ago, it all clicked why King Aragorn and Camelot's mages assembled this mighty castle in short order, though I doubted the monarch and his advisers had expected the deluge of demonic monsters since then. We had still won that surprise skirmish, but the ever mounting raids and ferocity of the enemy had weathered our morale.
 
I pushed through the barracks door, slapping it against the wall, and ... decided to kill myself, since I was such a cowardly weakling. No ... that's not what I thought at all. I trudged down the hallway, ignoring the other soldiers milling about, heading straight for my quarters. I knew that ... being a human only compounded my folly, and my stupidity and insidiousness would never be cured. Instead, I would ... these thoughts are not my own, what is this? No, as I arrived at my quarters,
 
Illidan took a sharp breath inwards. A furious cold arrested his entire body, shaking as if hypothermia ravaged him. Blue vapour smoked from his violet skin. The spirit scraped at his mind, its grip finally loosened, but in charge of his faculties again, Illidan summoned his dark magicks to his aid. The pressure welled within him, but the swirling power cloaked from his senses again, swamped by an invisible layer.
 
The night elf demon tossed his head back and bared fangs as a penetrating, burning freeze drilled through his skull. The cold fog thickened from his pores, and soon his vision saw nothing but the mist all around. Illidan clenched his fists, nails piercing the skin of his palms, and
 
turned the handle. I stepped into my room and slammed the door behind me. I kicked off my boots and slumped onto my pallet. My eyes found the chipped boards above me and my thoughts drank deep of the brooding weight that suffused my lungs.
 
How could John Boy be so flippant about it all? He lost friends in that battle too, plus more since the raids had escalated. How could he just push it all out of his mind like none of it mattered? Maybe he's colder than me, or maybe it's a coping mechanism. I can't see how forgetting those we care about does anyone any good.
 
I yawned. I shuffled on my pallet, pinching my arrow wound. I hissed in a breath and flopped on my other side. My eyes fluttered, but I couldn't keep them open. I saw the back of my eyelids.
 
A loud bang shook my room. I jolted up. A soldier stood at my door, eyes wild. "Come on, we've been called up!"
 
I hopped out of bed, stuffing my feet into my boots, and charged out of the room. My regiment filed out of the barracks and started equipping themselves for battle. I pulled on my leather vest and slung a full quiver over my chest. I snatched up a bow as my eyes settled on John Boy.
 
"Hey!" I shouted as I jogged to him. "What's going on?"
 
John Boy adjusted the scabbard on his belt. "A battle. Outside. Not on the other side of the river. Behind us."
 
My eyes rose. "Behind the castle? They sneaked over the Poe River without us knowing?"
 
My friend shrugged. "It looks that way. But the force outside need reinforcements, and it's our job tonight." He slapped my shoulder. "Let's get ready to fight. You going to be all right?"
 
It was time for war. I took a stabilising breath and fired it out. "Let's do this."
 
We stormed out of the gates. Horses stampeded into the front lines, knights in plate mail leading the charge with swords and lances held high. John Boy and the other foot soldiers raced after them, roaring a battle cry. My fellow archers and I trailed them, stringing arrows to our bows.
 
The night bit with a deep chill, and I wondered how much of it was my own blood running cold at the thought of entering the fray with those hellspawn again. Ahead of me was all dust and screaming, blood and steel shining in the pale moonlight. I watched as John Boy descended into the melee, sword held high as he bellowed.
 
Our commander slapped his hand into the sky. As one, we stopped and knelt down, yanking back on the bowstrings.
 
"Ready aim!" he shouted. I took my time, singling out a long eared imp that sprinted towards the fray around where John Boy had ventured in. Its pudgy yellow eyeballs made fantastic targets.
 
"Fire!"
 
We released as one, and our symphony of feathered steel showered upon the advancing reinforcements of the enemy. To our great luck, they hadn't noticed us, and many of the twisted creatures intended to bolster their forces collapsed with new metal piercings throughout their bodies. A cheer went up.
 
"Ready aim!" shouted my commander. We complied, stringing new arrows and locating new targets. The enemy reinforcements had taken notice of us and retreated from the main battle, hoping to elude our range. I judged that some might make it clear, but many wouldn't.
 
"Fire!"
 
Again a horde of whizzing arrows descended from their high arcs and speared through the hellish army, though those equipped with shields collected the projectiles harmlessly. Any other reinforcements turned tail and fled, realising the battle had been lost.
 
I punched the air and bellowed in celebration with my comrades. This battle would turn out differently. The knights in the melee circled the last dark soldiers and slashed them to the cold earth, then pointed blades at the escaping legion of creatures. Cries of "push the advantage!" and "let's finish the bastards off!" reached my ears, and we scrambled after them.
 
The old horrors scampered towards the flowing Poe River. Too wide to leap, too wild to cross, they had only a few minutes left to live before the Kingdom's seasoned warriors splashed the river banks with their tainted blood.
 
I felt the adrenaline flood me. Everything was clearer; the slapping of plethora of soldiers' boots dashing over the fields, the coppery bite of blood and sweat mingling through my nostrils, the flashes of claws and blades vying for exposed flesh. I'd never felt so alive, so receptive to everything happening all around me. I finally understood what those old berserker warriors explained as battle frenzy; drowning in the ecstasy of war, of plunging death into your foe and watching their life drip from it as you wrench it free.
 
In that moment, I knew what I wanted. I threw down my bow and snatched a lost sword from the ground. My commander's shouts fell beneath the undulating beat of my heart and my feet as I surged towards the river bank, the heft of the blade taking on a natural and desirable quality in my hands.
 
I found John Boy. Splashes of red-black blood stained his armour, and deep scratch ran from his shoulder to his elbow, but he didn't seem bothered by it. I tried running to him, but the distance was too great, and too many jostling bodies blocked my way. Instead I turned my attention to the pinned monsters, ready to exact my pound of flesh.
 
I spotted that googly-eyed imp.
 
"For Kat!" I screamed, though I hadn't called upon the words.
 
I leaped forward, and my foot stuck fast. I looked down to see a black hand protruding from the ground grasping my ankle. An instinct overrode my arms and I hacked at the wrist, lopping off the hand. Its gnarled fingers slacked around me and fell as the stump pumped oozing black blood.
 
I refocused on the imp, until I noticed a network of thin fissures playing out over the ground like cobwebs. Demons, monsters, succubi, zombies and other evil terrors ripped open the soil and clambered out, others exploded as if the earth was water. They sprung up like weeds, infiltrating and surrounding the charging Kingdom forces.
 
The battle frenzy leaked from me as the clammy certainty of truth settled on me. We had overextended, and played directly into the enemy's ambush.
 
"No!" I shouted. This wasn't how it was going to end! I had to-
 
An immense pain blew through my chest. Three curved claws protruded from my torso. The fingers wiggled inside my flesh, creating new flashes of hell with each insignificant movement. The sword slipped from my limp hold, and I felt all the heat and strength draining out of me in a flood of red.
 
I struggled a gaze, spotting the yellow eyed imp stalking towards me, as I hung like a slaughtered pig from a butcher's hook ...
 
Illidan's own fingers pierced his chest, his breaths quick. Fel magic spurted from the tips, worming through his soul until they hooked onto the phantom riding shotgun in him. With a bracing yell, the night elf demon ripped his fingers free, tracing three lines of his own blood in the air while tearing a luminescent blue shape from his body.
 
The phantom found its ghoulish skeletal form once more and dove towards Illidan.
 
"Enough!" the demon hunter bellowed. Thrusting an open hand brimming with sickly green light, he snatched the spirit mid-dash in the air, holding it captive in a fuzzy emerald halo. The halo intensified, shining until the blue of the phantom shaded beneath the green, and Illidan snapped his fingers into a fist. The resulting action heralded an explosion, and fading blue sparks was all that remained of the phantom.
 
Illidan growled, pressing a hand against the wound on his chest. It was mostly superficial, but it still stung, especially since he had to delve into his spirit to exorcise the blasted ghost.
 
"You won't repel me!" Illidan shouted in the silent bailey. "If any more of you mopey apparitions attack, you'll end up like that sorry bastard!"