Snakes and Ladders

[Illidan Stormrage]

Illidan took another sniff of the musty breeze, his eyeless gaze creeping up and down the walls of his castle from the highest tower. His castle.
 
The ferocious Poe River tore past the front gates of his fortress, its churning waters providing a natural defence against a siege. The stones of the castle itself were worn, cracked and thick with lichen, but they held; a fortifying magic brimmed within the walls, protecting it from falling apart. Shafts of light would often penetrate the rooms of the stronghold where roofing tiles or stones had fallen free. Shattered windows held dusty glass fragments on their sills, letting the stale wind waft through his hallways.
 
There would be time to restore Poenari Castle to its former glory, and time was all Illidan had.
 
The winds curled through his silken black hair as he leaned against a crenellation of the tower. A few weeks had passed since the siege on Darkshire, and his body had healed well. He ran a hand down his naked stomach, his coarse fingers finding the raised scar tissue from a slew of strikes he suffered at the hands of that plagued knight and the cowled warrior. There were many potent foes in this Omniverse, and now the night elf had a measure of what to expect.
 
While some of Illidan's forces expressed disappointment at their perceived failure to take Darkshire, the demon hunter did not share it. Conquering that middling human farmland would have bolstered his position and progressed his plans further along, but ultimately, that was always a bonus. The true goal of satisfying Cornelius White and his sycophantic ghost army had been achieved; their combined might had toppled Darkshire's walls and slain hundreds of their defenders, cementing Illidan's name in the minds of the Pale Moors' inhabitants. And when Archimonde, his mindless but vicious demonic hound, came bounding home from the battle, full to the brim with necromancer energy in his stomach, Illidan knew that White and his spectres had seen their fatal conclusion.
 
With them gone, Poenari Castle was his for the taking. Finally, with a base of power, Illidan could begin stretching his influence over the Moors.
 
He watched his forces milling about in the courtyard. The night elf hadn't given them orders for almost a week, so they continued carrying out their last received commands; guard the castle. Since Darkshire were still licking their wounds, it was deeply unlikely that they would mount a retaliation strike, at least not yet. There was little to task them with in the meantime, since most of them looked ill-suited to castle repairs. The zombies could barely keep a straight gait let alone hammer a nail. The werewolves could be used for heavy lifting, but few of their kind maintained a lucid frame of mind, and they would no doubt stop in the middle of their task to hunt down a rabbit.
 
Illidan's long ears pricked as footsteps sounded from behind. His magic sight already knew who approached him, and he turned.
 
"Lord Illidan," Regis said in his drab tone. "You're looking well."
 
"Indeed," the demon hunter said. "The air might be musty here, but there's something ... bracing about it."
 
"Or perhaps your recent victory has reinvigorated your constitution."
 
"Victory often does." Illidan folded his arms over his chest. "What have you come to see me about?"
 
"My lord, your forces grow restless. Watching the castle is not providing them with enough stimulation." Regis yawned, and Illidan briefly considered that the necromancer's perpetual dismal state might be due to sleep deprivation. "They are increasingly difficult to control."
 
"So in other words, they are bored and they think that insubordination would be exciting," Illidan said in a low tone.
 
"I am only here to offer my counsel to you, my lord. Such things must be considered."
 
The night elf stared out over the battlements. Two werewolves savaged each other in the courtyard as a ring of thrill-seeking onlookers cheered on the carnage.
 
"A castle cannot be held unless there is an army to hold it," Illidan said. "If you cannot keep these filthy creatures in order, then the castle is undefended. If the castle is taken away from me, I promise you Regis that you will be the first to die for your failures."
 
"I apologise, my lord," Regis said in a tone that made his indifference clear. "Count Dracula's beasts are not used to being caged. Marching in an army is the first form of structure that many of them have ever experienced before."
 
Regis had a point. Few of the surviving members of his army had any official training. Most lived by the rule of strength; whoever was strongest made the rules. Yet since Illidan hadn't given new rules to follow in some time, the mindless creatures took that to mean that they were out from under the night elf's yoke.
 
Illidan climbed atop the battlement wall. "Perhaps they need a reminder of who is in charge here."
 
The night elf jumped and plummeted towards the ground. A thick shroud of black smoke encircled him as he fell, and blew out as he slammed into a landing. The fight club stopped abruptly as the creatures took notice of the winged demon that approached them on goat legs. They cleared a path as Illidan strolled into the centre where the werewolves looked uncertainly at him.
 
"What is this?" Illidan said, his voice deep. "Why are you fighting?"
 
The werewolves held silent for a moment, but one broke under the night elf demon's blazing gaze. "Just some sport, my lord. There's not much to do."
 
"Not much to do?" Illidan repeated in his evil voice. "You're holding this castle for the great Illidan Stormrage, officer of Count Dracula! What is of more importance than that?!"
 
The other werewolf arched his back and bared salivating jaws. "We are werewolves! It is in our instinct to hunt and fight, not pretend that a pile of rubble is worth more than our shit! We want action! We want to feel our blood boil!"
 
Illidan turned his head slowly, lips parted to reveal his needle teeth. "You want to feel your blood boil, do you?"
 
He seized the werewolf by the throat, stabbing his long claws into the furry skin. With one thick arm, Stormrage forced him to his knees. The werewolf's eyes bulged, mouth agape, spluttering for air, claws ripping at its throat. The night elf demon pressed down as the werewolf pushed up with its legs, but the man-wolf could not break his hell-forged strength. A green light hugged the outline of Illidan's hand, and the werewolf's back went rigid.
 
Illidan lifted his head and took in the crowd of his forces that watched in macabre fascination. None dared lift a finger in aid of Stormrage's quarry, not even the werewolf that had tussled with him moments ago.
 
"It has come to my attention that some of you think that guarding your lord's castle is a waste of your precious time," Illidan said, glowering. The werewolf beneath his grasp gurgled as a sickly emerald light spilled from its open maw. "Let me make one thing clear. Your time is worthless. The reason these Pale Moors are still not under Count Dracula's command is because you brainless scum cannot muster the discipline to march in a straight line!"
 
The werewolf shuddered under Illidan's power. The eerie green hue poured from the man-wolf's nostrils and edged his yellowed eyeballs. "If you don't desire to end up on the end of a human's sword or crushed underfoot by Count Dracula himself, you will learn to follow commands, whether you like them or not!"
 
Eyes, widened on all but the most stoic of his army, shifted between Illidan's gnarled grimace and the werewolf's shaking body. The night elf demon hoisted the werewolf in the air with one arm as his quarry convulsed. "Or else you might just get what you asked for."
 
The werewolf exploded in a ball of green flame, blinding the courtyard with its luminance. As the fires turned to smoke, Illidan stood holding a blackened skeleton. He dropped it and it crumbled to ash as it collapsed on the pebbled earth.
 
Giving the assembled one last death stare, Illidan arched his mighty wings and bolted into the air.
 
"A little brutal," Regis noted with half lidded eyes as Illidan landed on the tower balcony, his demonic features shedding into black smoke.
 
"Creatures without morals only respect strength. Or fear it. No matter how black one's soul is, no matter how they believe they cannot be bought, all is forgotten when their lives are threatened."
 
Regis met Illidan's gaze. "Do you believe I fear you, my lord?"
 
"I'm not convinced you feel much of anything, Regis," Illidan said.
 
"Lord Illidan, I follow you because I respect the work that you are doing for Count Dracula. In my years of service to him, he has never had an effective officer. No one among his servants has ever launched a siege on Darkshire on the scale that you have. No one has claimed power over anything since Count Dracula filled the void of Diablo's departure. Ronaldo was a vain, self important fool, and I was glad to see him die. It meant that someone with vision and the power to make that vision a reality had taken command."
 
Illidan paid notice to the head necromancer's words. In all the time he'd known him, this was the longest he'd ever spoken without stopping.
 
"There is no fear here, my lord," Regis said, placing his hands behind his back. "Perhaps Clawfang fears you, or perhaps he enjoys the position you have elevated him to. I don't know, so I won't speak on his behalf. Your army, if they didn't before, fears you now. But do you think that will make them loyal, or effective?"
 
Illidan scoffed. "There are few exceptional beings in existence, Regis. You may have intelligence and power and privilege, and you may work for a future not yet realised. But you are proscribing your worldview onto those wretches. They are simple and weak and couldn't hope to aspire to what we already have become, let alone what we strive for. They just want their lives to continue marching on with as little pain and as much profit as they can bear. I'd even claim that many of them would simply like to die, since so many are risen undead or cursed who'd prefer the silence of the grave. To that end, fear is their great motivator. Fear of pain, fear of loss, fear of death. It drives them to follow me."
 
"That may be so, my lord," Regis said. "But consider that fear and loyalty do not go hand-in-hand. You may only need fear today, but tomorrow ... if fear is abandoned, and there is no loyalty to take its place ... what will you have? How will you be pictured? Will they see you as a bright and shining beacon, a liberator of their kind? Or will they see that charred werewolf skeleton scattering to ashes on the wind?"
 
Illidan narrowed his eyes. Regis' point was hitting home harder than he would care to admit. The eldritch army was a means to an end; as a supporting force to Cornelius White and his gaggle of ghosts. Now that the ghosts were erased, the ragtag collection of spooky and monstrous horrors were all the night elf had under his command. If he couldn't maintain control of them and they abandoned his castle, how would he hold it against invaders, or repair it? Or worse; what if they found a new leader in their ranks, and rebelled against him? Illidan was hideously powerful, but their numbers would overwhelm him.
 
In truth, the night elf hadn't considered his next step. All his efforts had been focused on claiming Poenari Castle for his own. How short-sighted. What good was taking a castle if he hadn't thought of how he would hold it?
 
"Do you think their loyalties may be tested?"
 
Regis shook his head. "Not directly. Not by some charismatic leader. But tensions are rising. If you don't give them something for their dedication to you, for their time and skill, then why shouldn't they return to roaming the fogs, besetting unwary travellers?"
 
"Then what do you propose I do?" Illidan said. "None of them deserve a promotion. I don't need any more advisors."
 
"Have them run shifts to protect the castle, and let them leave the walls for hunts or whatever they wish to do. Give them order. So far, they've had the run of an empty and decaying castle and told to not let anyone in."
 
Illidan rubbed his chin. "So be it. Make the necessary preparations."
 
Regis bowed his head and walked away.
 
"Regis."
 
"Yes, my lord?"
 
"Send up Clawfang on your way down."
 
"As you will, Lord Illidan."
 
There was a time when subordinates did what he told them to do and anyone who disobeyed got their just treatment. Now he had to pander to their desires? This was ridiculous. Unfortunately, Regis' logic couldn't be ignored. It was sound advice, as bitter as it lay on his tongue, and he had to swallow it.
 
"You called for me, my lord?"
 
Illidan turned from the view of the dusty horizon to his muscular retainer Clawfang. His promotion, much like Regis', had been little to do with any observable skills and more to do with being in the right place at the right time. That, and Clawfang took joy in backhanding that prick Ronaldo.
 
"What do you think of our forces, Clawfang?"
 
The werewolf looked to the side. "Uh, good, I guess."
 
"No, I mean ... do you think they fear me?"
 
"Oh, yes my lord. After your demonstration before, no one is questioning who the boss is around here."
 
"As I would expect." Illidan strode closer to the werewolf. "But do they think I was too heavy-handed?"
 
"Oh, no one would question you, my lord."
 
Stormrage frowned and tilted his head. "Yes, but that's exactly what I'm concerned about. You haven't heard rumblings of discontent, or thought such things yourself with how I conduct my leadership of your people?"
 
Clawfang's red eyes widened. "No, my lord! I am faithful until the end! Everyone else is too, I swear!"
 
Illidan took a step back and sighed silently. The wit of Regis was not shared by Clawfang. "Very well, Clawfang. Regis is organising some structure into the ranks. As he is the head necromancer and my advisor, I would like to make you the commander of my army. Get them into shape, run some drills, that sort of thing."
 
"Oh, thank you my lord! But I haven't had any military training."
 
Illidan smiled wanly. "I trust you, Clawfang. You'll be fine. Regis can help you if you need him."
 
Clawfang nodded. "Yes, my lord. I'll do that right now."
 
Illidan turned back to the misty vista of the Pale Moors, the Poe River thrashing past. How had news of the assault on Darkshire been taken by Dracula? There had been no word from him at all, no messengers or birds to deliver communications. Had Dracula turned a blind eye to his dealings, simply satisfied to have bolstered his forces by one night elf and to have left it at that?
 
That didn't seem right. Dracula wasn't an idiot. Idiots rarely consolidate power over a vacant land when the previous leader vanishes. So what was he doing? Building his own army for an attack? Preparing some super weapon?
 
Or was he readying to seize Illidan himself and punish him for his failure at Darkshire?
 
Surrounded on all sides by potential enemies, but none of them are certain threats. Illidan balled his fists. His dry throat made swallowing laborious. There were no illusions about who he could trust; always and forever, he could only trust himself. Yet variables kept cropping up like weeds. Were his forces growing weary of serving under him? Was Dracula an ignorant lord or spying on him all along?
 
As his gaze settled on the raging river, he realised something. No one in this world could be trusted.
 
Illidan strode back into the castle, winding down the stairs. He trudged throughout the whole castle, bounding over the walls and to the banks of the wild Poe River. Sitting, he folded his legs and placed open palms in the space before him. He closed his eyes and focused.
 
A few hours passed, and Illidan took stock of his efforts. Out of the water slithered a serpentine creature, body lined with pale blue scales. Four spindly arms hung from her sides. Snakes writhed from her scalp, hissing at the night elf. Her red eyes fell knowingly on him.
 
"Lord Illidan," the snake woman murmured. "It has been too long."
 
Stormrage stood. "It has indeed, Lady Vashj. Much has changed since we last met. Let me bring you up to speed."