Chapter 9
The sight of the heavily limping and obviously injured night elf assassin brought mixed emotions to Dracol; elation that yet another target had been killed, and hence another ingredient retrieved for him, and disappointment that her injuries would slow his progress forward. She left without a word, and he had said nothing to her in return, accepting the magical receptacle with only the slightest of nods and an evil grin twitching the corners of his thin-lipped mouth. She was a tool for him, his only interest in her emotional state was to see how he could manipulate those emotions to further his cause and keep her under his thumb. It was in this deepest chamber of the sprawling network of tunnels honeycombing the rock beneath Theramore city Suul'Dracol had set up his ritual chamber.
A gigantic black iron cauldron sat posed over a sickly green fire, suspended by thick chains atop charred wooden posts set into notches in the stone floor. The cauldron itself was fashioned to resemble an up-turned human skull, the fluids contained within the part of the skull that would have held the brain. Already the contents of the pot, a glistening black sludge, bubbled over the unearthly fire, releasing a stench that would have turned any mortal's stomach and killed any plant life if any had been nearby. It was like ambrosia to the dread lord, however, a concoction as foul and impenetrable as he was.
With almost child-like delight he unscrewed the metal top of the bottle, then quickly emptied its scarlet contents into the pot. There was an instant reaction, the black goo churning and leaping up around the red stream, almost as if it were a living thing wanting to absorb that essence into itself as fast as possible. When at last the bottle was empty a large plume of ashen smoke rose up, taking the vague shape of a distorted, screaming night elf face before dissipating. The Nathrezim swirled his hands over the cauldron, calling to mind words of power in Eredun, which he mumbled as a sort of mantra for several moments. The brew was more than half-way complete now, the black liquid blushing into a brilliant, angry red after the blood infusion.
Only two more ingredients were needed, both bodily components of sentient creatures. The tongue of the fish merchant would insure that all who spoke the language of man would hear the curse's effect. The heart of the fierce orc would instill an ever-growing rage into the breasts and minds of the city folk, really the crux of the powerful spell. The addition of the night elf blood added longevity to the curse, ensuring that its effects would not end before it had wreaked total devastation on the populace. Next, he would need the hands of a stout dwarf, giving the spell-induced rage the ability to withstand the strongest arguments of logic or emotion, so that none would be spared its touch. Lastly, the keen eyes of a Quel'dorei would be needed, so that any being that an accursed would see would feel his wrath, be it friend or foe. Suul'Dracol almost giggled at the delicious carnage it would sow in this city. Why bring an army to conquer a city when you can get it to tear itself apart? Betrayal, distrust, fear. These were the meat and drink of ones like him, and despite its slow pace, Suul could be patient a few more nights before witnessing the fall of the city. It would be well worth the wait.
No sooner had these thoughts drifted through his mind than a wind from an obviously unnatural source began to blow through the chamber, causing the fel fires beneath the cauldron to sway like bright stalks of grass and teasing the edges of Suul's wings. His imposing face lost much of its former confidence upon feeling this, knowing exactly what the wind portended. He turned, facing the swirling vortex of black energy into which endless ribbons of violet energy seemed to swirl and vanish. His liaison to the Shadow Council had arrived, and appearing before Theramore was knee-deep in bodies was a sign that something had displeased them. Not a comforting prospect, from Suul's viewpoint.
At last the barely discernable shape of a heavily cloaked and hooded figure appeared in the center of the vortex, speeding towards the opening despite not budging and inch, almost as if he were moving the world to get to his destination, rather than the other way around. Despite himself Suul took a step back as the figure gently drifted to a stop just outside the vortex, which promptly ceased to exist, collapsing upon itself in a flash of light, taking with it the unnatural winds.
Appearing to be little more than a rumpled shroud of the blackest pitch, the figure's head rose up from its bowed position, fixing the dread lord with a single burning red eye, as if the other was closed or simply did not exist. When the thing spoke it was the stuff of nightmares, so deep it seemed to come up from the very stone they stood on.
"Your plans, they proceed without hindrance?" the visitor asked, though with enough force and authority to make the question sound like a demand.
"Yes, there has been resistance, as expected, but nothing has stopped me from taking what I need to complete the spell. Provided my underlings do not fail me in their tasks it will be done as promised," Suul countered, not quite able to summon up as much volume as his questioner.
"There must be no mistakes, no delays. The Shadow Council has decreed that it must move swiftly in these matters, before any counter-offence can be mounted. Already others have failed in their tasks, and paid for it most painfully. I am here to make sure you will not be joining these fools and that Theramore will be a burning rubble in three days hence."
Upon speaking these words an "arm" separated itself from the bulk of cloth that composed the liaison, a thin limb draped in the midnight fabric the rest of the body was. From out of a voluminous sleeve a small glowing shard of some green crystal dropped suddenly from the darkness within, suspended on a wide-linked black chain. The crystal was rough and jagged looking, as if it were plucked right from the ground and then used with no thought to its ascetic appeal. Glowing like the fires beneath the cauldron the crystal itself was otherwise unremarkable, but what seemed to swirl inside the uncut gem caught Suul's eyes. A tiny, distorted face writhed within the confines of its clear prison, emitting a silent wailing cry and looking about the room for some means of escape, fully aware of its current situation. The face looked at Suul with a pitiable, pleading look before suddenly being sucked back into the messenger's sleeve with a quick rattle of metal links. Suul ground his fangs at this none-to-subtle threat, but otherwise did not respond to the display.
The portal suddenly sprung open again, with the same chilling wind as before blowing from it. "Remember, Suul'Dracol. Three days. Success will be rewarded generously. Failure…" the figure warned, starting to float away into the magical vortex. The still extended arm dropped out another crystal on a chain, but this one was grey and dull, as if empty. The Nathrezim watched as the figure grew rapidly more distant and then disappeared as the vortex collapsed with no small amount of relief. Alone again in his chamber the dread lord looked drained by the whole experience, pinching the bridge of his narrow nose and scowling deeply.
With a sudden burst of speed and movement Suul's right hand lashed out at a nearby wall, sparks flying as his black nails dug parallel gouges into the stone. How dare they threaten him like some unimportant lackey. His work was genius, a work of art! Short-sighted impatience was the down-fall of the Burning Legion and would carry the Shadow Council to its grave a second time as well if they became ruled by the fear of being challenged even in the least bit. Whatever their reasoning was, their threat was real enough. Suul could allow for no interference, no mistakes. Whatever punishment he could mete out on his underlings would pale in comparison to what would be done to him.
"Muirdo!" he bellowed, turning his head to face the closed door. "Muirdo!"
A few short moments passed before bare feet rapidly slapping against stone came down the hall, the door opening to reveal a blearly-eyed Muirdo, wearing a night shirt and carrying a sputtering lantern. It was in about the middle of the short sleep period that the servant was allowed, but Suul could care less at a time like this. Seizing the front of the off-white garment the dread lord dragged his underling close, boring into him with his inhuman eyes.
"I want every one of my cultists on the streets to give me any and all information on those two meddling investigators they can find. I do not care who they have to beat, bribe or kill to find out. They have twenty-four hours to do so. I want to be able to kill those two the very next day, before I send her out again. Do I make myself clear?" he snarled, releasing the man back with a violent shove. Murido nodded vigorously, fumbling for the door handle.
"Y-yes my great lord. It will be done as you say."
He wasn't too sure what had put his master into such a mood, but he was determined not to do anything to excite the powerful demon any more than he already was. Quickly exiting Suul was once again left to his thoughts, striding over to the cauldron to try and ease his mind with the sight of his nearly complete creation. Moments passed and the dread lord's heavy breathing started to slow and become more even. Still gazing into the depths of the reddish liquid Suul whispered,
"Soon, Mal'Ganis. Soon I will be able to start exacting my revenge…"
"Revenge? For what?"
"That…I can only guess at," Crys admitted while he paced slowly before the blazing hearth. His external self was warmed by its heat while the glass of fine brandy in his right hand warmed him internally, with each swallow its burning rush attempting to banish the empty chill of both the magical addiction and the senseless death he had borne witness to that night. Daghmor had once again taken a position in one of the comfortable chairs there, looking as he was about to be swallowed by some giant maw made of polished wood and green cloth such was its comparative size. The dwarf drained his glass in one smooth motion, downing the potent liquid as easily as another might sup water, and refilling his glass immediately from the decanter nearby.
"One of yer old friends from Dalaran, disenchanted, pun intended," the rogue said with a smirk before continuing, " by the failure of the Alliance to protect his beloved city from the Scourge, figures out a way to strike back at them, punish them..." Daghmor trailed off, taking another swig of his alcohol.
"And the night elf assassin? Is there some sort of killer-for-hire outlet here in Theramore, specializing in the bizarre and out-landish? No. If there's revenge in these killings, it's from her, I'm almost certain. Only that could turn someone so callous," the elven warmage countered, uncurling his index finger from around the glass to point at his companion.
"Yer heart's treasure didn't ask for motive, only to end the killings. Conjecture and heresy are all fine and dandy, in their place and time, but we need a clear idea of where the purple bitch is going to strike next, so I can introduce her to Matilda right properly," the dark-garbed dwarf said, patting his cudgel fondly. Crys scowled at his reference to Jaina as his "heart's treasure", but his retort was lost in a sigh of frustration. More amber liquid slipped past his lips, and the cold iron spike in his back that was their deadline eased off just a little bit more.
"A wizard out for revenge wouldn't hire out to a member of a race he barely knows for his killings. She's too odd to not somehow have a deeper connection to this."
Crys seated himself opposite the dwarf, anything but relaxed, however.
"Then who, lad?" Daghmor demanded, tossing his arms wide and causing some of his brandy to go sloshing out of his glass to land on the rug. Retracting his arms to try and cover up the spill the dwarf was relieved to note that the elf was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to have noticed. "Kul-Tiras loyalists? Troll witch doctors? Grumpy murlocs?" the rogue listed off rapidly, his frustration mirroring Crys's. The elf answered by downing the rest of his drink in one large mouthful, trickles of the brandy running out from the corners of his mouth before they were wiped away by the back of his hand.
The elven wizard looked to the board he had set up in his chambers to track the evidence they had gathered so far. Rough sketches of the victims were pinned to it, as well as what was taken from each of them (except the fish merchant, not enough evidence remained to determine what, if anything, was taken from him). The drawings were crude, Crys's artistic ability dampened by years of neglect and lack of focus. Various notes also adorned the board at various angles and in various forms, most hastily scrawled on whatever was available when a thought struck. When the elf added it all up though, it was too much equation and not enough sum. A memory from his military training that seemed like a lifetime ago came to the forefront of his mind, of a grizzled and generally unpleasant commander who was teaching them the basics of logistics; "An army in the field is a predator. A predator only stops moving when it eats and sleeps, and even then it must be wary and able to move at a moment's notice. It must interpret the information it receives from the area correctly, and move accordingly, and strike when and where it is least expected. If you and those under your command are not the predator, what do you think you will become?" he finished, ending with that question lingering in the air.
Be the predator. Think like one who wishes to destroy the power structure and security of Theramore. Crys pondered this, the empty snifter forgotten in his hand. He had become too reactionary, too defensive in his pursuit of his quarry. The night elf assassin, who was up against superior numbers and in enemy territory had to be very careful and plan well in advance for her missions to succeed. So who would likely be the next target? Most likely not Jaina, though the thought still put a chill down his spine. It was likely they would save the 'best for last' as it were, so the next up from a influential visiting ambassador would most likely be a powerful head of state, or military commander, or even an unofficial but much-beloved community figurehead. Crys looked to the board beside him while continuing to follow his new line of thinking.
So far, all killed had been of a different race, which, if there was some sort of logic behind the choice of victims, might mean that the field had narrowed greatly. No more humans, night elves, or even upon the unlikely return of one, orcs. The other races present in Theramore would be next, and this was limited to gnomes, dwarves, and elves. There was a single elf on the Theramore ruling council, arguably the most powerful of his race in the city as far as political influence was concerned. The dwarves were a significant force as far the Theramore's infrastructure and defense was concerned, so a blow to a guild leader or master smith would be crippling. The gnomes were fewer in number, and while they played a part in the over-all defense and upkeep of the fortress city, they had little overt impact on the political realm, or in the lives of the average Theramore citizen. This all but removed them from the killer's line of thinking. An elf or a dwarf, which would next have a tri-bladed shadow fall over them?
While some-what revitalized by a possible break in the case Crys couldn't keep his eye lids from drooping sleepily as his mind returned to the room he was in. The quantity of strong brandy in him had warmed the elf wizard enough that he had all but forgotten the events of the night, and here in his room with a cheery fire and a comfortable chair, as well as a dwarf already nodding off beside him, sleep was something that he would not be able to hold off for long. Setting his glass down on the floor beside the chair Crys folded his hands on his belly and slouched a bit more, eyes closing in blissful surrender. Elf or dwarf, he thought hazily. Which would be the first target?
"Up in his chambers all night he was", the man said, casting another furtive glance down both sides of the gloomy street. " With the dwarf too, the two of them there. Not unusual, I'm told. The dwarf drinks like a fish, the elf drinks like a dwarf who drinks like a fish," the man cackled, then quickly silenced his laugh and looked around shiftily again.
"Anything else?" another rough voice asked, hooded and crouched behind a empty crate. The first man nodded enthusiastically, knowing that the more information he gave, the more gold that would clink around in his pouch.
"Yes, yes. A woman, a maid, not a whore, at least not any whore I've seen walking the streets, sometimes she goes up into the tower. All the way to the top. Seen her there myself some mornings. Must clean, or something. Wizard's don't have spells for that? Ha!" the twitchy, nervous man laughed aloud again, then clamped his hand over his mouth to silence it.
"Good, my friend, good," the hooded man purred, letting the words drag out into a soothing cadence. A gloved hand escaped the shadows that seemed to compose the cloaked figure, holding a bulky leather purse. Jittery hands darted out to form a bowl for the laden pouch to fall into, the satisfying weight of gold coin minted in Lordaeron forcing another half-strangled guffaw from the first man's quivering lips.
"Now go, and know that the master's true reward will soon be visited upon all of those loyal to him, and it will make gold pale in comparison," the hooded man said, shooing the other away like you would a troublesome child. Pausing to first admire the pouch of gold and then looking up and down the street yet again, the lanky informant disappeared down the street, his booted footfalls growing fainter with each passing moment.
The hooded figure stood and began to walk as well, but his footfalls were careful and nearly silent. He would travel all the back streets and alleyways to his destination, where the master's closest servant, Muirdo would be waiting for him, waiting for all those loyal to the cause to return with information about the troublesome meddlers who would try and stop the inevitable. They would be dealt with, most assuredly and with most finality, and then the master's will would shake Theramore to rubble.