Chapter Nine

Interlude: Between Continents

The victorious elves had moved away from the site of the battle to set their camp and celebrate. Even with the setting sun, the heat was enough that the corpses were already beginning to stink, adding to the stench of burned flesh and other offal smells of the battlefield.

Saire had been carried to the new camp, dozens of hands willing to ease her suffering any way they could: set up her tent, fetch her food, or anything else she might wish. In the confusion of the battle she hadn't realized how far out the Spell Breakers had been, but it seemed her counterspell had prevented their forces from being decimated by the warlock's rain of fire just long enough for the caster-killers on their hawkstriders to close the distance. In her own way she was as great a hero as Velansar or Hardal. Which was to say that they cheered her name as long and loud as any but Lokiv's.

The human they mentioned not at all.

Her father had seen to it that a cask of ale and one of cider had been opened from their limited stores, announcing that on the eve of such a victory they deserved to truly celebrate. The hunters had even brought back a few of the spiny red helboars, although the roasting meat was so foul that not even the drunkest and most adventurous of them had tried it yet.

Saire sat apart from the celebration, bundled up warmly against the encroaching cold and with her hands and feet snugly bandaged. She was glad of the bandages; the one glance she'd gotten of her feet was enough to confirm that they were far worse off than even her hands. Some of the fissures in the flesh had been deep enough to expose blackened bone beneath, and she couldn't move most of her toes. For all her father's comforting words, she truly feared she might be crippled for life.

Judging by the comparatively far better state of her hands, she was certain that when the human had set the spell matrix of his strange healing artifact he'd intended to save her hands first and foremost, with only passing concern for her feet. In a way she was grateful to him: she was a mage above all else, and if it was a choice between never walking again and never casting spells again, she would gladly choose the former.

Still, was it possible the human had set a higher priority to healing her hands so they'd be usable swifter over healing her feet at all?

It was unfair to resent the person who had saved her life, but as her feet ached with constant pain she couldn't help but do so. Hiezal had left a cup of brandy with her, enough to put her out since she wasn't much of a drinker, but she had yet to even take a sip of the painkilling liquor. Her erstwhile lover had disappeared into his tent almost as soon as they'd arrived at their campsite, for all his apparent concern for her he seemed unwilling to see her in her current state. And while he'd been largely responsible for the capture of one of the fel orc brutes and was regarded as somewhat of a hero himself, he hadn't taken part in the festivities.

Suddenly decided, she picked up the cup of brandy and downed it in six choking gulps, then with effort pushed to her feet, leaning heavily on the makeshift crutch a distraught Ilinar Montfere had made for her. Her feet felt as if they were being torn apart, but with effort she was able to hobble her way over to Hiezal's tent and slap its entry flap firmly before sliding to the ground.

There was no answer.

She slapped the flap again, getting impatient, then called out "I know you're in there!"

"Oh it's you," she heard him say lazily from inside, although he had paused almost long enough to be insulting. "Come on in."

Growling quietly to herself she staggered to her feet, threw open the flap and limped inside, doing her best with the crude crutch in the small confines. Inside Hiezal was sprawled on his comfortable cot wearing only his underbreeches, plucking at the sparse blond hairs below his belly button with a look of idle concentration. The tweezers he used were gold-chased, and from his familiarity with them it was obvious this was a favorite pass-time.

He glanced up, then winced. "Various gods, Firedge, you're a mess," he said lightly. If she hadn't heard his response when she'd first been healed she might have thought he really was as cavalier as he sounded. "Still, it's good to see you on your feet. I know why you've come."

Saire blinked. "You do?" Was it possible Hiezal had the same reservations about their human leader that she did?

"But of course. You've come to hear the heroic tale of a handsome young elf and his skillful capture of a savage foe. And it is well you did, for it is truly a tale worth hearing." Hiezal began lazily plucking at his hairs as he spoke. "He was a true brute, I will allow. Three hundred and fifty pounds if he was an ounce, all muscle and sinew and unquenchable bloodlust. Now most skilled warriors begin a battle with a degree of caution, circling their enemy and trying to get their measure, find any apparent weaknesses. But this or-"

Saire rolled her eyes as he continued his self-aggrandizement. She should have expected this. "As impressed as I am by your amazing feat, I didn't come to talk about that."

"Oh?" Hiezal took a second look at her, and his eyes widened. "Oooh." With a somewhat longsuffering sigh he sat up, carefully tucking the tweezers away in a pocket of his pack, and began shucking his underbreeches. "I should have expected women bedazzled by my prowess to swoon into my arms. A pity you're in such a wretched state, or I would truly call this good fortune. Still, never say I don't come to the aid of women in distress. Get those clothes off and let's get to it." He paused, and for a moment looked faintly sick. "Keep the bandages on, though. Seeing Undoril dying from internal rot nearly threw off my appetite, and I've been eating bad fruit all day. I don't know if I'd be able to get it up seeing what the bastards did to your lovely arms and legs."

Saire scowled and dropped awkwardly onto the end of his cot, wincing as her crutch banged against her left foot. "Get your clothes back on, you buffoon. I want to talk about the human."

For a moment he looked surprised, and then his face fell. With a somewhat angry expression he began pulling on his clothes. "Having trouble in the sack? Go find a girlfriend to gossip with him about." There was jealousy in his voice, but also something else. Could it possibly be hurt?

She decided to ignore both. "Don't be stupid. I want to talk about the fact that the human covered our retreat on Azeroth then disappeared, was watching our battle against the night elves, and now suddenly he's here, leading us. What does he care about Corona's Blaze?"

"What do I care about him?" Hiezal retorted grumpily. "I don't see what's so great about him."

Saire laughed. It was obviously his jealousy talking, but still. Really? "He turned into a demon and massacred sixty orcs in less than five seconds."

The handsome elf sniffed, idly drawing out a small penknife and cutting his nails even. "More like he ordered all the swordsmen to bunch so tight we couldn't swing our swords, and all the archers and mages to purposefully miss, and then stole all the kills for himself. Besides, can he do this?" He began flexing his pectorals, one after the other, so they did a complicated sort of dance.

Saire couldn't help but laugh. "Hurry up and put your shirt on, you idiot."

"You know you like it." But he did as she asked, then sat down next to her. "So a powerful servant of a demon, who can also turn into a demon, is leading us to a demon-fortress we're supposed to take."

"Yes. I think we should find out more about this Lokiv. Starting with his actual name."

Hiezal blinked. "What, you don't think parents would name their kid Filthy Mudman?" She scowled at him, and he shrugged. "I suppose if you want to know, a good source of information is the human himself." His voice took on a somewhat vicious tone. "Maybe you can ask him while he's pawing your sweet flesh."

Saire leapt to her feet. "Just when I was thinking you might be worth letting into my tent," she said angrily. Then she stormed out, slapping the tent flap open and letting it slide shut behind her. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that the best speed she could make was a slow hobble, as well as the yelp she couldn't quite stifle when her injured hand hit a tent pole.

The human's mockery of a tent was over on the other side of the camp, at the outskirts just within the sentry posts, as usual. Also as usual Lokiv's "page" was at guard outside, indicating that the human was within his tent. After this battle, he might even been in the midst of the nightmare state Saire had found him in the first time she'd come to his tent.

Ilinar gave her a confused smile as she approached. "Hello, Mistress Firedge. I wasn't expecting to see you tonight. I'm not sure either of you or my master are in any shape for your daily meeting."

Saire shot the boy a dirty look. "I'm not here for that," she said.

His lips quirked into something slightly more wry than a smile. "Are you ever?" At her glare he shrugged. "I'm just saying that if all this time you've been doing this so people won't be suspicious, coming to the Commander's tent in the shape both of you are in is going to be even more suspicious than not coming."

"And I'm just saying that I'm not here for that," Saire repeated, putting a little ice in her tone. "Please step aside so I can talk to him."

"All right," he said with another shrug. "I should probably make sure he's not sleeping or anything. Not that he ever sleeps." With that the boy poked his head into the tent. Saire heard him curse, and his head whipped back out, a frown on his face.

"What?" she asked.

"He's not in there."

Saire pushed past the half-elf page, wincing as he nearly stepped on her foot, and looked inside the tent. The filthy rags on the cot were disturbed as if a beast had flung them about, but the cot itself was empty. "Damn," she muttered.

Where had Lokiv gone?

. . . . .

"I'm sure I don't know where he is," Velansar said with a sniff, his tone implying just what he thought she wanted from the human. The commander had not taken the opportunity to celebrate with drink, and he was in his small but luxuriously appointed tent writing in a tiny journal. "I don't recall having ever accepted the task of keeping tabs on our commander. In fact, it seems to me that if that task has fallen to anyone, it's you." He gave her a level look. "Or do you truly wish to visit the human's tent every night?"

Saire gritted her teeth. "I don't care what you're sure about. Can you tell me where he is or should I go ask Hardal? I'm sure he would know."

"Doubtless you're right." Velansar turned back to his writing, frowning pensively as if trying to decide what to pen next. "You had best go ask him."

"I will then." Saire tried not to sound to petty when she added. "I don't suppose you know where Hardal is?"

Velansar arched an eyebrow at her tone. "Up on the ridge, inspecting the island we're about to cross over to. Apparently it's quite an unexpected sight."

"Very well then. I'll need to use one of your hawkstriders."

The Spell Breaker arched his eyebrow again. "I beg your pardon?"

Saire motioned to her bandaged hands and feet. "You wouldn't expect me to walk nearly a mile in this state, would you?"

. . . . .

In the end Velansar was good enough to send one of his Spell Breakers along with her, leading her hawkstrider from astride his own bird.

Though she wouldn't admit it, Saire was relieved he had done so. She had a little experience with riding the fierce flightless birds, but was by no means born in the saddle. And with her hands in their current state she wouldn't have wanted to try dealing with reins. Still she supposed she would have to when she approached Lokiv, unless she wanted one of Velansar's men spying on her conversation.

Such thoughts flew from her mind, however, when she reached the end of the pass and saw the continent below.

Velansar had called it unexpected, and it certainly was. In the twilight cool a mist had formed, so thick it was practically clouds along the ground, but she saw enough through gaps to see what awaited them.

Where Hellfire Peninsula behind them was an oven inferno of sere red stone, this continent appeared to be one giant bog. She didn't know how it was possible that there was still water on this shattered world, or why it hadn't long since evaporated under the sun's punishing heat, but there it was.

Above the bluish mud and shallow pools the mist writhed like a thing alive, but rising through the mist giant mushrooms thrust into the sky. Some were larger than trees, their flesh grayish-white and bringing to her mind the woodlike material she had seen at the abandoned red orc camp. The flesh of the largest mushrooms was cracked like bark and their heads covered dozen to hundreds of yards of the ground below. Beneath this shade smaller mushrooms and other varied wildlife teemed in the muck, and she caught sight of actual creatures; the hunters might return with real edible meat soon, rather than the travel rations or the toxic boar meat.

In its own way it was beautiful, an alien sort of loveliness that took her breath away after a land infested with demons and no other living things.

"We won't have to worry about water, looks like."

Saire turned to see Hardal standing a short distance away, having just emerged from a tiny hole among the vicious brambles that choked the pass to either side of the red orc's camp. "Or food," she agreed.

"Right enough. What are you doing riding around on in your state?"

Saire might have been offended by the question from most of the elves she knew, but the scout's calm, likeable manner made it easy to forgive him such minor lapses. "I have to speak to Lokiv on urgent business."

He nodded. "All right. Happens Lokiv was up on the ridge inspecting the swamps below. He wandered off northwards along the ridgeline not ten minutes ago, and last my scouts saw of him he was sitting at one of the lower peaks, just watching and reflecting on this and that."

"Thank you," Saire said. "I'll search him out, then." Motioning for her Spell Breaker escort to move out, she turned and gave Hardal a wave.

"Mage," he said quietly, turning her back before she could press her knees to the hawkstrider. She looked at him curiously. "Are you truly?" he asked.

She didn't need context to know what he was talking about, his inflection and expression filled the blanks eloquently. "If so, it is none of your concern."

He smiled, ignoring her sharp rebuke. She had a feeling few things truly flustered him. "Oh, I know that as well as any. I heard the little lovers spat you had with that fellow Nova over the issue." His expression grew serious. "I ask not for your sake, but for Lokiv's."

Saire quirked an eyebrow, not sure whether to be amused or insulted. "Protecting the youth's tender feelings? What do you care for him?"

Hardal looked out over the swamp, not as deflection but in a cursory sweep, cautious even behind the lines of his scouts. "I've known many humans in my time, mage. Good and evil, noble and base, old and young. They tend to lack the subtlety of elves in their scheming, and the patience in all their doings to weigh consequences. I think in a way that is why they tend to get along so well with all the elder races: even the oldest and most jaded humans have a childlike quality about them. We look at them in our dealings with the amusement and affection we would children."

"A strange attitude to have for humans these days," Saire observed. "I don't imagine it's very popular in the camp."

He laughed. "And how do you feel about that particular point of view, given your own dealings with our leader?"

Instead of answering she turned the conversation back on him. "What was the point of this all? I ask what you cared for him and you clucked like a mother hen taking a duckling under her wing."

"Hmm?" he turned his gaze back to her. "Simply to say that I wonder whether we should even be calling Lokiv "human". There is that about him that seems far too ancient in pain for one of his heritage. And while he is a clever, devilishly clever, manipulator, I have a hard time seeing him looked favorably upon in his dealings. Not even by those who hold humans in high regard."

"Even before our treatment at the hands of the Alliance army, I had met plenty of humans I despised on sight," Saire argued.

"Certainly," he agreed, his tone musing. "But not like this. Never like him. Whatever story he has to tell, not even my curious mind is truly eager to hear it."

Saire nodded, and both she and the scout parted ways without a further word spoken, as if by silent agreement. Whatever story Lokiv had to tell, she wasn't sure she wanted to hear it either.

But she was afraid she had little choice.

. . . . .

She found Lokiv just as Hardal had described, on a high ridge overlooking the misty wetlands below. Oddly enough, he had a good dozen rocks up in the air, juggling them in an incredibly complex and intricate pattern. She had seen Hiezal juggle knives as a way of showing off his dexterity, but compared to this display her old friend's seemed like child's play.

Saire dismounted with some effort, waving away the solicitations of her escort. "Please remain here and watch the mounts," she said. He nodded curtly, obviously not happy at being ordered about like a footman, but he settled back to look down at the swamps below.

Saire approached the human, who turned to look at her as she drew closer. "Do you wish to be alone?" she asked.

The human's mouth twisted up in what might have been a smile, if one didn't look to closely. "Always."

"Oh?" Saire couldn't help but feel surprised. "You don't desire the presence of others?"

"Considering the unpleasant companionship I've been forced to endure, most recently singularly unpleasant, solitude is by far the more desirable option."

She didn't quite understand what he meant, and almost wondered if he was talking about their own encounters. "What if the companionship was pleasant?" she said coyly. A thought occurred to her to scoot a little closer to him, perhaps even brush his leg, as she had multiple times when seducing others, but one look at his posture convinced her of the folly of such an attempt.

"I wouldn't know. I have no basis by which to make a comparison."

Saire laughed lightly, thinking him joking, but when he remained still she paused and took a good look at his slack, expressionless face. "Oh. You're serious."

The human finally turned to fully face her, his eyes meeting hers with the force of a blow. Saire tried to hold his gaze, but what she found was so disconcerting that she had to look away, trying not to shudder. She wouldn't have called herself particularly astute at reading the emotions of others through their eyes. At times she considered such an art mere myth, the work of poets and musicians drunk on their overinflated concepts of romance.

Now she realized that there was something to it. Though she had never noticed it, every person's eyes she had ever looked into seemed veritable windows to their every feeling compared to this man's eyes. They showed nothing. Even a corpse's blank stare into eternity gave a hint of their feelings upon death, but this human's eyes were empty.

Instead she gazed out into the Twisting Nether, watching the fearsome beauty unfolding in the form of two clashing netherstorms. "What of when you were a child, human? Surely you must have some fond memory of being with family, with friends?"

Nex, too, turned to gaze out into the blackness. "My childhood least of all," he said quietly.

An uncomfortable silence settled. Saire had not expected such openness from him. There was a sort of languor to him she had not seen before, as if he'd just completed a difficult task and was resting from it. But, too, there was a hint of giddiness to his tone. She had heard the same from elves using tarbeth gel, the drug seeping into their system through the skin and addling their thoughts.

Was it possibly magic addiction that had him so giddy? Whatever power he'd used to incinerate the fel orcs, it had been considerable. She couldn't imagine reveling in the thirst for magic that beat at her thoughts endlessly, but then again she'd never sated it in such a major way.

Whatever the cause, he was speaking, and she had come to learn what she could about him. She moved to sit a short distance away. "You'll find my company pleasant, at the least," she said. "What of your childhood makes it so unpleasant?"

He turned from the view of the marsh and looked at her expressionlessly. "You offer assurances and contradictions in the same heartbeat," he said coldly. "If you wish your company to be pleasant, do not pry into my past. Neither of us will much enjoy the exchange."

Damnation. She couldn't afford to offend him when he was finally talking. "Fair enough. My past isn't such a tranquil garden either, so I can sympathize."

He gave a short laugh that seemed calculated to express perfect mocking disbelief. "I am sure."

"What of the present, then?" she said hastily, afraid he was about to leave or, even worse, dismiss her. "Your display with the red orcs was incredible. I have lived all my life in a city of magic, but have rarely seen such sights. And never such a feat accomplished by one magic user working alone."

For a moment Lokiv was silent, and when he spoke he almost seemed to be speaking to himself. "There is no pride in borrowed power. Less in power forced upon you." Saire could make nothing of the odd remark, and made no reply. But she jumped slightly when he turned to face her again, an oddly intent expression. "Tell me something, mage. When I fully tapped the—that is, when I was preparing my attack on the fel orcs, Redcrest shied away from me as if I bore signs of the Undead Plague."

Saire waited, but he fell silent again. Was there a question in that? He seemed to be asking for something...

Her breath caught in her throat with a loud hitch. Could it be possible the human didn't know about the transformation that had come over him? For a moment she toyed with denying anything, but one look at those soulless wells boring into her warned her away from such foolishness. "There was a change," she admitted reluctantly. "A major change."

"Was there? When I activate my demon skin spell my skin becomes pale and almost scaly, and my-" he cut off, and Saire wondered if he disliked sharing information about himself or was embarrassed in some way. "In any case, was there something of that nature in my change of appearance?"

"Not so much, no."

"Spit it out, mage."

Saire fought to keep the annoyance off her face. "You want to know, human?" she demanded. "You turned into some sort of demon. Horns, hooves, fiery mane and all. It's no wonder Velansar was practically cowering."

Lokiv's eyes narrowed. Then without another word he pushed up into a crouch, fondling the dagger at his belt with the ridiculously large pommel, and in another instant disappeared in a ripple of arcane energy.

Saire staggered to her feet, cursing as agony from her injuries lanced up her legs. Fighting to keep from falling back on her seat, she looked around wildly and out of the corner of her eye caught sight of his dark figure disappearing into the gloom, not towards the camp but walking eastwards along the ridgeline.

. . . . .

By the Light, boy, what have you become?

False gods damn. False gods be damned. False gods damn the world in a storm of fire and void. False gods and the world all fall together into the Twisting Nether and be consumed by-

Nex stalked along the edge of a sudden drop, all too aware of the danger to himself. To one side was unnatural swamp, to the other hellfire and a shattered continent. And between them mountains like teeth thrust up towards the emptiness above.

Nex wanted to smash the mountains and the continents and Outland all. He wanted to throw himself off the edge and enact no levitation to save his miserable life. He wanted to have never existed in the first place, which in the grand balance would be paradise compared to the existence he'd been forced to endure.

There was a terrible cost for wielding demonic magic. It changed things. Tainted them. Corrupted them. In clumsy hands the main person to suffer was the caster himself, but even in the hands of an adept the world around his spells wilted and suffered, sometimes in miniscule ways and sometimes in ways as catastrophic as Felwood, the northern Ashenvale Forest where the Skull of Gul'dan had corrupted the very land until it was a vile noxious place. And then, in the end, the corrupt magic took its toll on the caster as well.

Few practitioners of the warlock arts lived to die of old age. Their lust for power either led them to draw more than they could handle, thus consuming themselves, or to summon a demon greater than their power could control, as had happened to his own mistress. If they were wise and cautious, they were generally a fixture in a place long enough for all to learn of their dark truth, at which point they were either slain outright or cast into exile. Those miserable creatures fled to the most remote caves in the highest mountains, huddling miserably until some adventurer came and slaughtered them.

For the truly skilled casters who achieved true power without destroying themselves, they generally drew the attention of other practitioners of the dark arts, at which point they were murdered, their power stolen.

Demon magic corrupted. If not the body or the mind, then the soul. There was a reason the ridiculous Light shunned everything touched by that vile influence: even a hint of corruption tended to spread until it consumed its host, then itself.

But no matter how corrupt the warlock, no matter how vile his magic, Nex had never heard of one drawing in enough power to begin the transformation into a demon form. At least not in any way that could be reversed. It must be a bad sign that while wielding the Illidari stone he had begun to change. And even with all his study, all his delving into dark places, he didn't know how or why such a thing could be possible.

That frustrated him. It frustrated him more than anything he'd faced in a long, long while. It was no consolation at all that when the Illidari stone's power was gone the change reverted, which it should not have done. He couldn't trust to such a seemingly innocuous event being genuine, not with all he knew of demonic corruption: nothing could restore one who has become a demon.

And that terrified him. He loathed all things demonic, including himself and the power he wielded against that which he despised. The thought that he might, through reckless use of powers he didn't understand, irrevocably change himself into a demon was a nightmare he had had all too often.

And now he knew there was substance to those fears.

With an oath he yanked the tie of the Illidari stone hanging around his neck up over his head, holding it in one shaking hand. An insane urge came over him to fling it far, severing its ties to him and preventing him from ever having to face such a fate.

For what seemed an eternity he stood there, hand shaking, a hairsbreadth from death by a precipice to either side, holding death in his hand. And he couldn't.

"Coward," he cursed. He fooled no one but himself with this act. He wished death, so strongly it seemed an ache sometimes, and yet he didn't have the courage to take it for himself. He spoke of seeking it with every breath, looked forward to it with every waking thought, but in the heat of battle he fought desperately to live, and at the mercy of others he talked desperately to turn their wrath. Even the demons he hunted filled him with a terror as great as his hatred.

In his rational thoughts he wished death, but something primal within him balked.

"Coward, he said again, voice thick with self-loathing. "Nex-thanarak shubar'tarul akhet, ni-thanarak ovi'nex. You are nothing. Drawn from the nothingness you remain so, and into the nothingness will you return. Nex si-thanrak shukuk mizh valkn dal, vishtul kuphilok ikthar. World without end."

Breathing ragged, he slipped the artifact back around his neck. He had to shut his eyes to do it, shamed and disgusted by his own weakness.

. . . . .

She had learned some things about the human. Oh yes, she had indeed, more than she had expected when setting out.

But less, as well. She'd had no chance to ask him about his unusual interest in their village. She'd had no chance to make mention of the Plaguelands, or the battle with the night elves, or him being placed over the Corona's Blaze refugees and a bunch of villagers with little to no battle experience being sent off to assault a demon fortress.

Too many things she didn't know. Too many questions. She'd been a student of the arcane for long enough to know that ignorance could be fatal, and that being clumsy in asking questions could get you killed or worse.

She sat in her tent, musing. There was an option, though not one she looked forward to in any way. Still, unappealing as it was it probably offered her the best chance of getting the answers she sought. Assuming there were answers to be had from any source but Lokiv himself.

After long deliberation she went to the wagons and drew out the pack which held her spell reagents. It was a fine thing, carefully segmented into many small pockets and compartments, and by far the most valuable of her possessions. She rummaged around in the main compartment, all the way to the bottom, until her fingers closed around a small silk bag. Grimacing slightly in distaste, she withdrew the thing and returned to her tent.

She had hoped she'd never have to see the bag, let alone use its contents for their intended purpose. She'd entertained many fantasies of using them for a more sinister purpose, and considered it a triumph of good morals that she never had.

On her cot she spread a handkerchief and carefully upended the little bag, spilling out the things inside: a handful of short hair, some of it curly enough to actually be shorthairs and all of it dark and bristly; several flakes of dried flesh; and a tiny vial of blood. As disgusting as the things were, they provided the materials she needed to create a fetish, through which she could form a link to the person the material had come from. She had never delved into primitive voodoo magics, but it was a very simple and easy way to create a link through which communication was possible, a link which could extend any distance. And the components of the spell were ridiculously easy to come by.

The one who'd given her the bag of his leavings and the instructions to create the fetish had likely thought he was favoring her with a gift. He likely wouldn't be so happy in it if he'd known how often she had wanted to use the bits of him to create a synergy doll that she could torment and mutilate, then kill.

It wasn't exactly fair. Unpleasant as he was, the worst he'd ever done to her was humiliate her. But then again, the worst he'd ever done was humiliate her, and that wasn't something she forgave lightly.

Frowning in concentration, she pulled out a few of her own long coppery strands of hair, then gathered up a few rocks and cut a scrap of cloth off a rag she used to wash her face. Using these crude ingredients she made a little doll with the scrap of cloth as a robe and the hairs from the bag atop its rock head and along the "chin" of its rock face. Then she formed the unfamiliar spell matrix, using the ritual gestures and patterns she'd been taught. Last of all she tied the strands of her own hair around the thing to bind it to her.

"Chutak himan voobar helis," she murmured, and feeding a bit of her power into it she felt the link take hold.

For a split second she saw double, as if she was looking through the eyes of the little doll, and then the image changed and she was looking at a room too brightly lit to be anything but sunlight, with an arcane tome on the desk in front of her. She felt surprised, and then excited. Sexually excited. She was experiencing the feelings of the person she'd linked herself too. A disgusting notion.

Then the double sight was forcibly stolen from her, and she was left looking at the doll, which was now animate. "Could it be?" the fetish said in Common with clipped, cultured tones. "Young Mistress Firedge, contacting me at long last?"

Saire fought her annoyance. The man was old, certainly, but even so he only had ten or so years on her. It wasn't her fault she was still young by her race's standards, while the slightly older human was ancient. "Hello, Master Oridl," she said politely. "It's good to see you." Meaning I'm very glad you're speaking through an ugly rock doll, which greatly improves your general appearance.

Humans did not age well. It was almost impossible to see a fat elf, for elvish metabolisms had been refined from millennia of good breeding to be very efficient with food, and not store excess. Certainly in lean times a fat human might be glad of his extra bulk, but most elves would rather be dead than fat, and their genes tended to mirror that opinion.

But even for one of his kind Oridl was fat. Grossly so. If he engaged in even the lightest exercise his flesh became greasy to the touch, and unfortunately the only sort of exercise he'd seemed to enjoy when Saire had known him involved her, forcing her to feel that slimy nauseating sensation regularly.

But it had been worth it for the knowledge the human had given her. Oridl had been passing clever and unusually bookish, and held knowledge and power elf mages five times his age might have envied.

Her words must have sounded sincere, for the fetish seemed pleased. "It's more than good to see you, Saire. Still lovely as ever, I see. Although-" Oridl cut off abruptly, sounding shocked and concerned. "Good god, what's happened to your hands?"

Saire fought a trace of annoyance. Did nobody she talked to care about any aspect of her but her appearance? "That is of little import. There is knowledge I desperately need."

The fetish became attentive. "Of course. I might have to contact other sources to get it for you, but I assure you I am at your service."

"You most likely will have to seek the knowledge out. But I promise you I will be greatly in your debt." Although to be fair, after what I had to endure with you the scales already seem imbalanced in your favor.

"Let's have it then."

Saire took a deep breath. Questions often revealed as much to the questioned as to the questioner. She only hoped Oridl wouldn't care enough to pry too deeply into her dealings. "There is a human I must know everything I can about. He is currently calling himself Lokiv."

The fetish seemed amused. "Lokiv? Is that a joke?"

Only on the people of Corona's Blaze, she thought grimly. "Perhaps. He is in the service of a demonic night elf called Illidan Stormrage."

For a moment there was silence, not pensive but surprised. "You can't be talking about the human traitor Nex, could you?" he said.

Saire blinked. "Nex?"

"Apparently it means nothing in demonic."

"What language does it mean something in, then?" she asked, eyes narrowed. "And why mention demonic at all?"

Oridl seemed annoyed. "It means nothing in demonic, silly girl. As in the man's name is Nothing." Saire glared at him, feeling like an idiot. She'd heard that the effects of alcohol peaked about an hour after drinking it, and it had been nearly that long since she'd begun this torturous quest, hobbling to hell and back on injured feet. Her mind was fogged in a haze of pain and alcohol and more than a little weariness, and she just wanted to sleep. Oridl continued, the fetish managing to convey extreme amusement. "This Nex fellow is actually quite popular among the mage community. I'm surprised you haven't heard of him."

"I've been a bit out of contact with those sorts of people of late," Saire said in a chilly tone.

"Of course, of course. I heard about the elves betraying the Alliance. Nasty business, that, and I'm sure blame can rest on both sides."

"Blame rests on one side, human, and it isn't the elves'. Tell me of this human."

The fetish shrugged. "I've only heard the general information trickling through the woodwork. Apparently he broke into the Stormwind Mage Tower and stole some valuable items from the mages there at the behest of his master, Illidan Stormrage. I'd have to look at the bulletin to be certain of them, since I didn't recognize them the first time I perused it. Also he murdered a mage in the tower, and a few guardsmen fleeing the city, and a party of paladins sent in pursuit of him has gone missing and is presumed murdered as well."

Saire wasn't surprised at the thought of Lokiv, or Nex as he was apparently called, being the cause of such havoc. "I need to know more."

The fetish rubbed at its rock head with a clothy sleeve. "Let me look into the matter more deeply. Contact me tomorrow at this time, that should give me long enough to find out all I can."

"All right." Saire raised her hand, prepared to terminate the link, but Oridl's fetish raised its arm to forestall her.

"Uht uht uht, Mistress Saire. Are we forgetting something?" She looked at the tiny thing in surprise. "Tit for tat, madame."

She wasn't surprised. What did surprise her was that he'd waited until after he'd already given her information to demand a price. "What do you want?"

The fetish's eyes, like miniatures of the mage it represented, seemed to gleam. "I just told you."

"You just..." she began in confusion, and then her eyes narrowed. "Ah." Tit for tat. Was there a male out there of any species that didn't think with the ounce of meat between his legs?

The fetish somehow managed to appear apologetic. "I'm just a lonely old master of the arcane, his apprentice long gone and none to replace her."

In truth she was almost relieved at the price he demanded. She'd done more for less benefit before. And she counted herself lucky that he didn't ask for information about where the elves were or what they were doing. That sort of information she didn't want getting back to the Alliance. "As you wish," she said coolly, beginning to remove her tunic.

Nex, a thief and a murderer. It explained why he'd chosen to assume a false name, since mages were a strong presence in the blood elf community and even if they no longer cared deeply for crimes committed against humans, they would still feel strongly about crimes committed against mages.

Interesting.

. . . . .

Needless to say he was in an even worse mood than usual when he stalked back into camp. The blood elf sentries glowered at him as he entered, and rather than ignoring them as he usually would have done he stopped and glowered back. He didn't know what the two female archers saw in his eyes, but whatever it was made their gazes flinch away. One even went so far as to salute.

It wasn't the first time the force of his gaze had drawn such a reaction, but now it filled him with disquiet. What changes had taken hold of him, that his very look inspired fear?

Nonsense. What soldier didn't grovel before his commander's displeasure? It was simply that, nothing more.

Nothing more.

Theril, Redcrest, and Nova met him just inside the camp. "We have something for you," Nova said.

Nex slowed. "Oh?"

"A gift." Redcrest stepped aside to reveal a bound fel orc.

Nex regarded the creature calmly. It regarded him back with eyes glazed red in bloodlust and hatred, lips pulled back in a snarl around its gag. If it suddenly found itself free, he had no doubt it would attack without hesitation, and not stop until it was either dead or there were no further enemies to attack. With a soft sigh Nex pulled out his dagger, dropped into a crouch, and slit the orc's throat. The elves all gaped at him. "What did you do that for?" Nova demanded.

"A more pertinent question is what did you leave the thing alive for," Nex replied coolly, standing.

Theril and Redcrest exchanged glances. "It's always prudent to take a prisoner," the Elder said, a hint of questioning in his tone. "How else are we to get information that could prove valuable?"

Nex moved his gaze from one officer to the next, wondering what they had to be so confused about. "We know who this creature served. We know its mission and its duties. All of its companions are dead or being pursued, so it can't betray their locations to us. Any other information it might have had is either useless to our purpose or useless altogether." He kicked the corpse onto its back. "Furthermore you were kind enough to save me out one of their grunts, and on top of that a specimen so crazed by blood corruption that even if it did know something useful it would be impossible to retrieve it. You might as well have captured me a helboar and offered to let me question it."

"Forgive us for trying to think like soldiers," Nova said. He sounded far more put out than the situation warranted. Maybe he was the one who'd caught the brute. "I take it next time we should just slaughter everything and hope we're not killing sources of useful information?"

Nex tightened his mouth. "You seem to have an almost limitless ability to make a fool of yourself, Nova." He turned to Redcrest. "In the future an enemy spellcaster or leader would be a more suitable target for capture, but the gesture is appreciated."

A long, uncomfortable silence settled. Then Nex laughed softly. "Well then. Now that that's out of the way I want the rest of the officers gathered. I want a full report on how the soldiers did this battle. If their performance was substandard I believe now would be a good time for extra drilling, while the deaths of their comrades remain a fresh memory to spur them to greater effort."

Theril frowned, obviously pained. "More losses than expected, but fewer than there could have been, my Lord. Three mages perished, and a fourth is so badly wounded he will likely join the others soon. We lost a Spell Breaker, two of our melee soldiers, and five archers. Another half a dozen men are wounded, but none critically."

Nex nodded, feeling infinitely weary. "Take me to this mage. Perhaps I can aid him. The rest of you come as well, and continue the report. The men can rest tonight and celebrate, but in the morning I want back-to-back drilling sessions and a mock battle. We'll enter the swamp the day after tomorrow."

. . . . .

It was several hours past nightfall by the time he finished all his duties. He wasn't sleepy, of course, but still the prospect of sitting quietly in his tent without elves yammering at him every waking moment was a tempting one.

Montfere was waiting in front of his tent, as he should be, but the dagger he usually displayed so proudly, and drilled with so rigorously, was now hidden beneath one of his hands.

Nex slowed, looking hard at his page. Guilt was writ plainly across the boy's face, as well as a sort of flush. Fever, perhaps? Or something else.

"Glad you're back, sir!" the boy said, sounding more chipper than usual. "Saire came by, even though I told her it was more suspicious coming around in her state than not, if you catch my drift."

"Perhaps I do," Nex replied, eyes narrowed. "Something wrong with the dagger I gave you, boy?" Montfere moved his other hand to cover the dagger with both, and Nex none too gently pried the boy's fingers away. "I see," he said coldly. As he'd thought, the dagger's powerful demonslaying enchant had been consumed. The boy's steadiness and euphoria wasn't a fluke, it was a result of Montfere stripping the enchant away and pulling the power into himself. Nex was somewhat surprised a youth so young had managed the trick.

Not that he was pleased. "So you consumed a valuable enchant to feed your magic addiction, did you?"

His page's face crumpled miserably. "It hurt so badly," he said. "I saw what the Spell Breakers did to some of the warlocks they killed, and it seemed pretty easy." It wasn't an apology, or in its way even an explanation. More like a plea.

"I don't care if magic addiction turning you into a Wretched, you don't sacrifice an advantage over your enemies simply to feed it. Don't you think I know it as well as any?" The boy stared at him, misery turning into fear. Nex reached down and grabbed Montfere's chin. His page gave a low cry and tried to squirm away, but he held on tight. "In the future, if your addiction becomes unbearable you turn to me. Is that understood?" Without waiting for an answer Nex infused a portion of his power into the boy. A tiny amount; the boy couldn't hold much, and Nex had no intention of wasting his energy in any case. Still Montfere's cry of fear turned into one of surprise. Nex released him and he fell to his knees. "Now, give me the dagger."

The boy drew it out reluctantly. "Are you going to take it back?" he asked in a plaintive voice.

Nex snatched the weapon out of his fingers. "No. I'm going to replace the enchantment and give it back to you. But I swear to gods that don't exist, boy, if you consume the enchantment again I'm going to drain your mana pool dry and leave you by the side of the road." Montfere grinned in relief and pleasure at having his weapon restored, and Nex wondered whether he shouldn't saddle the boy with some token punishment to teach him. His own life had been so full of needless punishment that such a method had never worked with him. Judging by his master's constant displeasure, it still didn't work.

Still, the burned hand shied quickest from the fire. Didn't he know that better than any? "Go to Theril and tell him you'll be carrying two gallons from the water wagon to the top of the pass and then back down ten times tomorrow instead of drilling. You'll take the same water rations, and not from your own load. Tonight, when the Quartermaster has assured me you did as I instructed without trying to cheat the punishment, you may have the knife back."

Montfere surged to his feet, for some reason grinning wider than before. "Thank you, sir," he said, and rushed away. Nex watched him until he was out of sight, then withdrew a few enchanting materials from his cloak and set about restoring what the boy had marred.

Before, Saire had had only two apprentices remaining. Now she had three. In the morning he would inform her.