Necri spent the next few days in an iron-barred cell.
She had been brought here by the young, female Elf, who was entirely too rash and talkative for her own good. Full of bluster and bravado, she had revealed her name as Talionia and proudly announced her status as "Zanien's apprentice". It was a pretentious claim, given that Zanien wasn't even a full Magister yet. It was obvious to Necri that she was infatuated with her 'master', seeking to ape his smug confidence and magical skills without quite knowing how.
She carelessly forgot to search Necri for the ritual dagger.
Despite this, Necri remained powerless to resist her captors. Something in the metal chains on her wrists sapped her arcane energy. Her mana and demonic power, which would normally regenerate steadily over time, remained depleted. She had no magic to bring to bear. She couldn't contact or summon any of her demons, or even use any rituals.
Zanien must think she'd get bored. Frustrated. Perhaps even go mad.
He, who had lived for two thousand years while she had slept, didn't understand patience. Six months trapped in a coffin, waiting for the wood to rot, had taught her a great deal of it.
She didn't eat. She didn't sleep. She didn't even breathe.
What she did do, was think.
Back at the murder scene, she hadn't had much time to investigate the room's details before Zanien had antagonized her into the flashback. Carefully, she organized what memories she had.
Before even entering the room, she had noticed the demonic taint that oozed from it. Not quite a smell, but more than a 'feeling', it had a sharp, metallic edge to it that she recognized. It originated from a class of Eredar, one of the original races of demonkind. The infernal Eredar used elaborate spiked armour and weapons meant to intimidate their enemies. These items were forged from a terrible, fiendish metal that never cooled; it was this metal that produced the taint that Necri had detected.
There existed a near-infinite number of Eredar. Practically, however, there were only a handful of different types that would respond to the contracts and summonings that mortals could construct. Given the utter recklessness of the destruction in the room, there was only one conclusion; that the aggressor had been a Felguard. Such creatures were the berserkers and shock-troopers of the Eredar, good only for laying brutal waste to everything in their path. They were certainly not known for their intelligence or restraint.
The guards had also spoken of a dog-like shape in the room, shadowy and blood-red in colour. This fit perfectly with Necri's understanding of the fight. What they had seen was almost certainly an Abyssal Hunter, a predatory demon that fed on magical energy. With one of these creatures present, the Magister would have been unable to cast spells to fight off the Felguard. Necri knew some techniques for doing so, but the Magister had refused to study demonic magic, and so would have been ill-equipped to counter the beast's ravenous appetite.
It would have been a terribly one-sided battle.
And since no mortal could summon and control more than one demon at a time, this meant at least two people were likely responsible for the murder. To know any more that this, she would have to get back to the room for further investigation.
She spent time going over the rituals she would need, rehearsing them steadily in her head.
Finally, she heard the confident click of heels on the polished stone (even here in the prison, the inlay between the stones glinted silver).
The flutter and rustle of Zanien's robe settled to silence as he swept into view, standing on the far side of the cell bars. Somehow, his chocolate hair and soft lips had ceased to have any hold over her. Those egotistical, condescending lips.
"Do you know why you are here?"
She waited, unmoving, until the signs of impatience and annoyance had begun to reflect in his body language, then whispered calmly, "because you needed a scapegoat for your crime."
He laughed, the mirthless sound echoing through the dismal halls. "You know nothing! Don't pretend otherwise. But I'm out of time, and the moment of your usefulness has arrived."
"What? I will never..."
"Spare me your bluster. I'm not asking for your permission. I will tell you what is happening. Ever since the Horde was founded, it was the Orcs who led it. Orcs who kept everyone in line and gave us strength. But their last warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, was insane, and there was a civil war. Garrosh was deposed and imprisoned. Now we're set to be led by..." His voice choked, "...a Light-forsaken Troll! And I'll be dead before I will allow that to happen. But after years of war, of Hellscream's dishonour and betrayal, the populace can't get enough of that ... that ... Darkspear bastard! So I am going to deal with him. And you... you misbegotten excuse for a failed mage, will be my perfect instrument!"
A Troll as warchief? She knew precious little about the Orcs, but the idea of accepting a Troll leader instinctually curdled what remained of her innards.
Her anger at Zanien seethed and boiled, but she could certainly understand his unwillingness to bow to one of them. The only Troll leader she had known was Zul'Jin of the Amani; the one who led his people into the war that almost wiped the Humans and Elves from the face of the Eastern Kingdoms. She remembered his defeat...
Alone, Zul'Jin faced off against the surviving contingent of humans and Elves. The last of his elite guards had died protecting him, and the leader himself fought like a demon. His axe and spear gutted over a dozen of the Alliance soldiers before he was finally brought down.
Necri was not there at the moment of his capture. She saw him later, shackled to the ground in the ruins of his city and surrounded by Elven guards. The Elves had put out one of his eyes as punishment for his long campaign against them.
Zul'Jin's remaining eye glowered in patient hate. This wasn't the downcast gaze of a defeated being. This was the eye of anger and patience; knowing that enough of his people had fled or retreated into the hills that he could rebuild, in time.
Trolls never gave up. They never forgot. And if you didn't see their cooling corpses - they weren't dead.
That hateful eye fastened onto Necri's face. The calculating gaze chilled her to the bone.
Later that night, in a moment of distraction, Zul'jin strangled one of the guards and stole his sword. With no hesitation, he hacked off his own shackled arm, and fought his way to freedom.
Few nights would pass since that time, that Necri wouldn't find herself looking over her shoulder for the one-eyed, one-armed monstrosity that she was sure was coming for her.
She gritted her teeth and summoned her willpower, but her attempt was unfocused from the flashback. At some deep level, she actually agreed with Zanien, no matter how abhorrent his methods were. Desperately, she reached out to the Twisting Nether, but with her mana drained, even that much effort was exhausting.
"Whether you succeed or fail, I can simply explain that you escaped. Since you are accused of the murder of Magister Dawnspell, as well as the attempt on the new Warchief, nobody will question it." Zanien's voice took on an edge of fake, sarcastic sorrow, while his hand gestured in her direction. "Oh, I'm sorry that the attack happened within Silvermoon City, but don't worry, we've already taken care of the traitor..."
Zanien's magic invaded her. She fought it, giving inches where a lesser spirit might have given miles, but the pressure was inexorable. Her distraction cost her dearly. Still, she made him pay for every advance, every conquest. All too soon, he surrounded her mind, eclipsed her perception, and poured himself into her.
Somewhere far away, a howl tore her throat apart.
Half an hour later, the Troll Warchief Vol'jin had begun his victory march through Silvermoon. The liberation of the Horde from the mad dictator Hellscream had been a long time coming. The Darkspear Revolution had cost countless lives of all races; the blood staining the streets of the Orcish capital of Orgrimmar would never fully fade from the hearts or minds of its citizens.
He had brought only a very few troops to Silvermoon. A half-dozen of his Darkspear elite walked at his side, and the heroes who had helped defeat Garrosh traveled behind. So few - yet their victory, their blood, had purchased so much for the Horde. For the entire world.
Necri waited for Vol'jin to pass beneath the balcony where she lurked unseen. Her magic coiled and boiled within her. She waited, and watched...
...gazed out over the crowds of all races who had come to see their savior; tears of relief on many faces.
...observed the citizens of Silvermoon, who never again could stomach the thought of their beautiful city being ravaged.
...saw the honourable warriors, exhausted from combat, bend their knee to him.
...listened to the children cheer, that they now had a chance to grow up free of war.
Nevertheless, the controlling magic forced her to stand, drove her to summon the energies within. The removal of the binding shackles allowed her to draw forth her killing powers, the spells of agony and corruption. More and more energy she gathered; ready for a single, lethal strike. She found her voice was gone – destroyed by her scream in the cell – but the strength of her mind more than made up for the lack of audible words.
In her mind, Zul'Jin's one-eyed, hate-filled face floated over Vol'Jin's.
Necri extended one hand, twisted into the rigid claw that would channel the spell down to the lump of blood and meat that was her target. It would be over so very quickly.
Below, a little Elven girl ran up and thrust a ragged bunch of flowers at Vol'Jin, and something deep within Necri's spirit awoke. Desperately, some distant part of her mind threw itself with renewed strength against the unnatural magics that dominated her body.
Maybe she didn't care about her own life.
Maybe a few lives here and there made no difference, in the long run.
Maybe the whole damn world had fallen into darkness and despair, or burned up in death.
Would she really allow herself to be used to bring more of it down?
Mouth open in a silent scream, she unleashed the pent-up energy.
Vol'jin, startled by a sudden noise, looked up. Shielding his tired eyes from the sun, he beheld a thick coil of smoke from the balcony above. Combat-trained muscles tensed as he realized a spell was being cast.