Azgalor grunted to himself as the image of Kil'jaeden vanished from the air before him. He hefted his great black breastplate over his head and secured its chain around his huge neck. He grunted again as he lowered the plate over his chest. The armor was crafted of the same adamantium metal that was supposed to have covered the scales of the legendary black dragon Deathwing. Azgalor had never seen the great dragon himself, so he didn't know if such stories were true. He knew the strength of the adamantium, however, and he knew it would protect him from any would-be attacker.
"Not that I plan to let anyone close enough to attack," he murmured, as he bent and picked up his impossibly huge twin-headed war spear. The weapon was crafted from ancient material far older than the mortal adamantium, material stolen from the ruins of some pillaged world or another, its name long forgotten. While the adamantium would fend off any attack, the spear's sharpened blades would carve through any defense. A lich had once asked the Pit Lord what would then happen if the irresistible force of the spear struck the immovable object of the adamantium, but such questions as those hurt Azgalor's head, and he had deigned not to answer.
Azgalor's blood temple had been prepared here, in the heart of Ashenvale, a fortnight earlier, for two purposes. With Mannoroth dead, it had fallen on Azgalor's shoulder's to prepare the way for Archimonde's demon horde. The blood temple had served as a place where Azgalor and his retainers could gather to channel the energies necessary to unleash the Legion upon the world. That was the first reason the structure had been built.
The second was to shock and frighten the Legion's mortal enemies. Even now, fear and sadness were spreading through the ranks of the remaining Night Elf population as they witnessed the black, acrid smoke of the Pit Lord's noxious rituals rising ominously above the treetops of their beloved forest. The doorways of the temple were always open and unobstructed so as to more efficiently channel the smoke and odor of the rituals, and through one of these doorways now hobbled the withered form of a necromancer.
"Great One," the dark wizard said fearfully, "Lord Archimonde demands your presence. We are preparing to begin the attack." Azgalor grunted in annoyance. He doubted the human had spoken directly with the great demon lord; more likely, Archimonde had spoken to another Eredar warlock, who had spoken to a Doom Guard, who had spoken to a dreadlord, who had spoken to a death knight, who had spoken to a lich, who had spoken to the chief necromancer, who had spoken to a retainer, who had spoken to this poor fool. In exasperation at the bumbling messenger who dared to use the word demands to one such as he, Azgalor muttered a short curse. The mortal wizard burst into flames.
There was a muffled cry from the rear of the temple. Azgalor glanced over at the most recent victim of the rituals, a night elf archer who had been discovered scouting near an undead encampment south of the temple. She had been captured, stripped, and secured to a great spiked wheel here in the temple, where Azgalor had watched her blood slowly drain into a basin at floor level. After three days, kept alive only be the demon's magic, her blood was now nearly spent. She moaned softly.
Azgalor grinned and looked back at the burning wizard. He spoke a word and the flames evaporated, restoring the human mage to health. The mortal blinked and smiled weakly, as if about to thank the Pit Lord for mercy.
"Naïve fool," Azgalor said. He muttered another phrase. The human's body went rigid, and he floated up into the air, past the demon and over to the wheel where the elf woman was secured. Azgalor waved his fat arm in the wheel's direction and the spikes on it shot through the wizard's body. Dark blood, polluted by magic, flowed quickly down into the basin where the elf's blood had been collected, mixing with the lighter fluid. Both mortals screamed then, as the corruption of the mage devoured the woman and her purity infected him. The flames suddenly returned, engulfing both bodies, and the two ceased screaming, vanishing in a burst of thick black smoke.
Azgalor looked down into the swirling, blood-filled basin. The two colors of blood had mixed thoroughly, leaving a dim crimson mixture that churned and boiled. Lifting the basin above his head, Azgalor tilted it ninety degrees, so that the blood flowed over his body, drenching him. As the unholy mixture covered his body, giving him an evil, reddish tint, the screams of these two newest victims sounded again in his ears. Their life force, their powers, flowed into his veins, into his mind, and his eyes flared as his system devoured the raw essence.
Their screams were joined by countless others whose blood had served similar purposes. Azgalor had murdered innumerable victims, innocent and corrupt, upon the wheel of the temple, and each had fed his bloodthirst. Each time before, their energies had gone towards opening some portal to the nether or summoning some demon or another to join Archimonde's force. Now, however, all the Legion's soldiers were already here, and there was no one else to summon. There was no portal to open and no spell to chant. The energy hung about him, waiting.
He swallowed, and concentrated on the energy. He would keep it for himself, he decided. He would use it to make himself more powerful for the coming battle. After all, the fate of this world, and of the Legion itself, hung in the balance this day.
In the distance, a war horn sounded, low and ominous. The battle was starting, and Archimonde demanded his presence, after all. Grunting in ecstasy as his victims' raw energies cascaded into him, he gripped his war spear and turned to exit the temple. There was a whole world of victims waiting, and he had much killing to do.
Mephistroth and Anetheron found the Scourge easily enough; forty thousand corpses are rather hard to hide. The undead were encamped in a mountainous region north of Hyjal, probably amassed in preparation for Archimonde's ascent of the holy mountain. Archimonde, however, could get along fine on his own, and the dreadlords had a better use, they thought, for such an army – the hunt of Illidan Stormrage. The loathsome elf was still at large somewhere in northern Kalimdor, and if it was the last thing they accomplished in this life, Mephistroth and Anetheron would find him.
Arthas watched as the dreadlords landed in the center of the camp. Dreadlords were one of the few races of demons light enough to make use of their wings, and although they preferred not to be witnessed flying, for they thought it sign of weakness, it was undeniably less taxing on their energies than simply teleporting. Besides, these two had not known the Scourge's exact location, so teleportation had not even been an option.
Nevertheless, it made Arthas smile to see the demons doing something that embarrassed them.
Master, he said silently to the Lich King, the guests you were expecting have arrived.
Good, Ner'zhul responded immediately. You know what to do.
Indeed, Arthas said to himself. Let the game begin.
He stepped forward to greet the demons. "My Lords," he said, "welcome. My master told me you would come." The yellow one – Anetheron, was it? – looked at him condescendingly.
"We are your masters, human, not the Lich King. We rule the Scourge now. If you wish to live much longer, you would do well to remember that."
"But of course," Arthas said. He grinned and did a little mock bow. "How may we serve you?"
This time the blue-skinned Mephistroth spoke. "We are seeking the elf creature Illidan, who slew Tichondrius. And you will help us find him." Arthas knew all about Tichondrius' death, for it was he who had set Illidan on the demon the last time he had been in Ashenvale. These dreadlords didn't know that, of course, and Arthas certainly wasn't about to tell them.
"Would not the elf be with the rest of his people, defending Mount Hyjal?" he inquired instead, feigning ignorance.
"No," Anetheron replied. "He is not with them, for whatever reason. In fact, we spotted him in this very forest as we were flying, but he quickly disappeared." More likely they didn't want to try and fight him alone, since Illidan had already killed one dreadlord with apparent ease. Arthas also noted that his 'guests' weren't aware that Illidan was an outcast – one more tidbit the death knight could use to his advantage.
"Now that you mention that, my Lords, I seem to recall my own scouts seeing a lone elf in the forest as well, though I thought nothing of it at the time." Arthas described Illidan flawlessly – not a difficult thing, since he had seen the elf in person – and the dreadlords gobbled his story right up.
"That is he," Mephistroth assented. "Where did you sight him? West, in the foothills? That was where we saw him."
"Oh, let's see know," Arthas said, tugging on the stubble that was growing on his chin. He was doing his best to appear incompetent, so the demons would underestimate him, and from their annoyed expressions, it appeared to be working. "As a matter of fact, if I recall correctly, that's exactly where he was." Arthas was lying flat-out now, adjusting his story to match what they had seen. It was fortunate that Illidan had indeed been spotted to the West, because that was farther away from Hyjal and Archimonde. Ner'zhul knew the Night Elves had set a trap for Archimonde at the World Tree, and the Lich King's plan was for the dreadlords – and the Scourge – to be too far away when Archimonde realized what he was walking into for him to call reinforcements.
"Prepare to march then, Death Knight. We are going after him."
Arthas feigned surprise. "Now, my Lords?"
"Yes. Illidan must be caught before he can escape us." This was cock and bull; Arthas knew that the demons just wanted their task accomplished before Kil'jaeden came looking for them.
"I shall inform my generals," Arthas said, and he turned away. He left the dreadlords to rally the Scourge for battle themselves; it was time he gathered his fellow death knights and told them what the Lich King had in mind for them.
He realized, briefly, that he would probably run into Illidan again at some point. He smiled.
This was going to be fun.