Archimonde scanned the lines of the trees that clung to the rocky sides of Mount Hyjal like ants on an oak limb. To his demon ultravision, the tiny orcish brutes that now charged the Legion's line were far from obscured beneath the thick blackness of the night. They stood out like little green beacons, glowing amid the dark sea of the forested mountainside. The highway of death yawned before them, swallowing them before they knew that they ran to their doom.
The cadre of warriors neared the foot of the shallow hill that held the demons' position, and the foremost yelped in sudden pain, the ghost of a battle cry mutilated upon his lips before he could release it. His fellows followed suit, the tiny black shapes that buzzed about them in the darkness reducing them quickly to bones or less. Almost instantly and almost silently, the orcish attack was eviscerated before it reached its target.
Around the spiraling bend of the highway, Archimonde knew, the orcs' fortress lay, prostrated before its demise like some tiny speck of sand before all the magnitude of an ocean wave. As surely as his next breath would escape his lungs, the demon's path lay through that fortress, and as sure as he had demolished countless worlds, he would crush the orcs without blinking.
***
Azgalor shivered as he looked up at the twisted mass of the Demon Gate. It was overgrown from millennia of disuse, wrapped so tightly in vines and foliage that nature herself seemed to be slowly digesting it. To a passerby, it would blend inescapably into the background of the forest. To Azgalor, however, it glared offensively in the dim night, as bare and brazen as it had stood in the first hour of its existence.
It had been no trouble to locate; though the paths had changed over the countless centuries, the demon still knew the wood by heart. The Gate seemed still to call to him, to beckon him back to the Nether pits which had spawned him. He stood before it now, the Orb of Kil'jaeden in his palm. Already the tiny sphere seemed larger than when he had plucked it from the fool Arthas' dead fingers. The boy was as big an idiot as his master not to have used the Orb when he had had the chance. Now its power was beyond the boy forever – for now it belonged to Azgalor.
The Pit Lord raised the artifact towards the Gate. He gasped slightly as it jumped from his bloated hand into the air, glowing a bright ruby red. A low, steady hum began to issue forth from the Gate; it was beginning to open. Azgalor smiled, watching his prize dance in the air.
***
Kil'jaeden blinked. Something was not right. For just a moment, a flare of energy had distracted his attention from the battle between the orc and the elf, something in the same very forest. He searched for its sources, but could find nothing.
The demon lord shrugged, and returned his focus to Kokoro's and Illidan's duel.
***
Inside the body of the orc, Kokoro, the cold of Frostmourne's touch lingered. Illidan had thrown down the weapon, finding it unsatisfactory to his technique, and was now matching Kokoro's sword slashes with blows from a long stick of maple that had fallen from a tree nearby. The sword was such a barbaric weapon, and like most night elves, Illidan had little experience wielding one. The wooden shaft was a much friendlier ally in his hands – much to Kokoro's regret.
The orc had slowed down after Illidan's first successful blow, and though he fought harder than ever, the cold of the Runeblade's touch remained within him, devouring his strength, eating up his fire.
Illidan swung hard, and Kokoro barely ducked away from the wood stick before it swished by his head. The blind elf smiled, reversing the motion. Kokoro ducked again.
What was happening to him?
The skull ornately carved into Frostmourne's handle stared up at the orc from where Illidan had dropped it. It seemed to be laughing at him.
***
"Morte!" The older death knight turned around as Arthas approached.
"Ho, Arthas. Did he buy it?"
"Of course. It's too late now for the Legion – I think Archimonde's about to seal the deal any minute."
"Yes, the poor, poor Legion. Alas, oh, alas for them."
"Is Araj in position?"
"As you ordered. Illidan and the orc are nearly finished with their tiff as well."
"Who's winning?"
"Illidan, of course. The orc's got spirit, but our boy's just the plain better fighter."
"Remind me to fetch my sword when it's over."
"Right."
***
The orc Warchief vanished as Archimonde muttered an arcane phrase. The last orc structure exploded in flames. The Eredar grinned, looking up at the World Tree's branches; the highway was nearly bare of resistance now. Soon, Archimonde and the Legion would taste the destruction of this world, starting with this great Tree. The Ordering of Azeroth would at long last be undone.
Archimonde looked out across the wreckage of the orc fortress to the final obstacle in his path – the sacred grove of the night elves. The grove stood at the very summit of the mountain, at the base of the Tree itself. It was nearly bare, a few dozen treants and their elven keepers. Victory was at hand.
***
Illidan swung hard with the wood shaft, knocking Kokoro's blade aside. The elf pivoted, bringing the weapon back to strike the orc's exposed flank. Kokoro staggered, and Illidan leapt in the air, twirling the staff in a wide arc. The wood struck Kokoro's head and shattered. The orc collapsed.
***
"Pay up," Anetheron said.
"Afterwards," Mephistroth answered, letting go of the branch he had gripped with his talons and sinking towards the ground. His comrade followed.
***
Illidan's blood was everywhere, as was the blood of his adversary. They mingled on the forest floor, on Illidan's skin, and on the broken shards of his weapon. He tasted them both in his mouth, mixing them around with his tongue. He swallowed, drinking in his victory. He dropped the remaining end of his stick to the ground, and smiled.
His demon vision flared; he could see so much energy in the air. The orc had spent every drop of his demon-charged blood, and its potency was everywhere; Illidan inhaled sharply, breathing it in. His own powers were boiling inside his tensed muscles, pushing him as he had felt himself being pushed before his metamorphosis. It was the battle against Tichondrius again, and the orc was the Skull of Gul'dan; Illidan absorbed it, devoured it, gulped it down like cool spring water.
It was not enough. He hungered for more.
Two shapes alighted on the grass nearby.
"Hello, Illidan," Mephistroth said. "We have a score to settle with you."
"It is time that Tichondrius was avenged," Anetheron chimed in.
Illidan smiled. It was gluttony and lust and avarice and wrath, all tied up in one twitch of his lips. Then he laughed.
***
Kil'jaeden nodded approvingly, though no one saw the gesture save the imps. Elsewhere, Ner'zhul mentally made a similar expression.
At that moment, the moon disappeared behind a cloud.