Chapter 4
That day. That single period of time between dusk and dawn that could completely change the direction of a life whose span exceeded 10,000 years. It had happened a little over a year ago, but the pain, the memories, they were so fresh that she expected to still find warm, wet blood coating her hands every time she awoke, still expected to see the gore-splattered walls of the barrow prison greeting her eyes. She had been reborn that day, she had died and been reborn, not as Underwarden Golonda Silvernight, but as Golonda the Assassin, Golonda the Mad, Golonda the willing tool of the Shadow Council. Vengeance was all she lived for now, vengeance against the priestess Tyrande Whisperwind, who, thanks to the sweeping win against the Burning Legion, paid no penalty for releasing Illidan the Betrayer from his rightful place in a cell deep beneath the earth. She killed those whose only crime was their dedication to their duty, pushed them aside or crushed them because they stood in her way, trying to prevent her from releasing a dangerous criminal on a whim. Where was the justice? Where was the recompense? No matter where she ran, no matter whose arm she held tight, be they arch-druid or not, she would pay. The Shadow Council had assured Golonda of that. So what was she doing half a continent away from Ashenvale, in a city that stank of humans and stale magic?
This thought broke the night elf from her revere, the long nail on her index finger idly scraping mildew from between the moist stones that made up her tiny room far beneath Theramore's streets. Why was she here, while Tyrande laughed and dined with her love; while Aweldessa's laugh was forever stilled, and the only things dining where she lay were the worms picking her bones clean? Golonda had had enough of waiting beneath the earth, she had ten millennia too much of it. Damn Suul'Dracol, damn him and the Shadow Council, damn their orders and their plots and their time biding. A snarl crossed her smooth, violet-skinned face, her nail scratching more fiercely as if she could tunnel her way to Ashenvale, as if she were tearing at Tyrande's very heart. Her nail snapped, a tremor of pain rippling up her hand and only then did she pause, regarding the now jagged fingernail. The pain was nothing, that's all she was now. She took that pain and let it become a part of herself. Another drop in the ocean.
At the very least let her practice her skills here. That human was like defeating a child, all tears and crawling around on the floor, begging for mercy. No challenge whatsoever. She should just leave, or kill Suul and then leave, but in either case she did not need the Shadow Council against her as well. She did not fear death, she only feared dying before Tyrande was in pieces at her feet. She would play their game, play the good little servant, kill whom they wanted killed. It was all only a matter of time. She suddenly cocked her head to the side as if listening. It was nearly nightfall. Centuries beneath the earth had given her an internal clock that was rarely wrong, and when night fell, so too would her blade.
" Begging your most august and dread pardon my lord, but why? Why these murders? "
A question.
Suul'Dracol never liked being questioned, it broke the line between the leader and the follower, the master and the servant. Still, the bold creation that was his plan did deserve some explanation, some guidance for those whose minds were too feeble to grasp true insight into the nature of the world around them.
Perhaps he would explain it.
" Your boldness is misplaced here, Muirdo, " the larger of the two rumbled menacingly, the whole time a ghost of a smile playing across the thin grey lips which spoke the threat. The slight figure dressed in tattered black robes bowed deeply, speaking from this humble position.
" If your forgiveness I cannot receive, then may my great lord slay me on the spot, and use my unworthy flesh for whatever purpose he sees fit. "
A good man, that Muirdo. Very dedicated. He made his pathetic race almost worth keeping around once the world was reduced to flame and ash.
An exaggerated sigh hissed past inhumanly long incisors, the sound of a teacher once again drawing deep from the well of patience. Pale skin shone like clean bone in the torch light, pulled tight across a prominent brow, deeply set eye sockets, and a jutting chin. The eyes themselves were little more than embers of glowing red nestled within two deeply shadowed recesses in the being's skull. A pair of segmented black horns that swept back with the curve of a drawn bow staff began just above the forehead and ended in sharp points a few inches past the back of the skull. Long fingers tapped obsidian black nails each as long as a paring knife against the wooden throne, suggesting a sort of deadly elegance to this creature's manner. He was wearing a mixture of leathers and metal plates all fashioned to make the wearer as imposing as possible, and were all dyed a red so dark it was almost black. Suul'Dracol was a striking figure, all of the above traits and the pair of bat-like wings that jutted out from his shoulder blades clearly marking him is something other than human, marking him as a dreadlord to those who had seen one previous and lived to talk about it.
The demonic figure was sprawled carelessly across a old wooden throne in one of the larger chambers carved into the very rock that made up Theramore Island, one leg planted foot-down on the floor, the other leg's knee joint resting against the right arm rest while the remainder of it dangled over the edge, swinging lightly in a bored rhythm. The hand on the right arm grasped the top of the throne lightly, and it was from this hand that the tapping of talon against wood could be heard, the other lay across the Nathrezim's broad chest, inert at the moment. Suul adjusted himself so that he was sitting properly, albeit in a slightly slouched position, legs crossed in a posture of supreme confidence and ease.
" So you know my plans, eh Muirdo? Are you planning to betray me once you know them? "
The cultist had hardly begun to rise from his previous bow before he forced himself back down again.
" No, great lord. If you do not believe me, then may you slay me and… "
" Yes, yes, I've heard that all before, " the dreadlord sighed, patting the air with his four fingered hand to cease the man's mechanical response. " Very well then, to begin, I ask you a simple question; why did the Burning Legion fail to conquer this world? "
Muirdo stood up and remained silent, either contemplating the question, or wondering if he was being baited into calling the Legion weak.
" Speak! " Suul roared, slamming his open palm against the throne's arm rest, causing some of the joints in the wood to splinter from the force of the impact.
" They tried to match the combined military forces of this world with their own, and there were simply not enough to do so, even after the weakening effects of the Scourge. They used brute force thrice and failed each time, " the acolyte sputtered quickly, backing half a pace away from the angered dreadlord.
" Precisely, Muirdo, precisely. They butted heads like the flaming brutes that they are and found their opponents heads to be stronger. No subtly, no guile, no finesse. I was honestly surprised they would employ something like the Scourge in the first place, especially after the failure of the Horde. The tactician, however, looks to instead draw the enemy to fight on his own terms. He intercepts and confounds the general's messages, he destroy supply depots and caravans, he steals the payroll before it gets to the front. He turns and twists loyalties and those with ambition, letting human nature itself destroy the command structure. The Burning Legion did none of this, despite the repeated offers from the Nethrezim to coordinate the attacks. They feared we would take over, which was of course true, but at least they would have won, " Suul commented off-handedly, waving the issue away as if it were a gnat. Muirdo spoke not a word, listening intently. The dreadlord sat up straighter in his seat when he began to talk again, warming to the subject and with such a rapt listener before him as well.
" In conflict, be it large or small in scale, you do not match a foe strength-for-strength, you attack his weaknesses. Theramore is a tightly packed city full of humans who miss their old homes, their old life, before coming to this strange new land, and have suffered terrible losses from the war. The steadfast dwarves have turned their attention to trying to rediscover their roots rather than seeking out external threats, caring less and less each day about an Alliance that no longer serves their needs. The high elves have fallen into a despondent stupor, their entire racial identity stripped from them as well as the source of their longevity and precious magic. My sources tell me that the gnomes too, have lost their home, and now side with their cousins the dwarves closely out of a need to belong. Theramore is a sun-baked forest, waiting for that one spark to set it all ablaze and tear it apart. With our other cabals set up around Ogrimmar and Nighthaven, I have but to put the humans into such a state of unrest that they will be easy prey for perhaps the Horde, who will sweep down and finally eliminate the people who killed so many of their number and forced them into humiliating camps for years on end. Or maybe the night elves will come instead, adamant in the belief that they will wipe out the last traces of arcane magic on the planet as well as their misguided brethren the Quel'dorei. "
" The murders will serve as a catalyst, as a microcosm for what will be happening across the whole continent in a few short years. The killings will sow fear and distrust amongst the populace, ally will turn on ally, neighbor against neighbor. Those not like themselves will all become potential murderers in their eyes, with the expulsion of the foreigners with their strange looks and their strange customs the only option to prevent more deaths. The people will also begin to question the competence of those who forced the races together in the first place, and it is in this questioning, Muirdo, " the dreadlord said, emphasizing the man's name, " that order begins to break down. That is the purpose of the murders. "
" And the ritual you have been preparing so carefully…? " the human servitor dared to ask. Suul chuckled at this, a dark, rumbling noise.
" The finale, the bright red curtain that comes down like an executioners axe and ends the play. It too, only will serve to amplify what already exists, what the murders will spark. Speaking of the murders, Muirdo, has the next one been selected? "
The cultist nodded his hooded head.
" Yes, great one. He has arrived just this afternoon with a caravan following the Gold Road from far up north. He will be given some advice to seek out a tavern that serves his kind and will leave there shortly after the second hour of the second watch due to an altercation with some veterans of thesecond war… "
"And on the streets of a city so very far from his home, he will lose his life, " a voice behind him interrupted.
The dreadlord and acolyte both looked to the doorway, in which stood a lithe female silhouette standing over six-and-a-half feet in height. A three-bladed moon glaive, its edges gleaming like liquid silver in the torchlight rose up to shoulder height, held in place by the figures' slender hand, its edges facing towards Suul. The dreadlord frowned at the weapon being pointed at him, but knew that while the night elf was insane, she was not stupid. He was in no danger.
" Are you sure you will be able to handle this one, Golonda? He is a very skilled warrior, not like the last one I had you kill… " the Nethrezim trailed off, looking past the crescent blades of her weapon of choice and into her pupil-less white eyes. Golonda suddenly slashed the air not inches from where Muirdo stood, the blades cutting through the air with a sharp 'whish'.
" You may well ask the cow how it figures its chances are against the butcher. If he stands between me and Tyrande, then he will die. "
" Remember the thing that I would have you retrieve for him once he is dead, and the note, " Suul added, holding up a commanding finger to her.
Golonda said nothing, slipping the moon glaive under her cloak and affixing it to the special metal forearm guard she wore on her right arm. She then turned a left the two of them with a swirl of her indigo cloak, disappearing into the gloom.