As soon as a suspicious noise drifted from the Traitor's dungeon, the elf on duty nearby rushed toward the source of the sound. He arrived at the bars in question simultaneously with his Commander. Maiev Shadowsong had received a warning from the signal charms installed in Illidan Stormrage's cell about malfunctions in the spell complex. Even without the prisoner's talent for detecting magic, one glance at the gasping man arched in a bow was enough for Maiev Shadowsong to form an opinion and make a decision.
"Call Naia and everyone who is free—our prisoner is trying to escape!" the girl ordered curtly.
The subordinate nodded and rushed headlong back into the corridor, and from there to the guardroom, where the available Guard of the prison complex, raised by the alarm, should have been gathering at that moment. Maiev Shadowsong, meanwhile, squeezed a trinket-artifact in her fist, sending an alarm message to her immediate superiors, and at that moment the glow of the charms entangling the cell bars went out. The dungeon plunged into darkness; the slap of a body falling to the ground was heard.
"I remember Cenarius saying that one can only get out of his stasis by irrevocably losing all magical powers, which no Mage would agree to... Now we'll check how right he was."
The girl stepped back a couple of paces from the bars, her right hand dropped to her chakram, and several magical fireflies flew from her open left palm...
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"I'm still alive..." Illidan Stormrage realized, breaking free from the tenacious claws of semi-oblivion. Waking up on the stone floor, he winced and cursed quietly: although strength was no longer being sucked out of him, the mangled energetics and the absence of even a drop of Mana in it made themselves felt. And then there was the notorious magic thirst... Psychologically, keeping the connection channel with the Source closed was becoming harder with every second—it was like dying of dehydration while drowning in a lake filled with clear spring water... poisoned, of course.
Leaning first on his hands, he slowly rose, returning his body to a vertical position. Green fireflies flew around the prisoner, illuminating him and the room with a warm light; under the bandage worn over the prisoner's eyes, lights of a similar color glowed dimly, in which, however, there was not a gram of warmth. Illidan Stormrage glanced around briefly and then stared at the jailer, specifically at her left hand, in which some spell was being born, calculating something to himself.
"Without Mana, you are no match for me. Do not approach the bars and you will not be harmed," the elf deemed it her duty to warn the prisoner, although if any of her relatives or good acquaintances were here, they would have certainly noticed that she very much wanted him to "approach and be harmed."
It so happened that the girl's desires completely coincided with Illidan Stormrage's current plans. The captive Demon Hunter took two steps, approaching the bars, and, grabbing the rods, tried to bend them. And although it was half-hearted and not in earnest, the elf's muscles tensed, and the iron, deprived of protective charms, began to slowly yield to the physical power of the Demon Hunter. Maiev Shadowsong did not wait for her brother's killer to get out of the cage and attacked. A glob of light-green energy tore from her forward-thrust palm, transforming in flight into a frame of power lines resembling a small bird.
In the green light, Illidan Stormrage's impassive face distorted into a triumphant smirk, and he caught the projectile with a hand whose tattoos flared up and recoiled from the bars, squeezing the quivering glob of energy in his fist. Ignoring the Guard, who had fallen into a slight stupor, the man crushed the prey and listened to the inner source, which pounced like a hungry beast on the unfortunate construct.
"Not enough," Illidan Stormrage muttered under his breath. "Although..." he cast a critical eye over the lights flying around. "This should be enough."
The fireflies suffered the fate of the bird, and the Mage did not waste time and, concentrating, proceeded to carry out the final stage of the escape. The lights hidden by the bandage went out completely, while the tattoos on his body, on the contrary, puffed with power, clearly visible in the dark cell even in the visible range. The figure of the elf, frozen in the center of the prison, became shrouded in a haze through which a faint ripple periodically ran. This action continued for several seconds, after which Illidan Stormrage suddenly coughed up blood, and his tattoos turned green-red—apparently Mana was still insufficient, and life energy came into play.
The sharp sound brought Maiev Shadowsong to her senses, and she, releasing the useless chakram from her grip, thrust her hands under her cloak. A moment later, throwing knives flew at the Mage, who was undoubtedly trying to escape: she was wary of attacking with magic after the recent demonstration. The sharp-honed weapons, missing the cell bars, rushed toward the target... and flew right through the elf. The knives hit the cell wall and, bouncing off it with a pitiful clatter, fell to the floor. The vaguely discernible silhouette of Illidan Stormrage, which turned out to be a residual trace of Teleport, finally dissipated after a couple of moments. Although this method of moving through space was much less spectacular and not particularly reliable compared to standard portals, it possessed an indubitable advantage—it was not as demanding on Mana reserves and execution time, so Illidan Stormrage had no choice.
The girl growled and, in a fit of emotion, slammed her hand against the bars of the empty cell. Her protective bracers met the rods, and a metallic crash spread through the corridors of the dungeon...
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Half a day later. The foothills of Mount Hyjal near Ashenvale forest.
The hiding place—a tiny cave—to put it bluntly, was not impressive. The entrance was blocked by a huge boulder and overgrown with ivy—that was all the camouflage Illidan Stormrage could manage. Nevertheless, in defense of the creator of the secluded spot, it can be said that he did not have time to create a high-quality magical veil intended to hide the hidden things. And making a crooked craft in a hurry using the "slapdash" method... a hiding place would be found by it much more likely than someone accidentally stumbling upon a cave emitting natural magic. Besides, this place was intended only for temporary storage; the creator of the Source simply did not expect that he would be delayed so long with a repeat visit.
An exhausted elf leaned his back against the sought-after stone. He looked frankly terrible: his body was covered with a crust of dried blood, and when he coughed, red drops still escaped from his mouth now and then. The deplorable state of his body and the aggravating effect of magic thirst led to Illidan Stormrage reaching his goal practically exhausted both physically and psychologically, holding the channel blockage on sheer willpower mixed with stubbornness. To organize a warm welcome for the "dear" guests, he should heal up and prepare a bit, but for that, he had to get to the supplies of elixir with Mana essence, so necessary for his mangled energy shell.
With the last obstacle on the way to the stash remaining from the post-war times, Illidan Stormrage had to really struggle, but after a few minutes, the stone barrier was overcome, and he had access to the coveted vials lying mixed in a small bag. Contrary to expectations, the red vial went into action first instead of the blue one: before restoring Mana reserves, it was necessary to close the question of the body's physical condition.
And so, finally, the bitter, cool blue liquid rushed in an enveloping stream down his throat to his stomach. Having drained three elixirs in several hurried gulps, the Mage listened to his sensations for a couple of seconds and then, growling angrily, in frustration launched the empty vials against the wall: the Teleport spell had finally finished off his energy component, undermined by the successful attempt to get out of stasis, and now Mana simply did not stay in it. The inner source dutifully supplied the half-destroyed energy channels with Mana obtained from the elixirs, unaware of its futile work: the elf's energy structure at the moment was not a storehouse of magic, but more resembled a huge leaky barrel that they were trying to fill with water using tiny thimbles. At least, simple Mana elixirs could not ensure the superiority of energy intake over its loss. True, he had a means several orders of magnitude better and just as dangerous "accidentally" lying around...
"Fixing the consequences will take more than one year and not even one decade, and I need strength today... what am I saying today—right now! So I'll have to walk the edge once more..." The gaze of the tired Mage, who quickly ran through various options in his head, dropped to the bag, inside which, besides elixirs and other consumables, lay an inconspicuous box serving as a container for small vessels made of opaque glass, filled with water from the first Well of Eternity, in the amount of four pieces, which created the demasking background around the cave despite the box's shielding. "In a normal case, drinking the water of the Well is as suicidal as an attempt to defeat a dragon in hand-to-hand combat—the inner source of the power-hungry idiot will simply burst under the pressure of energy along with his body. Not many can afford to gulp down Eternity like ordinary water, and I, to my regret, am not among them. Although with severed energy channels, a rapid overfilling of the reserve does not threaten me, and this venture becomes no more suicidal than an attempt to cast a Teleport spell without Mana... On the other hand, one can still try to turn to my brother and Teacher for help, but go find them, and the vial is right here, just reach out. And why hide the truth—I've always wanted to taste it..."
Having decided, the elf threw back the lid of the box, took out one of the vials, the smallest one, and immediately drained its contents. To the Mage's surprise, the water turned out to be not as strong as he had assumed: either the power of Eternity had weakened after the destruction of the Source, or the "sieve" of his energy system had such large holes that it easily withstood the flow of generated Mana without aggravating the consequences of the escape, or perhaps he was just lucky. Be that as it may, no excesses in taming the strength of the medicine arose for the fugitive. After a few seconds, a reaction followed to the tasteless liquid in the form of Mana streaming through his veins and the effect of a lightning strike: his unkempt hair stood on end, and bluish sparks of energy snaked across his body—excess power begged to be let out. Reasoning soundly that it was wrong to let the energy of the "digested" water be wasted on some cheap illumination, Illidan Stormrage removed the blockage from the channel, expecting to kill two Gnolls at once: relieve the load on the inner source and deal with the surely already waiting for a good thrashing next group of incorporeal hunters for his body. And after that, the fugitive planned to carry out a surrender: he did not believe that the trio of Kaldorei leaders under such circumstances would put him behind bars again... at least until they dealt with the nature of these attacks. But the planned conversation with his brother had to be postponed...
The stream of energy originating in the Source, as if rejoicing at the disappearance of the dam, hurried to fill the old channel with power; however, its efforts this time were not appreciated: where previously the mouth of the stream ended in a small pond, a whole sea of energy now splashed.
Contrary to Illidan Stormrage's expectations, there was no one behind the dam he had built a couple of hours ago in the path of the invaders floating down the channel. And he thought that a queue had already formed there!
However, one had formed... only not of claimants to his body, but of short mental messages. Indistinct orders to hurry to the rescue were replaced by vague calls for help, and those, in turn—by more or less discernible panic pleas for salvation, and then by clear screams of pain. All these attempts to call for help gave a sharp pain in his temples, which did not improve the Mage's well-being at all, but, be that as it may, he recognized the author, and any elf in his place would have recognized it—for it was the voice of their Queen.
"She's alive?!" was the first thing the stunned Illidan Stormrage thought, having seen with his own eyes how the riot of energy at the site of the destroyed Source tore the capital to shreds, and from Azshara's palace, nothing but dust dissolved in seawater should have remained! And later he saw the bottomless abyss that formed at the site of the building! To fill it, the Great Sea had to lower its level by half a meter! And yet the Queen remained near the epicenter, and no matter how strong a sorceress she was, she clearly could not survive there... in Illidan Stormrage's opinion. "Although on the other hand—who, if not her? Or did she still change her mind about staying and successfully cleared out of there before the Source blew and the portal in the palace collapsed? Wait, stop! Not thinking about the right thing..."
A priori assuming that Azshara somehow managed to get out of it at the moment of the explosion, the Mage switched his attention to more pressing issues, of which quite a few had accumulated by the current moment. Why has no one encroached on his body yet? What are these strange messages from the Queen? Is there a connection between the first and the second? And what, strictly speaking, to do next?
Illidan Stormrage didn't really need the answer to the first question, since the presence of power and, most importantly, the ability to use it allowed him to deal with such non-trivial attacks once and for all. But the second question required a more thoughtful approach. The Mage got the impression that all these messages from Azshara had been accumulating for a whole year God knows where, and then suddenly all at once were sent to the addressees (or addressee, provided that all these messages were intended directly for him, and not for everyone she could "shout" to).
But the former prisoner no longer had time to reflect on the reasons for the delay of the "telepathic post," nor on the third question, and his desire vanished: the quality of the last heard scream of pain left no doubt that the elf was honored to hear the voice of the suffering Queen practically in real time. Illidan the Traitor had a great opportunity to atone for one of his betrayals, and he was not going to miss it. The question "What to do?" turned into "Whom to kill?" by itself, and the meeting with his brother could wait.
Having outlined a plan for further actions, he immediately proceeded to its implementation. Two of the remaining cherished vials returned to the box, which took its old place in the cave. The last one, just in case, along with the rest of the fugitive's modest belongings, successfully fit into the bag slung over his shoulder within half a minute. Even one drained vial should be enough to demonstrate maximum capabilities, despite the mangled system of energy channels, which was in no hurry to return to normal and responded with painful sensations in the spiritual shell. But why not have an extra trump card up his sleeve?
It took next to nothing to track the source of the mental messages—about a couple of minutes, fortunately, the elf calling for help did not think of hiding, but on the contrary—as if trying with all her might to simplify the work for her saviors. At first, Illidan Stormrage mentally prepared for a meeting with compatriots who had taken the Queen prisoner and were now taking revenge on her for all the horrors and suffering that fell to their lot in last year's war. But after determining the coordinates, which according to preliminary estimates indicated the location of the royal palace, that is, the site of the seemingly bottomless sea depression near the giant Maelstrom, he was no longer so sure about the identities of those he would have to face. The prospect of meeting demons loomed before him, who might well try to lay all the blame for the failure of the invasion on Azshara and take revenge on her.
According to the Mage's sound reasoning, for the reunion with old acquaintances from the cohort of Sargeras's henchmen to go successfully and in his favor, he should prepare a bit. Which is what Illidan Stormrage spent the next half hour doing, occasionally regretting the loss of the enchanted blades he had already grown accustomed to...
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