The twisted creature known as Illidan Stormrage sat beneath an ancient ash tree, his eyes closed in meditation. His demonic form, brought on by the energies of the Skull of Gul'dan, had subsided, and his shape was once again an elf, if a very tired and strained elf. The Skull's energies had empowered him briefly, but after the battle with Tichondrius, they were already nearly spent. He was weak and wounded, and the emptiness where the demonic powers had been, even briefly, made him starved for more.
He was blind to the physical world, but in his head Illidan saw things no mortal should ever see. His blood pumped the demon energies like poison ever more through his system, adapting his body to work with their power, and in return, he began to sense that power outside of him. His 'demon vision', as he thought of it, was hazy yet, but even now, from the little he had tasted, he could 'see' in his mind's eye the demons that arrived in ever larger numbers at the foot of Mount Hyjal. He could see the great Eredar Archimonde; he could sense the expansive Doom Guard, already assembled and awaiting the call to battle; he could see the infernals, felhounds and lesser demons arrayed across the continent.
And close by, so close by, he could see the dark soul of the Death Knight, Prince Arthas. Even now, that unholy creature brought the demons towards Illidan, closer and closer to the poor elf who had dared to taste of their power. They were coming to kill him, he knew, and he would not be able to hold them back on his own. He had barely been strong enough to slay Tichondrius at the height of his increased powers, and now, after that power had waned so far, he would have no chance against Arthas and his two pet dreadlords.
He could not even run. He could hide, but for how long? How long before they burned the forest down around him, and the game was up? He didn't know. He didn't know how long he could last without more of the power he had tasted, but he knew that if he didn't find it again, he would surely die of bloodthirst.
"Very well," he said firmly. "If it is my fate to die for my crimes, then I shall do so." He loathed what he had done - and yet, even as he verbally condemned himself, he silently hungered for more...
"My Lord!" Azgalor cried, "the Scourge has gone!"
"What?" the Eredar said calmly. They were at the foot of Mount Hyjal, where the Legion's forces were being marshaled.
"The undead, Master. They have deserted! I have just looked again; I can find no sign of the undead where you told them to gather."
"I see." The warlock closed his eyes.
"My Lord," the Pit Lord continued, "it must be the Lich King's doing. He is not as bound to the Legion's will as we once thought."
"No," Archimonde said darkly. "He is not. But this is not so simple as that. I would venture it is my brother's doing." Azgalor gulped; did Archimonde know that Kil'jaeden planned for him to die this day? Did he know that the other Eredar had contacted Azgalor? If Archimonde knew Kil'jaeden had given him secret orders, it would be enough to condemn the Pit Lord to a most painful death.
"My Lord, what do we need the Scourge for, anyway?" he said, trying to change the subject. "We have enough undead forces here with us, plus the Legion itself, to take Hyjal three times over. Not to mention your own formidable powers."
"That is true enough," Archimonde agreed. Azgalor said nothing more, but looked away.
"Ah," Archimonde said after a moment, "there they are."
"What?" Azgalor looked back. The Eredar's eyes were still shut. "What did you say, my Lord?"
"I have found them, Azgalor. They are to the northwest, in the foothills." The Pit Lord breathed a wheezing sigh of relief. He was off the hook, it seemed.
"Well, then there's no problem. Right, my Lord?"
"It's still strange," Archimonde said slowly. "They are rather far from the staging point, and they are still on the move – away, both from here and from where I told them to be." He opened his eyes.
"I would say they were deserting, master."
"Please, Azgalor, how do forty thousand corpses desert? They probably were seen by some scouting party, and so they engaged."
Azgalor shrugged. He was out of answers.
"I think you should go see what they're up to, Azgalor," Archimonde said, after a pause.
"Me, Lord? Won't you need me for battle? I gather we're beginning the attack soon."
"Just as you said, Azgalor, we have enough of a force here to take Hyjal three times over. I don't need the Scourge's help, and I can certainly get along with out you for a little while."
"But, my Lord—"
"No more arguments, Azgalor. I want them accounted for. Take some infernals, go and find out what the undead are doing, and don't make me tell you again. I hate repeating myself."
Azgalor sighed. "Of course, my Lord." He was disappointed. Trekking all over Kalimdor after the wayward Scourge could take all afternoon, and the battle would be over long before then. He would never quench his bloodthirst now.
Sometimes it seemed like the whole world was against him.
Foothills was a rather misleading term for the terrain to the west of the mountains, as Mephistroth and Anetheron had discovered. It was technically true according to the area's elevations, for small hills did rise out of what would otherwise have been a flat floodplain, but the hills were hardly as traversable as traditional foothills. Like the rest of Ashenvale, forest covered everything, and here was more tangled a region even than most.
The natives had taken to calling it Felwood, after the extent of the Legion's corruption, but even when that corruption had been pushed out by Illidan's destruction of the Skull of Gul'dan, the name had stuck. Even now, without the influence of the demonic magics, the natural overgrowth strangled and entangled the area so completely that the dreadlords had almost instantly met a dead end. Illidan could not have chosen a better place to hide from the Scourge; the impassable trees made a natural constricting labyrinth which gave such a large army as theirs little chance to even move, let alone find him.
It was then, unremarkably, that Anetheron had an idea.
"Send the boy."
"What?" Mephistroth said.
"Send the boy," Anetheron repeated. They were halted at the edge of a wide brook – another wall of the forest maze. "Send the boy out after Illidan. He'll find the elf for us, and then we can let him weaken it before we fight it ourselves."
"Of course!" Mephistroth cried. "Of course, what a splendid idea!" He went to find Arthas.
The fallen prince was near the rear of the formation, in conversation with his fellow death knights, when Mephistroth found him. When the demon appeared, the humans quickly stopped talking, and an awkward silence fell upon the dreadlord. Mephistroth looked around sheepishly, and approached Arthas.
"Master?" Arthas said warmly.
"Silence, dog," the demon said. "I have a job for you."
"Anything for the Legion, of course."
"I am sending you out to find the elf."
"Just me?"
"Just you. When you find him, give a signal and we'll come to you."
"What sort of signal?"
"Well, I don't know. Haven't you any spells?"
"I can steal souls with my runesword, but I don't think you'd be able to see that from here."
"And that's it?" The demon looked at him incredulously. Arthas spread out his hands.
"I'm afraid we death knights are more fighters than mages, my Lord."
The demon looked around helplessly. It had certainly seemed like a good idea when Anetheron had suggested it. His eyes settled on a lich, floating casually next to a group of necromancers.
"You, lich!" Mephistroth called. The lich turned around. "Come here."
"Thisss one hearsss and obeysss, dreadlord," the lich said as it approached. "How can thisss one help the Legion?"
"What is your name, lich?" the dreadlord asked.
"Thisss one isss called Araj," the lich rasped icily. "What isss it you want?"
"Silence," Mephistroth mumbled. "Can you summon a flare?"
"Of courssse," Araj snickered. "Even the weakessst mage can do that." Mephistroth looked back at Arthas, who shrugged.
"Alright," the demon said. "You two, go and find Illidan. Give a flare when you do, and Anetheron and I will come to you."
"Of course, my Lord," Arthas said with a smile. Araj nodded. They both turned and exited the clearing, leaving Mephistroth with his clawed hand on his forehead. These mortals were giving him a headache.