A single horn sounded across the battlefield and others soon echoed it, a haunting cry that eddied through the thick mist that had rolled off the mountains. With it, Warraven's courage faltered. The great horns of the Horde were signaling a retreat. Panting, the tauren shaman smashed her mace into the skull of the closest ghoul and turned, locking gazes with the elf that stood nearby. He did not move, just returned the stare, until Warraven was forced to look away and bring her left-hand mace sideways, smashing the ghoul to the side and shattering brittle bones. An axe tore what was left in two. And as suddenly as they had sounded, the horns drifted away and above the cries of the dying and those still locked in bloodlust came the calls of the Horde commanders. Fall back.
Their commander was dead. One of the wyrms had taken him early in the fight, snatched him into the air before anyone could react. It had snapped its head left and right so that the orc was torn in two, his blood falling like sleet onto the small company. The blood elf priest had swore and Warraven doubted it was because of the death, but because his robes were stained with it. Eonthane would have much to complain about now, for his hem was soaked red by the bodies at his feet and thin trickle of blood went from his lip to his small reddish beard. He would die before admitting he could not keep up.
The muster had come from Ogrim's Hammer, the war horns calling all warriors of the Horde to it. They had come quickly and formed up where a clear patch in Icecrown, along the border of the mountains, had been created by heavy shelling from the airship's guns. Warraven and her companions found themselves quickly put under command with another group, all strangers, and they were sent to hold the right flank steady. Hammer and anvil. They'd sweep the Scourge against a solid core and then send in the left flank as the hammer to smash the undead against the anvil that was the center.
Except the center had collapsed. And now the horns for retreat sounded.
Behind her, the orc shaman Grishna was glancing about, trying to get some bearing on where they were. The mist was just growing thicker, turning this into a madness of whiteout and ghouls and other scourge appearing like spectrals out of thin air. A blade sliced into Warraven's shoulder and she grabbed the scythe in one hand, growling, and crushed the shaft, pulling the blade out of her shoulder. She returned it to its owner by means of his neck.
"We need to see!" she cried.
"I KNOW!" Grishna replied, "Druid! Hurricane our position! Drive the mist back!"
The wind whipped up and lightning pelted about them, sending Warraven's fur standing on edge. It swept the mist away and the small group could see clearly what was going on around them.
The Scourge had decimated their middle. It wouldn't be long before they finished killing the stragglers, small pockets of resistence, and turned to the sides. Warraven's unit was up against the cliff edge and they had a clear view of the mist covering the valley. The swirling pockets marked where fights still raged. The back ranks were making a good retreat of it but Warraven was not part of the back rank. Someone solemnly asked the Light to protect her soul. That would be the Forsaken, Ardene, who clung desperately to the belief that the Light would not abandon her to damnation.
"No!" Grishna snapped, "We're not done yet! Maybe some day we all die, but not here! I have an idea. Those of you with shields, get to the front. Shamans, with me. Druids, keep the mist back so our fighters can see. Everyone else, keep killing. Or… not killing."
The blood elf priest gave the orc an irritated glance before turning his attention back to the melee. He was chanting, almost melodic, the closest thing Warraven had ever seen him to singing. It focused his mind, he said, and brought the power within him out.
"Mist is just air and water, right?" the orc said as the shamans huddled close to the cliff, "We can use that."
She seemed so tiny compared to the other shamans. But they all listened.
"We call upon the spirits. They're still in this place. We call upon them and turn the mist into our ally. Cover ourselves so thick that even the scourge cannot track us – we blight the earth under our feet with what Death Knights are with us so that they cannot sense us. And we send the air to carry our scent away so they cannot smell living flesh. Everything we can do to shield ourselves."
"Blighting the earth is an abomination," one of the shamans said.
"The earth is already blighted," Grishna snarled, "A little more to keep us alive wouldn't hurt."
Orders were shouted. The group started a slow retreat along the cliff wall and the shamans called to the spirits of the air and water, asking them to clear a path and obscure any pursuers. Behind them lay blighted earth, the death knights in their company obscuring their tracks with their own unholy power. And the group huddled in a tight knot, weapons ready, muscles strained by the strain. Slowly, bit by bit, fewer and fewer scourge stumbled upon them, until Grishna called for the hunters to start scouting ahead in the mist and find a path, a way out. The company marched for hours. Two fell, one dead from festering wounds that simply would not close, another fell and quietly surrendered her soul to the Light without a word. The paladin had not said a thing the entire battle, just fought like any warrior of the Horde. There was little left to heal with. Eonthane was now being carried over Warraven's shoulder, the elf in one hand, her mace in the other. He had passed out at some point and while someone suggested they leave him for dead, Warraven had refused. Despite all appearances he was strong in will.
One of the troll hunters finally reported that he had found a cave they could hole up in until the mist passed. They were out of Icecrown but he was unsure exactly what part of the Storm Peaks they were in. The company had been following an upward trail, hoping it would get them out of that infested valley. It had worked, but now they were lost. Tired, exhausted, and battered the group crept into the small cave. Someone started seeing if they couldn't get a fire going while Warraven lay Eonthane near the back and went to the cave entrance. Grishna was there as well.
"In the morning," the orc said, "We'll make it home then. Just have to last the night."
"There are some that won't."
The orc frowned but did not reply. Instead, she thanked the spirits of the air, as did Warraven, and the two shamans returned to the inside of the cave as a veil of snow drew across the entrance.