A Path of Shadows

*Many years ago in Icecrown, before the fall of the Lich King*

Janthela Sunfall shivered as another gust of freezing cold wind blew snow horizontally into her face. The frigid air penetrated the deepest clothing, looking for any crack in one's defenses to suck the warmth and life out of all it touched. It was fitting for the desolate, icy lands that the Lich King had selected for his throne. Its mournful howling fit her mood well, and served as a dirge for the fallen.

She turned away from the wind, trying in vain to keep her face covered enough to keep the stinging cold out. She peered out from beneath the scarf that covered half her face, her fel green eyes glowing softly and the only light in the gloom of the storm. Others stood around her, looking equally forlorn, and she studied them for a moment, taking their measure.

There was the tauren, Kareem. A mighty shaman, he had suffered some minor wounds from a mace to his shoulder. Her healing spells had mended it, but he still moved stiffly. Even so, he would be valuable in this last mission that they had to complete.

To his right stood the orc warrior Targesh. Of all the group, his spirits were the highest and he stood proud and straight under her gaze, his axes held at the ready in each mighty fist. He met her gaze, his stern look softening for a moment as he shared her concerns privately.

Off to one side and overlooking a bluff that descended into an area that was, unsurprisingly, filled with more snow, stood their troll scout Ragan. A cunning headhunter and ax-thrower, it was only through Ragan's skills that any of them were even alive now. The troll had also suffered some injuries, particularly to his right arm, but between his natural stamina and Janthela's spells, he was still capable of leading them through the raging blizzard.

Finally, standing just beside Janthela and unmoving was the Forsaken, Viktor. A long-fallen knight, he was a silent wall of steel and a comforting presence to the Sin'dorei warpriestess. It was he who had first rallied those few survivors of the camp, and he who had eventually gotten the small group together to fight their way free of the crushing defeat their company had suffered.

Janthela paused, the silence extending between them all as she considered their next move. They were a mere five against all of the powers of the Scourge, all that remained of an entire Horde military force. A shaman, a warrior, a headhunter, a fallen knight, and her, a rather weakened Sin'dorei priestess. It was enough to make her want to laugh in a hysterical sort of way, but they had no time to spare on hysterics; they had to move, had to complete their mission.

Their encampment had been betrayed by cultists hidden amongst the orcs and trolls that made up the bulk of their soldiers. Betrayed in the night, many had died from foul poison or in their sleep. Many others had been slain as undead erupted from the ground around them, even as their perimeter was overrun by a massive Scourge attack. All of it, all of the deaths and violence, had been over several artifacts that the Horde had managed to wrest from a Scourge stronghold only the day before. Artifacts that were so important that a lich had been involved in the assault on their encampment.

They had slain the lich and fought their way free, but the price was unbelievable. Hundreds had died, all of them turned into Scourge. Ragan had reported seeing necromancers even raising some of the more powerful orc warriors as death knights, and what was worse, they were still pursuing the ragged band of survivors, and each of them knew why.

They still had the artifacts; Janthela carried them in her pack.

"Before we continue, we must make a pact. A bond," Janthela said quietly. "So many have died and have been condemned to eternal torment so that we could win free. We cannot let them stop us, no matter what. We cannot turn on one another, despite what happened back at the camp. We must trust one another above all else, or everything they died for will have been in vain."

Each of the others gave their confirmation, from the grim nod that Kareem gave to the gruff grunt coming from Targesh. Even the silent Viktor nodded, his sickly yellow eyes meeting her gaze. Even so, Janthela needed more. She drew a dagger from her belt and roughly tore off one of her gloves, holding her palm up. She met the gazes of each of the others before dragging her ritual blade across her palm, letting the blood drip from it, "By my blood oath, I swear to you that I will uphold this pact. I will not abandon you. I will not abandon our quest. We will see this through to the end."

Instantly each of the others reacted, drawing their own weapons with Ragan reaching for Janthela's dagger. Each drew their blood and let it spill upon the frozen tundra of Icecrown, repeating her words, her oath. When it was done, the ground beneath them had a mix of blood and what passed for blood from Viktor, and all sheathed their weapons.

"We are of one mind then. We make for Horde lines. We don't stop for any reason until we all die," Janthela said, her voice containing a hint of finality to it.

With that she nodded to Ragan, and he turned, beginning to lead them in the trek down the side of the nearby dell, into the raging storm.

******************************************

Kareem was the first of them to fall, his death an unavoidable tragedy. They had been making their way across a perilous stretch of frozen ice when an echoing crack was heard. All of them had been thrown to the ground as the very earth shook, and ice had broken apart and fallen to the side as a giant worm rose from the ground. To the shaman's great misfortune, he was right above the spot where the worm burst free, and its gaping maw swallowed him up in an instant, even as the others scrambled to their feet and scattered.

They turned to fight it, knowing it was likely controlled by the Scourge and sent to destroy them, knowing they would have no chance against such a huge beast, but they need not have bothered. Kareem's last act, his last sacrifice, was to cause lava to erupt deep within the beast's belly. The creature let out a strange gurgling scream and shuddered, molten lava spewing from its mouth as it collapsed and fell back into its hole, dragging tons of ice with it and nearly taking Targesh with it.

In the aftermath, Janthela found herself on her knees beside the pit that had gobbled up a member of their party so easily. All her spells, all her healing had done nothing to save him, and she felt the tears running down her cheeks and freezing.

Footfalls sounded behind Janthela, and she felt Targesh's mighty hand clasp her shoulder in comfort, felt him kneel down beside her, his voice like a solid rock upon which she could lean, "He died an honorable death, a warrior's death. There is no shame in this."

Janthela looked up at the orc, the frozen tears glittering on her cheek, her emotions raging within her silent form. Targesh reached out, scooping up her tiny form against him, his arms like a shield against the hurt she felt in her heart. She clung to him a moment, her body rocking with her sobs, the loss of one of the few remaining survivors like the snuffing of a candle representing hope.

And yet she knew they couldn't delay, couldn't tarry here to mourn him. Even now, through the blowing snow, the clatter of bones in the distance could be heard as the Scourge hunted them, somehow always knowing where they were. Janthela pushed herself away from Targesh, giving him a look of gratitude as she pulled herself together.

By now, the others had gathered around them, and she nodded at the group, "We keep moving. Kereem would have wanted us to keep our oath."

*****************************************

Ragan fell next, and this time they had no time to mourn him. Taken by skeletal archers in an ambush, the party found themselves running for their lives as the Scourge closed in all around them. The undead had tracked them through the storm, had determined their course, and had cut them off. Even as Ragan's screams carried through the air the others ran, knowing they stood no chance without their scout.

Harried now, desperate, the remaining three of the party ran through the blizzard, their progress hindered by great drifts of snow and stinging winds. The clattering bones of moving undead behind them grew louder for a time, but then grew more distant as another scream echoed through the cold.

Ragan had not died easily, or quickly, but his death had bought them time.

The three exchanged glances and continued on, running where they could, trudging through the snow where they couldn't, knowing they were running out of time.

******************************************

The end came when they came upon a cliff face in the ice. Trapped against the impossibly sheer glacier with only a narrow path to travel down further into the valleys of Icecrown, the three knew they would not be able to navigate the pathway with the undead so close on their heels. They paused together, each of them nodding at the others and preparing for death.

Targesh turned towards where they knew the undead would come, nodding at the others, his voice strong, "I will hold them off for as long as I can. Viktor, you stop them from reaching the priestess, and she will use her magic until it is expired. We will die with honor."

Janthela stepped forward, squeezing his hand once, "I will stand with you until the end. Lok'Tar Ogar."

Targesh smiled once, drawing his axes, "Lok'Tar Ogar!" With that he strode forward, taking up a position along the pathway they had traveled, almost obscured by the blowing winds.

Behind Janthela, Viktor's voice whispered, "One of us must survive this, priestess."

She turned to look at him, meeting his gaze, "We won't."

"No, we won't, but one of us must," the undead knight said again, his voice cold. "All of us have perished for what? To be raised as slaves to...you know what. It cannot come to pass. I will not let it. You must take it and go."

Janthela blinked and shook her head, her eyes wide, "W-what? No. We swore oaths."

Viktor's voice was angry now, almost a hiss, "Oaths that said we would see our mission done. The path is narrow behind us. The undead will not be able to navigate it in any great numbers. If you go now, while we delay them, you will win free. Take it and go. Do not look back."

"B-but..." Janthela began to protest. Viktor cut her off with a glare, "Go. Now."

In her heart, Janthela knew he was right, and she turned away from him, tears again on her face. Behind her, Targesh prepared to sell his life dearly never knowing that she would not be there to aid him. She bent down and picked up her pack, the pack containing the cursed, wretched thing that was the purpose behind it all. She looked at Viktor one last time and nodded at him, her voice cracking, "Lok'Tar Ogar."

"Just go. Don't give me that crap. We're dead men," Viktor snapped, looking away.

Janthela turned and headed down the path, guilt heavy on her shoulders as the first orcish warcry rose up.

************************************************

The sun was setting, although it was hard to tell given the fact that the blizzard had darkened the day to almost night. Even so, the temperatures were plunging, and Janthela knew she would soon freeze to death, alone and forgotten.

It had been many hours now since she had heard even the slightest sound beyond the howling wind, and she knew she had lost most of her pursuers. When the voice started to whisper to her, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Oathbreaker...." the wind whispered. "Traitor....Sin'dorei whore...Fel-cursed elf...."

Janthela bit her lip, trying to block out the sounds, suspecting she knew what they were. Her footsteps faltered as she tried to force her way through yet another snow drift, her body's heat expended, her energy fading.

"You left them to die....betrayer! You swore an oath! Your word is nothing!"

"No!" Janthela cried out to no one and nothing, "I had to continue the mission! H-had to press on!"

"Oathbreaker...." the wind whispered.

Tears ran down Janthela's face and instantly froze, the feeling painful on her already frostbitten skin. In desperation she cried out to the Light, but her faith had long since waned with her fading health and spirits. She tripped, falling forward in the snow, the bag in her hand falling free, the object within it tumbling out onto the fresh snow nearby.

The urn lay there, glimmering darkly, the voice seemingly drifting from it, "This can all end if you just give in, oathbreaker. The darkness comes for you now."

The phylactery mocked her now, she was sure of it. The lich that they had destroyed was within it, trapped there for as long as she lived, for as long as she carried it away from Scourge lines. It could be destroyed, and it knew that she knew. And yet, her strength was gone now, her life slowly fading.

"Soon your breath will cease, and then I will bind you in new oaths. Oaths that you will keep eternally," the voice mocked. "Already your friends know the joy of obedience. You will continue to carry my urn, will bear it for me, protect it eternally. You have failed, Janthela Sunfall. Oathbreaker. Your time has come to an end."

Laying in the snow, Janthela sobbed, feeling the freezing cold fading as warmth grew. She knew it was a sign of hypothermia, and that she had minutes only to live. She tried to pray again, and the Light did not heed her call, her faith so little that her prayers were useless. The voice continued to mock her, laughing at her in her final moments.

Deep within her, something stirred, some selfish last piece of herself, clinging to life. It was unfair, that she should die here after suffering so much. That she should perish to the same forces that claimed her people, her family, her betrothed. A spiteful little bubble of malice burbled up within her, fueling her last, desperate prayer. Normally she would sing her prayers, gently coaxing the Light forth, but this time her voice was like a dirge, like a commanding, demanding brat ordering it to obey.

As the sun set and the temperature plunged, the Light did not heed Janthela's call, but something else did. Through the blowing wind and snow, a raven cawed, and Janthela's head snapped up as she spotted the bird perched on a dead branch poking through the snowdrifts.

The bird's head tilted, and it cawed again, meeting her gaze. In that moment, she felt energy flowing through her, darkness creeping around her. Warmth bathed her, the shadows empowering her. She had heard of this type of magic before, but studied it only briefly. Even so, she reached for it, all of her selfish need to survive fueling her as she touched it.

She rose from the snow, the cold banished around her as the power spread through her. The mocking voice from the phylactery faded as the lich within recognized that something had changed. Janthela stared at the raven, her form unmoving as if listening to something deep within her. She could feel the shadows gathering there, feel the energy that she could touch only with her most negative emotions, her hateful, spiteful prayers. She was still herself, but she had a new tool if she dared to reach for it.

"You will die little elf, whatever you may think you'll become," the phylactery mocked. "See now the price of your failure."

From the snow, figures shambled. They were all there, Kareem with burns across his now-dead face, Ragan full of arrows, his leg broken as he dragged his zombified corpse towards her. Targesh was there as well, his body covered in gore and wounds, his gaze almost damning as his dead eyes met hers. And amongst them walked Viktor, a smirk on his face and absolutely nothing different about him except perhaps for a blue glow to his eyes.

In that moment, Janthela felt hate flow through her. That all of them had perished because of traitors made her furious. The mocking laughter that came from the phylactery enraged her. As the dead walked towards her, the raven rose from the branch behind her, alighting on her shoulder. As it touched her, she felt the power within her surge, darkness creeping from the ground and rising from her feet until it shrouded her.

"I am Janthela Sunfall, and I will keep my oath, consequences be damned," she intoned. The wind blew around her, the harsh gusts ripping her hat free, setting her black hair to writhing around her face like tendrils of the darkness that now surrounded her.

Her dead companions surged forward, shadows reaching out to greet them.

*****************************************

When the blizzard ended, a lone Sin'dorei stumbled from the snows into a Horde encampment. She was suffering from frostbite and had numerous shallow wounds on her body. She said little other than to give her name and rank, her voice subdued and her tone evasive. She carried with her a small pack, the object something she kept close to her at all times, as if she trusted no one else with it.

She would remain with a larger Horde company for the rest of the Icecrown campaign, a minor healer and one to keep to herself, the secrets locked within her a mystery that would remain unsolved.