There was something about draugar that struck fear in Joryck’s heart. He had slain dozens of men, he had fought in the Great War for the High Queen all those years ago, and he had even looked an Old God in the face. And yet, the dead struck him cold.

He barged into the Great Hall, sweat dripping from his forehead. The blood of a dozen draugar was splattered across his dented armor, and his face held a scowl that could send even Helanthe running.

“Show yourself, goat-dick,” bellowed Joryck, slamming his war-hammer against his chestplate.

Within moments, a mass of smoky shadows converged, forming into a horned silhouette that sat in his throne. He’d been tracking the Seidhan assassin through the battlefield and into Avald. He’d killed enough Seidha to smell their vile magicks from a mile away.

He glared at the smug Seidha sitting in the throne he and his forefathers had spilled their blood to protect for generations. His horns were long and curved, jutting out the sides of his skull like a mangled crown atop the head of a king—a king sitting on a throne that wasn’t his.

“That throne doesn’t belong to you, vifill.” Joryck strode forward, but stopped as the windows shattered around him, undead wolves leaping through. As their giant paws stepped over the shards of glass, they paid it no mind.

Joining the necromancer at his side, they sat like obedient dogs, and he pet them as such.

“You Wolves shouldn’t be talking about what does or doesn’t belong to you, seeing as most of what you have is taken—from another village, another clan, another dead Seidha.” The necromancer locked eyes with him. “Do you remember, Wolf King? The day you butchered my people like cattle? The day you put my mother to the sword?”

“Was she the one lying like a pretty little doe in her bedchamber?” Joryck laughed hearty and wicked, spittle flying in the air. “I should have taken her while I had the chance, but no, I gave her the sweet mercy of slitting her throat.” Joryck grinned as the necromancer stood, scanning his face. “Ah, I remember you after all. The little runt cowering in the corner. I had plenty of other homes to raid—didn’t want the rest of your kind escaping. Seems I forgot to come back. Shame.”

The Seidha drew a bone-axe from his belt, then threw it at him. Joryck deflected it with ease as he charged forward. His russet-furred wolf, Njal, thundered in, having had his fill of the draugar outside.

When he reached the necromancer, the undead wolves rushed at him. Njal jumped in front of him, shielding him from the other wolves. Njal fought ferociously, claws ripping flesh and gouging out eyes.

Joryck pushed through, swinging at the Seidha, who ducked under his hammer’s edge. The necromancer seemed to reach for something, and the King managed to sidestep just in time for the bone-axe to come flying past, slicing off a strand of his hair.

“That’s a clever trick, boy.” Joryck tackled the necromancer to the ground before he could attack again. He drove his fist into the side of his jaw, then brought his hammer down to crush the joints in his shoulder. He wasn’t going to give him an easy death.

The necromancer didn’t seem to react in kind—his face was not contorted in pain. Instead, he looked across at Joryck’s wolf.

A yelp sounded out as one of the undead wolves bit into Njal’s leg. Soon after, the other wolves, some of which Njal had killed earlier, rose to their feet. They piled on top of Joryck’s old friend, tearing into his throat.

The loss of a wolf, in his clan, was not taken lightly. A man without his wolf was not a man at all, and he deserved only death.

Joryck roared, and the necromancer gave but a smile, not fighting back. Joryck gripped his hammer, then slammed it into the Seidha’s chest, cracking his ribs with a sickening crunch.

Then he heard a low growl, a familiar one. Something he had grown accustomed to over the years on the battlefield. Before he could react, his russet-furred wolf knocked him to the ground.

Njal’s eyes were a milky white now, but still held rage behind them. Joryck screamed as his own wolf ripped into his throat, silencing him. Njal split him open with his claws and feasted on his innards. Soon, there was hardly much left of Joryck at all.

“Njal, was it? Come here,” the necromancer instructed once Joryck was sure and dead. The wolf obeyed without hesitation. He held the wolf’s head in his hands, scratching beneath its fur. “You’ve done an excellent job.”

With a quick twist, the necromancer snapped the undead wolf’s neck, the corpse going limp once more. As he stared at the ragdolled form crumpling to the floor, anger bubbled inside his chest. This was the wolf that had slaughtered his clan, the wolf that had torn through his father, the wolf of the man who had murdered his mother in her sleep. In a screaming fit of rage, he dug the heel of his boot into the wolf’s head, stomping over and over and over again until its brain was reduced to mush. After that, he did the same to Joryck’s skull.

“Who’s the vifill now, wolf-shit?”

When he was done, the necromancer took a deep breath and flexed his shoulder, the runes lighting up beneath his robes. He looked at the dead king and his wolf, his expression suddenly calm, then knelt beside Joryck’s smashed corpse. He reached into his chest cavity to break off a piece of rib bone, then placed it into a pouch he produced from within his robes.

He smirked, then headed outside, soon finding himself surrounded by the remaining Wolves. They pointed their weapons at him.

“Oh,” he said, grinning. “Well, I suppose I’ll surrender.”

He dropped to his knees and raised his hands in the air.