“For the she wolf!” they called. A icy cold shiver went down Vestri’s spine. Her. Here. He caught only a glimpse of them before the war dead he was facing swung again – somehow the appearance of the wolf-men increased its prowess, its menace. His allies turned to face the wolves behind them, and their formation shattered. Vestri tried to face the Draugr in front of him, but he could only do so much alone with a knife.

The nasty wardead in front of him, one so long decayed it looked like it had been drawn with his left hand, struck with uncanny strength, keeping Vestri from being able to get close enough to finish it. The new armor he had just gotten from Oddny was pierced quickly, he felt the warmth of his own blood staining it. He lunged, it dodged, and he was struck again. His legs faltered, his vision getting blurry. A cry from behind him – like a fool he turned and…

The ground rose to meet him as the rusty blade was pulled out of him. It was all he could do to hold onto his own knife and he crumpled to the ground. His strength left him as quickly as his blood seemed to be. He could just see Olof, collapsed in a bush, there was Gisla on the ground with her shield just in front of him, and Vogel – with an arrow still in his fingers, down just beyond Gisla. But… where was Virgil?

A cold, slimy, hand grabbed his head and lifted it up. He could see Virgil now, surrounded by no less than four war dead and the two wolves. Dodging their blades with deftness, a taunt on his lips. Was it enough? Could he do it?

The blade touched his neck, too cold for how much of his blood was on it. The ragged edge apparent against his throat.

Was it enough? Were they good enough? Did they appease her? Was it worth it?

The blade was pulled hard and fast.

Did we save Kallevik?