The skirmish at the Frost River had been short, brutal, and decisive. Gunnar Skoll and sixty Frostfang dire wolves had descended upon Borek Bloodfang’s vanguard like a blizzard of fangs and steel, tearing through the red raiders and driving the survivors back across the frozen gorges into the crags of the Black Ridge. Now, as night descended upon Mount Fenrir, the Great Mead Hall of the citadel was blazing with…
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