Fenris’ well-muscled bulk rippled under his sleek, silky coat. His fur was the color of weather-beaten stone and his eyes were a dark pine needle green. The wolf’s dangerously curving serrated ivory fangs glinted in the faint light as he stalked through the undergrowth.

The wolves were on the prowl.

The hunting party moved like lurking shadows, making their way through the dense foliage of the Northern Forests. Nose to the ground and steady emerald eyes fixed firmly on the path ahead, Fenris led his wolves. They were trailing a myrandoth, a massive, hirsute creature with red slitted eyes and antlers that could cut through flesh like heated steel and hooves, all six of them, keen as polished diamonds.

Only wolves of the Jykaa Pack dared hunt them because they were unpredictable and choleric, striking without warning and for no reason.

Fenris and his number's thickened pads made no sound upon the spring grass, still congealed with pre-dawn dew. The myrandoth meandered around a vernal pool, occasionally dipping its head in to take deep draughts of stagnant water. It shook itself off, sending droplets everywhere.

Fenris thumped his tail. In an instant, the hunters shot out into the open, surrounding the myrandoth. The creature bellowed in protest, sparks of anger flickering to life in its eyes. It lowered its horns and pawed the ground menacingly.

In a sudden flurry of movement, it whipped its long, rat-like tail around, making a small gash on the side of Fenris’ face. The young leader stood defiantly, uncowed by this sudden attack.

The myrandoth brandished its razor’s-edge horns and charged. With a whimper, Geri, the youngest member of the group, was sent flying. His small body buckled as he collided with a tree.

Issuing firm order to the rest to go on with their assault, Fenris rushed to Geri’s side. The young wolf was bleeding from his left hind leg. Fenris could see the white of the bone.

“I’ll-be-fine,” Geri told him in monosyllabic grunts, wincing with pain. “Go-help-the others.” Geri curled into a small ball of fur.

Seeing that there was nothing else he could do to ease Geri’s discomfort, Fenris returned to the melee with renewed vigor.

His hunting part was holding out well. The only other injuries were a few hard knocks from one of the myrandoth’s hooves.

Fenris thumped his tail, once, twice, three times. Hackles bristling, the hunting party snarled and leapt, dragging the myrandoth down with them. A wolf howled as the tip of a dagger-like horn pierced her shoulder blade. Her face as drawn in pain.

“Can you continue?” barked Fenris above the bedlam. The myrandoth bucked and thrashed under them.

“Yes!” she called back, but suddenly a deadly hoof crashed into her face with the force of a sledgehammer. Her head snapped back with an anguished cry. The force of the blow sent her spinning off the myrandoth’s back. She did cartwheels in the air before she slammed forcefully into the ground. Her body went limp. Fenris saw, with considerable relief, that she was merely unconscious, not dead.

The myrandoth fell to its knees as wolves swarmed over it. It gave one final bellow and lay still.

Fenris stood triumphantly atop his trophy, exhausted and panting. His wolves looked similar. Both Geri and Alatsi, the she wolf, were both out cold so Fenris assigned the two largest members of the hunting party to carry them. The rest set about transporting their prey to the rest of the pack’s hideaway.

Fenris supervised the entire affair, directing the wolves who were dragging the kill onto the correct routes. Even so, the progress was painstakingly slow. Myrandoths are heavy beasts.

The Sun was just beginning to peek Her sleepy head over the rise of a distant hill as Fenris and his hunters limped triumphantly into Camp Jykaa.

Geri and Alatsi did not stir as they were gently deposited on the soft moss near old Calopus’s cave. Snoring could be heard inside and Fenris smiled fondly.

The outpost sentries bobbed their heads respectfully to Fenris as he passed and he acknowledged them with a solemn wag of his tail. The Guard were an essential part of the Jykaa Pack, they protected them from renegades and wild beasts. But their main function was a purpose known only to Fenris himself : to protect against Ophois.

Now Fenris was a great leader and looked up to by many, but he still harbored his greatest fear that Ophois would return. There was a long history between Fenris and Ophois, the entirety known only to themselves. A brothership turned rotten.
A band of pups mobbed the young leader with questions about the hunt and he briefly disappeared under a seething mass of tiny, excitable bodies. They playfully wrestles with him and batted his tail. Fenris chuckled, temporarily diverted from thoughts of Ophois.

Fenris’ attention was drawn away once more as a beautiful she-wolf with dark-markings and amethyst almond-shaped eyes. Fylgja. Fenris’ mate and dual ruler of the Jykaa Pack. As intelligent as she was stunning. Fenris broke away from the pups and rushed towards her. They touched noses warmly as Fylgja groomed his messy coat. Fenris swished his tail happily.

The Jykaa Pack was flourishing, there was no doubt of that. The spring moss was bouncy under their pads, brightly colored flowers pushed through carpets of lush green grass, ancient trees proudly displayed their leafy foliage and the forest teemed with prey. There were no border skirmishes, no pack wars, no regicides. All and all, life in the Northern forests was peaceful.

Little did they know that Fenris’ worse fear was about to come true.




Ophois stalked through the forest, leading an army of shadows. Ranks of grim faced warriors marched in columns behind him.

“Tijinka!” Ophois snarled at a large wolf with midnight fur.

Tijinka bowed solemnly. “Yes, m’lord?” She knew only too well why Ophois had summoned her and she tried to her best to keep it from showing. Tijinka’ amber eyes showed nothing but humble servitude.

Ophois’ stringy, furless tail lashed the ground. “I suppose you’d like to explain why you failed to bring back Maleron.”

Tijinka bowed her head in shame. “I offer my heartfelt apologies, m’lord. Snow covered his tracks an-”

“Silence!” Ophois’ eyes were livid with mad rage, “I gave you orders! I expected you to follow them!”

“Kind sir, merciful sir, please! I did not mean to fail you!” Tijinka cringed. “M’lord, I-” the next moment, Tijinka was on the ground as blood flowed freely from the stump of her right ear.

Ophois looked down at her, snarling in fury. She could see that his incisors were stained crimson. “Never fail me again or I’ll take the other ear and all that’s attached! Understand?”
Tijinka could only lie there in silent agony.

“I said do you understand?” roared Ophois. Tijinka cowered and made a feeble nod. She understood, all right.


For the next few days, Ophois’ army was on its best behavior. No one dared step out of line, not after the example Ophois had made out of Tijinka (now nicknamed Sergeant One-Ear). Nobody complained about the low rations of elk and kirie meat. Nobody asked where Ophois was taking them. Nobody whined about the long nights they trekked without rest or food. They just followed their master’s lea for fear that they would be the next singled out for Ophois’ punishment.

That was the way of the Grey Army. A rather grand name for a group of outlaws, exiles and cold-blooded mercenaries. Defeated would-be leaders. Wolves thrown out of packs for high treason. Abandoned pups. Regicides. That was the bulk of the Grey Army. The rest were just prisoners taken in skirmishes and converted to their cause.

And at the head of the mob, Ophois, a savage of unknown origins or intentions. Only he could have turned a rabble of criminals into a functional (if not organized) army. But for what purpose, no one knew but himself.

Oh, there were theories, some of them more plausible than others. But the one belief most widely accepted was that Ophois was after revenge. If only they knew how true they were.

He continued through the Northern Forests with a relentless single-mindedness that only the mad could achieve. A single, hooped earring hung from one mangy ear. It was said to be stolen from Dakka, king of dwarves himself. His fur was the color of sun-washed stone. His eyes were a dark pine-needle green.

That night, Ophois was in better spirits that usual. Whispered rumors that Ophois had finally found what he was looking for spread like wildfire throughout the camp.

Uncharacteristically, Ophois did nothing to silence these tales. Encouraged, the wolves began to voice them within their king’s hearing. All Ophois did was grin madly, green eyes glinting feverishly.

A general war-like aura instilled itself in the ranks. Every motion was infused with primal menace. For the Grey Army knew with perfect certainty one thing:

They would kill that night.