The hall rings with the voices of gods bellowing at each other, or flirting, or fighting. Hunter's senses take a moment to adjust to the combined presence of the powerful beings, faces slowly arising from a swirl of impressions: features he vaguely recalls from childhood stories or dreams; fiery red beards and wild-man hair, glittering lupine eyes that have seen seas of blood flow over the rocks and ice of the northlands, women with hair glowing like the sun and a beauty primal and terrifying and sexual. Muscles like iron and hideous, jagged scars. They carry weapons – nicked axes, great swords – or pluck on ancient stringed instruments. Everything about them speaks of blood and battle and sex and honour.

Hunter feels quite at home.

'Let the council begin.' The crowd falls instantly silent at Freyja's command, and all eyes turn towards Hunter.

Freyja gestures towards the great empty throne at the far end of the hall. 'These are dark days. The All-Father's whereabouts are unknown. He has followed his ravens, Hugin and Mugin, to an uncertain future. And so this decision falls to us, now. Before the All-Father departed, he placed his trust in the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, and so we must give fair hearing to their plea.'

A murmur races around the room. Support or dissent? Hunter cannot tell.

'There's a war coming,' he begins. 'The war to end all wars. You know it. This is the final battle foretold in all your old stories.'

'Ragnarok,' one intones gravely. Red-haired, he is taller and stronger than all the others, and from the enormous hammer that stands by his side, Hunter knows he is the thunder god, Thor. 'It blows towards us like a storm at sea. Inevitable, inescapable. The end of us all.'

'The Norns will be gathering around their well beneath the roots of Yggdrasil,' sighs an elderly man with a long, white beard. Unconsciously, his fingers play over the strings of the harp in his lap. 'Urd, Verdandi and Skuld, who hold us all in their hands.'