This strange talk stirred up many things in Erlan’s memory. Except that in the dismal gloom of Niflagard, the Witch King had spoken to him of a cruel tyrant, not of a great good god. True, the Watcher had also dismissed the old gods of the north as shadows and illusion. But now Erlan knew not who or what to believe. There were others in the hall, however, who took offence at this slander of their gods. The spell under which Vassili’s voice had, till then, held them was losing its power.

One man stood and cried out, ‘You say we gain one destiny by bending the knee to your lord who died, yet somehow lives.’

‘I do!’ cried Vassili in answer.

‘And if not, we suffer some dreadful fate in a place of torment.’

‘It is a place of such anguish I hardly dare speak of it.’

‘Then what of our forefathers, hey?’ There was a murmur of support at this. The hirthman looked about him, encouraged. ‘They were not given this choice, even those who died with honour in battle. Are you telling us they do not wait for us on Odin’s benches – in the high Hall of the Slain? Instead they suffer in this for ever place of darkness?’

‘The fate of any man or woman gone before us is known to God and to him alone,’ replied Vassili. ‘I am certain only that he is just. But why do you think I came all this way?’ His tone changed, imploring now. ‘Why do you think I would carry this message even to the very ends of the Earth if I had legs to take me—’

But his words were swallowed in the uproar against him, the crowd not liking this answer. More voices rose in anger. Erlan watched silently, noting that Vassili’s face lost none of its fervour at the crowd’s opposition.

‘What should we care why you’ve come?’ yelled one.

‘Sure, it’s ’cause he’s a halfwit simpleton with sheep shit for brains,’ bawled another.

‘Aye,’ said a third, ‘or some shape-shifting fiend in human flesh. Come to turn the gods against us.’

‘No!’ Vassili cried, his pale palms turned outwards in appeal. ‘I bring you only the truth. I came here out of love for you.’

‘If it’s love he wants, someone fetch him a bed-slave,’ drawled one wit to skirls of drunken laughter.

Then Osvald rose. He wasn’t laughing, nor – judging from his shifting eyes – was he sober. Seeing him on his feet, all fell silent.