Erlan snorted. That gave him little reassurance though he could hardly admit it. All too soon, the khan clapped his hands. An excited cheer rippled through the crowd. Kosmesy clapped Erlan’s shoulder, almost comradely, though the bastard would doubtless prefer to see him a feast for his gods. Then he turned and gave a signal. From somewhere beyond the crowd came the sound of barking – not the deep bark of hunting hounds, but the high-pitched yip-yip of wolves. Aska’s ears pricked and he started whining, pulling against Einar’s makeshift leash.

‘He’s a strong son of a bitch, ain’t he?’ said the fat man, fighting to hold him still.

‘He’s yours if I die.’

‘I’d rather have your sword.’

‘It is time!’ cried the khan, pointing his little staff at the rope trailing into the pit. One end was staked in front of his platform, the other ended about six feet short of the pit bottom. The ground was slick with rain. If this was the gods favouring Erlan in this fight, he would hate to see them angry. He hobbled over and picked up the slack rope.

‘What, Aurvandil!’ roared the khan with a bellowing laugh. ‘No salute from those about to die?’

‘When the wolves salute you, then so will I,’ he spat in reply.

He hadn’t descended ten feet before he slipped and slid on his backside to the pit floor, landing in a humiliating heap to the tumultuous laughter from the crowd ringed above him. He glanced up at the circle of faces, every one a picture of bloodlust and glee. Even Einar looked tense but expectant – his gaze as intent as a man marking his foe in the enemy shieldwall.

There was a sudden roar of excitement. The sea of faces parted and three snarling heads appeared above him. Wolves who were not only beasts, but gods. Tangra, the sky-god, its coat as white as winter; Kaira, the earth-god, grey as age; and biggest of all, Arlik, the god of death, monstrous and slavering and black as sin.

A shaman appeared at the pit edge and started wailing incantations and beating at his drum. Erlan remembered the seiðman Grimnar, and the forest and the wilderness and the silence, remembered the Silent God who ruled over that land. He murmured his own prayer then, expecting no answer, wanting none, wanting only life. Then he drew the black blade across his forearm, feeling the edge bite. ‘Give me life and give me madness,’ he murmured, then raised the cut to his mouth, tasting iron and fire. The shaman hurled the last of his prayers to the sky-god’s ear, then let slip the wolves into the pit, and death fell hungering on Erlan from above.

The air roared – with the rain, with the bellows of the crowd, with the snarling wolves bounding down the sheer, muddy slope. Erlan backed away and braced himself.