But through the clamour of the crowd, another sound split the air. A bark! – and barely before his brain could grasp what it was, a granite-grey shape smashed like a boulder into the black wolf and the two bodies tumbled away across the pit.

Now only this grey monster was left on him, crushing his chest. The blade was gone. His hands went to its throat, holding the snapping jaws inches from his face. His torso was a fire of shredded flesh. They rolled and rolled, man and beast, his fingers gripping harder, trying to crush the life out of it, but the pelt was too thick. His senses filled with snarls and snapping jaws – but then he felt something sharp digging into his calf. With a thought like a lightning bolt, he knew what it was. He kicked his leg over the wolf’s back and rolled again, putting himself on top. His ravaged hand slipped to his boot, seized the little knife haft and wrenched it clear. His grip loosened on the wolf’s throat. The animal scented weakness, perhaps victory, and made a final lunge for his jugular, but Erlan’s hand rose first and he drove Gerutha’s little blade through its temple, deep into its skull.

The wolf collapsed on his chest. He wrestled out from under it and got to his knees. His body was shattered but his mind still seeking the next danger. And there it was, another grey beast jumping at him, blood dripping from its jagged jaws. He seized its throat, only this wolf didn’t fight back. Still, he must kill it. But instead of the baying of the crowd, he heard a single voice – Kai’s voice strangely – whispering in his ear, ‘Erlan. . . Erlan. . .’ One eye – the eye of Odin – staring at him in silent reproach.

At last he saw Aska and his hands fell away. He sank to his knees in the churned-up mud, staring around him wild-eyed. There was blood everywhere. And three corpses: white, grey. . . and black.

He flopped back on his heels, hands limp at his side, lungs heaving, too weak even to push away Aska who was licking the blood off his face. The front of his tunic was soaked crimson. The crowd was silent. Stunned. He looked up. The khan was on his feet; Prince Kosmesy beside him, face dark as thunder. Erlan lifted his arm, pointing at him. ‘Your gods are dead!’ he cried.

‘But the dog,’ answered Tervel. ‘The dog was not—’

‘They have judged in my favour, have they not! Well, Bulgar? Are you with us?’

The khan exchanged an uncertain look with his son, but neither spoke until, at last, Kosmesy nodded. The khan’s face creased into a broad smile. ‘Erlan Aurvandil!’ he roared. ‘It seems you’ve won yourself an army.’