It wasn’t a big thing, really. A youngster’s prank, involving Golden Boy’s lunch, some earwigs and a Chinese burn, but Frigg took the whole thing very seriously, declared that her son had been assaulted, and that if Odin didn’t take action then she would get Thor to intervene in his place.

Odin had no choice after that. The werewolf had crossed a line. If only he’d come and told me that, then I would have understood completely. But he didn’t. He said nothing, did nothing until I was out of the picture, and then, with Thor and Týr and the rest, he made his move against us.

I should have known he had something planned. A routine check on the Ice Folk, he said; rumours of a new warlord who might try something reckless. The Rock Folk had been restless, too, gathering in the foothills; perhaps I could find out what had caused their migration. Then there were tales of Jormungand sinking ships off World’s End, and further rumours of Gullveig-Heid, raising the dead in Ironwood. And so on, with a whole list of tasks that would keep me away for at least a week – a welcome break, I thought at the time, from the responsibilities of fatherhood.

Meanwhile, in my absence, the gods prepared to drop the hammer on Fenris.

First Odin went to the Tunnel Folk and asked the sons of Ivaldi to forge him a set of magical chains. Then they threw Fenny a welcome party, and when they’d got him nice and drunk, Odin suggested some tests of strength to see what he was capable of.

Fenny, young and arrogant, saw no reason to suspect foul play. Drink, loud music and the presence of scantily clad female attendants had broken what defences he had. Faced with two thick, Tunnel-Folk chains, he broke them both quite easily, to the feigned admiration of the gods, but the last one was a narrow, deceptive steel band forged by the famous Dvalin himself – embedded with many runes and cantrips – and was almost unbreakable.

If I’d been there to comment, I would have warned the gods that my son, wild and uncouth though he was, was no fool. His finely tuned senses warned him that some kind of deception was afoot, and before accepting to try the third chain, he demanded a proof of Odin’s goodwill.

‘What kind of proof?’ Odin said.

‘One of you puts his hand in my mouth,’ said the Wolf with a toothy grin. ‘That way, I have something to bargain with if things start getting heavy.’

The gods exchanged glances. Finally, Brave-Hearted Týr stood up. Brave-hearted he was, I’ll give him that, but also somewhat weak-brained.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said, and slipped his right hand into the wolf’s mouth.