If I had been there, of course, this would never have happened, but they were too clever – they thought they could handle the situation alone, with the result that, when Naudr bit, so did Fenny, and Týr lost his hand.

Odin showed no sign of regret. It was a calculated risk, and the gain to Asgard’s security was greater than the loss. Týr got himself an ephemeral hand, all woven from runes and glamours, which, like a mindweapon, could be summoned in battle or at moments of need. The rest of the time he learnt to perform everyday tasks left-handed, and to bear with a lot of clumsy jokes. He’d never been a man of words, so we never heard what he really thought of having been Odin’s sacrifice. But I like to think that, during the long nights, when his stump was itching like mad and the rest of the gods were fast asleep, even Brave-Hearted Týr might have sometimes questioned his loyalty.

They kept the Wolf in World Below, in a cavern deep under the ground. And when I came home, I realized that all the gods blamed me for the débâcle, whispering among themselves that I had been responsible for bringing Fenny into Asgard in the first place, and greeting Yours Truly with harsh words, cool glances and all the signs of hostility.

‘What, no welcoming drink?’ I said, arriving tired from twelve hours’ straight flying.

‘Oh, look who’s back,’ said Heimdall. ‘Fathered any more monsters recently?’

I didn’t give his words much thought, but when Frey turned his back on me, Bragi threw his drink on the ground, Thor saw me coming and growled, and Skadi, who was staying in Asgard on one of her infrequent visits, fingered her runewhip and smiled at me, I knew that something had happened.

‘Where’s Odin?’ I said.

‘In his hall. He doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ said Frigg, whose generally open countenance was pinched with conflicting emotions.

Even Sigyn, usually the first to welcome me, seemed distant. ‘It had to be done,’ she told me when I went to find her (hungry after my long flight, and hoping for a batch of jam tarts). ‘That nasty werewolf son of yours was such a bad influence on our boys.’

Well, yes. I had to admit that was true. Vali and Narvi, so close to him in age, had taken to hanging around with Fenris. Perhaps it was his bad-boy appeal; or the tales he told them of Ironwood. Either way, I noticed that they had started to imitate him; letting their hair grow over their eyes and cultivating a wolfish sneer.