Odin gave a low growl. Well, at least I imagine he did. Of course, I wasn’t there to hear it. But I heard enough subsequent dialogue to be able to hazard a pretty good guess. Besides, I knew the Old Man better than he suspected, and I knew that sooner or later he would have to choose a side.

No prizes for guessing which side he chose. Not that I blame him – well, not much. The others were ready to turn on him if he didn’t condemn me. Besides, I had outlived my usefulness, except perhaps as a means of uniting them in shared hatred. And at that point, I knew that the Old Man needed Order a lot more than he needed Chaos.

And so began the hunt. Of course, I knew what would happen if I were caught. I had Nine Worlds in which to hide, and runes with which to conceal myself. And I was good at hiding – but I was outnumbered, and friendless, and Odin had his ravens, his people, his spies and his Oracle.

They combed the Nine Worlds for my signature; tracked me out of Ironwood; tracked me to the Northlands; lost my trail in World Beyond; found it again in the mountains. I kept on the move, shielding myself; changing Aspect whenever I could. Eventually I found a place where I felt almost safe. I hid, hoping to outlast their rage until the crisis was over.

But the gods were relentless. First, they gave me an ultimatum, scrawled across the sky in glam: Give yourself up. We still have the boys.

From my hideaway, I sneered. Did they really think I’d fall for something that crude? They knew I was hardly Dad of the Year. And those boys were barely out of their teens. I knew Odin was ruthless, but would he really murder my sons, just for the crime of sharing my blood? Obviously, it was a trap. I wasn’t going to fall for it.

Then came the birds. Those thrice-damned birds, who’d tracked me to my hideaway, a cave in the Hindarfell mountains. They circled, then came down and perched on an outcrop of rock close by.

I considered giving them a shot of my glam, but Hugin and Munin had Odin’s protection, and I doubted even my best shot would have even singed their feathers.

And so I came out to meet them, first checking that they were alone.

‘What do you want?’

The larger bird crawked. The smaller seemed to struggle for speech, pecking at the other one in what seemed like frustration.

‘Cake,’ it said in a rusty voice, its golden eyes shining hopefully.

‘No chance,’ I said. ‘What does he want?’

The smaller bird – Munin – flapped its wings. ‘Ack-ack. Come back.’

‘What, and leave all this?’ I said. ‘No, I think I’ll stay right here.’

Munin flapped its wings again. ‘Ack-ack.’