This was the last part of Gullveig’s plan: the final confrontation. The Ice People stood on the northern side; the Rock Folk to the east. To the west, the Folk still stood – or at least, what was left of them after Phase Two – ragged, hungry and afraid, but stubbornly holding to their gods. From the south, from Ironwood, came the rest of our army. Ten thousand strong; magnificent; spreading out across the plain in open defiance of Asgard. There were demons and trolls; werewolves and hags; goblins and ephemera and human monsters and the undead. I had my fire-ship, my fleet to navigate between the Worlds; I had my crew of skulls and bones. And yes, I was fabulous. Even with the knowledge that Gullveig would betray me, that the Worlds would plunge into the abyss and that the best I could hope for was eternal oblivion, I was prepared to go out on a high.

Gullveig had stayed in Ironwood to supervise our remaining troops as they passed through from Dream and beyond. I stayed to shiver on the plain, enclosed within concentric rings of torches, braziers and campfires. Fenris came to join me, in wolf form; monosyllabic as always, but bristling with excitement at the prospect of a battle. His friends, Skól and Haiti, were there too, and they ran around as a threesome, snapping at shadows, devouring things and generally running amok.

Not great company for Yours Truly, who was getting restless. I’d waited enough. I wanted to fight. I hated hanging around like this, discussing terms and strategy. I wanted the cleanness of carnage. I wanted certainties. Is that so bad?

Looking up, I saw Odin’s birds outlined against the battlements. Since their visit, they had not tried to contact me again. I found myself feeling obscurely resentful for this, as if Odin had abandoned me for the second time.

I asked myself, if he’d wanted me to come back home to Asgard, surely he would have asked me himself instead of sending those stupid birds? And, having failed to persuade me then, why had he given up so fast?

Damn him, I thought, and helped myself to another bottle of our dwindling stock of wine. There was no point in trying to save any of it; after all, the Worlds were due to end in less than nine days. Might as well end in a party.

Ten hours later, hung-over and feeling rather sorry for myself, I was rather regretting the decision. King of the Worlds I might be, but impromptu regurgitation and a thumping headache were not among the sensations I’d first signed up for in this Aspect. I found myself sorely missing my pure and elemental form, and wishing I could somehow go back, nameless, blameless, into Chaos.