AND SO I WAS REPRIEVED – for a time – and I left Asgard on foot to go in search of the man who would save my skin. Dvalin was his name, and he was one of the sons of Ivaldi, the smith, and he and his three brothers had their forge in the caverns of World Below. They were the Tunnel Folk, delvers of gold, and their reputation was unmatched. More importantly, they were also half-brothers to Idun, the Healer, and I figured that if I claimed friendship with her, they would be sure to oblige me.

Now geography, like history, is subject to cyclical changes. In those days the Worlds were smaller than they are today, and less subject to physical rules. Don’t believe me? Look at the maps. And we, of course, had our own ways of crossing between the boundaries. Some involved working with runes – for instance, Raedo, the Journeyman, opens up many a door between Worlds – and some were simply a matter of footwork, wingwork and clever orientation. I set off on foot to convince the gods of the sincerity of my remorse, but as soon as I had crossed Ida’s plain and entered the forest of Ironwood, I found myself a shortcut. The river Gunnthrà ran through it; it was one of the tributaries that linked the nine Worlds to their primal source, and a direct link to World Below and the Worlds that lay beyond: Death, Dream and Pandaemonium. Not that I planned to go that far, but the Tunnel Folk enjoyed their seclusion, and it took me the best part of a day on foot to reach their fetid empire.

I found the smiths in their workshop. A cavern, deep in World Below, where a series of cracks in the earth gave vent to a seam of molten rock. This was their only source of light; it was also their forge and their hearth. In my original Aspect, I would not have suffered, either from the fire or the fumes, but in this body I was unprepared, both for the heat and for the stench.

Nevertheless, I approached the four smiths and gave them my most winning smile. ‘Greetings, sons of Ivaldi,’ I said, ‘from the gods of Asgard.’

In the light of the fiery forge, they turned their faces towards me. The sons of Ivaldi are almost identical; sallow-skinned, hollow-eyed, stooped and scorched with labour. Tunnel Folk rarely go aboveground. It interferes with their vision. They live, work, sleep in their tunnels, breathe the foulest of air, eat maggots and beetles and centipedes, and live only for the things they make from the metals and stones they find in the earth. Not much of a life, I thought. No wonder Idun had left them, taking with her the apples of youth made by her father as a wedding gift.