“Sleep now,” said Eirik firmly, and as Eyvind’s lids closed over his eyes he seemed to see his brother’s image doubled and tripled, a fantastic beast with six, eight, ten blue eyes and a crown of wild golden fur, and beyond it a tumbling mass of jewel-bright stars.

The chant went on; the drum passed from hand to hand with never a beat astray. Eyvind slept in the circle of men, in the ring of fire. The dark firs, the star-filled sky, the earth on which he lay made another circle, encompassing all, and in his sleep he understood this. Then, abruptly, he was more awake than he had ever been before. It was still night, still dark, still cold enough to turn the marrow to ice. There was no song now, no drumming. The torches lit a pathway across the clearing toward the deep blackness of the forest’s margin. Beyond the torches there were faces—strange, watchful faces that were neither human nor animal: empty eyes, painted brows, pelts that were not hair nor feathers nor fur, but something between. Beyond the fire there were bodies, shifting, moving, changing. What were they? Surely these were no warriors, but some forest spirits conjured from shadow and moonlight. Perhaps his companions were gone, swallowed up by some evil enchantment.

“It is time.”

Eyvind whirled around. Behind him a dark-robed figure stood, perhaps his brother, but maybe not, for the face was masked, the body quite concealed by the long garments.

“Undress. Naked the wolf comes to face you; naked you go in challenge. Fire is your only cloak: your weapons, only those he himself possesses. On equal terms you confront him, for to know him is to defeat him, to defeat him is to become him. I will guide you, but I will not stand by you at the end. This battle is yours alone.”

Perhaps the guide was Thor himself. The god wore many guises; even so did he delight in walking among mortals. Eyvind stripped off his clothes, wondering vaguely if he might die of cold before he got anywhere near any wolf. The axe: he would take that, surely Thor would approve—or maybe a spear, for at least that allowed the security of striking from a distance. But no. Your weapons, only those that he himself possesses. Teeth; claws. A sharpened stick. A little knife. No choice but to hold one in each hand, since he hadn’t even a belt to decorate his nakedness.

By the very edge, beyond the glowing coals, the ashes had lost their heat. Fire is your only cloak. He smeared the fine powder on chest and arms, on brow and buttocks. It would mask his scent, if not quite smother it. Then, small weapons in hand and blood racing, he set off up the hill along the line of torches. The robed man followed, silent. And beyond the light, the others came, others that now seemed to move on scampering paw and prancing hoof and slithering belly, that seemed to merge and emerge, part substance, part shadow. Their eyes shone red in the firelight, and yet when he glanced across they seemed no more than holes of blackness in the blank masks of their faces. It was so quiet he could hear the cautious progress of his bare feet on the carpet of needles beneath the firs, beyond the farthest torch now, under the trees, into the darkness.