Through the forest thundered the deep, booming clangor of a brass gong. The sound shattered the phantom as a hammer shatters glass. Instantly the man was alone.
Making hoarse, animal sounds in his throat, he staggered upright and lurched in the direction from which the sound came. But he was too weak. Presently he fell, and this time he did not rise. His arms moved a little and then were still. He slept, lines of tortured weariness twisting the haggard face.
Very faintly, from infinite distances, he heard a voice ... two voices. Inhuman. Alien—and yet with a warmth of vital urgency that stirred something deep within him.
"He has passed our testing."
Then a stronger, more powerful voice—answering.
"Others have passed our testing—but the Aesir slew them."
"There is no other way. In this man I sensed something—a little different. He can hate—he has hated."
"He will need more than hatred—" the deeper voice said. "Even with us to aid him. And there is little time. Strip his memories from him now, so that he may not be weakened by them—"
"May the gods fight with him."
"But he fights the gods. The only gods men know in these evil days—"