The Choosers of the Slain proved to be extremely negative minor goddesses. They were not happy about anything. They did not like Shagot and his band, other members of which were being resurrected as well. They did not like their Father's plan. They did not like the Hall of Heroes. They did not like the dead. They did not like their lives. They were especially put out with their sister Arlensul. Her selfish behavior had gotten her exiled and her share of the work dumped onto her long-suffering sisters.

The Choosers were just plain not happy with anything.

They got to wherever they were going. They dropped Shagot and went away. Shagot found himself resting on what appeared to be a vast plain of an empty floor. He saw no bounds, no walls, just a gradual fading into foggy darkness starting an arrow's flight away. There were no columns to support the ceiling. If one existed. It was too far above to be seen.

Distant movement caught his eye.

The hideous pair dragged Svavar his way.

Shagot heard something behind him. He found the strength to roll over.

His face was less than a foot from polished black granite. Polished black granite that had not been there just minutes ago.

Tiers of black granite went up and up and up almost forever.

Somewhere, at the very edge of hearing, singing went on, funereal choral stuff that made Shagot's spine shudder with cold chills. What the hell was wrong with those people?

Shagot levered himself onto his hands and knees. That gave him a better view all around. The granite rose in one-yard steps and setbacks, only about twenty times. There were what might be thrones way up top.

Svavar groaned beside Shagot.

There followed a time of no time, when time must have passed because Shagot discovered that dramatic changes had taken place between one moment and the next.

Finnboga, Hellgrim, and the Thorlakssons were there. They remained disoriented. Beyond them was Erief Erealsson. Erief looked exactly like what he was, a dead man erect only by virtue of some supernatural power. Hundreds of equally color-drained dead men formed behind him, rank upon rank, as far as the eye could see.

Shagot did not greet his former captain. Erief exuded the same bleak creepiness Shagot felt whenever he neared one of the ancient burial mounds found throughout Andoray. The haunted mounds. Mounds said to be filled with blood-starved undead who, if they broke their bonds and caught one of the living to drain, could reclaim life. For a short while.

Shagot was a skeptic. He knew no one who had had a genuine encounter with a draug. He wanted to remain skeptical, too. But the Choosers of the Slain had been equally unreal. And these dead men had a hungry look in their eyes. Those that still had eyes.

One by one, his companions climbed to their feet No one spoke. They were not brilliant but they understood that this was a place where any word spoken might be the wrong word.

The Choosers of the Slain came forward. They were nightmares now. They looked more like the harpies of southern myth than the beautiful daughters of the great god of the north.

The chamber crackled. Shagot's hair stood out. Lightning flashed. Thunder bellowed. Shagot screamed. He recovered to find himself clinging to the top of the first granite tier, trying to remain upright. His equilibrium was gone.

The Choosers of the Slain were up top now, with a dozen more sublime beings. They were not ugly anymore. The gods all looked like they had just stepped out of the old stories. Each was good-looking. Each shed a golden glow of youth.

Excepting the one wearing the dark gray, with the eye-patch, the staff, and the long white hair. The one with the wicked, winged night thing riding his shoulder, unlike any raven that ever flew the skies of Shagot's earth. That one god was not in a cheerful, playful, or youthful mood.

The Gray One spoke to one of his companions, a small, bent god who looked like he might be part dwarf. The small god nodded, floated down toward the heroes. Shagot paid little attention, other than noting a vulpine calculation in the god's expression as he approached. Shagot was far more interested in several goddesses.

The bent god came to rest on the bottom step, in front of Shagot. “Hi there, Hero. Ready to go to work? Hell. Who gives a peck of rat shit if you are or you aren't? My half-idiot brother wants you. So he can tell you what your future is going to be.”

Shagot knew whom he faced now. His name, in modern Andorayan could be rendered several ways. Trickster. Liar. Deceiver. And, in a stretch, Traitor. Shagot's analytical side always wondered why the other gods did not exterminate him. Maybe by drowning him in a peck of rat shit.

The bent god made a couple of gestures. Shagot lost his allegiance to the floor. He tried to grab on to nothing. Trickster laughed but made sure Shagot drifted up toward the First Among Them, Whose Name Is Never Spoken. The One Who Harkens To The Sound.

Shagot knew the name, as did every Andorayan and everyone else who accepted northern pantheon, but he did not know how he knew it, since it was not supposed to be spoken.

The agony of standing in the glory of god drove Shagot to his knees. He was afraid, which was a rare sensation. He stared at the granite beneath him and awaited the will of the god.

These gods were old. These gods were tired. These gods were supported by a dwindling number of believers. The Chaldarean insanity was a thousand-tentacled monstrosity creeping in everywhere. It converted kings and princes and chieftains by political persuasion and bribery. They then converted their peoples at sword's point. These gods might not have many centuries left before they began to fade away to lesser spirits.

Sometimes, for the flickering instant, they failed to reflect the expectations of mortals. In those moments the All-Father and his spouse, his sons and daughters, his nephews and nieces and half-brother, looked no more appetizing than the Choosers of the Slain. Many became something to raise the human gorge.

But even that was because the human mind insisted on imposing form upon formless.

The All-Father addresses Grimur Grimmsson, known to the world as Shagot the Bastard. His voice sounded only inside the sturlanger's mind. Hero, we stand in the Postern of Fate, facing the end of time. Facing what could become the Twilight of the Gods. You have been chosen to accomplish great things.

That was like a scream deep inside Shagot's brain. The voice of the god was far too loud. Shagot smashed his forehead against the floor, trying to fight the pain.

The All-Father understood that mortal flesh had limitations. The volume went down. So did the level of divine sententiousness. The god chose to speak out loud like an ordinary man.

“Grimur Grimmsson, we have chosen you to be our champion in the world of men. We're approaching a critical age. The gods themselves are threatened. Not just your gods but all gods. The Heroes will go forth from the Hall to fight once more. And Grimur Grimmsson will show the way.”

“As you command.” Shagot could not stop shaking. Nor could he concentrate enough to listen closely. Nevertheless, he understood what gods wanted done.

Despite his lack of mental acuity, Shagot did wonder why the gods needed mere men to affect their will in the mortal world. They were gods, weren't they?

Shagot and his companions were going to visit the south, were other gods reigned. Once they found what the gods wanted found they would perform rites that would summon the Heroes of the Hall. All of them. The Heroes would execute the will of the gods. The full extent of which those gods did not see fit to reveal to Shagot the Bastard at the moment.