The iron ring came out of the rock by the width of a fingernail.
Týr saw it move. He put his boot against the stone and hauled the chain toward him, taking the strain before the hound could take another step. Links ground across his palm. Behind him, Halli dropped to one knee with his hammer raised.
“Now?”
“Wait.”
Garmr stood at the mouth of Gnipahellir with his forelegs braced. His collar had buried itself in the thick fur of his neck. He was looking past them, down the narrow shelf that led away from the cave, and the breath passing between his teeth made a low, steady sound.
Týr could feel that sound in the chain.
The hound leaned forward. Týr’s heel skidded. A pale crescent appeared around the ring where iron had been hidden in stone.
“Now.”
Halli struck the wedge beneath it. The hammer blow rang out across the shelf, and Garmr turned.
There was scarcely time to see his mouth open. Týr threw his weight backward. The chain checked the hound with a crack that shook dust from the cave roof; the teeth closed where Halli’s face had been. The smith sat down hard, still holding the hammer.
For a moment nobody moved.
Then a piece of rock fell out around the ring and struck Týr’s boot.
Halli stared at it. “That wasn’t the wedge.”
“No.”
The hound lifted his muzzle and howled.
Týr had heard wolves calling across snow, dogs grieving outside empty houses, men trying to shout above the noise of battle. This sound gave him no distance from its maker. It filled the cave behind him and the valley below. When it ended, the chain was still trembling in his hand. Far off, beneath the last echoes, a horn was sounding. Heimdall was calling the gods to battle.
Halli looked toward the valley.
“Is that it?”
Týr tightened his grip. “Strike the wedge again.”
The smith did not move. They had both heard the tales of the last day: the bonds breaking, the hound loose, Týr and Garmr killing one another. Týr could not tell him the tales were wrong. He could only hold the chain while Halli picked up his hammer.
Halli got up. His right leg buckled before he caught himself against the wall.
“You said the iron would hold,” Týr said.
“It will.” The smith pushed the fallen fragment aside with his good foot. “I never said anything about the mountain.”
The fastening
They had come along the lower shelf. That way back now passed within reach of the hound’s forepaws. Above it ran another ledge, narrow and broken, with a steep climb at its far end. Halli had injured his knee getting down from it. Týr looked from the knee to the climb, then back to the ring.
He had wanted a repair. A little more time before this mouth was loose in the world. The hammer and wedges had seemed a sensible answer to a thing that was failing.
“There’s a tooth of rock inside,” Halli said. “Low down. I saw it when we came.”
“Sound?”
“Sounder than this.”
They could pass a length of the chain around it and shorten Garmr’s reach. But someone would have to draw the hound back while the smith worked, and the first fastening could come free at any moment.
Týr hooked the chain into the crook of his right arm. The sleeve below the stump hung empty. He drew his sword with his left hand and laid it on the shelf behind his heel.
Halli watched him put it down.
“Keep that.”
“I need my hand.”
The smith’s eyes went to the empty sleeve, then away again. He limped toward the cave without asking how it had happened.
Garmr followed him with his eyes. His whole body turned slowly, taking up the slack one link at a time.
Týr pulled.
The hound’s paws scored the stone. For an instant his head came around, and Týr saw the wet black edge of his nose, the pale gums above the teeth, a small notch in one ear. No words waited behind that face. No challenge to be accepted, no promise that might persuade him to let a bond be put on.
Long ago, another mouth had closed on Týr’s right hand. He remembered the tongue beneath his palm and the dreadful interval before the bite, when the wolf knew he had been deceived and there was still time for the gods to keep their word.
He hauled again. The links bit into his forearm.
“Through,” he told Halli.
The smith slipped behind the hound’s shoulder and into the cave.
Garmr lunged after him.
Týr went down on one knee. The chain dragged his right arm straight; he seized a link with his left hand and felt something give beneath the scar. Halli’s hammer clattered in the darkness.
“Halli.”
“I’m here.”
“Don’t run.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
The answer came too quickly. Týr heard the smith scrape backward over stone.
He lowered his head and pulled until the hound had to turn toward him. Garmr’s breath struck his face. He could not reach his sword. He could not spare a hand to wipe his eyes.
Inside the cave, iron slid across rock.
“Once around,” Halli said.
Garmr thrust forward. Týr gave him a little chain, enough to move his weight, then stepped sideways and drew it tight again. The hound struck the wall with his shoulder. Halli dragged the loose end through.
“Wedge it.”
The first blow was weak. The second rang cleanly. On the third, Týr felt the load leave his arm.
Garmr took a step and stopped.
Týr backed away, breathing through his mouth. His left hand would not open properly. He worked each finger free of the link while Halli crawled out and sat beside the sword.
The new fastening held.
Halli laughed once, an ugly little bark of his own. “There.”
He reached for Týr’s arm, but Týr shook his head. They needed to get past the hound while the chain was short. The lower path lay open now, with perhaps a man’s width between the drop and the limit of Garmr’s reach.
“Can you walk?”
“If you stop asking me to kneel.”
Týr picked up his sword.
Then Garmr stopped pulling.
He stood with one paw raised and his head turned toward the darkness inside Gnipahellir. One ear shifted. His mouth closed.
Halli began to rise.
“Stay there,” Týr said.
A little dust trickled from the cave roof. Far inside, something struck stone, then struck it again, lower down.
The rock under Týr’s feet moved.
He caught Halli by the back of his coat. The smith fell against him as a crack ran out of the cave, crossed the shelf and opened between their boots. A wedge jumped from its seat. The first iron ring tore free, trailing a lump of stone.
Inside the cave, the low tooth of rock split with a noise like a tree breaking.
Garmr came forward without resistance.
The open way
Týr dragged Halli onto the upper ledge. The smith cried out when his injured leg struck the edge, and the hound’s head snapped toward the sound.
“Higher.”
Halli pushed with his good foot. His hands slid on dust.
Týr put his shoulder beneath him and heaved. For an instant his back was toward Garmr. He heard the links rushing across stone and turned with the sword low.
The hound stopped just beyond its point.
Chain lay everywhere between them. What had held him was now something to trip over.
Halli had reached the ledge, but the climb at the end still stood between him and the ridge. He pressed his chest against the wall and edged toward it.
Garmr watched him go.
Týr stepped across the hound’s sightline.
“Here.”
The word felt foolish in his mouth. He slapped the flat of the sword against the loose collar chain. Iron rang; Garmr’s lip lifted.
Above them Halli stopped.
“I can get behind him.”
“Keep moving.”
“With the chain. Around his back legs.”
“No.”
“You can’t do it with one—”
The smith swallowed the rest. He was looking at the empty sleeve again, and Týr understood what he was offering: the climb abandoned, a last rush at the hound, his own body placed where a fastening ought to be.
Týr had brought him here to mend iron.
“Take your hammer,” he said.
“What?”
“From your belt. Hook it over the rock above you. Your leg won’t get you up.”
Halli looked toward the climb.
Garmr moved.
Týr cut at his muzzle. The hound recoiled, then sprang sideways, seeking the place beneath the ledge. Týr stumbled over a loop of chain and struck the wall shoulder first. Teeth caught his cloak and dragged him away from it.
He cut the cloth free. Garmr shook the torn piece once and dropped it.
The passage below Halli was open.
Týr could hear the smith fumbling with the hammer at his belt. He needed to keep the hound facing him for that long, and then a little longer. He stepped away from the wall, toward the edge of the shelf, and lowered his sword.
Garmr turned with him.
Behind the hound, the cave mouth shed another fall of stones. The animal did not look back. His collar hung crooked; a broken link dragged between his forelegs. Nothing drew him toward the cave now.
Týr shifted his weight onto his forward foot.
The hammer scraped overhead.
Garmr sprang.
Týr raised his right arm across his throat. The jaws closed above the elbow and drove him backward. His heel found no purchase. The hound’s weight bore him down, and the sword point skated across the collar before dropping beneath it.
He thrust upward with his left hand.
The blade entered. Garmr did not release him.
Týr’s back hit the shelf. He felt the edge beneath his shoulder, empty air beyond it, the hound wrenching his ruined arm. He drew his knees up against the great chest and drove the sword farther with the last strength of his hand.
The jaws slipped from his arm and closed on his throat.
For a moment he could not breathe. He heard his own blood in his ears, then the hammer above him striking rock.
Once.
A boot scraped. Loose grit pattered down across Garmr’s back.
The hound pressed against him, all that terrible weight still trying to move forward. Týr held the sword where it was. His hand had become something distant, fixed to the hilt.
The next breath rattled in Garmr’s throat.
His forelegs folded. His head sank against Týr’s shoulder, and the chain slid after him in a succession of small, separate clicks.
Týr could no longer turn his head toward the ledge. He listened.
The hammer struck again, farther up.
