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Updated: May 15, 2025
Christian's eyes glowed. "Yes?" he said, interrogatively. "He was within an ace of having his brain knocked out." "Tyr?" "Yes; she was nimbly up with that little axe she has at her waist. It was well for old Tyr that his master throttled him off." Christian went without a word to the corner where Tyr was chained. The dog rose up to meet him, as piteous and indignant as a dumb beast can be.
He waited to consult his brother; but Sweyn did not, or would not, notice the signal he made, and kept his face always turned towards White Fell. Christian drew away from the hearth, unable to remain passive with that dread upon him. "Where is Tyr?" he said suddenly. Then, catching sight of the dog in a distant corner, "Why is he chained there?" "He flew at the stranger," one answered.
They were equally hard and wet on Warlock or Tyr. But now a veil he could not describe, even in his own thoughts, hung between him and the sand over which he walked, between him and the sea which sent spray to wet his torn clothing, between him and that wild wrack of long-ago storms.
Frigga, the queenly wife of Odin, was there, and Frey and Freya; Iduna, who guarded the Apples of Youth, and Bragi, her husband; Tyr, the great swordsman, and Niörd, the God of the Sea, Skadi, who wedded Niörd and whose hatred for Loki was fierce, and Sif, whose golden hair was once shorn off by Loki the mischievous. Thor and Loki were there.
Then he began to quiver in like manner, with a fury born of reason, not instinct; as impotent morally as was Tyr physically. Oh! the woman's form that he dare not touch! Anything but that, and he with Tyr would be free to kill or be killed. Then he returned to ask fresh questions. "How long has the stranger been here?" "She came about half-an-hour before you." "Who opened the door to her?"
Bravely fought Tyr, the God who had sacrificed his swordhand for the binding of the Wolf. Bravely he fought, and many of the powers of evil perished by his strong left hand. But Garm, the hound with bloody jaws, slew Tyr. And now the riders of Muspelheim came down on the field. Bright and gleaming were all their weapons. Before them and behind them went wasting fires.
Everybody wanted more ale, but nobody could tell Thor where to find a kettle, until Tyr, the god of courage, spoke up: "East of the river Elivagar lives my father, Hymer, who has a kettle mar-velously strong and one mile deep." That was large enough even for the gods. "Do you think we can get it?" asked Thor, who always wanted to succeed in his undertakings.
Tyr knocked at the door; and it was opened by Hymer's wife, a strangely handsome woman, who bade them come in. Inside the hall they saw Hymer's old mother, sitting in the chimney-corner, and crooning over the smouldering fire. She was a horribly ugly old giantess, with nine hundred heads; but every head was blind and deaf and toothless. Ah, me! what a wretched old age that must have been!
Sweyn's vigilant eye had darted upon him, and instantly his every fibre was alert with hostile instinct; and, half divining, half incredulous, of Christian's object in stooping to Tyr, he came hastily, wary, wrathful, resolute to oppose the malice of his wild-eyed brother. But beyond Sweyn rose White Fell, blanching white as her furs, and with eyes grown fierce and wild.
He stroked the black head. "Good Tyr! brave dog!" They knew, they only; and the man and the dumb dog had comfort of each other. Christian's eyes turned again towards White Fell: Tyr's also, and he strained against the length of the chain. Christian's hand lay on the dog's neck, and he felt it ridge and bristle with the quivering of impotent fury.
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