he Valkyrie’s temple is no more than a stone terrace at the summit of the volcano. Beyond the processions of great pillars, a sweltering orange glow seeps up from where the terrace drops off into the fiery heart of the mountain. Standing near the edge, surrounded by twelve stern, but beautiful Icelandic shieldmaidens, is the Valkyrie Queen.
She is taller than most men—nearly a foot taller than Gunther—and her voluptuous body is thickly corded with muscle. Her bulging thighs, left bare by the pink robe flowing between her knees, could burst a man’s head like a grape. Her waist is thin and taut as iron. Her white, plump breasts are held by two golden boxes harnessed by golden chains, and on her shins and wrists are gold greaves and bracers of the same design.
In her left hand, she carries a shield as thick as a wagon’s wheel, painted green and blue in the same style as her attending maidens; in her right hand, she carries a tall spear made entirely of iron. She’s wearing a domed helm of gold, from under which two blonde braids fall over her shoulders. She holds the two men in a fierce regard which seems to match the smouldering vapours at her back.
The shieldmaiden on to her right, who is even sterner and more beautiful than the others, calls out in a loud voice, “Who dares challenge Brünhilda the Valkryie Queen of Iceland in the temple of her forebears?”
Sigurd looks reluctantly back to Gunther, who nods urgingly.
“I am Gunther Gjukison! King of the Burgundians!” says Sigurd, “Descendant of the Niflung dynasty! And this is my sworn companion, Sigurd Sigmundson, the Prince of Xanten, who’s grandfather was the Frankish hero, Volsung!”
“I have heard your names before,” says Brünhilda, “the two of you have caused much trouble for the Romans.”
Gunther puffs up his chest with pride. “And we hope to cause them a great deal more trouble. The feat of marrying you will make me incredibly famous! And soon all the Germanic tribes will come flocking from all across Europe to offer their allegiances.”
“So then it is you, Sigurd, who will be challenging me?” asks Brünhilda. “I have heard you are a man of great strength. I must admit, when news came to us in Ströndheim of your endeavours against the Roman legions—of how time and again you thwarted Stilicho’s cunning strategies with brute strength alone, I longed for you to come face me in this temple so that at last I might be conquered and be taken as your wife. For centuries brave men have challenged my strength, all of them valiant suitors who sought me for their bride. All have wound up in—”
“I—um—sorry,” Gunther interrupts as Brünhilda gestures to the smouldering crevice at her back, “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea. It’s actually Sig—I mean Gunther—who will be challenging you.”
Sigurd shoots his friend a warning glance.
Surprised, Brünhilda exchanges a confused look with her shieldmaidens. “I have heard of your schemes, King Gunther, and your ability to make friends among the Germanic tribes, and also of your frivolous spending of all your country’s wealth on troops and war. The merchants who come to trade in the port of Ströndheim who have seen you say that you are handsome, and the most charming of monarchs …”
In Sigurd’s shape, Gunther’s brow begins to arch, and he is unable to resist grinning smugly.
“But,” she adds, “they also say you are a small, conniving little man without morals, who faints at the sight of blood.”
“That’s preposterous!” Gunther cries, “Just who are these merchant busy-bodies!”
Brünhilda regards the other inquisitively. “And what do you say to this, King Gunther?”
In Gunther’s form, Sigurd snorts. “I’d say a queen should know better than to take heed of the rumour-mongering that takes place next to the fish-mongering in ports like Ströndheim. If you’re ready, I’m eager to begin this contest.”
Brünhilda is taken aback. “A man of action, and of few words. It seems the men who described you were indeed not the best judges of character. Every word from them about you marked you as a light-hearted, cheerful man, and here I find you standing before me so stern, so formidable, so austere …”
Gunther claps his hand over his face. “He is light-hearted and cheerful! He’s just very focused. Mind on task, madam. He’s been up since before dawn, mentally preparing himself for this ordeal, imagining over and over again how he’s going to out-muscle you at every trial and hurl you into the dust with his behemoth strength!”
Brünhilda gnaws on her lip as she looks again to her contender. Perhaps, at last, after so many centuries, a man worthy of becoming her husband has finally come to claim her.
“Can we get on with this?” asks Sigurd, twirling his right arm, then warming up with a few hip rotations.
“Indeed,” says Brünhilda, “your first challenge will be to beat me in a race.”
“A race? Hah! I’m sure you’re fast, but I’ll bet there’s many a man alive today who could outsprint you on the open plain,” says Gunther.
“Open plain? No, Sigurd,” Brünhilda says, “it’s a race to the top of those pillars. He and I will each take one, and whoever can scramble up onto the capital the quickest will be the winner.”
Gunther stares at the fifty-foot pillars, noting how they have no ledges or ridges or anything to take hold of. Smooth stone all the way up, and each pillar is so thick it would take two men to embrace it. He shuts his mouth, wondering how anyone could scale such an obstacle, let alone with any haste.
“Child’s play,” says Sigurd, shrugging his shoulders in deep, circular motions. He slaps his hands together in a loud clap and marches confidently toward the nearest pillar.
The shieldmaidens take Brünhilda’s spear and shield as their queen removes her golden helm.
“Here,” she says, dragging her toe in the dust to mark the starting line on the temple floor, “we’ll line up here. If you want to take that pillar, I’ll take this one. Birta, if you’ll call the ready for us …”
“As you will my lady,” says the shieldmaiden holding Brünhilda’s helm.
Gunther swallows anxiously, new sweat dripping down the side of his face.
Sigurd performs some final torso twists, then he and Brünhilda place their toes on the line and lean forward into the starting position. Sigurd sends her a competitive glare and vigorously rubs his hands together.
“On your mark!” says Birta, “Get set! Go!”
Brünhilda bolts into motion like a mustang from the gate; Sigurd falls behind. Brünhilda is the first one to the pillar! She jumps six feet into the air, seizing the pillar in both hands and feet, and starts shimmying to the top with fluid movements perfected over hundreds of years. Gunther’s stomach squirms as he watches Sigurd’s imminent defeat. But as Sigurd reaches the base of his pillar he drops into a low squat, and with a guttural roar, launches himself from the ground.
Brünhilda gasps as he shoots past her and claps his mighty hands to the pillar a third of the way to the top. Though his climbing movements are not as practiced or as fluid as Brünhilda’s, he bounds up the pillar like an enraged gorilla, hissing and grunting, his eyes wide with exertion. Brünhilda isn’t even halfway to the top when Sigurd lifts himself onto the capital. The shieldmaidens are all staring up at him in astonishment.
“Hah!” cries Gunther from below, “I’d say you could use a few more centuries of practice, Brünhilda!”
But Brünhilda is busy gawking at Sigurd standing on top of the pillar high above her. “I—I admit,” she says, “that I have been beaten at this trial several times before. On occasion, every hundred years or so, comes an exceptionally strong and agile challenger who can beat me at this pillar race—but only by a hair’s breadth. I have never been so sorely beaten!”
“What is the next challenge?” asks Sigurd, only slightly out of breath.
“Come down and I’ll show you.”
Sigurd nods, then placing on hand on the capital, swings himself down onto the pillar and slides down to the bottom. There is some whispering among the shieldmaidens.
“Great job, Gunther!” says Gunther, flexing into a pose in Sigurd’s form. Sigurd winks.
Brünhilda leads him to a humungous boulder on the other side of the temple. “This next test,” she says, “is one of brute strength. You must lift this rock.”
“Lift that rock?” Gunther cries, “will the mountain stay standing if that thing leaves the ground? I’ll bet that thing weighs a ton!”
“Two tons.”
Sigurd shakes his head. “Oof. That’s going to be heavy.”
“I’ll go first,” says Brünhilda, “then based on how I do, you can try and out-muscle me.”
“Well, I don’t think that’ll be any trouble for Gunther here,” says Gunther, patting Sigurd on the back, “after all we did just see him destroy you in that race back there, scaling up that pillar like an ape in the jung … gle …”
His voice trails off as Brünhilda squats down and inches her fingers under the edge of the rock. Then with perfect form, she rises into a standing position. There’s a quiet rumbling as the rock tilts off the ground. Twisting her hands so her palms are under the rock’s surface, Brünhilda pushes the rock above her head until it’s nearly standing upright on its side. Then she shoots her left leg under the rock in a deep side-lunge, pressing up against the bottom with her left hand. With great effort and focus, she lifts the rock above her head. She stays like that for a moment, exhaling deeply from pursed lips, then with a mighty growl, she heaves the rock backward and steps forward quickly as the rock crashes to the ground behind her.
“What do you think, Gunther?” huffs Brünhilda, “will that stone be too much for you?”
Gunther stares at her in horror and amazement. Sigurd folds his arms across his chest and taps his finger against his chin.“You are very strong,” he says, “but not as strong as me, I think.”
“Oh? Show me then.”
Sigurd nods and goes to the boulder. There is some jaw-dropping among the shieldmaidens and a giggle or two as he performs the same feet as Brünhilda, tipping the rock up off the ground to get beneath, and lifting it over his head. But instead of letting it fall back behind him, he shuffles sideways toward the far end of the temple, grunting and hissing with each step. Amazed, the spectators follow him as he moves to the edge where the temple drops off into the heart of the volcano. There, Sigurd performs five deep squats while holding the rock above his head, and as he rises on the fifth, he hurls the boulder halfway across the glowing chasm. They all watch the boulder falling for several seconds until it disappears into the lava below with a golden splash and a sizzling hiss.
Brünhilda looks at Sigurd, knowing in her heart that this King Gunther is the man for whom she has been waiting so very long.
Sigurd pats off his hands. “What’s next?”
“For the final challenge,” she says, “you must defeat me in a wrestling match.”
“Pah! That’ll be no problem,” Gunther scoffs, “he’s already proven twice that he’s far stronger than you.”
“Perhaps,” says Brünhilda, wrinkling her nose, “but now he must prove that is also more skilled as well.”
“What are the rules?” asks Sigurd.
“The first person to tap out or pass out is the loser. That is the only rule. Anything goes.”
Sigurd raises an eyebrow. “You’ll allow for fish-hooking, eye-gouging and groin-stomping?” he asks, cracking his knuckles.
“I guess it could be allowed.”
“What about pinching?” asks Gunther, “is pinching allowed?”
“I suppose …”
“Oh! Or what about that move you did to that Seubian emissary?”
“What move?”
“You know, when you put your knee into his back and pulled on his ears.”
“What was this?” Brünhilda asks.
“Oh, he was a stubborn fellow,” says Gunther, “wouldn’t listen at all, and wouldn’t budge the least bit in our negotiation. In fact, I don’t think he understood he was at a negotiation really—he kept on making the same demands over and over. Anyway, Sig—er—Gunther here got so fed up with listening to him that he forced the man down in front of the whole court and all the other emissaries who were still waiting their turn to speak, and started stretching the man’s ears out. And you know, everyone in that room, myself included, thought he was going to rip that man’s ears right off and start a war! I mean he was shrieking like a tormented piglet! But he pulled his ears so slowly and so carefully that they didn’t tear at all. He’s got floppy ears now though; they droop right down over his shoulders. Is there a name for that move?”
“No, there’s no name for it,” says Sigurd.
“Well, we should make a name for it right now. How about the Bat Ear? Yes, the Bat Ear! Will you allow for that?”
“I—”
“Actually, you know what, you better not. You won’t want to marry her if she has floppy bloodhound ears. Even if she used to be very beautiful.”
“Frankly,” says Brünhilda, as she and Sigurd begin warily circling each other, “the man who is to be my husband would be so skilled and strong that he would not need to employ such dastardly techniques to conquer to his wife.”
Before she’s finished speaking, Sigurd bolts through the space between them, and swooping low, he dives for her right leg. Brünhilda shoots her legs back, sprawling forward. She pounces off his back and sends him skidding face-first across the temple floor beneath her. As she lands, she rolls to the side, then forward into a sitting position. She deftly snatches him by the wrist and wrenches back his arm between her legs. Then she tumbles over his back and turns him over, belly up. Her left leg is wrapped around his throat; her right leg is across his chest, pinning him down. With both hands, she pulls backward on his wrist like she’s yanking back a mighty lever.
“No!” cries Gunther, “No!”
Sigurd’s eyes are bulging as his quivering wrist strives against all Brünhilda’s might. A couple more inches and she’ll break his arm backwards at the elbow.
“Are you going to lose so easily?” growls Brünhilda.
Sigurd says nothing, focusing his strength.
Gunther pulls on his face. “Come on, Sigurd,” he whispers, “don’t you lose this.”
But Sigurd is still mustering all his strength into his right arm. The veins are twitching on his bicep. His breath comes out in a trembling hiss. His lips and chin are wet from his sputtering grunts. Then, to Brünhilda’s astonishment, she feels herself being drawn forward. She pulls back against him, redoubling her efforts, but she cannot match Sigurd’s might. With a bursting roar, Sigurd hurls her off of him, sending her flying ten feet into the air.
Before Brünhilda can scramble back on feet, Sigurd overtakes her. He scoops up her left leg, locking her ankle in the grip of his bulging bicep. With gentle force, he pushes against the side of her foot with his other hand. A sharp cry comes from Brünhilda, who makes a futile attempt to scurry away on her hands and right knee.
“Yes!” shouts Gunther, punching the air, “He’s got you!”
The shieldmaidens are clapping and jumping up and down. There are tears of joy in Birta’s eyes.
“Will you not yield?” asks Sigurd, lightly twisting her ankle and causing her to growl in pain.
“I—Agh! Ugh!” She’s competed against her challenger with all her strength, all the might of her giant kin. How many men have sought to win her, all of whom she cast off the precipice to their fiery doom? Now, at last, after so many centuries, she knows the humiliation of defeat.
“I yield!” she screams, slapping her palm on the temple floor, “I yield to my husband!”
Sigurd releases her at once, and Brünhilda collapses, panting.
“Gunther,” she says, “Oh sweet Gunther. Truly you are a champion among champions. A rival to both Samson and Achilles. What foe could ever hope to conquer your indomitable strength?”
Sigurd sends the real Gunther a wary glance.
“Come, Gunther,” says Brünhilda, “you have won me with your might. Claim your prize. Make love to me at once!”
Sigurd takes a step back. “What? No. No! We must first be wed!”
“But what do you mean? You have beaten me. The law of my ancestors binds us together.”
“Perhaps, but our marriage must be witnessed by the people as well. After all, our two kingdoms will be united.”
“Then let us hurry back to Ströndheim! We’ll gather the people! We’ll rush the shamans into the temple! We’ll quickly swear ourselves to each other and sacrifice two bulls on Freya’s altar—the mingling of the blood will be the mingling of our kingdoms. And then, I will bring you into my bedchambers, and we will have such a night that it will make up for all the ages I’ve been waiting, longing, aching for you—Oh Gunther!”
Sigurd looks to his friend for help.
“What Gunther means,” says Gunther, “Is that he intends to take you back to his palace in Worms and marry you there. It must be a very grand celebration. We must allow time for heralds to be sent out to invite the kings and chieftains of all the tribes of Europe. You and Gunther will be very famous. All of Midgard will be buzzing with talk about this night. We must allow for that talk to spread, to generate excitement and morale. It will make for a most unique opportunity.”
Brünhilda looks at Gunther sadly. “You want to use our wedding as a means to gather allies?”
Sigurd badly attempts Gunther’s smile and cheerful enthusiasm. “Absolutely!”
“I know it seems a bit underhanded,” says Gunther, “but we are at war with the greatest empire on earth, after all, and we must win friends at any cost.”
“Very well,” says Brünhilda, “I understand this war is very important to you. I can wait a little while to be with you if I must.” She takes Sigurd by the hand. “But know that I am yours to do with as you please. Not only I, but all my armies, ships, treasure. All of Iceland is at your disposal.”
Gunther smiles deviously.
“I desperately look forward to … exploring my new wife,” says Sigurd awkwardly, causing Brünhilda to blush as he kisses her fingers. “But for now I must sail back to Worms where I will make plans for our wedding feast, and your coronation. I will return for you at the end of summer.”
“The end of summer?” Tears fill her bright eyes, “Gunther, do you know how long I have waited for a man who was worthy to become my husband? And yet you would force me to wait longer still? What have I done to deserve such cruelty?”
“It’s only four months!” he says, “and in that time there will be much to do!”
“Yes,” says Gunther, “you’ll have to meet with your advisors and prepare your sister Bekkhild to govern as reagent in your place, and mobilize your land and naval forces to join us on the front. But before you do that, you’ll have to meet with the Guild of Commerce to discuss the changes in trade since you’ll now have access to wood at a much higher discount. You’d be surprised at how much that can affect logistic operations.”
“Not to even mention the wedding preparations!” says Sigurd. “Time will fly by! And before you know it we shall be wed, and the two of us will have many long years together.” He looks again to Gunther, who nods, and he takes out Rowena’s ring and slips it on Brünhilda’s finger—though it’s quite loose and neither of them is sure it won’t fall off.
“This ring,” says Sigurd, “is a token of my promise to return. Look on it with hope and much anticipation. And now, my future wife, I take my leave. Let us both look forward to that joyous day!”
With that, Sigurd wheels around and walks urgently toward the stone steps that lead back down the mountain. Gunther follows on his heels, leaving Brünhilda and her shieldmaidens watching after them, perplexed.