10. TEN
TEN
The 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 Str?ndheim 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 Str?ndheim 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 Str?ndheim. 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?”