10. TEN #2
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.