BRUNNHILDE’S QUEST

(A retelling of the Nibelungenlied, with apologies to Richard Wagner.)

By Hank Quense

©2011 Hank Quense

All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

License Notes

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Published in the United States of America

Published by Hank Quense

Http://hankquense.com

PART ONE: THE RHINEGOLD

In the wan light of early morning, Wotan followed an animal trail through the dense forest that grew on both banks of the Rhine River. Most of the trees were oak, but elms and pine trees also flourished. Wotan, the god worshipped by the warlike tribes in Northern Germany and lower Scandinavia, scanned the area seeking a trace of the missing Rhinegold. After a week of travel through Midgard, he still hadn't detected it. He stroked his brown beard while he searched. The absence of the precious metal could have profound consequences; consequences that made Wotan tense and edgy.

Wotan's blood brother, Loki walked a few paces behind. Hoping to meet a toothsome mortal woman, Loki wore his best clothing, a sky-blue tunic, red hose and a forest green cloak. "I'm bored," he said. "We haven't seen a single mortal in the week since we left Asgard. I could be back there drinking mead instead of trudging through woods." He smoothed his red mustache. Slim with amber eyes, Loki had a mane of wind-tossed red hair.

"Quiet," Wotan growled. "I need to concentrate so don't bother me with your complaints."

After another mile of trudging south along the trail, Loki said, “I hate trees.”

“Why is that?” Wotan replied.

“Trees are too dumb to know when they have been tricked. Take that big oak alongside of you.” Loki pointed to the tree with its leaves barely in bloom and sketched the rune of renovation in the air. The oak leaves changed to elm leaves. “That tree has no idea I just changed it into an elm.”

“Trees are just too wooden to understand.”

“Your puns are awful, as usual.”

A puff of wind disturbed Wotan’s blue cloak revealing trews and a linen shirt. A wide-brimmed hat concealed his missing eye. For a walking staff, he used Grungir, his spear. Runes so fine as to be almost invisible covered the thick shaft of the spear.

"I thought we were going to have some fun here in Midgard," Loki said. "So why are we here?"

"To recover the missing Rhinegold. I know it's somewhere along the Rhine." The Rhinegold, a small mass of gold, possessed extraordinary magical powers. Its most important aspect was to keep Wotan and the others in Asgard from aging. Already, only six months after its disappearance, Wotan felt an occasional twinge of pain in his knees. He also noted a slight diminishing of his strength and his power. He suspected it would continue to decline as long as the Rhinegold remained missing.

"You should have destroyed the Rhinemaidens for losing it," Loki said.

"You're always quick to demand punishment for others, but you always expect mercy after your mistakes. Destroying the Rhinemaidens would accomplish nothing. Once I recover the Rhinegold, someone will have to watch over it and the Rhinemaidens have learned their lesson. They'll be excellent guardians in the future."

Munin and Hugin, Wotan’s messenger ravens returned from their reconnaissance flight with a noisy flapping of wings. The birds, bigger than chickens and blacker than a moonless night, landed on the ground close by.

“Well?” Wotan asked. “What have you found?”

“Caw. Caw,” Hugin replied.

"Excellent! Hugin reports that there is a village of mortals around the next river bend.”

Wotan hummed a tune and the forest reverberated with the sounds of instruments that wouldn’t be invented for a thousand years.

“Must you always make noise?” Loki hated Wotan's musical compositions. “What is it this time?”

“An overture. Someday in the far future, I’ll inspire a mortal to write this tune down so everyone can hear it. Munin. Take a note. Remind me of this in say . . . fifteen hundred years.” He resumed humming and smiled as Loki stuffed grass in his ears to shut out the racket.

Further on, the path ran close to the western river bank. Brilliant sunlight reflected off the surface except where an occasional boulder interrupted the smooth flow of the water.

"Look!" Loki said in quiet voice.

Wotan, still humming, followed Loki's finger and saw an otter sunning itself on an outcropping near the far shore.

“Finally! Something to do.” Loki picked up two rocks and set his feet.

“Don’t harm the animal.” Wotan stopped humming and banged his spear butt on the ground.

Loki ignored the command and threw a rock hitting the otter in the head. The animal shuddered, rolled over and slid into the river. Loki celebrated with a victory dance. “Only Loki could make a difficult throw like that.”

“Bah!” Wotan shook his head. “The useless slaughter of an animal is a waste of resources.”

A short time later, Wotan smiled when he saw the mortal settlement. A palisade of cut trees enclosed a large building top a small hill, Wattle huts clustered at the base of the hill and cultivated fields fanned out from there. A cacophony of noises came from children, dogs and goats together with a few horses and a small herd of cattle. The odor of a manure pit assaulted their noses.

“How dull this place looks," Loki said. "But what you can expect from a pack of thralls? As long as they have a pretty woman or two I suppose I won't be too bored.”

“These mortals are more than thralls.”

“I see the men as joke fodder and the women as bed-warmers.”

The children spotted the strangers and ran towards them, followed by the goats and dogs. A tall, sturdy figure appeared in the door of the building on the hill. He had leathery skin and blond hair and beard, both sprinkled with silver. He scrutinized Loki and Wotan with one hand on a sword hilt and the other grasping a spear.

Wotan raised Grungir, point downward, in the universal, peaceful salute and the man returned the gesture, but didn’t take his hand off the sword.

Loki dodged the grubby hands of the children, eluded an inquisitive goat and walked through an opening in the palisade. A buxom young woman and two other men emerged from the building. “Ahh,” Loki said. “I wouldn’t mind having guest rights with her tonight.”

Wotan grabbed his arm. “Tread carefully,” he hissed. “Cause no trouble for these mortals. My foresight tells me I will need this clan." The vagueness of this foretelling bothered Wotan. It also gave hints of violence and disaster. In the past, foretelling always gave him clear pictures. Could this uncertainty be an effect of the missing Rhinegold?

“Greetings, travelers,” the man called out. “I am Hreithmar and this is my daughter Lingwohaith and my sons, Fafner and Ragin.” Ragin and his sister were blonde and blue-eyed while Fafner was dark-haired. His hooded brown eyes never stopped shifting from one side to the other.

“My name is Wanderer,” Wotan replied. “And my companion is called Muddle.”

Loki scowled at Wotan.

“Come into my great hall,” Hreithmar said and stood aside so his guests could enter.

Wotan looked around the interior of the building and found it not so great. Large yes, but no wall hangings or battle trophies proclaimed the tribe’s victories. A fire pit blazed in the middle of the floor with several trestle tables scattered about. At the far end, a wall separated the living quarters from the hall.

Lingwohaith fetched horns of ale for Loki and Wotan.

“Tell me of your adventures in getting here.” Hreithmar and his sons settled themselves on a bench and waited to hear a tale. Lingwohaith remained standing.

“I had brief adventure a short way from here,” Loki said. “It involved an otter.”

The reaction of Hreithmar and his family surprised Wotan. They stiffened as if expecting bad news.

“This otter lay on a boulder across the river, soaking up the sun,” Loki continued. “I threw a rock and hit it in the head, killing it. A worthy feat, don’t you think?”

Lingwohaith screeched. She slumped to a bench, put her face in her hands and sobbed.

“Seize them!” Hreithmar jumped up and waved his sons on. Both Fafner and Ragin drew their swords and ran across the hall. Ragin seized Loki by his hair and held the blade to his throat. Fafner pushed Wotan against the wall and wrenched the spear from his hand.

"I warned you not to harm the animal," Wotan snarled at Loki as part of the foretelling came to pass.

“How dare you violate our guest rights,” Loki squeaked, trying not to get his throat cut.

“You killed my pet,” Lingwohaith screamed.

“She trained it to bring fish back from the river.” Hreithmar pointed a finger at Loki. “I demand compensation. Unless wergild is paid, your lives are forfeit. Lingwohaith! Send some thralls to fetch the otter. Then we’ll see about the compensation.”

“Fool!” Wotan said through clenched teeth. “Heed me. Do what they say and don’t make matters worse.”

When the thralls returned with the dead otter, Hreithmar ordered it put on a table. “I have decided on the payment. You,” he pointed at Loki, “will fetch enough fish from the river to completely cover the otter. If I can see even a single hair, you both die. Release him. Return by sundown if you wish to save your companion.”

# # #

Loki seethed as he walked to the river. How dare these mortals give him tasks to complete, as if he wasn't the god of fire. He gnashed his teeth and cursed the folly of Wotan for traveling in mortal guise. In that form, the gods were subject to mortal hurts. While they couldn't be killed, they could suffer an enormous amount of pain. Wotan could have destroyed the whole family with one swipe of his spear, yet he allowed himself be captured. Now he, the great Loki, was forced to do thrall-work in order to ransom the one-eyed fool.

He turned south and walked until he reached a bend in the river. He stomped and stormed about while his rage subsided. He’d better get on with it. The sooner he finished up, the faster he and Wotan could leave.

He unpacked the fishing gear Ragin had given him and knotted a worm on the hook. He tossed the hook into the water and watched the worm untangle itself and swim away. Was there no end to this idiocy? Even the worms played him for a fool.

Several more worms made an escape before he threw the fishing line to the ground and stomped on it. Never had he been so humiliated as he had been today. Even if he figured out how to fasten the worms, he could only catch one fish at a time and would never accumulate enough to cover the otter by sundown. He needed a new strategy.

After some deep concentration, he jigged and snapped his fingers, sending sparks flying. He spread out his arms and with each hand sketched the rune of mustering. “Come to Loki, oh fish of the Rhine.”

Within minutes, the surface of the river seethed with silver shapes. Loki took a pouch from his belt and opened it. “Fish! Form a single line. On my command, the first fish will jump into this pouch, followed by the next fish in line, followed by the next one and so forth.” Loki grinned. His magical pouch could expand to hold any amount of fish. He would be back at the fort in no time.

“Ready? Begin!”

The fish rolled on their sides and whacked their tails against the surface of the water. A wave of water flew up to the bank and soaked Loki. The fish scattered.

Loki ground his teeth. How dare these fish disobey his orders. He spit into the river causing a small cloud of steam to rise from the surface. Perhaps, he should turn the river into boiling water and poach all these insubordinate fish.

A glint in the river caught his eye. He stopped pacing and stared at the object on the floor of the river. He walked up and down river bank to look from different angles. Intrigued, he jumped into the water, swam to the spot and dove deep. He found a nugget of gold and a tunnel in the side of the river. He entered the tunnel and found himself in a cave. He climbed out of the water and shook himself dry. Further into the cave, a bandy-legged dwarf worked a bellows heating a fire beneath a cauldron. Loki slipped closer to the dwarf’s back and saw that the cauldron held melted gold. An ingot mold sat by the pot to catch the liquid metal. Piles of gold nuggets and ingots lay all around the sides of the cave.

Loki smiled to himself as a plan took hold in his mind. Wouldn’t the mortals love to have gold instead of fish? If he covered the otter with gold, the mortals would have to acknowledge that Loki was the greatest of the gods. Perhaps, they’d even initiate an annual ritual to honor him.

“Greetings,” Loki said.

The dwarf jumped, throwing the bellows across the cave. “Who are you? How did you get here?” The dwarf had so much black hair on his head and face that his eyes seem to peek out of a fur coat. His lips were completely hidden when he wasn’t talking. He wore heavy boots, leather trews and a leather vest, all smoke-dark and spark-burned. A curiously shaped helmet made of beaten gold leaf covered his head. On his right thumb, he wore a large gold ring etched with runes. Loki could the feel power emanating from the ring and he lusted after it.

“I am Loki and I just dropped by to say hello.” He grinned at the dwarf. “And perhaps to take some of your gold. What’s your name?”

The dwarf said, “I am Alberich the Nibelung and the gold is mine.” He changed into a giant serpent.

“Oh, a shape changer.” Loki changed into a bigger serpent for a moment then returned to his mortal form. “Big shapes are easy, but small shapes require a great deal of skill. I’m sure that is beyond your meager talent.”

Alberich returned to his dwarf form. “Of course I can do small shapes. With my helmet, I can change into anything.”

“Then, let’s see you change into a toad.”

“Nothing to it.” Alberich disappeared, replaced by a small toad.

Loki laughed out loud as he snatched the toad in his hand. “Even a shape-shifter is no match for the cunning Loki.” He squeezed the toad until it croaked in pain. “I’ll give you a choice. You can die now in my hand or, if you agree to fill my pouch with gold, you can live.” Loki held up the small pouch for Alberich to see.

“I’ll fill the pouch.”

“Wise choice. But first you must swear a solemn oath to fill the pouch.” Loki squeezed tighter. “No tricks.”

“I swear to fill your pouch.”

After the toad changed back to a dwarf, Loki opened his pouch and held the mouth toward Alberich. “Fill it.”

“This will only take a minute and then you can leave.” Alberich glared at Loki.

“The wily Loki has tricked you. This is a magical pouch and it will hold all of your gold and still have room left over.”

Alberich gasped and slumped against a cave wall.

“Do you know what happens to creatures who don’t fulfill their oath to a god?”

Alberich grabbed a handful of nuggets and poured them into the pouch. An hour later, Alberich’s gold had disappeared into the pouch.

“The ring, dwarf. Put it into the pouch. And the helm.”

“Please? You’ve taken my treasure horde. Leave me the ring and the helm.”

“Put them in the pouch or I’ll turn you into a cockroach and stomp on you.”

I curse the ring and all who steal it.” Alberich took it off and dropped it into the pouch. “Whoever takes it will suffer misery and death.”

“Whatever.” Loki waved a dismissive hand and left.

# # #

The Valkyrie, Brunnhilde, rode her horse over the battlefield looking at the detritus of combat. Weapons, armor, dead and dying warriors littered the ground. She carried her helmet under her left arm and her spear in her right hand. The battle had taken place in a wheat field. Last year's chaff covered the ground, much of it now red-stained. Like all of her many sisters, she had a large, muscular frame. She wore her blond hair in braids curled up over her ears. Intense blue eyes peered at the warriors.

The Valkyries, daughters of Wotan, roamed battlefields on their winged chargers searching for warriors who died heroically. The souls of those few were picked up by the Valkyries and taken to Valhalla in Asgard. There, the warriors spent their days hunting boar or fighting mock battles. Their nights were spent in feasting, drinking mead and telling lies about their combat prowess. Someday in the future, these warriors would be called upon to fight a great battle for Wotan.

Brunnhilde's sister Guth had left with the only dead hero in this battle, a minor spat among poorly trained warriors armed with primitive weapons. A wounded soldier rolled over on his back exposing a gaping chest wound. He wouldn't live much longer. Suddenly, the soldier cried out, "Gertha! Please help me. I'm dying."

The skin on the back of Brunnhilde's neck crawled. Never before had she heard a dying soldier call a woman's name. The dying cursed the gods; they cursed the enemy; they cursed their bad luck. Many did nothing but scream or cry, but this one called on a woman and she wasn't his mother. The woman must be his wife or his lover. Brunnhilde was intrigued. What made this dying mortal different? What made him think of a woman as he lay dying in agony? She thought back on the numerous battles she had monitored. She couldn't recall another incident like this. Perhaps, other warriors had called a woman's name but she hadn't noticed it. She was positive this wasn't a usual occurrence.

Intrigued, she decide to pay more attention to the dying in future battles.

# # #

A whistling Loki returned to the hill fort just as the sun slipped below the trees. He relished the anticipation of the surprise in store for the mortals.

“Where are the fish?” Hreithmar’s face turned stony

Fafner partially drew his sword, his eyes darting between his father and the two strangers.

“I’ve brought you something much better.” Loki grinned at Hreithmar.

Wotan raised an eyebrow and made a noise deep in his throat.

Loki approached the table with the dead otter and opened his pouch. He spilled a portion of its contents on the otter. “Behold! I bring you gold.”

Hreithmar stared at the ingots and nuggets.

“We can’t eat gold.” Lingwohaith sighed, her breasts striving to free themselves from her kirtle.

A strange light shone in Hreithmar’s eyes and Loki recognized it as the beginning of greed. Fafner had the same look.

“Kill the old man,” Ragin told Fafner. “I’ll kill this one.”

A shock of fear ran through Loki. The mortals hadn't reacted the way he thought they would. Two of the mortals had been touched by greed but other two, Ragin and Lingwohaith, still wanted fish. He needed to convince at least one of them that gold is good. “You don’t have to farm anymore," he said. "You can trade this gold for food. You can pay warriors to fight for you. You can buy anything you want with it. Your family is now the richest family on the Rhine.”

“Fish we could eat right now,” Ragin said. “With gold, maybe we eat later.”

Hreithmar gave his son a look of surprise.

Loki licked the sweat from his upper lip. The mortals needed more convincing. So did Wotan. Loki could feel the heat of Wotan’s anger, even across the hall. He decided to work on the daughter. He smiled at Lingwohaith. “Did I mention you can make jewelry with it?”

“Jewelry?” she replied.

Loki cleared his throat. “Here you see the gold in its raw form.” He spilled a quantity of gold from his pouch into a metal pan. He ran his hand under the bottom of the pan and it grew hot. He winked at Lingwohaith. “I’m the god of fire so don’t try this.” As the pan grew hotter, the gold nuggets changed into a liquid. Hreithmar watched, as did his sons.

After the gold melted, Loki put the pan down and thrust both hands into the liquid. “You folks need a mold for this part.” He fashioned the gold into a long, thin object then bent it into a circular shape. A cloud of steam arose when he plunged it into a bucket of water and, once it cooled, he approached Lingwohaith and placed it around her neck. “A torc for your lovely neck.” She cooed and gave him a ravishing smile.

Loki’s hands dropped lower.

Lingwohaith slapped his face. “No one touches my boobs without my father’s permission. Except my brothers, their friends, the blacksmith, the --”

“My wergild called for the otter be completely covered,” Hreithmar said as he drew his sword. “Unless you have a lot more gold, you’re a dead man.”

“I have enough.” Loki looked at Fafner whose eyes shone with strong emotion. Greed grew rampant in his soul. At the table, Loki opened his pouch.

“In that small pouch?” Fafner sneered. “Let’s kill them and get it over with.”

Loki tipped the pouch and let the gold spill out. It landed began covering the dead animal. Loki glanced at Wotan. He wasn’t happy.

Alberich’s ring and helmet fell out of the pouch. “Oops. Those are mine.” He put them aside.

Wotan groaned aloud, startling Loki.

“There. The otter is covered.” Loki tightened the end of the pouch.

“I can still see a whisker. You need more gold,” Fafner said. “Put that helm over it.”

“The helm is mine.”

Hreithmar’s sword touch Loki’s stomach. “Put the helm over the whisker.”

“I see a bit of fur.” Hreithmar pointed to the spot on top of the otter. “The ring will cover it.”

“Now wait a minute.” Anger replaced Loki's fear.

“The ring." Hreithmar’s sword pushed harder against his stomach. "Put it on the otter.”

“There.” Loki added the ring. “I can’t see any part of the otter. Can you?

Hreithmar agreed the otter had been covered. “You can leave. Go quickly before I change my mind and demand more gold.” He picked up the ring. It was much too small to fit on his thick fingers. To Loki’s shock, the ring altered itself to fit Hreithmar’s thumb. He slipped it on.

As he and Wotan left the fort, Lingwohaith said, “Let’s make more torcs.”

# # #

Wotan strode through the forest. Bushes and wild flowers shriveled as he passed them. Munin and Hugin recognized the god’s fury and stayed in the upper branches of the tallest trees.

Wotan waited until they were deep into the forest before turning on Loki. “You are a fool,” he snarled. “You are irresponsible and I ought to cast you into Hel.”

“That’s the thanks I get for ransoming you?” Loki’s eyes sparked with anger. “I couldn’t catch the fish so I used my creativity to bring a substitute for the fish and you’re angry?”

Wotan raised Grungir over his shoulder and hurled the spear at an ancient oak. The trunk split in two and the halves of the tree fell in opposite directions crushing lesser trees. Birds chirped and flew into the sky. The ravens squawked in alarm.

"Where did you get the gold?"

"From a smelly Nibelung named Alberich."

"And this Nibelung just let you take it? Hmm?"

"Of course not. I had to threaten him."

"What did he say when you took his horde?" Wotan gave Loki a one-eyed glare

"He muttered a curse or something."

"Tell me exactly what he said."

"He, err, cursed whoever stole the ring."

"I could feel that curse. You have doomed all the gods of Asgard unless I conceive a plan to undo the harm you have caused."

“What are you babbling about?” Loki chewed on a finger nail. “It’s just a gold ring.”

“That smelly dwarf stole the Rhinegold from the Rhinemaidens and forged the Ring from that gold. As long as a mortal has it, he will possess immense power although he may not know how to use it. Until I can recover the Rhinegold, we gods will continue to age and weaken. We’ll eventually die.”

Loki's mouth dropped open.

"As for the helm, it is the magical Tarnhelm, and it gives the mortals great power. Lastly, the gold will turn Hreithmar's sons into murderers.” Wotan accepted a portion of the blame for not anticipating the consequences of Loki’s killing of the otter. It always amazed him how extraordinary consequences could flow from a seemingly trivial act.

“So what’s the problem?" Loki pointed back towards the village. "I'll go back and take the ring from Hreithmar.”

“Fool. The Ring is now cursed. If we steal the Ring back, it will do us no good. It must be freely given to us to avoid the curse.”

# # #

The two gods walked in silence. Loki could feel the intensity of Wotan’s fury.

Loki’s own anger boiled inside him. He always got blamed when things went awry. No matter how it happened, Loki was to blame. He was sick of being the culprit. In most cases, the problem was inadvertent, a joke gone slightly wrong. The other gods had no sense of humor, so they all responded in anger at his jests. Why couldn’t the gods give him credit for making life more interesting? Without him, Asgard would be a place of eternal boredom.

Loki bit a fingernail. This time, it would be tough to wiggle out of the responsibility for the mess.

He concentrated his mind on the problem. It would take a long time for the Ring to destroy the gods and a lot could happen before then.

So why not enjoy the life that was left? Eventually, they may even get the ring back.

# # #

The gods pitched camp in a small clearing a few miles from the fort. The light from a three-quarter moon cast tree shadows on the ground. Loki caught two rabbits, and, rather than build a campfire that would disclose their location, he cooked the meat between his palms. They ate without talking. Wotan spent the night in deep thought.

In the morning they set out walking north towards the Rainbow Bridge, the temporary link between Asgard and Midgard.

Before long, they heard hoof beats and turned around. Lingwohaith rode up. “I have news,” she said while she dismounted. “After you left, my father claimed all the gold as head of the family. Fafner and Ragin slew him while he slept then divided the gold between them, including my portion. Fafner even took the torc you made for me.”

“And so it begins,” Wotan said. “Gold-greed.”

Lingwohaith beamed at Loki. “My brothers are coming after you. They want more gold. I’ll be very nice to any hero who kills my brothers so I can have all of it. Will you do that for me?” She fluttered her eyes at Loki.

Loki chuckled and pinched her left buttock. She stomped on his right foot. “After I get the gold.”

“We are not killing anyone.” Wotan crossed his arms.

“I must have been mad to think you two were warriors.” Lingwohaith’s eyes sparked with anger. “More like milkmaids than heroes.” She mounted up and rode back toward the village.

“No one calls Loki a milkmaid and lives. I’ll be right back.”

“Leave her alone."

Loki spit in disgust. A fire sprang up where his spittle landed on dry grass.

"I have a plan to regain the Rhinegold, but it will take time. One of her descendants will be a strong-armed, weak-brained hero who will recover the Ring. Then I'll persuade this hero to give it to me. Hugin.”

“Caw.”

“Go to Asgard and fetch two Valkyries.”

“What are they for?”

“To slow down Fafner and Ragin.”

A while later, two horses appeared flying high above the Rhine.

“Dum da da dum.” Music from the un-invented instruments accompanied Wotan’s humming.

“Now what?”

“I think the Valkyries deserve a song. I’ll call it . . . The Coming of the Winged Riders. No, that’s not right. Maybe . . . The Ride of the Valkyries. Yes that’s it.” Wotan looked around the trees. “Munin! Take a note.”

“Wac.”

Wotan lifted his spear and pointed it at Munin. “Keep a civil tongue in your beak, bird, or you’re dinner.”

“Caw?”

“Much better.”

The two spear-carrying Valkyries landed. “Hail, All-father,” Slogul said. Her companion, Hild, raised a spear in salute to Wotan. The women dressed in ankle-length gowns. Each wore a breastplate and a horned helmet. Their long hair – black for Slogul and brown for Hild -- was woven into a single braid that hung between their shoulder blades.

“A band of warriors lead by two spearmen follow us. Delay them. Don’t harm them, just slow them down.”

Loki walked up to Hild and caressed her thigh. “After you finish Wotan’s business, you and I can get together and have some fun.”

Hild cracked Loki in the head with the shaft of her spear. “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant to jab the spear point into your crotch.”

After the Valkyries left, Loki followed Wotan as they wended their way along a path. Wotan stopped and tilted his head.

What?” Loki asked.

“I foresee an event happening on this very spot.” The somber beat of drums filled the air.

Loki blinked in surprise.“What’s that noise?”

“Kettle drums. They make an ominous background, don’t they?”

“When is this event going to happen? In a thousand years?”

“No. In three . . . two . . . one . . . now.”

An unearthly scream drowned out Wotan’s last word. Alberich swung out of the trees, holding onto a rope. His feet slammed into Loki’s chest and sent the god reeling backward. The dwarf dropped from the rope as Loki crashed to the ground. Alberich jumped on Loki’s chest, grabbed him by the ears and banged his head on the ground. “Where’s my gold, thief?”

“I don’t have it any more. I used it to buy our freedom from the mortals.”

“Mortals?" Alberich released Loki and slumped to the ground. "You gave my gold to the mortals?” He pulled his beard. “My helm and Ring?”

“The mortals have it. The gold, the Ring, and the helm.”

“Get it back.” Alberich stood and pointed a stumpy finger at Loki. “All of it.”

“Get a life, you runt.” Loki stood up and dusted himself off. “Your gold is gone.”

“I’ll never stop harassing you. I’ll pursue you to the ends of the world and the end of time until you give it back.” Alberich darted into the woods.

# # #

When Slogul and Hild returned on the next day, each wore a half-dozen gold torcs on their arms.

“Well?” Wotan had a fleeting image of trouble in Asgard when the others saw the torcs.

“We slowed them down,” Slogul replied. “We convinced Fafner and Ragin to make camp even though it was mid-day. We kept both brothers awake most of the night so they slept late this morn.”

“How clever the mortals are to make this lovely jewelry from a metal,” Hild said. She extended an arm to admire her torcs.

“Do they continue to pursue us?”

“Fafner does,” Slogul said. “He really has a lust for gold.”

“Today, it was Ragin’s turn to wear the Ring and the helm,” Hild said. “But Fafner wouldn’t give them up. The brothers fought and Fafner slew Ragin.”

“By now, Fafner is on the march. He has twenty warriors with him.”

“Thank you, ladies.” Wotan nodded at the pair. “You are dismissed.”

The Valkyries mounted up and flicked the reins. The horses took a few steps and leaped into the air.

Wotan put two fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. “I’ll fetch my horse, Sleipnir. We’ll ride the rest of the way.”

“Good idea,” Loki said. “I’m tired of walking.”

# # #

Loki grinned at the beautiful Rhine maiden who sat on a bench in his love nest, high in the snow-clad mountains above Valhalla. Silk hangings covered the walls and a fire roared in the hearth. Scented candles in gold holders perfumed the room. On a sideboard, gold plates and cups glittered in the firelight. All were made from the remainder of the loot stolen from Alberich.

Loki moved closer to the Rhine maiden who wore a gauzy gown. He handed her a gold cup filled with mead.

Wotan shoved the door open, allowing a wintry blast of air to enter the hut. “Curse you, Loki! You and your damned gold.”

Loki frowned at the interruption.

“There’s no living with Fricka. My wife saw the gold torcs on the two Valkyries, and she’s convinced that I gave them the torcs in return for services rendered.”

Loki heard soft a scrabbling sound in the chimney. Wide-eyed, he turned to see Alberich fall into the fire and bounce out. The dwarf beat out the flames on his clothes then leaped at Loki and grabbed him by the throat. “Where’s my gold?”

Loki broke Alberich’s grip, grabbed the dwarf by the seat of his pants, opened the door and threw him into a snow bank.

He closed the door just in time to see the Rhine maiden wrap her feather cloak around her shoulders. “I’m leaving.” She changed into snow-white swan.

"Why? I promise you the foul-smelling dwarf won’t bother us again.”

“It has nothing to do with the dwarf. I only came here to get gold trinkets, but Wotan is taking them all.”

Loki noticed that Wotan had stuffed every gold object in the hut into a sack. “What are you doing?”

“All your gold is forfeit as penalty for the trouble you caused in Midgard and for introducing gold-greed to Asgard. If I don’t get Fricka some gold, my castle will become Armageddon.”

PART TWO: THE VALKYRIES

Brunnhilde, war chief of the Valkyries, entered the darkened hut carrying a candle. She placed it on a table and clapped her hands. “Let’s go, girls. We have a mission.”

Four sleeping Valkyries from the Second Troop groaned and rolled over in their beds. Slogul, the blond-haired leader of the Troop, said, “Why us? Use the First or Third Troops.” She pulled her blanket over her head.

“They both had missions last night.” Brunnhilde clapped her hands a second time. “Up! All of you!”

The light from the candle disclosed a single room in a state of messiness that couldn’t have happened by accident. Shields, spears, hairpins, mirrors, brushes and an occasional animal pelt were strewn everywhere. From iron hooks hung breastplates, kirtles and helmets. The only wall decorations were the tally marks indicating the number of heroes the Troop had brought back to Valhalla. The Second was in a keen rivalry with the other two and the lead changed hands almost every day.

Guth stood up and winced as her knees cracked. She ran a hand through her red hair while she yawned loudly.

"I can't get up as early as I used to," Slogul said peeking over her blanket, "and it's still dark outside. I wish Wotan would recover the damned Rhinegold."

“Let's go. The battle takes place at dawn.”

“Where are we going?” Hild asked.

“The Lower Rhine, near the mouth of the river.”

“We need some dead heroes to regain the lead,” Guth said.

“I hope this isn’t just another cattle raid.” Olrun took down her iron bra, buffed the surface and examined herself. “I’ll never get my hair braided in time.” She held up a handful to show Brunnhilde her loose black hair laced with a few strands of white.

“We don’t have time to make you beautiful, so we’ll go with unbound hair. I’m going with you.”

“Oh?” Slogul giggled. “Mayhap, Wotan wants a firsthand report about Siegmund?”

“He does.”

“Of course, you are going to observe only because Wotan ordered you to?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Brunnhilde turned to look out the door to cover her embarrassment. She would have to be more discrete, lest Wotan hear of her fondness for the mortal warrior, Siegmund. According to the All-father, it was fine for the gods to slake their lust with mortal women but goddesses were enjoined to ignore mortal men. Male nonsense, in her mind. Not that she envisioned sleeping with Siegmund. She was attracted by his restrained acceptance of his strange fate.

The Valkyries donned their ankle-length kirtles, breastplates and boots. After plopping double-horned helmets on their heads, they grabbed their shields and spears and left to saddle the horses.

# # #

The Valkyries flew over the silver waters of the Rhine looking like a gaggle of bulls in drag. They landed on a hill. From there, they watched two groups of men milling about on a pair of hillocks separated by a small valley. Each group had about twenty-five warriors.

“Bloody Hel!” Olrun growled. “It’s nothing but a boundary dispute.”

“There’ll be no heroes to bring back to Valhalla,” Guth shook her head and spit on the ground. “Look at them. All third- and fourth-rate warriors.”

“Except for Siegmund,” Slogul said. “He’s in the middle of the bunch on the right.” She glanced at Brunnhilde and snickered.

Brunnhilde ignored Slogul to stare at Siegmund. He came from Wotan’s favorite family of mortals. Not that Wotan’s favor meant much since he usually ignored the mortals or gave them intolerable conditions to strive against. Siegmund was tall with powerful shoulders, blond hair and beard, ice-colored blue eyes and the perpetually scowl of someone who is always getting hassled. The scowl marred what otherwise would be handsome features.

“I say Siegmund will last for one stroke, as usual,” Hild said. “Any bettors?”

“I’ll bet with you,” Olrun replied. “I think today will be different. A cup of mead?”

“Done. Anyone else?”

“Ladies!” Brunnhilde’s voice had a edge to it. “We’re not here to gamble. We need to see if any slain warriors fought well enough to take to Valhalla. Keep your eyes on the battle and never mind the distractions.”

# # #

Siegmund stood in the Burgundian battle line awaiting the start of the scrum. He bounced on the balls of his feet. His blood pounded in his ears. His breath made vapor clouds in front of his face. His hand gripped and ungripped the hilt of the sword on his side. He could hardly contain his energies. He wanted the fight to begin. The other warriors knew him as Bran. He had enlisted under the false name because no war-chief would allow Siegmund the Unlucky to fight on his side, but this battle would be different. This time his sword would see him through the combat. He had purchased it from a hoary warrior who used it in a long, victorious career.

He and his mates stood opposite the Saxon warriors as both sides awaited the signal to start the brawl. The prize was a piece of swamp land on the far side of the opposite hill. Siegmund thought the land useless, but warriors had died for lesser prizes than swamps.

The enemy war-chief strode in front of his warriors and threw obscene gestures at his opponents. Siegmund knew the enemy was building up their nerve before the assault. Siegmund rolled his shoulders and flapped his right wrist.

His war-chief pushed to the front of the line. “Let’s slaughter these nithings. No mercy today. We’ll send the whole bunch to Hel and then have a meal.”

A roar broke out across the way and the enemy charged downhill. Siegmund’s side joined in the roar and launched themselves into a run.

Both groups reached the bottom at the same time and paused to throw spears, a hoary custom. They renewed the charge and smashed together. Siegmund lined up against a burly, familiar-looking Saxon. The man glared at him before his eyes widen and he actually smiled at Siegmund. Damn! The warrior recognized him from a previous battle.

Siegmund blocked a sword stroke with his shield and counter-stroked. His sword shattered. The Saxon giggled. He definitely had fought Siegmund before. Siegmund took a step backward. One of his mates lay with a spear in his chest and he grabbed the man’s sword. The grinning Saxon thrust at his neck. Siegmund deflected the stroke with his shield and swung his new weapon. It hit the Saxon shield and broke in two.

The Saxon laughed.

Siegmund threw the hilt and hit the Saxon in the nose; the laughter changed to a curse. Siegmund kicked his enemy in the groin. He grabbed a spear sticking in the ground and stabbed at the Saxon. The spear shaft splintered against the Saxon’s leather breastplate. Siegmund felled the warrior by swinging what was left of the spear shaft and clouting him in the side of the head. He felt and heard the man’s skull crack from the blow.

Another Saxon paced towards him. Siegmund gave the battlefield a quick glance. The hair on the back of his head stood on end. He was the only one left. All the other Burgundians were either dead or fleeing. Enemy warriors moved to surround him.

Siegmund threw the spear shaft at a warrior, spun on his heel and ran up the hill.

# # #

Brunnhilde looked over the refuse of the battle. Corpses lay in various attitudes of death while the victorious Saxons looted the dead Burgundians and collected spears.

“None of them earned a trip to Valhalla,” Guth said.

“Nothing here but wyrm meat,” Hild said. "We'll lose ground to the other Troops."

“Count the dead on each side,” Brunnhilde said. “Wotan will want to know the final score.”

"The only hero on this field was Siegmund.” Olrun rode between the bodies notching a tally stick.

Brunnhilde moved her horse around to examine a Burgundian and a Saxon. Sometimes an extraordinary thing happened before warriors died. They cried out the name of a woman as these two did. They didn't call on their mothers either. They called out the name of a specific woman. She examined each of the pair, but saw nothing out of the ordinary about either. Nevertheless, both called a woman during the agony of their death throes while the other dying warriors cursed their fate or the gods or the enemy. So what made these two overcome their fear of death to the point that they called out to wives or lovers? Did some mortals experience love to the extent that their love was more powerful than death? Could love transcend fatal wounds?

The gods had no such experience. They never felt an emotion such as love. All they had was lust and that apparently was a poor substitute.

Often, Brunnhilde accompanied the Valkyries so she could watch the warriors die, hoping to gather some insights that would let her understand this mortal emotion. If she gained that knowledge, perhaps some day she would be able to experience the emotion firsthand.

# # #

Alberich the Nibelung sat concealed at the base of a tree and watched the entrance to Fafner’s cave. Alberich’s gold horde including the ring and the helm were in that cave and he was determined to reclaim them someday. Until then, fury consumed him and ate at his guts. Thoughts of revenge filled his mind to the exclusion of everything else.

Fafner’s mortal body had died long ago. Fearful that someone would steal his gold if he left it untended, Fafner had refused to leave the cave to hunt for food and soon died of starvation. His greedy, miserable soul was trapped by his love of the gold horde and remained in the cave upon his death. Over time, the soul evolved into a ferocious dragon. Fafner now only left the cave to drag himself to the river bank to drink. On one of these occasions, Alberich hope to have enough courage to run into the cave and get back his ring. With the ring in his possession, getting the rest of the gold would be simple. And his revenge would be swift. So far, he hadn’t found the nerve to enter the cave.

From where he sat, Alberich could see bones piled near the entrance. They belonged to a few brave, or foolish, heroes who sought to win the gold horde. He would be quite happy if a hero showed up and killed Fafner. Getting the ring from a hero should be easy enough.

Alberich’s thoughts drifted to Loki. He only harassed the god occasionally these days. Although hassling Loki was fun, Alberich had more important things to do. Soon he would pay a visit to the earth goddess, Erda. He had a proposal for her, one that he hoped she would accept. If Erda did, then all he had to do was wait and he would gain the ultimate revenge on Loki. And Wotan for not making Loki give the gold back.

# # #

Siegmund zigzagged as he ran up the hill. His directional changes threw off the aim of the Saxons who hurled spears at his fleeing back. Terror and anger drove his body up the slope; terror of the pack of bloodthirsty Saxons chasing him; anger that his new sword had broken like a piece of rubbish.

He reached the crest and picked up speed on the downhill side. To his right, several Burgundian warriors including his war-chief, hiked away from the Saxons. The war-chief saw him and called out. “Bran! You’re really Siegmund the Unlucky, aren’t you?”

A Burgundian warrior threw a spear at him but missed by a wide margin.

“You bastard! I’ll kill you.” The war-chief shook his fist at Siegmund.

Siegmund knew he should stop and kill the man because the comment disparaged his honor, but his only weapon was an eating knife. It would probably break if he tried to stab the man.

“After him,” the chief yelled. "He made us lose the battle."

The war-chief gave chase and Siegmund increased his speed. He was the fastest runner in the Rhine basin. His speed was the only reason he had survived nineteen battles. He was on the losing side all nineteen times, and his sword broke on his first thrust each time. He had also joined in twelve cattle raids. Everyone of them a failure. He was the only survivor in seven of them. His honor remained intact because in every battle and cattle raid, he had always killed an enemy or two even without a reliable weapon. He was convinced that the gods hated him. The gods wanted him dead on a battlefield. He wished he knew why.

A great sadness enveloped Siegmund. Just once, he wanted to fight with a sword that didn’t break. Then he could participate in the camaraderie that infected warriors who won a battle. Just once, he wanted to loot the slain enemy warriors. Just once, he wanted to honor his dead comrades by igniting a funeral pyre.

His sadness gave way to loneliness. That emotion made him think of the only friend he ever had, a little girl who used to play with him. Until his fifth birthday. On that day, his uncle had taken him from his parents to raise as a warrior. He never saw the girl again and he didn’t know if she was a relative or the daughter of a thrall. When he received word that his parents had died, he neglected to ask the uncle about the girl. Now, his uncle was also dead and he had no way of finding out about his childhood friend. He was alone in the world; shunned by other warriors; unloved by a woman; cursed by the gods.

# # #

A week later, an exhausted Siegmund huddled at the edge of the forest watching a house. The size of it and the several outbuildings indicated a rich holding. Did he dare seek shelter?

He was soaked and chilled from the freezing rain that had fallen all day. If he didn’t knock and ask for guest-right, he had only an hour of daylight to find an alternate shelter. If he didn’t find one, he would freeze during the night. He had no choice. He had to approach the house and hope it didn’t belong to one of the many families who had sworn to kill him because they blamed his bad luck for the death of their relatives in battle. He needed shelter. If it cost him his life, so be it. He walked through the clearing and rapped on the door. A tall, lithe woman opened it. She stared at him. Siegmund fought off a bout of dizziness. Looking at the woman was like looking in a mirror after he shaved his beard.

“C . . . come in,” she said. “Stand by the fire and warm up.”

Siegmund, a lump in his throat, nodded and walked passed her. He left a wake of rain water that produced a trail of mud in the dirt floor.

“My name is Sieglunde.” The woman had light brown hair, blue eyes and a beautiful face. “And you are?”

“Bran.”

“You travel when winter is about to set in? You are very brave. And you travel alone.”

Siegmund cleared his throat to give himself a moment to think. Outside, he had been too cold to realize he would be questioned. “I am fulfilling a pledge to Wotan. I promised to walk to the sea.”

“Then you shall have guest-rights for the night.” Sieglunde nodded and air-traced the rune of Wotan, a good luck charm. “You can use the bed in that room.” She pointed to a door in the rear of the house.

Siegmund exhaled, surprised to discover that he had held his breath after mumbling the last lie. Perhaps, his luck was changing.

The door banged opened and a large, grim man entered. He glared at Siegmund. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” He placed a spear in the corner of the room. He had a sword on his hip. Rain water ran off his cape made from pelts.

“This is my husband, Hunding.”

“My name is Bran and I’m a traveler seeking shelter from the storm.” Siegmund didn’t like Hunding. The man looked like trouble.

“I’ve granted him guest-rights, husband.” Sieglunde bit her lower lip.

“Without my permission?” Hunding scowled at her. “You’ll pay for that blunder, woman.” He examined Siegmund. “Bran, you say? I don’t know anyone named Bran, but I’ve seen you before.”

Hunding looked familiar to Siegmund also.

Hunding continued to glare at him. Suddenly the man’s hand dropped to his sword. “You’re Siegmund. My brother is dead because of you. We fought in the same battle line as you did and he paid for your presence.” His sword hissed out of the scabbard.

“Husband!” Sieglunde threw herself between the two men. “Bran has guest-rights. If you violate his protection, Wotan will destroy you.”

Hunding blinked at his wife. “You are right. He can stay the night. But in the morning, we will fight and I’ll avenge my brother’s death.”

# # #

Brunnhilde approached Wotan’s castle as ordered. She hadn’t been told why All-father wanted to see her, and her anxiety level was high. Wotan often unjustly punished one of gods.

Before her, a drawbridge over a moat gave access to the high-walled round castle. Fell creatures swam lethargically in the moat. Usually, they cast hungry eyes on her. Despite their lack of interest, Brunnhilde sketched a rune of warding as she crossed the bridge.

She entered the great hall, a vast room with a long fire pit stretching up the middle. The pit burned magically, never going out and never needing fuel, Loki’s handiwork. The colder the weather became, the more heat the pit pumped out. Trestle tables lined both sides of the pit. The walls of the room were covered with hangings. One depicted Yggdrasil -- the World Tree -- a giant ash tree that linked all nine worlds. Opposite that hanging, another showed the Well of Wisdom guarded by Mimir the Giant. Rushes covered the floor, and, every night, after the feasting, the rushes magically restored themselves.

The shabby state of the hall shocked her. Two of the tables were broken and the wall hangings had large mold spots. Wotan's castle was falling apart without the Rhinegold.

Wotan sat on his throne on a dais beyond the fire pit. Fricka, his wife, sat nearby at a table. She had a beautiful face with golden hair and eyes the color of spring grass. But she was cold, her face always frozen into a semi-grimace. She delighted in opposing Wotan's plans. The god looked older than the last time she saw him. His eye was sunken and had a dark circle under it. He gestured with Grungir, his spear, for her to come closer.

Every step she took produced a thump from an unseen drum. Brunnhilde suppressed an urge to hold her hands over her ears. Wotan’s drums drove everyone crazy.

After a dozen steps, Fricka said, “Wotan!”

“Yes, my love?”

“Enough with the damn drums.”

“Certainly.”

Brunnhilde walked in silence and stopped at the dais. Wotan drew a rune of welcome and the enchantment lessened her tension. Fricka looked up from her sewing. She stitched hideous designs into silk cloths that she gave as gifts. Her scarves even had the rune of ugliness stitched into them and she loved to watch the recipients try to hide their dismay at the repulsive scarf while they fought an urge to vomit.

“Daughter, tomorrow morning, you will attend a mortal combat and ensure that Siegmund, called the Unlucky, wins the duel.”

“May I know the reason for your intervention?” Brunnhilde asked. Wotan’s concern for Siegmund was unexpected.

“After tomorrow, Siegmund will become the hero who will win back the Rhinegold. I don't want him accidentally killed.

Fricka’s snort caught them both by surprise. Wotan looked over at her.

“How dare you interfere in a mortal marriage and leave Sieglunde a widow,” she said. “You will not have the husband killed.”

“But Buttercup.” Wotan looked like he had been hit in the head with Thor’s hammer. “We need the Rhinegold lest we grow old and die.”

“You always tell me you’re a great god. So, figure out a way to prevent our aging without destroying this marriage.”

Wotan had a quizzical expression as if he weighed the ravages of old age in the future against the ravages of Fricka’s anger in the present.

Brunnhilde felt more than a twinge of anger at Fricka’s interference. Siegmund deserved a little luck and happiness and Wotan wanted to give it to him. Fricka, however, was determined to overrule her husband.

“I don’t understand, wife. Why do you concern yourself with this affair?”

“If you see fit to murder the poor woman’s husband and end her marriage, then someday you may see fit to end our marriage.” Fricka stared at her husband as if daring him to defy her. “I’m merely protecting the rights of women, both mortals and goddesses.”

“I would never do something like that, Sweeting.”

Fricka gave him a rare smile. “Not as long as my back isn’t turned.”

Wotan turned to Brunnhilde. “See that Siegmund dies.”

# # #

Siegmund sat at the table with Sieglunde and Hunding while the three ate the evening meal. The hostile atmosphere prevented anyone from talking. Hunding glared at him the entire time. After the meal, Hunding retired to his bedroom while Sieglunde puttered around the kitchen before following her husband.

Siegmund sat at the table with the remains of the meal and foresaw his doom in the morning. Despite the heat from the roaring fire, he felt chilled. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms but it did no good. Hunding was a battle wise warrior armed with sword and spear while he had only his eating knife. This was his last night in Midgard. Should he sleep to rest for the fights? He didn't think it would matter whether he was rested or not.

Time passed while he stared into the flames. Sieglunde opened the door to the bedroom and came to the table. Her shoulder-length hair had been undone and she wore a robe over her night garment. She gave him a weak smile and sat down. “I gave Hunding a sleeping draught. He won’t wake before dawn. What are you going to do? Do you even have a weapon? Without one, you won’t be able to kill my husband.”

Siegmund started. “You sound as if you hope for his death.”

“I suppose he is a good husband. But I don’t love him. I don’t even like him. He’s cruel, greedy and he beats me. He curses me because I haven't given him sons. This isn’t a life I would choose for myself if I had been given a choice.”

“If I had a sword, I would kill any man who would dare to harm you.” Siegmund shook his head. “Alas, I don’t think I can help you or change your life tomorrow.”

Sieglunde smiled at him. “Listen to what happened on my wedding day. At the feast, an old man showed up, uninvited. He had only one eye and carried a wrapped bundle under his arm. Everyone thought it was a wedding gift, and when he unwrapped it, he displayed a beautiful sword. He held it over his head and proclaimed, ‘Behold the sword Nothung!’

“Hunding believed the sword was a gift to him and he held out his had for it. The old man laughed at Hunding and thrust it into a tree. ‘The sword belongs to the warrior who can pull it free.’ The old man left as Hunding strode up to the tree, but he couldn’t pull out the sword. Neither could any of the other warriors at the feast. Hunding was so angry over the sword that he beat me on our wedding night.”

“If I had such a sword, I would free you from your nithing husband.”

“Come.” Sieglunde stood and held out her hand.

Holding hands, she led him out of the house. The rain had stopped and a bright moon lit the frosted ground. They walked to a large ash tree. The sword, despite being exposed to the elements showed no sign of rust. Siegmund stared in awe at the bejeweled hilt and the gleaming edges of the weapon. He grasped the hilt and runes flashed all along the blade. The runes burst into flame and burned the wood of the tree. The sword slid out of the tree with a slight hiss as the flames went out.

“Let’s see if the sword is a good as it looks.” Siegmund went to a boulder and smashed the sword against it. The boulder split in two. He looked at her and grinned. “Tomorrow, you will be a widow.”

Sieglunde took his hand again. “Let us return to the house.”

Inside, she led him to the guest room and removed her robe. Siegmund, gasping for breath at the change in his fortunes in the last few minutes, embraced her.

They fell onto the bed and made love until the horizon showed streaks of light.

Sieglunde stroked his bearded cheek. “Who are you? You said your name was Bran, but Hunding called you Siegmund.”

“My name is Siegmund.” For the first time in his life, he was truly happy. Until now, the best he ever felt was un-depressed. “I’m from Hreithmar’s clan. My father’s name was Walse and I am his only son.”

Sieglunde sat up in bed, her mouth open and her breasts swaying from the sudden movement.

Siegmund ignored her expression of amazement and stared at her breasts.

“My father’s name was Walse.” She pounded his chest with her fists. “You are my twin brother.”

Siegmund’s heart stopped beating for a second. The girl he remembered from his youth was Sieglunde! He looked at her beautiful face. “I love you, no matter who you are.”

“And I love you.”

“In a few hours, I will kill Hunding and claim you for my bride.” He grinned at her. “Soon, Siegmund the Unlucky will become Siegmund the Plucky.”

# # #

Siegmund held his breath and thrust Nothung at Hunding to open the duel. The swords clanged together, and when his remained in one piece, he exhaled in relief. At last, a sword that didn’t break. At last, he would be able to stand in the shield wall. At last, he could help his side win battles. Provided he survived this duel.

After a few exchanges, Siegmund realized he had a big problem. Hunding was a good swordsman and he, Siegmund, was not. After all, he never had a sword that lasted more than one stroke. Even as a child, his wooden practice swords had broken. As a consequence, he fought with shields, rocks, fists: everything and anything except a weapon.

Hunding lunged. The sword slipped under Siegmund’s arm and scored his rib cage. His inexperience was about to get him killed.

Sieglunde, watching from the doorway, sobbed hysterically.

Brunnhilde was torn between her admiration for Siegmund and her duty to Wotan. She found it so sad that Siegmund had to die on the morning after he finally found love. Siegmund, even without her interference, was losing the battle. Already, Siegmund bled from a number of wounds. While none of them were fatal, their cumulative effect was. Soon, Siegmund would collapse from the loss of blood.

It wasn’t fair. Wotan wanted Siegmund to win and so did she. It was all the fault of that bitch, Fricka. Wotan wanted the Rhinegold to defend the existence of Asgard and Siegmund was the key to obtaining it. Fricka be damned, she would help her father and Siegmund. She was tired of growing old.

She guided Nothung and Hunding grunted from the shoulder wound it inflicted. Another thrust by Siegmund and blood flowed from the side of Hunding’s neck. Brunnhilde could tell Siegmund was gaining confidence and she let him strike a few blows without her assistance. Hunding suffered more wounds and blood ran down his legs and pooled on the ground as he stood still and gasped for air.

Brunnhilde felt a glow of elation. With her help, two mortals would experience genuine love and live the rest of their lives basking in it. It was her misfortune that she was incapable of experience love, but she could visit them to observe it.

She started and cried aloud at the sound of the drum. Wotan strode out of the forest, his spear in his hand. Brunnhilde saw the anger in the god’s body language and she foresaw her demise. She cowered from the one-eyed grimace he gave her.

Siegmund readied his sword for another stroke. Before he could launch the blow, the drum reached a crescendo as Wotan hit Nothung with his spear. The sword shattered.

Siegmund stared at the broken hilt in his hand and never saw the stroke from Hunding that pierced his chest.

Sieglunde screamed.

Hunding stood over Siegmund and shouted a war cry.

Wotan hit him in the head with the spear shaft and Hunding toppled to the ground.

Siegmund coughed blood and held out a hand. “Sieg . . .lunde.” His hand flopped to the ground.

Sieglunde swooned.

Brunnhilde gasped. Siegmund had died with the name of his beloved on his lips.

The drum fell silent. Wotan pointed his spear at Siegmund. “Take him to Valhalla. When you return, I’ll speak your doom.”

# # #

Brunnhilde opened the door to the Second Troop’s hut. “Ladies, I need a favor.”

“Oh, what’s the matter?” Guth asked.

“This is Sieglunde, a mortal.” Brunnhilde pulled Sieglunde into the room by grabbing her elbow.

The four Valkyries gasped as one.

“I charge you to take care of her until she gives birth.”

“I’m pregnant?” Sieglunde was pale and had red-rimmed eyes.

“Yes, you are. By Siegmund, and you will have a son. Without protection, some mortal warrior will either kill you or claim you as his concubine and he may kill your newborn babe. You must be protected so your son can be born because he will be a great hero.”

“But, we can’t keep her here in Asgard,” Olrun said.

“I know. Find a place in Midgard to hide her. Take turns guarding her from other mortals and from beasts.”

Brunnhilde held out a bundle wrapped in a blanket to Slogul. “These are the pieces of Siegmund’s sword. Someday it will be forged anew for Sieglunde’s son. Guard them as you guard her.”

“What about you?” Slogul said. “Aren't you going to help us?”

Brunnhilde shook her head. “I must see the All-father who will pronounce my fate. I’m afraid I am no longer your war chief. Protect Sieglunde as a boon to my memory.”

She left the hut and walked to Wotan’s castle. Instead of fear, anger gripped her soul. She would face her punishment without shame. She had tried to help Wotan recover the ring that he so desperately wanted.

Upon entering the great hall, she saw that Wotan sat alone on his throne, his face etched with sorrow.

Brunnhilde sighed with relief that Fricka wasn’t present. The goddess would have demanded the harshest punishment, not for disobeying Wotan, but for daring to go against her wishes.

Wotan slammed the butt of his spear against the floor three times, a signal that judgment was nigh. “Daughter, you disobeyed my order. This is a source of grief to me because now I must punish you so that the other gods understand they cannot gainsay my commands.”

“It is true I didn’t obey you, Father. Nevertheless, I did what you really wanted me to do. I tried to ensure that Siegmund lived. Only Fricka among us desired him to die. I disobeyed your command so that I could do what you yearned for me to do."

Wotan stared at her with his one unblinking eye. After a few seconds, he broke his gaze and cleared his throat. “For disobeying me, I must punish you. For trying to follow my wishes, I will mitigate your punishment. I will not destroy you, but you are exiled to Midgard, the scene of you offense.”

Confusion filled Brunnhilde’s mind. Exile to Midgard meant she would no longer be immortal. She would live a mortal life-span and then die. It also meant she was free to experience the scope of mortal emotions including love. Perhaps, she could come to understand this greatest of all emotions.

“You will lie in sleep atop a mountain until a mortal man finds you.”

Brunnhilde grimaced. She was to be loot for whatever strong-armed thug came upon her. She would never discover love that way. “I ask a boon, All-father.”

Wotan scowled.

“I wish to be surrounded by a wall of fire that only the bravest hero can pierce.” She had a feeling that the hero would be Sieglunde’s son. That thought made her loins go mushy.

Wotan nodded.

# # #

Brunnhilde puttered around her new home, a flat mountain top, rearranging rocks and boulders to make the area more comfortable. Her nerves were taut. She was about to fall into a deep sleep and when she awoke, death would stalk her. In compensation, she could search out love and enjoy it. Deep in her heart, she thought it was a good bargain.

As far as her eye could see, green-clad mountains protruded to the sky. She wondered if Wotan had deliberately chosen an out-of-the-way spot where no one would ever find her.

Loki crested the hill, puffing. “Nice view,” he said. “Tell me why you want a wall of fire.” He stopped a foot away from her. His red hair and mustache were streaked with silver.

“I’m going to sleep here a long time and I don’t like wyrms and insects.” Brunnhilde backed up a step. “The wall of fire will keep them away from me.”

“If I start this fire, what’s in it for me? What do I get?”

“Wotan ordered you to do this. Disobey him at your peril.”

“I know that.” Loki made a face and waved a hand. “I meant what do I get from you? What are you going to give me after I build your fire wall?”

“Why, I’ll give you what I’ve always given you.” She grasped the hilt of her sword. “My contempt.”

“Bah! There is no reason why we can’t be friends. Once you awake from this sleep you’ll need powerful friends. Friends like Loki.”

“Build the wall and leave.” Brunnhilde faked a yawn. “I’m getting sleepy.”

PART THREE: SIEGFRIED

Siggy smacked his hand against the trunk of an oak tree. He was sick of playing tag with rabbits and wrestling with bears. Those games were for children. He was sixteen and he wanted to get on with his destiny. He longed for adventure, for fame, for riches. It was time to leave the forest and become a great hero. But first, he needed a sword.

Mime had forged him many swords but they all splintered with the first blow. It was as if he was cursed. How could he be become a hero when his weapon snapped apart if he so much as touched a tree trunk with the blade? His frustration had been building over the last few months and now he felt like a dam about to burst from the pent-up flood waters.

He also needed a family name. Siegfried, son of Mime the Nibelung couldn't be the name of a hero. People would laugh at him. Heroes had to be taken seriously or they weren’t real heroes.

Mime had never claimed to be Siggy’s father and the two looked nothing alike. Mime only came up to Siggy’s hip and could hide behind one of his thighs. Mime was dark-skinned with brown eyes while Siggy was pink and green-eyed. Today, Siggy would learn the truth about his family or Mime would die.

He ran through the forest towards the cave where the two of them lived. At the entrance, he crouched down to scramble into the cave. Inside, it opened up into an enormous room. Siggy could barely see the rock ceiling.

Mime, heavily bearded and wearing a leather skirt, stood at a forge and beat a hammer against heated metal. Sweat rivulets left tracks on the soot-covered skin of his short frame. He had a deep chest and thick arms. The Nibelung dropped the hammer and raised a red-hot sword at Siggy’s entrance. “I made a new one for you.”

“Will it break?” Siggy forgot his anger and heritage as the excitement of wielding a sword took over his emotions. He seized the sword’s hilt, ignoring the heat that emanated from the weapon. He swung it around his head and made a few practice thrusts. “It has good balance.”

Mime nodded and smiled.

Siggy slashed down at a clay bowl. The sword splintered into shards while the bowl remained intact. One of the metal pieces flew up and gouged his forehead. Siggy turned on Mime. The blood tricking down his face matched the color of his mood.

Mime squeaked in fear.

Siggy grabbed Mime’s throat in one huge hand and lifted him off the ground. “Nithing. You’re useless as a sword maker.” He squeezed Mime’s throat.

The Nibelung squeaked again, this time in pain.

“You’re not my father. Tell me who is or this is the last breath you’ll take in this world.”

“Can’t . . . talk.” Mime tugged at Siggy’s hand.

Siggy loosened his grip.

“Put me down and I’ll tell you everything. I waited until you were old enough to understand.”

Siggy dropped the dwarf who massaged his throat.

“Your father,” Mime began in a hoarse voice, “was named Siegmund. He was a great, but not very lucky warrior. Your mother’s name was Sieglunde.”

“You speak as if they are both dead.”

“They are. Your father died in a duel. Your mother died in childbirth not far away from here. I happened to come across her before she died. It was my bad fortune to hear her death wish. One always has to obey a death wish and hers was that I raise you. She named you Siegfried after your father. You are descended from a chief named Hreithmar and you're the last of the Walsungs, a great family of warriors.”

Siggy sat on a rock to absorb the news. He was an orphan. He came from warrior stock. He now knew what he had only guessed at before; he was destined to be a great hero. How could be a hero if he didn’t have a sword?

Mime rummaged in a chest of his belongings and took out a bundle wrapped in a blanket. “Your mother gave me this to keep for you.”

“What is it?”

“The pieces of your father’s sword. It was shattered by Wotan as your father fought a battle.”

Siggy stared openmouthed at Mime. “Wotan broke my father’s sword? Why?”

“I know not the reason. Your mother said the sword is called Nothung.”

“Foolish Nibelung!” Siggy felt his anger rising. “Why do you waste your time making feeble swords when you could have remade my father’s? I think you are too stupid to live.” He stood and advanced towards Mime.

“I can’t remake this sword.” Mime skipped backward a few steps.

“Why can’t you?”

“Nothung can only be made anew by one who knows no fear.”

Siggy thought about that for a few moments. “What do you fear?”

“I fear you. I know you’ll kill me someday. A fine way to repay me for saving you from getting eaten by wolves when you were a defenseless babe.”

“I’m afraid of nothing. I’ll forge the sword.”

“It won’t be easy.”

# # #

Through murderous eyes, Mime watched the hated teenager inspect the shards of the broken blade. Siggy looked like a hero with his square jaw, his wide shoulders, his shoulder-length blond hair and his rugged features, but he had no chance of becoming a hero. He wouldn’t live that long.

Mime's blood boiled from animosity. For sixteen years he had put up with Siggy’s arrogance and impudence. Soon, it would be payback time. Soon his patience would be repaid. When Sieglunde had predicted that her son would be a great hero, Mime conceived a plan to recover the Ring and rule the Rhine; he would raise Sieglunde’s brat. He would get Siggy to kill the dragon, Fafner. Siggy would naturally seize the Ring and the Tarnhelm but it wouldn’t be hard to take them away from the brainless teenager. With the Ring and the helm in his possession, it would be Mime’s turn to wield power. And to get revenge on those who had wronged him.

Mime went into the forest and cut down an ash tree while Siggy built up the fire. The labor burned off his rage. He carried the logs into the cave and carved the rune of unity on them to help forge the pieces together. The logs burned with a reddish light that made the cave look like the inside of an inferno.

With the pieces welded together, Mime inscribed more logs with the rune of power to strengthen the metal. These logs burned green so that the cave resembled a forest glen.

When Siggy began shaping the cutting edges of Nothung, Mime inscribed the rune of constancy on more logs to ensure the edges would never dull. Brilliant white light flooded the cave from the logs. Bats and other creatures of darkness scurried into the deeper recesses of the cave.

By the time Siggy finished with the blade, burn scars covered his torso and arms. He grabbed the hilt and swung the blade over his head. “I can feel the power surging through my shoulders,” he said. “With a sword like this, I will become the greatest hero in the world.”

Mime felt bile rise in his throat while Siggy pranced around the cave.

“Watch this.” Siggy swung the sword down on the anvil. As if made of soft cheese, the iron anvil offered no resistance to the blade. The two halves of metal clanged to the ground. “At last! A sword that is worthy of me.” The blade whistled through the air as Siggy swung it around some more. “Now I can go on an adventure.”

“You don’t have to go far for your first adventure.” Mime smiled at Siggy. “You can earn great honor by killing a dragon.”

“Fafner?”

“You know of Fafner?” Mime’s hairy eyebrows lifted into an arch.

“Of course. I’ve seen its cave many times. Sometimes, your brother Alberich watches there.”

Mime hated Alberich more than Siggy. Ever since he lost the Ring, Alberich had ignored Mime as he didn't exist. All Alberich thought about was getting the Ring back. Well, Mime intended to get it first. With the Ring in his possession, he planned to kill his brother right after he killed Siggy.

“I think I will start with Fafner,” Siggy said. “A dragon will make a worthy opponent. Nothung’s first drink will be wyrm blood.” He yawned. “I have to get some sleep.” He walked over to his pallet, picked up the ragged stuffed bear Mime had made him when he was two and laid down.

Mime hugged himself. After all these years of wiping Siggy’s backside and putting up with his tantrums, power was within his grasp along with freedom from this mortal brute.

# # #

Alberich, heart pounding, crawled through the narrow cave tunnel dragging a heavy sack. Nibelungs didn’t usually drop in to visit the earth goddess. They only came in response to her summons, but his desire to gain revenge on Loki overcame Alberich’s fear of Erda. There was a risk that she would destroy him for entering her domain unbidden, but if she granted his request, his revenge would be too delicious to imagine.

Finally, the tunnel ended and he could stand. From the descriptions of other visitors, he knew he was now in a large space that Erda used as her throne room. Even in the complete darkness, Alberich sensed the pool of water to his front.

He fell to his knees, bowed and intoned, “Oh great goddess, mother and protector of earth, hear my plea.” He waited for a time and repeated the entreaty. After a third time, he heard a stir in the water as it lapped against its rocky shore. A pale light grew, like the moon rising above the horizon in the middle of the night. Alberich gasped. The light’s intensity grew. He could now see the details of the cavern. The roof seemed as high as the sky. The lake filled the cavern except for a narrow path-like space around the walls.

In the middle of the lake, a figure rose from the water. The earth goddess sat on a throne mounted. The light was now brilliant and Alberich couldn’t see where it originated. It simply existed. Erda had hair the color of new grass and eyes the color of the sky. She wore a gown sown together with a single leaf from every tree and bush on earth.

She looked at him with a faint smile on her lips. “ A guest! How unusual. And a Nibelung! I grant you this interview because you pique my curiosity. Arise and speak.”

“Thank you, great goddess.” Alberich stood. His anxiety had disappeared and was now replaced by optimism. “I came to request a boon.”

“I am not in the habit of granting boons to anyone who wanders in here.”

Alberich took a deep breath. It was time to make his proposal. She might strike him dead for his impertinence in the next few seconds. “If you grant my request, I will honor you on this day every year hence by bring fifty pounds of virgin gold. I will dump the gold in the lake so that neither Nibelung nor mortal will ever see it again. It will be yours.” He kicked the sack. “This is the first offering, and it is yours whether you grant my boon or not.” He lugged the sack to the edge of the lake, opened it and dumped the nuggets into the water.

“Clever Nibelung.” Erda chuckled. “Let’s hear your request.”

Alberich told her of his plan.

“Actually, I wondered how I could solve this conundrum although it won’t become a crisis for many years. I grant your petition. Don’t be late with the gold.”

The throne sank into the water.

Alberich grinned.

# # #

When Siggy left the cave to confront Fafner, he found the forest shrouded in an early morning fog. Besides his sword, he carried a backpack with his only possession, his teddy bear. Mime followed carrying a sack of supplies. The fog grew denser the closer he came to the Rhine. It became so thick that Siggy didn’t know he had reached the river until his feet splashed in the water. He waded around and found the raft he kept tied to a tree. Mime stepped onto the raft. Siggy untied it and poled away from the bank.

On the far side, they thrashed around blindly until Siggy came to the path used by Fafner to come to the Rhine to drink. The path stank from dragon spoor and nothing grew on either side of it.

“Here, I will kill the dragon,” Siggy said. “I will block its way.”

“Fool! Fafner will eat you and pick his teeth with your sword.” Mime dropped his sack of supplies. “Listen to me. You must use guile on a dragon. In the middle of the path, dig a pit with your sword. You get in it and I’ll cover you up with branches and dirt.”

“Good plan, Mime. When Fafner crawls over me, I’ll gut him with Nothung.”

“You’re stupidity equals your bravery.” Mime groaned and smacked his forehead. “Dragon blood is boiling hot. If you gut Fafner, his blood will make a soup out of you”

Siggy bit his lower lip.

“Use these.” Mime pulled two eagle feathers out of his sack.

“Are you trying to get me killed?”

“Dragons are very ticklish on their stomachs. Once you start tickling, Fafner won’t be able to walk any further and the more you tickle, the weaker he’ll become. Eventually, the dragon will pass out. If you don’t pass out first from the stench.”

Siggy nodded, then set to work. He scratched and clawed out a pit. When it was the proper size, he lay down in it, the sword by his side and a feather in each hand. Mime covered him with branches. By now the fog had lessened and dim sunlight illuminated the forest.

While he waited, Siggy listened to the sounds of a forest bird close by. The more he listened, the more he became convinced the bird tried to tell him something important. He imitated the bird call.

“Quiet, you idiot.” Mime whispered from his concealed blind. “I hear Fafner stirring.”

A thrill of anticipation shot through Siggy’s body. Presently, the ground beneath his spine reverberated from the footfalls of Fafner. A foul odor grew stronger as the reverberations increased in strength. Fafner’s head passed over him, only a foot away. Siggy fought the urge to gag from the fetid breath.

He pushed a branch aside and reached up with the feathers. When the feathers touched his belly, Fafner stopped moving forward. Siggy heard a sigh then a harsh giggle. Fafner’s stomach heaved up and down, spasmodically. The giggling changed to guffaws. Siggy’s scalp crawled as Fafner’s left rear leg twitched in rapid motion. Its claws dug a deep furrow only inches from his leg. If Fafner moved to his right, Siggy’s leg would be laid open from hip to ankle.

Fafner remained in place, twitching, sighing and giggling. After a few minutes, Siggy started to have doubts about Mime’s strategy, but then he noticed the convulsing leg had slowed down. After a burp and a series of hiccups, the dragon’s body stiffened and fell over.

Siggy climbed out of the pit. Fafner lay on his right side, his eyes closed. Siggy raised Nothung over his head with both hands on the hilt. Before he could swing, Fafner’s eyes popped open. The dragon fixed Siggy with a red eye that radiated evil. Siggy hesitated, transfixed by the eyes. He felt sorry for the dragon. His heart filled with pity for the helpless creature. He tried to swallow but couldn't because of the lump in his throat.

The forest bird chirped from its branch. Siggy heard the bird and shook his head, breaking the spell. He set his feet and swung. The blade crunched through the armored skin and bones in the neck. Fafner’s head separated from the body.

Drops of hot dragon blood splattered the back of Siggy’s left hand. Without thinking, he put his hand to his mouth and sucked the burning skin. He gasped. A convulsion started at his scalp and sped down to his toes. When it ceased, the acuteness of his senses threatened to overload his brain. Beyond Mime’s hiding place, he saw an insect struggling in a spider web. Somewhere behind, he heard a caterpillar crunching on a leaf. Beneath his feet, he felt an earthworm tunneling through the ground.

And he could understand the forest bird! His gaze turned to the branch where the red and black bird sang. “Fafner is dead. A deed that will live forever. But you won’t live long if you drink the brew the small one hands you.”

Siggy looked down at Mime who held a cup in his hand.

“A draught to cool you.” Mime handed the cup to Siggy.

Siggy took the cup in his left hand and raised it to his nose. His keenness of smell detected hemlock. “So, you plan to watch me die in agony from your poisoned drink?”

“Nonsense.” Mime’s eyes avoided Siggy’s face.

Siggy swung his sword and Mime’s head flew into the underbrush. The Nibelung’s torso crashed to the ground. Cutting off Mime’s head filled Siggy with elation. Chopping heads was fun!

“Well done. My advice to you is to take only the Ring and the Tarnhelm from Fafner’s treasure. The rest of the horde is imbued with Fafner’s evil spirit.”

“What’s a Tarnhelm?”

“A helm that allows you to change your appearance.”

“You’ve given me good advice before, so I’ll do what you say.” Siggy ran up the hill to the cave. He entered the cave despite the dragon smell. Holding his breath as much as he could, he searched and found the ring and helm. The helm went into his knapsack, the Ring on his thumb.

Outside the cave, the forest bird chirped to get his attention. “North of here is a mountain top surrounded by a wall of fire. Inside the wall, lies a sleeping maiden who can only be wakened by a hero who will brave the fire and kiss her lips.”

“A maiden? A female mortal?”

“Yes. I’ll lead you to her.”

Siggy’s excitement was boundless. He had never seen a female. He wondered if they were different from men and, if so, how. So far, his sexual education had been restricted to a single lecture by Mime after he caught Siggy playing with himself. According to Mime, babies were brought by a stork and self-abuse led to blindness. Siggy didn’t understand any of it.

“Hey,” he called after the bird. “What’s a kiss?”

# # #

Three days later, Siggy reached the crest of the mountain and faced a wall of fire. The flames towered over his head. He approached the wall, but the intense heat stopped him from getting within five feet of it. Charging a wall of flame didn’t seem like the activity that a smart hero would take on. What if the entire area was solid flame? He would never reach the far side before he burned to death. He picked at a fingernail.

Maybe a smart hero would figure out a way to extinguish the flames. Maybe a really smart hero would find some other adventure to go on. Alas, he was here in front of the wall of fire and the forest bird assured him a maiden slept on the other side of the wall. So that meant the flames couldn’t be solid.

He scratched his head. Killing Fafner seemed easy compared to this problem. He looked around for the forest bird. It sat in a tree far away from the fires. “I don’t know about this,” Siggy said. “There must be other females around beside this one.”

“Heroes don’t quail at the first sign of danger.”

“The fire is hot. I could get killed.”

“If the feat was easy, the maiden would have been claimed long ago. Only a great hero such as yourself can find the courage to charge the wall and win the prize.”

“How thick is this fire wall?”

“Less than the span of one of my wings.”

“Charge the wall, you say?”

“Make sure you run fast.”

Siggy sighed. He was surprised to learn that heroes had to perform strange deeds, like charging through walls of fire. He thought they only fought battles and killed enemies. The bird, in another bizarre ritual, had insisted he take off all his clothes, jump into the Rhine and scour himself with sand. The bird made him do the same with his clothes. Being a hero obviously wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

He dropped his back pack so the stuffed bear wouldn’t get burned, shuffled his feet to get traction, took a deep breath and charged the wall. He plunged through the flames, emerged inside the wall and threw himself on the ground. He rolled around smothering the flames that licked at his clothes.

He stood up. In front of him, lay a figure in a breast plate and helmet. A spear and sword lay beside the figure. The figure looked like a regular warrior. A guy? He wondered if the bird got things mixed up. He knelt besides the figure and undid the breastplate straps. As he lifted it off, his hand brushed the figure’s chest. It was lumpy and soft. A strange sensation surged through his lower stomach.

The bird said to press his lips against hers. At first, he had dismissed the idea as stupid. How could they talk if their lips were together? The bird assured him that rubbing lips was called a kiss and most mortals liked to do it.

Siggy leaned over and kissed the figure. Another sensation cursed through his body. He pulled back and watched the sleeping face. He kissed her again. The figure’s nose twitched and the eyelids fluttered. Her eyes opened and she frowned as she examined him. A moment later, the frown changed to a smile. “My hero. You finally came.”

The figure’s voice was soft and had a lilt to it.

“Help me up. My name is Brunnhilde. Who are you?”

He grasped her hand and helped her stand. She was as tall as he was. She had a beautiful face and a full figure. He felt a stirring in his loins. His heart pounded and blood roared in his ears.

“Well? What’s your name?”

“Er, Siggy. I mean Siegfried.”

Brunnhilde looked him up and down. “I don’t mean to be offensive, but who’s your tailor? Your clothes look like they were made by a Nibelung living in dark cave.”

Siggy turned red. He looked down and noticed his bearskin breeches stopped at the ankles. The sleeves of his leather shirt ended inches above his wrists.

“Not that clothes matter. Let’s get out of here and get acquainted.”

“I . . . I saw a cave on the way up here.” The smile Brunnhilde gave him sent another much stronger sensation ripping through his body. “It looks dry and clean.” He pointed in the direction of the cave.

“Great.” She took his hand and pulled him in that direction.

# # #

As Brunnhilde walked down the mountain, twin emotions tugged at her heart. She was a mortal now that Siggy had kissed her and that meant she faced death, never a concern to an immortal. On the other hand, her mortality meant she could pursue the passion that caused men to think of their beloved as they died in battle. If she could discover that aspect of the mortals, she would be pleased. If she could experience it firsthand, she would be happy.

She stole a sidelong glance at Siggy. He certainly had the bearing of a hero, even if he smacked of the country bumpkin. Was this the beginning of her love for a man? She couldn’t be sure. Would Siggy fall in love with her to the extent that he died with her name on his lips? Did love develop instantly, or did it blossom over time? Too bad she didn’t think to discuss these matters with Sieglunde.

She resolved to study these issues and learn everything she could about love.

PART FOUR: BRUNNHILDE

Brunnhilde stood in the cave entrance and watched Siggy run down the hill towards his next adventure. Tears welled up in her eyes. She missed him already and he wasn’t even out of sight, but men didn’t become heroes by staying at home; it was his destiny to seek out exploits.

A tingling sensation interrupted her thoughts and she looked down at her right thumb. Siggy had given her the Ring to hold as a sign of his pledge to return. It filled her trepidation. With it, she had an urge to dominate people and control them. Fortunately, there was no one around the cave where she and Siggy had lived for over a month.

While she was grateful for his bravery in rescuing her, she wasn’t sure if she had found love. She now believed that mortals oftentimes confused love with lust, but those warriors who used their last breaths to call out to a woman weren’t confused. With Siggy gone, perhaps she could sort out her feelings and decide if she was in love. Siggy didn’t love her, she knew. He loved the idea that he had found her by storming the fire wall. Sometimes, he treated her as if she was loot. Even if her feelings were simply lust, they were exciting. Once she had shown Siggy what to do, he became an enthusiastic if clumsy lover.

She shook her head as she recalled his astonishing history. He didn’t know that his mother and father were twins, and she didn’t bother to tell him. Raised deep in the forest in a cave with a Nibelung as a foster-father guaranteed that Siggy would have a strange view of the world, such as liking trees more than people. No wonder he liked to chop off people's heads. No wonder he slept with his stuffed bear under one arm and his thumb in his mouth.

While Siggy was away, she planned to do some deep thinking on the meaning of being a mortal. And about love.

# # #

Siggy emerged from the forest and strode towards the town. Beyond it on a hill, a wooden palisade surrounded a large fortified building. He reached the gates of the palisade where a guard in red and brown livery blocked him with a spear. “On your way, low-life. You’ll get no handouts here.”

“I am Siegfried of the Walsungs.” Siggy was angered at the guard’s rudeness.

The guard’s face displayed surprise. “Our lord Gunther has heard of you and your exploits.” The man moved the spear out of the way.

In the doorway to the great hall, a richly dressed man stood watching him. He wore a blue cape, a crimson shirt and green breeches that stopped just below the knees. The rest of his legs were protected by high brown boots. Siggy had never seen so many colors in one place. He approached and introduced himself.

“Really? You’re Siegfried?”

Siggy fought an urge to remove the man’s head.

The man grasped Siggy’s hand in his. “I am Gunther, Lord of the Gibichung. You are welcome.” Gunther was in his late thirties, was a foot shorter than Siggy and only half as wide in the shoulders. “Come into my hall and meet my sister. We both want to hear about your deeds.” He had dark brown hair and eyes and a battle scar on his left cheek.

Siggy’s anger cooled now that Gunther showed some respect.

Gunther led him into a gloomy hall lit by wall-mounted torches and a fire pit. Gunther sat down on a dais and motioned Siggy to sit beside him. He clapped his hands. A moment later, a female thrall appeared. “Fetch wine and my sister,” he said.

Soon, a woman with a pretty face entered the hall carrying a wine pitcher and three goblets. “I thought to serve you myself, so we could speak without the thralls overhearing us.” She placed the tray on a table and looked at Gunther. Her hair and eyes matched Gunther's.

Gunther nodded to her. “My sister, Gutrune, is wise. May I present the great hero, Siegfried of the Walsungs.”

Gutrune placed her hand on her breast while she appraised him. She started with his hair and moved slowly down to his boots. Siggy squirmed under her inspection and wished he had replaced Mime's clothes.

“Siegfried!” she said. “We are fortunate indeed to have you grace our hall.” She wore so many garments that Siggy couldn’t tell if she was thin or stout, although the planes of her face hinted at thinness. She wore a loose silver gown that covered her from her shoulders to her feet, a green jacket and a flame-colored mantle. Between Gunther and Gutrune, the varied colors made Siggy dizzy.

Gutrune poured wine and handed a cup to the two men.

“The Valkyrie,” Gunther said. “What’s the name of the Valkyrie you rescued?”

“Brunnhilde.”

“Where is she

"In a cave near the site of her fire wall.”

“A worthy bed-mate, I’m sure.” Gunther chuckled.

Siggy shrugged. While most of the time, he didn’t think about her, he missed her at night when he rolled in his blanket to sleep on the ground. Then he yearned for her warmth and wanted her arms wrapped around him. Why was Gunther so interested in Brunnhilde? A pang of jealousy grew in his mind.

Gunther clapped his hands and said to a thrall, “Prepare a feast for our guest.”

# # #

To Brunnhilde’s surprise, a Valkyrie flew towards her cave. As the horse drew near, she recognized Slogul, from the Second Troop. The blond-haired Valkyrie drew up, dismounted and embraced Brunnhilde.

Brunnhilde broke the embrace and held Slogul at arms length. Brunnhilde was shocked to see crows feet around her eyes and loose skin on her neck. “Slogul! How good to see you. How are the girls doing? Who took my place as war chief?”

“Wotan promoted me to war chief and the girls are fine although we all miss you.”

“Let me guess,” Brunnhilde said. “He sent you?”

Slogul nodded. She looked sad.

“About this?” Brunnhilde held up her hand, to show the Ring on her thumb.

Slogul nodded again. “Wotan sent me to order you to give him the Ring.” She gave a forced smile to Brunnhilde.

Brunnhilde's anger rose at Wotan's imperious arrogance. “Since I’ve become a mortal, I realize that the vast gulf between mortals and the gods is all about time." She spoke through clenched teeth. "To the gods, time is irrelevant. To them, it is infinite and there is always enough time to do something. To mortals, time is finite and there is never enough of it. Besides, a mortal’s span can be cut short by a hungry bear, by a fever, by marauding warriors. To a mortal, nothing is more tenuous or precious than time. Now, Wotan faces a time limit and he fears it.”

“I know.” Slogul bit her lip. “We already feel the effects of age. Sometimes I can’t walk when I get out of bed in the morning. My knees hurt too much.” She sighed.

Brunnhilde's face hardened. “When Wotan exiled me to Midgard, he condemned me to die. Now I condemn him to die.” She folded her arms on her chest. “I am sorry for you, Slogul. And the other girls. It’s always like this. The leaders screw up and innocent people are the ones who get hurt.”

Slogul, with tears in her eyes, mounted her horse.

# # #

Gutrune consulted with Hagen, Gunther’s principal adviser while thralls prepared the feast. He gave her a vial containing an off-white powder. “This will do the trick,” the half-Nibelung said. He stood a head shorter than Gutrune and had dark brown eyes and hair.

“I didn’t see the Ring on his hand,” Gutrune whispered.

“He must have left it with the woman.” Hagen's clothes were various shades of brown.

“Not to worry.” Gunther approached the pair. “If the powder works as Hagen claims it will, I have a plan.” He grinned at Gutrune. “Once the drug takes effect, I’ll bind Siggy to our court. Time for you to get married, little sister. After that, getting the Ring will be easy.”

Gutrune felt her face turn red. Siggy was certainly handsome, but he was so boorish. Well, she couldn’t expect to have everything in a husband. She would just have to train him. “Bring me wine to serve a toast,” she ordered a thrall.

The servant returned with four goblets of wine on a tray, and Gutrune poured the powder into one. She walked to the main table where Siggy sat and handed him the powdered goblet. Gunther and Hagen each took a goblet. “A toast.” Gutrune raised her goblet. “To Siegfried’s accomplishments.”

Siggy drank the wine in a single gulp and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

Gutrune made an involuntary shudder at Siggy’s manners. She watched his face to see the effects of the powder. Soon, Siggy’s irises shrank and his suntanned face turned pale. He grasped the edge of the table as beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. After a few seconds, his color returned and life came back into his eyes.

Gutrune nodded to her brother.

“Tell me what Brunnhilde looks like.” Gunther fingered the scar on his left cheek.

Siggy screwed his face into a frown and wiped sweat away from his forehead with his sleeve. “Who?”

Hagen chuckled.

“Brunnhilde,” Gunther said. “Didn’t you say you knew her?”

“Never heard of anyone named Brunnhilde.” Siggy held out his goblet to be filled by a thrall.

Gutrune ordered a servant to fetch her basket. When it came, she took out knitting needles and set to work.

“What are you making?” Siggy asked her.

“Pot holders.” Gutrune held up her work for Siggy to see.

“My sister makes the best pot holders in the Rhine area.” Gunther slammed his goblet on the table for emphasis. “Whoever marries her will never want for a pot holder.”

Gutrune smiled at her brother’s compliment.

“I have a quest for you,” Gunther said. “If you are interested.”

“A quest? Tell me more.”

“There is a beautiful woman I want to marry but I’m too busy to go to her. You have the Tarnhelm. You can use it to disguise yourself as me so you can woo her and bring her back here. Her name is Brunnhilde. Will you do it?”

Gutrune gulped when Siggy didn’t reply right away. Maybe the powder wasn't working correctly. His face contorted as he wrestled with Gunther’s offer.

“If you accept the quest, I’ll give you my sister as your wife.” Gunther winked at Siggy. “A fine catch, don’t you think?”

When Siggy didn't reply right away, she bit back a tart comment about answering his betters. She caught him staring at her. His gaze seemed to pierce her clothing and she felt her skin grow hot. Didn’t the man realize staring was poor manners? Training this oaf could take years.

“I accept. When can the wedding take place?” Siggy asked Gunther.

“How about right now?” To a servant he said, “Find that priest that always hangs about the town.” He turned to Siggy. “Let’s say you wait a week after the wedding so you can get to know your bride and then you leave on my quest.”

“Agreed.”

Gutrune fanned herself with a partially finished pot holder. Gunther’s haste struck her as tasteless.

Gunther and Siggy sealed the arrangement with a goblet of wine as Gutrune left to prepare for her wedding.

# # #

Brunnhilde frowned and chewed her upper lip. Richly dressed men rode towards her cave. Did they plan mischief that would end to her time as a mortal? For the first time since leaving Asgard, she felt a stab of fear at the tenuousness of mortal time spans. She fetched her spear and shield. One or more men would go to Hel before her span of time ended.

The group stopped at the base of the hill. An unimposing man held up his empty hands in a signal of peace. “Are you Brunnhilde?”

“Who asks?”

“I am Gunther, Lord of the Gibichung. I come in friendship.” He was a lot older than Siggy.

“Then approach.”

While Gunther dismounted and climbed the hill, she kept a grip on the haft of her spear.

When he reached her, he boldly let his eyes travel over her body. “I have heard of your beauty and I rode here to make you my wife.”

“What?” Brunnhilde was surprised at the bluntness of the offer. “I am flattered,” she said while she gathered her thoughts. “But I am betrothed.”

“To Siggy?” Gunther chuckled. “Siegfried of the Walsungs?”

Brunnhilde nodded. She sensed that something had happened to Siggy.

“Siggy married my sister two weeks ago.”

She felt as if this Gunther had punched her in the stomach. Confusion overwhelmed her. How could Siggy marry someone else? So soon after leaving her?

“But . . . he gave me his Ring as a sign of his troth.” She held up her hand to show the ring to Gunther.

“Nevertheless, Siggy married my sister." Gunther's voice carried a hint of violence. "I want you for my wife. Do you accept?”

Brunnhilde understood the threat in his voice. He intended to marry her with or without her acceptance. “I accept.”

“Good. I will ride back to my court to prepare the wedding. You will follow with these men as your escort.” He turned to go but stopped. “And Siggy wants his Ring back.” Gunther seized her wrist and wrenched the Ring from her finger. It resized itself as he put it on his thumb. He looked at her again with bewilderment clouding his face. He shook his head and ran down the hill.

# # #

Siggy leaned his head against an ash tree far in the forest outside Gunther’s palace. He needed a quiet spot to sort things out. Brunnhilde's arrival for the wedding had unleashed feelings of confusion and jealousy. He hadn’t seen her but he felt her presence. Ever since he had disguised himself as Gunther to fetch the woman, he hadn’t been able to make sense of things. He knew he had never met the woman before, so why did she look so familiar? And why did he want to ask her if she still suffered from nightmares about leaving Valhalla?

Even more disconcerting were the fragmented images of the two of them making love. These snippets convinced him that, maybe, he had been manipulated by Gunther and his bitchy sister.

Gutrune was a terrible wife, and so skinny that her body had angles instead of curves. She was passionate about only one thing: pot holders. In bed, she was as cold as a basin of frozen water. And she knitted in bed! While he made love to her! She had almost punctured his lung with a knitting needle on one painful occasion. The damn pot holders infested their apartment. Every corner held stacks of them. They filled the space under chairs, under the bed, under the table.

As if that wasn’t enough, she constantly berated his boorish manners, his crude clothing, his ignorance of culture. The woman never stopped picking. He felt trapped by her. He longed to get his freedom back. He wanted to leave the Gibichung and seek an adventure someplace else.

His thoughts broke away from his wife and returned to Brunnhilde. As far as he was able to decipher events, he must have know Brunnhilde in the past and something happened to make him forget her. He was sure it wasn’t a knock on his head. A potion, maybe? But why? Just so Gunther could marry Brunnhilde? Or was it to get a husband for Gutrune? Or was it something deeper? Something more sinister?

He slapped the tree trunk. His head ached from thinking. He needed to chop off someone’s head. That always made him feel better.

He strode along the forest path in the direction of town. A small man walked towards him. He recognized the priest that had married him and Gutrune. That one always carried on about his god on a stick. Or a cross. Something made of wood.

The priest smiled as Siggy drew Nothung. The man still smiled when his head leaped from his torso. Siggy took a deep breath. He felt better already.

Before he left, Siggy remembered his civic duty and kicked the corpse to the side of the path, lest a galloping horse stumble over it.

# #

After the ladies-in-waiting finished dressing her, Brunnhilde took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She wore a blue embroidered kirtle and her hair was bound in a silk caul decorated with gold wires.

Her mind still churned with doubt. Why did Gunther leave as soon as she had agreed to the marriage? If he had ridden with her to court, they could have spent the time getting to know each other. These marriage and love issues weren’t what she expected when she lay down inside the wall of fire. Did Wotan’s wrath include living with small-minded men? Or was it simply ill-luck?

She took another deep breath and left the dressing room.

The ladies escorted her to the great hall. At the doorway, she paused to compose herself. Little spasms of nervousness ran up and down her spine. Then she recalled she was born a Valkyrie, a warrior. She straightened her shoulders and marched into the hall.

She walked through the aisle made by two mobs of guests. The ladies cautioned her to keep her eyes down, as befits a maiden. Brunnhilde boldly looked ahead. She arrived at the front of the room and saw Gunther wearing a yellow cloak over hunting clothes.

She noticed the man standing alongside Gunther and her knees almost gave out. Siggy! He looked at her with a mixture of perplexity and randiness. She broke away from her escort, strode up to Siggy and slapped his face. “You bastard!” She stomped on his toes.

A collective gasp escaped from the guests

Siggy hopped on one foot and cursed.

“How dare you forget about me and marry another.” She cocked her fist and took aim at his nose. A hand grabbed her arm. A dwarfish, ugly man prevented her from throwing the punch.

“Hagen,” Gunther roared. “Release her. You, wife, control your emotions or you’ll see how the Lord of the Gibichungs can punish people.”

“Traitor,” she hissed at Siggy.

“I never betrayed you. In fact, I don’t know you.”

“Silence!” Gunther clapped his hands. “Where is that priest?”

“He isn’t here, Lord,” Hagen said. “No one has seen him this morning.”

“Damn! Get someone to perform the ceremony.” Gunther crossed his arms on his chest. “A huge boar has been spotted in the forest south of here. I leave on the hunt when this is over.”

Brunnhilde's mouth dropped open. Gunther cared more about the boar than he did about her. If she had a knife, she would stab him.

# # #

Hagen walked the forest and grinned in anticipation of his imminent dominance. He could almost smell the power of the ring and knew that it would soon be his. With it, he would no longer have to bow and scrape before Gunther. It would be Gunther’s turn to be servile. And Gutrune! He would make her watch while he burned every pot holder in the palace.

On either side, six warriors crashed through the bracken to flush the boar. Siggy and Gunther moved a few feet in front of him, which was proper. They were the hero and the nobleman, so let them face the boar and take its charge. If the boar was as big and as vicious as reported, the animal could easily kill both on its first charge. He’d mop up and get credit for the kill and he’d have the Ring.

Hagen heard a snort and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. The boar! Crashing noises came from brush a few feet in front of Siggy and Gunther. The brush parted and the boar, the biggest one Hagen had ever seen, rushed forward, snorting in anger.

Siggy knelt down and placed the butt of his spear against a tree trunk. The boar saw him and swerved to attack. The momentum of the boar’s charge pushed the spear point into its heart. The great beast roared in pain and anger. Blood frothed from its mouth. It shuddered and ceased its movements.

“Well done,” Gunther said as Siggy pulled the spear out of the pig. “It will be the meal at my wedding feast tonight.”

Siggy stood over the kill, leaning on his spear.

Hagen cursed under his breath. Nothing ever went the way he hoped it would. Why didn’t the stupid pig dodge Siggy’s spear? He had to do everything. So be it. He drove his spear into Siggy’s back.

Siggy gasped and fell forward on the boar. A spasm shook his body then his head drooped.

“What did you do?” Gunther snarled. “He was a guest.”

“Did you think he was going to hand us the Ring?” Hagen made a rude noise. “The only way to get the Ring is from his dead body. Someone had to do it, and, as usual, it had to be me.” Hagen reached down for the Ring.

“Wait.” Gunther stroked his scar. “Leave the Ring on the body until we bring it back to court. Otherwise, it’ll look like we killed him to steal it. We’ll blame the boar for his death.”

Hagen nodded.

# # #

Gutrune watched the returning hunters. Two warriors carried a huge boar suspended from a thick tree limb. Good. A successful hunt always put Gunther in a good mood. Perhaps he would be nice to Brunnhilde on her wedding night.

Gutrune’s hands went to her mouth when she saw four more warriors carrying a body wrapped in a cape. She scanned the group of men and saw Gunther and Hagen, so Siggy must be the one on the cape. Neither Gunther nor Hagen looked upset so Siggy couldn’t be seriously injured. She smiled. Nursing him back to health would give her plenty of time to improve his manners and pound some culture into his thick skull. Maybe she could even get the smelly stuffed bear away from him and burn it.

The warriors carried the body to Gutrune. When she saw the lifeless face, she screamed and held on to a table to support herself.

Brunnhilde approached her and put an arm around her shoulder.

“Wh . . . what happened?” Gutrune asked.

“It was the boar,” Gunther said. “Siggy couldn’t stop the boar’s charge.”

“I see no wound,” Brunnhilde said.

Gunther scowled at his new bride.

“The wound is in the back.” Hagen had an oily smile on his face.

“Show me,” Gutrune said to the four warriors. She pointed to the table. They placed the body on the table and turned Siggy over. Her eyes fell to Siggy’s Ring. It was hers now. Her deep sorrow over Siggy's death was offset by the elation of getting the Ring. She almost smiled at the thought of ruling Gunther and Hagen.

“Siggy would never run from a battle and no boar ever made a wound like that,” Brunnhilde said. “That’s a spear wound.”

"Who killed my husband?” Gutrune glared at Gunther.

After a few seconds, Hagen said softly, “I did.”

Gutrune took a few deep breaths. To a thrall, she said, “Wash and dress the body for burial. And have a pyre prepared.” She glared at Hagen. “Why?”

“For the Ring. He’s too stupid to possess the Ring. It should be worn by someone who knows how to wield power. Like me. I killed him, therefore the Ring is mine by right of conquest.”

“I’m the lord here,” Gunther growled. “The Ring is mine.”

“You’re too weak-minded use the Ring. It needs a strong master. I’m the only one here who can use it.”

“I’m Siggy’s widow," Gutrune said. "The Ring is mine by the law of inheritance.”

“Shut your mouth.” Hagen said out of the corner of his mouth as he kept his eyes on Gunther.

“Yield, Hagen.” Gunther drew his sword. “The Ring is mine.”

“Over my dead body.” Hagen’s sword flashed from its scabbard.

“I accept your terms.” Gunther advanced on Hagen.

“Stop it!” Gutrune yelled.

Both men ignored her as their blades sent sparks flying.

Gutrune snapped her eyes away from the sword fight to see Brunnhilde take the Ring from Siggy’s finger. She leaned over to kiss his lips then drew Nothung. Brunnhilde grasped the hilt as if she knew how to use it. A surge of anger coursed through her thin frame. Why hadn't she thought of taking the Ring? How dare Brunnhilde take it from her husband. She tamped down the anger in order to think clearly. She needed a plan. What would Brunnhilde do with the Ring? How could she get it from her?

Hagen screamed and Gunther roared. Gunther pulled his sword from Hagen’s chest as he collapsed to the floor. Gunther stabbed Hagen a second time and turned to Siggy’s corpse. He saw the bare thumb and his face clouded with hatred. “Where is it?”

“I have it,” Brunnhilde said.

“Please?” Gutrune grabbed Brunnhilde’s arm. “Give it to me. Please?”

“It’s mine.” Gunther held out his hand.

“I’ll decide what to do with it after we give Siggy the funeral he deserves.” Brunnhilde stared at Gunther.

Gutrune raised an eyebrow. Brunnhilde had refused to obey Gunther’s order.

“If you make the wrong choice, wife, you will learn about the wrath of the Lord of the Gibichung. You won’t like it.” He took a step towards her. His face was bright red and his eyes had narrowed into slits.

“I’m Valkyrie-born and Valkyries are warriors.” Brunnhilde raised Nothung. “If you cross swords with me, I’ll chop you into swine-meat.”

Gunther blanched and took a step backward.

Gutrune couldn’t believe her ears. Brunnhilde had defied her husband!

# # #

Brunnhilde watched the thralls build a platform of wood logs and place Siggy’s body on it. She regretted his useless death. He died because he had plundered a Ring from a dragon. Mortal life was so fragile and fleeting, why did mortals waste precious time on inconsequential affairs? Siggy and Hagen died today, but who knew how many others were killed because of the Ring. All the mortals wanted it for the same reason: to control others. By now Wotan must be desperate. Without the Ring, he couldn’t ignore time anymore. Wotan was as bloodthirsty as the mortals and it was only a matter of time before the god took bloody action to secure the Ring. Whoever possessed it then would be butchered.

Gutrune came through a door carrying an armful of gold cups, plates, chains and torcs. “These will tell everyone that my husband was an important man.” She arranged them around the corpse and stepped back.

“Light it,” Gunther said.

“Not yet,” Gutrune replied. She ran inside and emerged carrying a large chest and the stuffed bear.

“What’s in the chest?” Gunther asked.

“Pot holders,” Gutrune said as she placed both on the pyre. A thrall handed her a lit torch. She thrust it into the bottom of the pyre where wax-soaked wood had been placed.

Brunnhilde felt a lump of sadness as the flames spread upward. What to do about the Ring? Should she give it to Gunther or Gutrune? Should she keep it for herself? Should she return it to the gods? If she gave it to Gunther or his sister, they would abuse the power it gave them. Soon or later, someone else would try to seize it and more mortals would die. If she kept it, she be compelled to dominate others and there would always be someone pursuing her to take it away. If she gave it back to the gods, nothing would change. Mortals would be under the thumb of the deathless gods and subject to their whims. If the Ring didn’t exist, perhaps mortals could live their lives without interference from Asgard. Wotan was a blood-thirsty killer. He had killed Siegmund because Fricka told him to. He killed Hunding because the man irritated him with a victory whoop. Giving the Ring back would only ensure that Wotan continued to kill annoying mortals.

She made her decision.

Brunnhilde stepped closer to the pyre. The heat almost drove her back, but she ignored the flames. She grasped the Ring in her right hand. At the pyre, she thrust her hand into the flames and dropped the Ring into a gold cup. Let the gods sort through the ashes. She didn’t think they would be able to separate the Rhinegold from the ordinary gold. The two should be hopelessly mixed.

“You bitch!” Gunther screamed. “You die for that.” He drew his sword and charged Brunnhilde.

Brunnhilde countered with Nothung and knocked Gunther’s blade away. She stuck the point of her sword in his throat, just far enough to draw a few drops of blood. “If you move a muscle, I’ll push the sword all the way in.”

Gunther stared down the length of the blade at her. His eyes flashed with hatred.

“I divorce you,” Brunnhilde said. “I divorce you. I divorce you. There. I’ve said it three times like the law demands.”

Off to the side, Gutrune sobbed.

“I’m leaving,” Brunnhilde said to Gunther. “If you follow me, I’ll slaughter you and anyone who accompanies you.”

Wait,” Gutrune said. “Do you want some pot holders?”

# # #

Brunnhilde rode one of Gunther’s horses along a forest path. For the first time since her awakening as a mortal she felt free. On the other hand, she didn’t like the feeling of loneliness.

From her few experiences with mortal men she gleaned several important lessons. Most importantly, love wasn’t as common as she assumed. She knew Siggy hadn’t loved her; he only wanted a bed partner. Gunther wanted her as a trophy to display in his court, like the head of a boar or a stag.

She hadn’t come close to achieving her goal of finding true love. She hoped to find a man who would die with her name on his lips, instead she found a fickle hero with breathtaking shallowness and a self-centered nobleman with spectacular arrogance.

Slowly, a plan developed in her mind. First, she would ride away from the Rhine. Second, she would find a home in a town. Third, she would seek out a man, an honest man who could live with others without trying to dominate them or kill them. The man could be unassuming or humble. He could be handsome or not, but he had to be loyal to his family and friends.

While these plans lack a lot of definition, one element was firm; no more heroes or noblemen. Those people loved only themselves and had no room in their hearts for true love.

Perhaps her man would be a farmer or a merchant. She grinned at the idea of plowing a field or staffing a booth in a town square.

This time she’d get it right.

PART FIVE: GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG

Alberich emerged from his cave and looked down at the town nestled in the valley. He had had it built against the day the earth goddess upheld her end of their bargain. Recently, Erda had decided the time was right and, after all those annual gold payment, she made the gods of Asgard move into the cabins. Every last one of them!

He danced a jig then grinned as he pushed a small cart filled with bundles down the slope. He approached the first cabin. While small, it was bigger than the others as befitted the residence of the principal gods. Loki and Wotan sat outside on benches. A woman sat off to one side.

The sight filled Alberich with glee. His powerless and feeble enemies were at his mercy. He wanted to hug himself. He couldn't ever remember being so exhilarated. He noticed all the little details so he could recall them later. The front of Wotan’s tunic was wet from drool and Loki’s famous red hair was gray. What was left of it. His bald pate shown in the early morning sunshine.

“Greetings, oh great gods.” Alberich’s voice contained more than a hint of contempt.

“Wotan! Who is this small creature?” The woman sneered at Alberich. Her wrinkled face seemed to be chiseled into a permanent frown as she decorated a patch of rag with a needle and thread.

“You must be Fricka,” Alberich said.

“Alberich?” Loki peered through watery eyes. “Is that you?”

“Ah, the cunning Loki remembers me.”

“Someone tell me again,” Wotan said, “just where are we?”

“Former great one," Alberich replied. 'You are in the nursing home for useless gods known as Götterdämmerung.”

“Götterdämmerung? Are you sure? I always thought it would be more . . . exciting.”

“I own this village and you are all my tenants.” Alberich laughed out loud. “I will gain my revenge at my leisure.”

“Revenge?” Wotan scratched his empty eye socket. “For what?”

“Surely you recall the day Loki stole my treasure hoard and the Ring I made from the Rhinegold?”

“Can’t say that I do. But, I’ll set it right. Loki, return the Ring to this Nibelung.”

“Too late for that I suspect.” Loki wore a silk scarf around his neck with a design of a dragon stitched into it. The dragon was so hideous it made Fafner look handsome.

“Pity, but there you are, little fellow. You’re too late.”

“Too late for the Ring, but never too late for revenge.” Alberich crossed his arms.

“Wotan!” Fricka’s voice sounded as cold as a blizzard. “This creature frightens me. Destroy him.”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Now!”

"Sorry, sweetings, but I’m not sure I can do that anymore.”

Alberich grabbed a bundle from the cart and approached Fricka. Her eyes went wide.

“Instead of wasting time with that rag, use this bolt of cloth to make garments. The winters here get cold, you know.”

“Me? Sew clothes? Where are the thralls?”

“You are the thralls now. You are no longer immortal. As mortals, you must work to survive. If you don't, you'll die sooner than necessary.” He gave Fricka a basket. “This is food for you to cook. You do know that mortals get hungry, don’t you?”

“Wotan!” Fricka’s hand went to her chest. “Get rid of this insect. He expects me to cook and make clothes. I don’t like it here. I want to go home.”

"I wish I could remember how to make music," Wotan said.

Alberich took another bundle from the cart. He dropped it at Loki’s feet and grinned at the puzzled look on the god’s face. “Seeds. You two better start planting so you will have food stored for the cold months.”

“Preposterous!” Wotan said. “I don’t know anything about farming.”

“If you don’t farm, you will starve to death. You want to live as long as you can, don’t you? Even if it is as thralls.”

“This isn’t going to end well, is it?” Loki looked troubled.

“Not at all.” Alberich grinned. “You were hoping to end it all in a glorious battle, but you can forget about that. You gods will pass on without a whimper. No one will know that you died. Except me.”

Wotan sighed. “To be remembered only by a Nibelung. Shocking. All our epic deeds were for naught.”

“You figured it out, Wotan.” Alberich laughed. “My final revenge is to ensure that you all become so irrelevant that no one will remember you."

OTHER STUFF

And now, a few words from the guy who makes these things up, Hank Quense.

If you enjoyed this tale, read my two latest stories, Tales From Gundarland and Zaftan Entrepreneurs.

For an even better experience, get them both at a greatly reduced packaged price of $30.00. The books will be signed (by me, not one of my neighbors) and I'll pay the postage within the USA. To take advantage of this outrageous deal, go to my website. This is a limited-time offer and will expire the next time our planet is hit by a large, civilization-threatening meteor.

Book 2 of the Zaftan Trilogy, Zaftan Miscreant, is scheduled to become available in January 2012. Book 3, Zaftan Lovers will follow in January 2013.

Many more stories will be set in Gundarland. The next one, tentatively titled, Falstaff's Big Gamble combines Shakespeare's most popular character with two of his most famous plays, Hamlet and Othello. This will be published later in 2011.

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