The tragedy of the house of the Giukungs reached its final, blood-soaked crescendo in the halls of the Gothic King Jörmunrekkr. The tale begins not with steel, but with a mother’s bottomless grief. Gudrun, the daughter of Giuki and widow of the hero Sigurd, had endured lifetimes of sorrow. She had seen her husband murdered, her brothers slaughtered in the hall of Atli, and her own children by Atli consumed in a fire of her own making. Yet, fate had one more bitter draught for her to swallow. Her daughter Svanhild, a woman of such radiant beauty that she was said to possess the sunlight of her father Sigurd’s eyes, had been given in marriage to the powerful but aging King Jörmunrekkr of the Goths. Through the treachery of the king’s advisor Bikki, who whispered poison into the old man’s ear regarding Svanhild’s supposed infidelity with the king’s son Randver, Jörmunrekkr committed a crime that horrified the world. He had Randver hanged and Svanhild trampled to death by horses, her golden hair ground into the dirt of the steppes.
When news of this atrocity reached Gudrun in the land of King Jonakr, her third husband, she did not weep; she burned with a cold, terrifying fire. She looked upon her two sons by Jonakr, Hamdir and Sorli, and her heart hardened. She went to the chests where the ancient treasures of the Giukungs were kept and pulled out mail-coats and helmets that shimmered with an unnatural light. These were not merely forged in fire; they were hardened by the sorcery of the Norns and Gudrun’s own knowledge of the hidden arts. These armors were enchanted so that no blade of iron or steel could pierce them. To be struck by a sword would be like being struck by a twig; to be hit by a spear would be like being touched by a reed.
In the grand hall, Gudrun stood before her sons and goaded them with the memory of their sister. She called them weak, comparing them to the heroes of old who would have already dyed the earth red with the blood of their enemies. Hamdir, the more temperamental of the two, retorted with bitterness, reminding his mother that even her vengeance against Atli had cost her dearly. He warned her that this journey to the lands of the Goths would be their last, that they were being sent to their deaths to satisfy her pride. Yet, the code of honor and the pull of blood-kinship left them no choice. They accepted the enchanted mail and prepared to ride.
As they were mounting their horses, a third figure approached them. This was Erp, their half-brother, a son born of Jonakr and another woman. Erp was known for his sharp wit and quiet strength, and he asked to join his brothers on their quest for vengeance. Hamdir and Sorli, blinded by their own sense of destiny and perhaps a touch of arrogance, looked down upon him. When Erp offered his help, saying he would assist them as 'one hand helps the other' or 'one foot helps the other,' the brothers mocked the riddle. In a fit of irrational rage and believing Erp to be of little use, Hamdir and Sorli drew their swords and struck him down. This was the first great mistake, the cracking of the foundation upon which their mission was built. They rode away from the corpse of their brother, unaware that they had just discarded the very key to their survival.
The journey was long and arduous, taking them across the vast, windswept plains toward the great fortress-city of the Goths, often identified in the sagas with the region around the Dnieper River and modern-day Kyiv. As they rode, the brothers spoke little. The weight of their fate hung heavy. They reached the hall of Jörmunrekkr during a night of great feasting. The Goths were celebrating, drunk on mead and confident in their king’s absolute power. The guards at the gate were easily bypassed or slain in the shadows, for the two brothers moved with the silent purpose of ghosts.
Suddenly, the heavy doors of the feasting hall burst open. Hamdir and Sorli stood in the threshold, their enchanted armor gleaming in the firelight. The laughter died in the throats of the Gothic warriors. The brothers did not pause. They carved a path through the throngs of men toward the high seat where Jörmunrekkr sat. The king, waking from a drunken stupor, called for his guards, but his men found that their swords merely bounced harmlessly off the brothers' chests. The enchanted mail held fast. It was a scene of slaughter; Hamdir and Sorli were like wolves in a sheepfold.
They reached Jörmunrekkr. With a roar of triumph, Hamdir swung his sword and lopped off the king’s hands. Simultaneously, Sorli struck low, severing the king’s feet. Jörmunrekkr collapsed into a heap of gore, howling in agony. It was at this moment that the tragedy of Erp’s death became clear. In the traditional strategy of such a raid, a third person—Erp—would have been responsible for striking off the head. Because Erp was dead, the head of the king remained firmly on his shoulders. Even as he bled out, Jörmunrekkr had the presence of mind to shout a command that would change the course of the battle. He saw that the brothers were immune to steel, and he cried out to his men: 'Stone them! If iron will not bite, let the heavy stones of the earth crush them!'