| “ | And when all the most renowned men and kings in the ancient sagas are named, Sigurd must be counted the foremost in strength and accomplishments, in zeal and valor. Of these qualities, he possessed more than any other man in the northern world.
— The Völsunga Saga
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Sigurd Fafnisbana Sigmundsson is a major figure in the Völsunga Saga, a thirteenth-century Icelandic epic, and one of the most famous of all the Norse heroes.
Sigurd was the son of Sigmund, the son of Völsung, and his wife Hjordis. Sigmund was killed in battle before Sigurd was born, so Hjordis sent Sigurd off to be raised by a foster father, the dwarf Regin.
When Sigurd came of age, Regin told him the story of the dragon Fafnir and his gold. Sigurd agreed to kill the beast, whom Regin revealed was actually his transformed brother who had murdered their father. After having Sigmund's sword reforged, Sigurd set off to slay Fafnir.
Sigurd successfully killed the dragon, with some help from Odin, and tasted some of Fafnir's blood in the process. Doing so allowed him to understand that language of birds, who revealed to him that Regin was plotting to kill him and take the gold for himself. Sigurd killed Regin instead.
Afterward, Sigurd rescued the valkyrie Brynhildr, who had been sent to Midgard as punishment by Odin for disobedience. The two fell in love, but Brynhildr prophesied that Sigurd would be married to another. Due to the schemes of a rival family, this prophecy came true, and the series of events that followed would lead to Sigurd's death.
Battle vs. Diomedes (by Laquearius)[]
The powdery snow crunched under Diomedes's sandals as he wandered throughout the ice-laden forest, searching for a familiar sight. He had entered the forest less than an hour ago, seeking the island's possible inhabitants, or at the very least, some game to feed his soldiers until the winds became favorable again. But then the blizzard came in, and Diomedes had been forced to take cover from the blistering cold until the storm ended. The heavy snowfall had completely changed the appearance of the forest; footprints had been covered and any distinguishing landmarks that Diomedes could remember were now buried beneath the snow. Now the Argive king was left with little choice but to pray to the gods of Olympus to show him the way back.
Diomedes planted his spear in the earth and laid his shield face down in front of him, providing an area where his knees would be spared the frigid touch of the icy ground. He closed his eyes and prepared to speak a prayer to Athena, the goddess that had delivered him from harm so many times before, but his concentration was broken by the distant sound of a whinnying horse. He thought for a moment, and then focused again and spoke to the goddess: "Hear me, Pallas Athena, grey-eyed daughter of Zeus! If you do not see it fit to grant me safe passage to my companions, then at least grant me knowledge of the stranger that approaches. Be he friend or foe?"
...
"A stranger? Tell me more." The falcon complied and continued to squawk and screech to Sigurd. The scene would've been outlandish to any bystanders - a man seemingly understanding the unintelligible noises of birds - but it was something Sigurd was quite used to. The birds of the air see many things and are more than willing to share if one knows how to ask.
Sigurd dismissed the falcon and urged Grani, his loyal horse, onward. The visions he had earlier were correct like they always were. There was a stranger in these lands, and he was no common traveler or bandit. The falcon described strange armor, with carvings that Sigurd had never seen anywhere in his travels. Sigurd focused and allowed the gift of the dragon's heart to grant further visions. This time, he foresaw confusion, anger... and violence. Sigurd tugged on the hilt of Gram, loosening his scabbard's grip on the weapon. If it was a fight this stranger sought, Sigurd was more than prepared to give him one.
...
Diomedes discerned the light trotting of a horse as soon as he rose after finishing his prayer. He hurried over to a nearby snowdrift and took cover against it on the side facing the opposite direction of the sounds of the approaching horse. He covered himself with his shield, which was already caked with snow, expertly camouflaging himself so well that he would be nigh impossible to spot from a distance. The art of concealment was one of the many tricks Diomedes had learned from the wily Odysseus.
The King of the Argives felt his breathing and the beating of his heart quicken. The feeling of the biting cold in the air that once was almost unbearable, thanks to his metal armor and lack of warm clothing, began to fade away as adrenaline rushed through his veins. So, this was Lady Athena’s answer. Whether the approaching stranger was an enemy of the gods, or Athena meant this as a test of his valor and resolve, her desire for battle was clear. Diomedes was never the sort of impious man who would disagree with the will of his patron goddess.
...
Yet another vision struck Sigurd just as he entered a clearing. He foresaw an act of violence, the nature of which he could not discern. The visions were always fickle things, never revealing the full truth, but Sigurd had learned to cope. He pondered further and thankfully saw something much more useful: the direction it would come from. He instantly turned his head to left, just as Diomedes hurled his spear at the man Athena had deemed his enemy. In a flash, Sigurd, thankful that he had loosened Gram earlier, drew his sword and struck at the projectile just as it was mere inches from reaching him. The spear flew awkwardly off to the side and buried itself underneath the unpacked snow. This concerned Sigurd somewhat - any normal spear would’ve been cleaved in two before Gram’s unstoppable blade - but there was no time to worry about that now. Sword and shield in hand, he spurred Grani into a gallop towards the assailant, who quickly disappeared behind the snowdrift.
Sigurd slowed Grani to a canter as horse and rider rounded the mound of snow. Sigurd rested Gram on his shoulder and kept his shield close, poised and ready to defend from any ambush and bring his sword down into the head or neck of his target. The instant that the rear of the drift came into Sigurd’s vision, and it became clear that his enemy had fled, he was struck with another vision. This one was unusually clear; he saw through the eyes of his enemy as the stranger dashed towards him through the trees, tearing through branches and kicking up clouds of fine snow. The vision faded and Sigurd immediately heard the sounds that confirmed his premonition. Diomedes was rushing straight towards him, wielding a thin shortsword in place of the spear that he had lost.
Sigurd spurred Grani and the loyal horse broke into a charge. Sigurd raised Gram high as his target approached, preparing to remove his foe’s head in a single swift strike, confident that no mortal armor could defend against Gram’s divine edge. Sigurd began his swing, and his eyes grew wide as Gram glanced off of Diomedes’s shield, leaving behind only a minor scratch on the gleaming bronze surface. In a split-second, as his enemy’s blade harmlessly fell away, Diomedes swung his sword in a wide arc, carving a deep cut into Grani’s side. The wounded horse collapsed into a heap, leaving a wide trench through the snow. Sigurd was thrown clear and he scrambled to his feet, snatching up Gram and raising shield for the next clash.
It was then that Diomedes felt the slightest pang of fear in the back of his mind. As the two opponents circled each other, it grew greater and began to take hold of the Greek warrior’s mind. He now realized that Sigurd was a much more frightening foe than he first thought. The draconic symbols emblazoned upon his shield and the cloth over his armor were highly elaborate, implying that he was a man of noble blood, and therefore, properly trained in the arts of war. His sword was far longer and wider than anything he had seen in Greece or Asia; it looked like it could cut a man in half down the middle with a single stroke. The rim of his shield, the blade of his sword, and his bracelets had been intricately adorned with the letters of a language he did not recognize, but they appeared to be more than simple letters. The seemed to emit a faint glow, and Diomedes could almost feel an otherworldly hum coming from them as Sigurd came ever closer. This man was a powerful and skilled warrior, perhaps more powerful than Diomedes could ever be. Those creeping thoughts of despair enveloped Diomedes, and his hands began to shake and his stance wavered. He wanted to retreat, thinking that there was no way any man could possibly overcome the foreign warrior that stood before him.
But the fear inspired by the Helm of Awe did not take Diomedes’s mind for long. He tightened his grip on his weapons and whispered a prayer to Athena, reminding himself that all but the gods on Olympus bear the burden of mortality. The darkness in his mind faded, and Diomedes felt his strength return. He made the first move in the second round, swinging his sword out from behind his shield in a strike aimed for Sigurd’s neck. Sigurd parried with Gram and twisted his blade around his enemy’s, turning the momentum into a powerful thrust. Diomedes was protected by his shield, but this time Sigurd put all his strength into his attack, and Gram pierced straight through the divine shield, the tip of Gram reaching so far as to leave a scratch on the surface of Diomedes’s breastplate. Diomedes jerked his shield away and Gram slid easily slid back out. He had never seen any weapon even scratch Hephaestus’s handiwork, let alone pierce straight through it. The creeping thoughts of hopelessness from earlier seeped back into the corners of Diomedes’s mind.
Sigurd engaged his enemy confidently with several follow-up strikes from Gram, which were all evaded by Diomedes, who was falling further back with each movement. Perhaps he had not fallen to his knees in despair and begged for mercy, like so many of his other foes had, but it was clear to any man that Diomedes’s fortitude was wavering. Diomedes thrust his sword-arm far forward to make his next attacks, hesitant to engage Sigurd at close range. They lacked power and swiftness, and with the runes carved into Gram’s hilt filling him with power, Sigurd parried each of them with ease.
Diomedes kept up his assault the best he could, trying his hardest to ignore the doubts in the back of his mind and focus his attention on the enemy right in front of him and how he would kill him. Finally, he got lucky, and pierced his sword through Sigurd’s guard and struck him in the chest. The divine sword penetrated through the Norseman’s byrnie effortlessly, cutting loose several bloodied steel rings. Sigurd reeled backward but remained standing, which came as a shock to Diomedes. A blow like that should’ve been devastating to a normal man; even if it didn’t fatally wound him, it should’ve at least drained him of his strength. But instead, the wound hardly bled at all, and Sigurd was soon back on the offensive.
Diomedes began to fall back. He needed to find his spear again; he needed to get in close to deliver the sort of wounds that were necessary to bring down such a resilient man with only a sword, which was far too risky. As soon as he saw an opening, he struck Sigurd with the rim of his shield, his superhuman strength knocking the dragonslayer to the ground. He resisted the temptation to try to finish his foe there and then, knowing the danger that his enemy’s divine sword could do the same to him if he wasn’t quick enough. He turned and fled, dashing past the wounded body of Grani and following the tracks the horse had left. When he reached the place where the tracks abruptly turned, he rapidly scanned the tree line in search of his spear. He finally spied it wedged into the earth amidst a tangle of roots emerging from a slope. Diomedes rushed towards his weapon, hearing the sound of Sigurd catching up to him rapidly become louder. He snatched up the spear and spun around, ready with a solid thrust that Sigurd was able to ward off with his shield. Remembering the time that the spear had been left unaffected by a blow from Gram, he did not attempt to destroy his enemy’s weapon, like he would with any other.
The battle was fierce. Diomedes struck rapidly with his spear, aiming at forcing Sigurd back until he had the chance to pierce the Norseman’s defenses. Sigurd kept himself well-covered with his shield, warding off the strikes of the spear in an attempt to press through to destroy Diomedes’s armor and impale him on his sword. Diomedes’s strategy was quickly failing; it seemed that Sigurd knew every one of Diomedes’s movements before he even made them, easily dodging or deflecting them and escaping with no injury. After each exchange, Diomedes was forced to fall back to keep his range advantage. He couldn’t keep this up for much longer.
Diomedes’s guard finally broke. He failed a critical thrust and, just like he had foreseen, Sigurd saw an opportunity to strike and took it. Pushing Diomedes’s spear away with the rim of his shield, he swung Gram downwards, cutting a clean incision through the Olympian breastplate and into Diomedes’s chest. Diomedes stumbled backward, blood leaking out of his armor. Sigurd calmly approached his foe with his sword raised; the final vision of battle had faded from his mind. Diomedes fell to his knees, his vision growing hazy as he lost more and more blood. He whispered one more prayer to Athena as Sigurd approached the downed Greek.
Sigurd thrust his sword forward, the tip aimed at Diomedes’s heart - but it stopped. The sword remained motionless in the air, indifferent to Sigurd’s struggles to move it further towards his target. Then there was a blinding flash of light and a crack of thunder, and Sigurd was hurled backward, cast aside into the deep snow like a ragdoll. Digging himself out of the snow and struggling to his feet, Sigurd looked up to see a very different man than the one he was about to slay just moments ago. He stood tall, spear and shield in hand. His body was wreathed in fire, the snow at his feet already having been melted by the severe flames. Even from several meters away and from underneath his heavy armor, Sigurd could feel the intensity of the heat against his body.
Diomedes rushed forward, spear-arm outstretched. No vision came to warn Sigurd of the impending attack this time, and by relying only on his natural reflexes, he was unable to dodge the attack quickly enough to avoid taking a blow to the right arm that left a deep gash. The spearhead of Diomedes was glowing red-hot from its proximity to the flames emerging from Diomedes’s body, which had only worsened the wound. The sudden, shooting pain that was now jolting in his arm caused him to drop Gram. Diomedes came to a halt a few meters behind Sigurd and swung around his shield, which now had a streaming jet of fire emerging from the center. Sigurd saw the wave of fire coming towards him and ducked, slipping and crashing into the snow as the flames streaking overhead. A loud hissing noise sounded as the ice that encrusted the branches of the trees behind him instantly turned to steam and the trees themselves became massive torches. Sigurd lept up again and desperately began to search for his sword, but Diomedes simply turned the stream of fire from his shield back at Sigurd, who desperately tried to defend with his shield. The wooden shield burst into flame and Sigurd was forced to toss it away. Weaponless and deprived of the runes that had made him into a god among men, Sigurd’s future visions were now reduced to a single word: death.
Diomedes hurled his spear faster than any human could react. It pierced straight through Sigurd’s entire body, the sheer force of the blow knocking him off his feet and through the air before the spear finally struck a burning tree, nailing Sigurd to the trunk. Somehow still alive, Sigurd grasped the shaft of the spear and struggled with all his might, but to no avail. Diomedes simply watched and waited until his opponent’s struggles ended and his body went limp.
The flames emanating off of the Greek’s armor ceased, and he calmly approached the Norseman’s body and tore the spear free. The corpse slumped down and against the tree. The armor was in shreds, far too poor of a condition to consider looting. He turned away and slung his shield over his back before hiking off back into the woods. Now that he had fulfilled the desire of his goddess, surely he would now be shown the way back.
Winner: Diomedes
Expert's Opinion[]
Sigurd had some significant advantages in this battle, namely his armor-piercing sword, healing magic, and mind-affecting helmet. However, the voters agreed that Diomedes’s physical abilities, experience, equipment, and the huge power boost from Athena’s blessing gave him enough of an edge to claim victory over the more gimmicky Norse hero.