Hamthismal (“Words of Hamthir”) tells much the same story as Guthrunarhvot, with some differences of detail. Guthrun encourages Hamthir and Sorli, her sons by Jonaker, to avenge their halfsister Svanhild (her daughter by Sigurth) on Jormunrekk, a king of the Goths. The boys ride off to do the deed, accompanied by their half-brother Erp (son of Jonaker and a concubine). Hamthir and Sorli kill Erp before they reach their destination, misunderstanding his cryptic promise of help. Hamthir and Sorli fight well against the Goths, and even cut Jormunrekk’s arms and legs off, but Jormunrekk finally instructs his men to stone them to death, since he knows the sons of Guthrun are impervious to iron and steel. The two brothers regret killing Erp then, as he would have decapitated Jormunrekk (a stanza may be missing in which Erp was assigned this specific duty).
Hamthismal, the last poem in the Codex Regius and the end of the story of the Volsungs, is also one of the oldest and most difficult of the Eddic poems, so much so that its medieval copyists may have misunderstood parts of it. Some stanzas appear to be out of order, and at times it appears that the wrong speaker has been specified in the text—especially in stanzas 26–30, which the text gives to the impulsive Hamthir, but which appear to have been originally meant to be Sorli’s (and which I have translated as Sorli’s words).
BURIED BENEATH THE EARTH are horrible sorrows, the desperate things that make the elves weep. Early in the morning, everything that has caused someone unhappiness will be remembered anew.
It was not recently, it was not yesterday— this happened a long, long time ago. Few things were so long ago, that this wasn’t twice as long ago, when Guthrun, daughter of Gjuki, incited her young sons to avenge her daughter Svanhild.
“Your sister named Svanhild— Jormunrekk had her trampled by horses! White and black horses, gray horses, Gothic horses, horses he broke to ride for his errands of war.
“You, my sons, are the last dregs of my noble family, you alone live of this line of kings.
“I have become as lonely as an ash tree on the tundra, I am stripped of my family like a pine-tree stripped of needles, deprived of hopes like a forest that’s lost all its leaves when lightning strikes it on a hot day.”
Then Hamthir spoke, he was a bold young man: “You had little good to say about Hogni when your brothers woke Sigurth from his last sleep— you lay in bed while his killers laughed.
“Then your blue and white striped sheets were reddened in the flowing blood of your first husband. Sigurth was dead, you stared at his corpse. Your joy was gone, and Gunnar caused it.
“You had it worse when you took vengeance on Attila, and killed your own sons, Erp and Eitil. There was no one who’d swing a battle-loving sword against your two little boys, so you had to do it yourself.”
Sorli spoke then, he was wise: “I don’t want to exchange barbs with my mother, but the two of you have left something unsaid: Mother, what are you asking for, what will make you stop weeping?
“You weep for your brothers and your dear children, for children you bore and who died in horror. But mother, you will weep for us two as well— we will mount up on our horses and die far away from here.”
They mounted their horses, they were ready to fight, those young men rode over misty mountains, they rode Hunnish horses, to avenge their sister’s murder.
Then Erp spoke, one fateful time, he looked proud sitting on his horse— “It’s no good to show a coward the way to glory.” To Hamthir and Sorli, it seemed this bastard sure thought he was brave.
They met on the street’s wide cobblestones, and asked him: “Little dark-haired bastard, how will you help us in this fight?”
Their half-brother answered as best he could, he said he would help his brothers like a foot helps a foot. But they doubted him: “How can a foot help a foot? How can a hand help a hand, grown from the same flesh?”
They drew their swords from their scabbards and with their sharp blades they did an evil spirit’s work. They reduced their numbers by a third, when two brothers let their brother sink dead to the earth.
They shook out their cloaks, they sheathed their swords, and those noble, well-dressed men continued on their way.
Their road lay ahead, a dangerous road. They found Randver hanging from a beam, on a wind-chilled gallows east of the city, and its timbers creaked and urged them onward.
There was joyful noise in the beer-happy hall, when the two young Goths arrived, and no one heard them, till a bold, watchful man blew his horn.
He went to tell Jormunrekk that strangers in helmets had been spotted: “Command us, lord! Strong men are approaching. It appears that woman you killed had powerful relatives.”
Jormunrekk laughed, and stroked his beard— he stood up to fight, drunk on wine. He wagged his brown beard over his white shield, and cast his golden chalice from his hand.
“I’d feel lucky,” Jormunrekk said, “to see Hamthir and Sorli in my hall. I’d tie those boys up with their bow-strings, let those grandsons of Gjuki choke on a noose.”
Then his mother spoke, standing among the men, the soft-fingered lady spoke to her son: “I think they swore an oath that they cannot fulfill; how can those two men alone fight successfully against ten hundred Goths in their own high hall?”
There was war in the house, that ale-house shook, men lay in pools of blood that poured from the Goths’ chests.
Hamthir the bold then stood and said: “King Jormunrekk, you said you’d feel lucky if my brother and I came to visit your hall. Now your arms are cut off, and your legs are cut off, and thrown into the fire before your eyes, in your own hall.”
Then the king began to roar in his suit of armor, like a bear would roar: “Men, throw stones at them! Spears won’t pierce them, blades and iron do nothing to Jonaker’s sons!”
Then Sorli turned to Hamthir: “You did poorly, brother, to egg this old windbag on. A man can still catch death from an enemy without limbs.
“You have courage, Hamthir, but you have no wisdom. And a man lacks too much when he lacks wisdom.
“Jormunrekk would lose his head, if only Erp still lived, our bold brother, the one we killed on the road. Evil spirits encouraged us to kill our hero-souled brother, our battle-brave companion, and go without him in our truest need.
“I didn’t think we had the character of wolves, that we would kill a brother like faithless wolves in a forest, greedy for the food and wealth of others.
“But we fought well, we stand over sword-torn Gothic corpses and set a table for the eagles. We earned honor here, though we are fated to die today— a man will not live one day longer than the Norns have decided.”
And there Sorli fell at the threshold, and Hamthir fell in the alley.
This is called the Old Tale of Hamthir.