9. NINE
NINE
Mount Hindfjall, Iceland
Deep in the volcanic mountains that loom over the ancient port city of Str?ndheim, two men brave the gruelling climb toward the smouldering summit of the Hindfjall where they are to meet Iceland’s Valkyrie Queen within her temple.
One of the two, King Gunther of the Burgundians, rests his arm against a boulder, huffing for breath.
He is a balding man with a carefully groomed moustache, whose dark hair has been cropped close to his scalp to mask his receding hairline.
“Hold on,” he pants, “I—I just need a moment.”
The other man, who is much larger and shows no sign of fatigue, stops to wait for his companion.
He is a hulking figure, clearly a man of tremendous strength; and unlike Gunther, who carries a handsome, cheerful regard, his face is as grim as the hard rock of the mountainside.
He is Sigurd, the Prince of Xanten, and slung across his back is a humungous sword wrapped in sheep’s wool—the blade of which is a full six feet in length.
Sigurd offers his friend a skin filled with water and Gunther drinks from it in big gulps, spilling it all over his chin and sweaty neck. Sigurd looks at the dimming sky, then squints up into the distance at the temple.
“It will soon be dark,” he says, “but we have less than one mile left to go.”
“It may as well be a hundred miles,” Gunther pants, “not all of us have giant’s blood.”
Reluctanly, Sigurd looks up again toward the temple. “Gunther, are you sure you want to do this?”
Gunther lets his tongue fall over his chin like a thirsty dog. “If I do, I will become the most famous man in Europe.”
“If afterwards she finds out, she will kill you. I can’t watch over you day and night from Xanten. She will tear your arms off with her bare hands. I know she will.”
“I appreciate your concern, Sigurd, but I’ll be careful,” says Gunther, wincing as he breathes through a stitch in his side. “Okay, I’m ready. Just a little further up to that big rock, then we’ll do it.”
Sigurd strides the distance with ease and waits at the rock for Gunther to catch up.
“Now are you going to tell me this plan of yours to fool the Valkyrie?” he asks, as Gunther pitches over with exhaustion.
“Yes,” Gunther huffs. He takes out a cloth and dabs his streaming forehead. Sigurd stares at him impatiently. “Look—There’s no other way around it. You and I will have to change shapes.”
“Gunther!”
“I know! I know! But what other choice do we have?”
“What other choice? You have countless choices! We can go back down this volcano right now, for one, sail back to Europe, and you can marry any one of the hundreds of other eligible princesses. What about that Danish girl, King Roar’s daughter.
It would do a great deal to strengthen our alliances.
And think of how much it would get on Stilicho’s nerves if you secured an alliance with the Danes. ”
Gunther waves his hand dismissively.
“Oh don’t tell me you didn’t like her. I thought she was very pretty.”
“Really? Prettier than Rowena?”
“Gunther …”
“Well? Was she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do! Rowena said when you came to Worms she often saw you making eyes at her across the table when my head was turned.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Now you’re calling her a liar!”
“She was a liar! And she was vain! She did nothing but sit in front of the mirror, combing her hair, singing to herself about how pretty she was. And when she wasn’t doing that, she was experimenting with dangerous magic! You only discovered it at the very end, but I knew about it for years!”
“And you kept it from me!”
“I told you from the beginning not to marry a woman who would try the patience of the gods! But you never listened to a word I said, not since that evening you crept up on her like some old lecher and watched her bathing in the Rhine.”
“She knew I was watching.”
“Of course she knew! She had her talons hooked into your flesh from the moment she got off the boat from Britain!”
Sadly, Gunther rubs an invisible wound over his heart. “And she still does. I miss her terribly.”
Sigurd breathes slowly through his nostrils. “I know, my friend.”
“But you see,” says Gunther, “this is why I cannot marry King Roar’s lass or any other regular princess. I am addicted to the complicated woman that was my first wife. Yes, her sick vanity, and dare I say, even her knack for sorcery.”
“Gunther!”
“Yes I know,” says Gunther, “but all I’m trying to say is that the woman who is to become my second wife must be of great calibre.”
“Fine.”
“And just think, my friend, just think of the fame this woman will bring us. Petty kings, warlords and tribal chieftains will rally from all over Europe to join our coalition against the Romans!”
“Yes. But must we really change shapes?”
“Yes, Sigurd, we must.”
Gunther reaches into a pouch on his belt and takes out a vial of blue liquid, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger.
Sigurd frowns. “And just what is that?”
“It’s one of Rowena’s potions, from her laboratory,” says his friend with an innocent smile.
“Gunther, no.”
But Gunther plucks the cork from the vial and drains half of the blue liquid in a single gulp. “See?” he says, grinning, “no harm done.”
“But you’ve only just drunk it! How—how do you know it’s even a potion for changing shapes? You know nothing of magic!”
Gunther arches his brow. “I can read, Sigurd. It was labelled. It said, a potion for changing shapes, right on the bottle—though I peeled it off during the voyage.”
“Gunther!”
“See here, Sigurd, I’ve already drunk my share of the potion. Won’t you hurry up and drink the rest of it? Who knows what will happen to me if I change shapes with myself!”
Reluctantly, Sigurd accepts the vial from his friend. “I don’t like this, Gunther.”
“You’ve made that perfectly clear. Now drink up!”
Sigurd fills his mouth with the tasteless liquid, swallows, and looks himself over to see if his shape has changed. It hasn’t.
“I’m still me,” he says, “and you’re still you.” He adopts a worried expression. “Are you sure it was a potion for changing shapes?”
“I’m positive,” says Gunther. Then he adds hesitantly, “now we just have to recite the invocation together.”
“Gunther …”
“Well, it is a magic spell.”
“I’m not the least bit comfortable with this.”
“Oh enough with all your humming and hawing, Sigurd!”
“Gunther! I don’t like it! It’s witchcraft!”
“What if it is! We’ve already drunk the potion, it’s too late to back out now!”
Sigurd wrings his hands and looks reluctantly up at the temple. “Fine,” he says quietly.
“What’s that?”
“Fine, I said! We’ll say the magic words!”
“Good. Now here,” says Gunther, rummaging again in the pouch on his belt, “I have them scribbled down on this scrap of parchment. Just repeat after me, then we’ll say it unison together.”
“Won’t that ruin the spell if we say it more than once?”
“I don’t know Sigurd! I’ve never done this before. Ah! If only Rowena had listened to me and allowed her lunch to digest before going swimming …”
“Just say the blasted spell already!”
“Okay, pay close attention, Sigurd. It’s in the Gaelic tongue …
Táimid ar dhá dhaoine mhian an cruth ar an eile. De réir na cumhachtaí arda na ceithre gaoithe lig sé a bheith amhlaidh. Anois dhéanamh ar an aistriú! Tosaigh!”
Both men quickly glance themselves over to make sure nothing’s happened.
“Alright,” says Gunther nervously, “now together … Táimid ar dhá dhaoine —Together, Sigurd! Let’s start over … Táimid ar dhá dhaoine mhian —”
“Stop—Stop! Gunther, you said há haoine the first time.”
“Yes, that’s how you pronounce the aspirated consonant ‘dh’ in the Gaelic language, Sigurd.”
“And just now you said dá daoine.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did! Your eyes were tricked by the letters on the parchment!”
“Agh! Whatever! Let’s start again …”
The two men manage to say the entire spell, and on the final syllable, Sigurd blinks.
He opens his eyes to see a smaller, more charming version of himself.
He looks down at his hands. His palms have turned to the more tanned complexion of Gunther’s skin.
Even his clothes have changed. He’s now wearing Gunther’s burgundy tunic, and pink and yellow striped britches.
Unable to resist, he lifts his hand and pats the top of his head where smooth scalp meets coarse, dark stubble. “I’m bald,” he says.
Gunther stomps his foot. “You are not bald! And cheer up will you? You’re too stern. You cannot wear that austere expression while you’re in my shape. Let’s see that handsome grin.”
Sigurd gives him a blank stare, then forces a toothy smile.
“Ugh! No! Not like that! Here, like this.”
“Don’t make that face with my face! I’ve never worn such an expression in my life!”
“Well I don’t go around looking like I just got back from Niflheim!”
“And I don’t look like an excited puppy!”
“Neither do I!”
“Gunther, how long is this spell supposed to last?”
“Until the next time you pee. Then the magic will pass out of your body with the potion.”
“I—Well—I wish you’d told me that before. I suppose I can hold it … Nevermind. Here, how’s this?” he says, attempting a sly smirk.
“That isn’t the end of the world,” says Gunther, wincing. “just try not to look so brooding. And I’ll try to be more solemn.” He rummages again in the pouch on his belt and takes out a gold ring. “This was Rowena’s wedding band. Give it to the Valkyrie once you’ve conquered her.”
“Alright,” says Sigurd. Then he swings the massive sword from his back “Here,” he says, “you had better carry Balmung.”
“Oof. Very well,” says Gunther through his teeth as he struggles to shoulder the heavy blade, “Now, let’s go up and meet her.”