INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 48 of the Kinsmen Die podcast, home of fantasy fiction based on Norse mythology that’s written and read by me, Matt Bishop.

In this podcast I read my first novel, Kinsmen Die, one chapter at a time. And, with each episode, when it makes sense, I provide some commentary about the source materials I’ve referenced in the text.

Until this chapter, Frigg has been with Odin talking about things that had happened and then dealing with the Jotunn envoy. Events in this chapter are a little different, so let’s get to ‘em.

Chapter Forty-Eight
Frigg
Frigg climbed back up into the chill morning air. This new trading vessel’s hold was wider and deeper than those in the older ships plying the coast.
“Very impressive, Shipmaster,” she said over her shoulder. “You say it can carry twice the cargo?”
She stepped off the ladder and blinked. The morning was clear and bright. A pair of men stood in front of her. One was short and swarthy and had a wild beard. He held a burning brand.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
The second man had clay pots hanging from his belt and a stout stick in one hand. His grin was more feral than the wicked light in his eyes.
“Good morning, Almother.” He brought up the cudgel in swift backhand blow.
She got her right arm up in time to block some of its power, but the club still cracked against her head and sent her reeling sideways. She fell hard against the gunwale, bruising her shoulder.
“Mother!” Baldr cried, his head just clearing the deck.
The man with the pots kicked her son in the face. Baldr gave a cry and fell backward. The man turned toward her, club brandished.
“Leave her,” the first one said. “We have work to do.”
The second man threw a black look at the first, but he obeyed. He threw the hatch shut, latched it, and pulled one of the clay pots from his belt. He raised it high and flung it down on the deck.
It shattered with a sharp stink of oil.
The first man stepped across the spreading pool and lowered his brand, turning the liquid into a merry sheet of fire. “Another one. Two per ship should do it.”
Fists beat against inside of the hatch, but the skymetal pin held the solid wood frame down. Urgent, muffled shouts came from below.
Another pot shattered against the base of the mast, and the fire rushed to follow it. Frigg coughed, inhaling a lungful of smoke.
The first man shouted down at her above the fire’s swelling voice, “The Sons of Muspell will rise from heaven’s fire!”
The second man pointed his cudgel at her and added, in a voice like the wind’s shriek, “They will rise, burning, and free their cousins from thralldom to the Aesir!”
They ran toward the opposite gunwale, vaulted it, and vanished.
Her head was spinning. The fire was already hot on her face. She had to move.
The thumps against the hatch were louder, more solid-sounding, as if those below had found something better than their fists to batter it with.
She lurched toward the hatch, swerving around the spreading fire—it hadn’t yet reached the hatch or the rigging behind it—and fell against it.
She pounded her fist against the hatch. “I’m going to pull the pin.”
The steady thumps stopped. She yanked the pin and threw the hatch open.
Baldr was through a heartbeat later, Hermod right behind him. The shipyard master came next, followed by the ship’s kjolr, a stocky woman who took in the spreading fire in a single glance and then pushed her way to the same gunwale the two men had vaulted.
“What happened, Mother?” Baldr’s voice was level but tight with concern. He had his back to her as he took in the hungry fire’s progress. Nearly at the mast now. And the rigging.
She put a hand to her head. It came away red and sticky. “A Son of Muspell hit me; another fired the ship. They’re probably at the next one already.”
“I see them,” Hermod said. Two long strides later, she was over the gunwale.
“You’re bleeding,” Baldr said, kneeling to look at her head. He dug in his satchel and produced a white square of cloth, which he pressed against the wound. “Hold this here.”
“We need to get off this ship, Baldr,” she said.
The fire’s heat had redoubled. Another glance showed that it had spread to the rigging and was climbing the mast.
“I know. Can you walk?”
She pushed herself up. He took her by the arm, and together they hurried to the gunwale.

***

Frigg had her back to the burning trade ship and was nearly alongside the next ship—a long, sleek, black-hulled warship—in the line, one of the three the shipyard master had invited her down to see. Already fire sprouted like weeds along its low, sleek gunwales.
Each ship sat on rollers roughly thirty yards apart, held in place by heavy posts rammed into the shore and ringing each ship, placed under the gunwales to keep the weight off the keel. The frigid water of the river Silfr lapped maybe five yards beyond the stern of each ship. When the Silfr flooded with the early summer rains, the ships would be afloat.
Hermod was nowhere to be seen. The two Sons of Muspell had probably moved on to the third ship, which meant that Hermod had likely followed them.
Frigg was leaning less on Baldr less now as the pounding in her head faded, driven back by the sip of the elixir he’d given her. Between that and having so recently eaten Yggdrasil’s fruit, even half of it, she’d be healed by midday.
Gná, who had stayed on shore, was nowhere to be seen either, which probably meant that she’d run to fetch the wardens. There was a post just inside the city walls a few hundred yards away; they might already be on their way. If she could taste the ash, they surely could as well, even if the black smoke didn’t make signs of trouble blindingly obvious.
A terrified, high-pitched shriek split the air. A child’s cry. Frigg’s gaze snapped back to the warship. The weeds of flame bloomed with a whoosh just as she spotted a child back by the steering board. Why was a child aboard a warship? And why had she remained aboard after two madmen had set it ablaze?
Through the fire, she saw the child tugging at something, pulling hard. The Sons had lashed her to the ship. She didn’t have long, judging by how quickly the flames were spreading.
“Mother—” Baldr’s voice was urgent, his eyes intense.
“Go.” She suppressed a flutter in her stomach. Her vision had placed Baldr aboard a burning ship, but there was no time to worry about that now. “I’m fine.”
He pulled his satchel off, pushed it into her hands, and sprinted toward the ship, feet kicking up puffs of sand and snow.
She blew out a long breath and slung his bag across her shoulders and picked at the wide leather strap, trying to distract herself from thoughts of her son’s flesh roasting from his bones. He’d be all right. He had time. Besides, if a snow bear’s venom ran from his skin like water, then fire shouldn’t harm him either.
She closed her eyes against the memory of his white teeth clacking in a blackened face.
Shouldn’t.
When she opened them again, she focused on the shipyard master’s waving arms. He was organizing the workers—laborers, plank cutters, and stem smiths—into a long line to bring buckets of water to the burning ships. Men on the banks of the Silfr slammed spears against the ice to reach deeper waters.
To her left, a clutch of men were standing around doing nothing.
“Over here,” she shouted at them. One of them heard and thumped his mate on the arm. Then they were all running toward her.
She turned back to the warship as Baldr hauled himself up and over the bow, one of the few spots not yet burning. He turned, lifted his hand, and shouted something she couldn’t hear.
A coil of burning rigging dropped on him like one of the gigantic snakes from Alvheim’s wet forests.
Before the gasp had cleared her throat, his cloak and clothing ignited. Fire leaped up around his shoulders.
She threw herself toward the ship. This was her vision. Why had she let him go? Someone else could have saved the child.
Restraining hands clamped down on her shoulders. “No, Almother, you’ll be burned alive!” The gruff voice was loud in her ear.
She tried to shake herself free and surge forward, but another pair of hands joined those holding her. She pushed harder, freeing an arm, but the men dug in and stopped her.
Baldr whipped off the coil and flung it, burning, from the ship. His head was a shadow inside a wreath of flame as he whipped off his cloak and threw it aside.
It was her vision—Baldr, burning on the ship—wasn’t it? And yet he wasn’t burning. Just his clothes. He was unmarred.
Panic released its grip on her heart. She threw her hands up. “Release me. I’m not going anywhere.”
The hands opened, and she rounded on the men surrounding her. “You, get to the ship. Baldr can hand the child down to you.” She jabbed a finger at another pair of men. “You two help those with the buckets. Wet the gunwale closest to them.”
A sharp crack echoed off the city’s walls; she spun back to the ship Baldr was on. The mast had broken. It seemed to fall slowly at first and then, with a sound like an entire forest falling, smashed through the gunwale and slammed into the shore.
Sheets of fire leaped heavenward, cutting Baldr off from the child. She couldn’t even see the child anymore.
In a swirling void between flames, she saw Baldr standing tall, gesticulating. Now his clothing ablaze. His teeth flashed white as he shouted and looked sideways, pointing.
The line of buckets had reached the mast, and the workers had started throwing water on it. With the sharp hiss of a cornered cat, the fire began to give way.
Another loud crack came from the ship, and it dropped a few feet downward. Baldr stumbled, lost his balance, and fell forward into fire’s blazing heart.
Before she even realized it, she was running toward the ship. This was it. Her vision had snuck up on her. Addled by the cudgel blow, she hadn’t been thinking right. She’d let Baldr go to his death. No, she’d told him to go.
Any moment now, his burning corpse would stagger from the flames, the flesh melting from his bones. His white teeth would clatter with a message for her, but she wouldn’t be able to hear it.
A figure stepped from the wall of fire, put a naked foot on the fallen mast and stepped up onto it. It was Baldr, hunched tight around a small figure clutched in his arms.
The mast shivered and shifted. She watched as Baldr staggered. Then he got his balance and ran down to the ground. He fell to his knees and lay the child out before him.
He convulsed with a hacking cough that bent him double, and he spat something black and wet onto the sand. He heaved in a breath. “Mother, my bag. Quickly.”
She ran the last few steps and fell on her knees beside him, holding out the bag.
A moment’s rummage and he had his elixir out and dripped some into the child’s mouth.
He pushed her lips shut, massaged her throat, and then opened her mouth again. Another drop went in.
“She’d collapsed by the time I got to her,” he said, his voice already less hoarse.
She gripped his unmarred, unscorched, untouched shoulder. “You’re all right?”
He grinned like a second sun. “Of course. What fire can hurt me?”

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 48 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

Frigg and her kids, Baldr and Hermod, were down by the river Silfr touring a newly built trading ship when two Sons of Muspell attacked and set fire to the ship. We again saw how Frigg quickly takes control of a situation and how her children are action-oriented. Hermod took off after the bad guys while Baldr helped his mother and then saved a little girl.

And we also see that the Sons of Muspell are not a theoretical group of bad guys, but are quite active.

There was a little bit of world building in there too — the mention of the steamy forests of Alvheim.

Next week we’re back with Vidar. Until then, if you have the time and inclination, please rate and/or review the podcast — that helps boost the show’s visibility. As does sharing it.

And if you’re so inclined, shoot me an email at mattbishopwrites@gmail.com.

I’d love to hear from you.
  
As always, I’m going to read from both the Bellows and Larrington translations of the Havamal, the sayings of the High One, Odin himself.

Bellows, Verse 48

The lives of the brave and noble are best,
Sorrows they seldom feed;
But the coward fear of all things feels,
And not gladly the [stingy man] gives.

Larrington, Verse 48
Generous and brave men live the best, seldom do they harbour sorrow;
but the cowardly man is afraid of everything, the miser always worries when he gets gifts.
 
A couple comments because in reading these translations back to back, I noticed a difference in how the last verse of each stanza is translated.

Bellows emphasizes the miser giving while Larrington emphasizes the miser receiving gifts. Which I thought was odd.

So, I checked Kodratoff who not only includes the Old Norse, but provides a word for word translation, his own commentaries and commentaries from others. He cites one authority, a scholar named Evans who claims that Bellows’ translation is wrong and that Larrington’s translation is more correct…or at least agrees with two other translators.

So those last two lines said in simpler English mean this: “a stingy man does not want to receive gifts, because that obliges him to make gifts in return.”



Thanks for listening.