INTRO Welcome to CHAPTER 54 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. This week we’re back with Odin. These events pick up right after Frigg’s chapter last week. So, let’s get right to the action. Chapter Fifty-Four Odin Like a thunderbolt, Odin fell through branches and green leaves that left him untouched. He burst into an icy-blue sky, snowy mountains wheeling beneath him. On the wings of a golden eagle he soared downward in a wide, swooping arc. This high, the world curved away beneath him. In the east, a storm rumbled through the mountains. The sea glittered just beyond those peaks. In the west, Sól sank behind jagged peaks, a morsel dangled above a wolf’s jaws. So, Uncle, your trail leads to Utgard. He folded his wings and fell faster until shabby trees sprouting from a rock-strewn mountainside filled his vision. Beneath him, a fat thread of shimmering gold wove through a snow-covered forest, a river catching the last of Sól’s light. He reached out with long talons and lit upon a ragged branch of a dead tree. It was all pretense, of course. His spirit was insubstantial. He would pass unseen through Utgard, unless he happened upon a Jotunn shaman or witch. Or a disir, roaming wild and free in these stormy mountains. Perched now, he found the thin gray trail of his uncle’s spirit. It stretched farther east, deeper into the forest, following the river. The only forest this size in Utgard was the Iron Wood—Jarnvidr, in the old tongue. The last time he’d flown here, either as spirit or in his real, shape-shifted flesh, had been just before Loki’s first wife passed back into the storm. *** Dusk swallowed Odin. He had retaken his shape outside the crumbling waist-high wall that ran around all-too-familiar longhouse. Snow dusted the ground in the drab clearing, heaved into a dozen lumps by the frost. Tall ice-coated trees rose all around him; the rasp of their ice-laden branches grated like the stone of a barrow’s door. He drifted closer to the longhouse—broken, he could see now, by a tree rising up through its center. With a thought, he clad himself in armor. He longed for Gungnir, but instead brought her semblance to his hand. He could no more touch the physical world around him than the things of it could touch him. Only things purely of spirit or living things that had died and were then enchanted in specific ways, were a threat. The former dweller of this broken home had probably drawn spirits as rotting meat drew flies. If any lingered and contested his trespass, his armor and weapons would be as effective against them as they were dangerous to him. He hovered by the ragged break in the wall. Mimir’s gray trail ran right through it and the scrubby trees and bushes that clutched the longhouse walls. One of those walls had fallen in, carrying the roof with it. The empty doorway was a screaming mouth. When he’d last looked in on Angrboda, she’d kneeled in green grass, face to the sky, wet from weeping. He’d sent her children away, but he hadn’t killed them. He made sure Loki was aware of what the Norns had said—he heard their foretelling from their own lips. It hadn’t mattered, though. Angrboda blamed them both, her husband for cowardice and himself for oathbreaking. Several winters later, she passed back into the storm. Loki had borne her body away without help and without saying where he’d buried her. Odin had never asked, but Heimdall had seen. So much pain in this place. He drifted forward along what had been the path from gate to door. Dozens of small holes pocked the frozen ground, the black dirt frosted and mounded as if something had pushed its way up from underground. Mist slithered and pooled in the hollows and clung to the lumps of dirt, as well as the larger mounds of snow-dusted earth heaped between the trees. Mimir’s trail, much stronger now, led up the path between the fallen stones and through the ragged opening into the house. He examined all of it again: the stones of the wall, the small, odd holes in the ground, the ragged hole in the house’s side, and the gaping door. No signs of seidr woven into them. Still, there was something odd about Angrboda’s dead home. Was he about to drift into a trap? Had he already? He scanned the tree line again, seeing nothing but the darkening spaces between the trees. It would be a clear night lit by a quarter moon. A light breeze had sprung up, stirring the dark green, needle-like leaves of the scrubby trees framing the door. He drifted forward again, avoiding the holes in the black earth. He stopped before the ragged opening and looked for traces of protective seidr woven around the house. Nothing. A pair of ward staves had been painted on either side of the gaping entrance, but they were so worn away by weather and time that he couldn’t identify the runes. Mimir’s trail hung before him, grown as thick as a ship’s rope. It led in and to the left, toward the house’s bow, were it a longship. Instead of following it, he moved to the left side of the entrance and peered in at the house’s aft quarters. A black mound of dirt loomed there, a large slab of stone lay across it. He swore to himself. If he was still here at nightfall, which wasn’t far off, the sleeper beneath that stone would rise to greet him. He drifted to his right, examining as best he could the house’s wide middle section, where the food had once been cooked and eaten. He ducked below Mimir’s trail and slowly slid into the house itself. The glowing rope of Mimir’s trail led left to a tree that had sprouted up where the roof had fallen in. Its roots, spread wide across the longhouse floor, wrapped like an egg around a seated figure, its white-haired head bowed. “Mimir?” At the sound of his voice, the figure regarded him. Maybe two spear lengths separated them. Mimir gestured a lean hand toward the roots entangling him. Some hung above his head; some reached up from the ground. “You know this is a trap, right?” Relief washed over Odin. “I figured as much. Who set it?” Mimir shrugged. “I’ve been told you have two choices, stay or flee. If you leave, they’re allowed to kill me. If you stay, well, they get a chance to kill you. I would’ve warned you off, but I couldn’t sense your approach thanks to these roots.” “I assume you can’t just leave?” “Wouldn’t be much of a trap if I could.” He gestured with his chin toward the sky. “Night approaches. Choose quickly.” “Draugr?” He jerked a thumb back toward the stone slab. “More than one. You saw the other barrows, right?” He paused. He hadn’t, unless those snow-covered lumps among the trees were the barrows. “Of course.” “It’s amazing that some folk can’t tell when you lie.” Mimir pointed at the darkening sky. Night always came quick in the winter months. “I’m not joking, Odin. You can still flee when they wake, but it’ll be more dangerous.” “I’m not leaving you here.” He strode forward, his spear becoming an axe. He couldn’t chop the physical roots, but he could sever the sorcerous threads woven through them. “Stop!” Mimir had both hands up. The roots surrounding him trembled like a wolf’s jaws about to snap shut. He paused, axe held at waist-level, blade down. “If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be here.” “How else am I going to free you?” “I don’t know.” Mimir pointed behind Odin. “Prepare yourself.” Mimir’s words blended into the groan of the stone slab shifting. Odin spun and faced the far end of the longhouse. An armored figure shoved the stone aside. It fell sideways and slammed into the wall; dust and dirt rained down from the ragged remains of the roof. The draugr then stepped free of its barrow. Taller and broader than Odin himself, the dead thing was armored in dark leathers and a helm obscured its face. Where visible, runes covered its sallow flesh. “There are two others,” Mimir called. “They’ll be here in moments.” Odin formed a shield on his other arm, faced the draugr, and took a fighting stance. He’d need to get outside, especially if there were more. The draugr ripped a sword from its scabbard and swung it in a fast crisscross pattern, dead sinews crackling and popping. A swordsman, then. It charged just as fast, with just as much control. He countered by stepping into the charge. He used both arms to slam his shield into the draugr and shove it past him. It crashed into the long tendrils of root. The hair-like mesh around Mimir trembled, but didn’t react like it had when he’d almost used his axe. Interesting. I’ll have to make this look convincing. The draugr shoved itself off the root, which trembled still more. It charged him, its sword swinging in a hideous arc he just avoided. He lashed out with his axe, but the draugr flowed behind his sword, its dead feet light on the uneven floor. The sword came back around, and he barely ducked beneath it. “Two more at the door, Odin,” Mimir called, his voice tight. He had his back to the root now. The draugr stood between him and the doorway. He spun his axe in one hand, glanced quickly at Mimir, and nodded slightly. He hoped this would work—and that Mimir understood what was about to happen. Movement flashed, and he just got his shield up in time. The draugr’s sword banged off his shield, his mind creating the expected sound. He might be a spirit, but the draugr was both dead and alive, powered by magic and its own relentless will. And its weapon was bone, etched with runes. It could wound, even kill him. The draugr was on him again, sword darting like a snake’s tongue. He stood his ground. He deflected another hammering blow with his shield and then lashed out in a counterstrike. He made sure his next block was slightly too slow and his follow-up strike inaccurate. He built deception into every attack and defense—but quickly. The other draugr crowding in through the entrance would shortly overwhelm him. Another ringing block. This time, he tried to drag the draugr’s bone blade down with the beard of his axe. It didn’t work—nor had he expected it to. But it was a convincing-looking move. The draugr hauled its sword back and turned the motion into a spinning strike that he deflected even as he stepped back. He was in position now, with the root that trapped Mimir just behind him. If he had a body, he would have felt the rough bark tugging against his clothing. All he had to do was force the draugr to strike at him in the way he wanted. He swung his axe at the draugr’s exposed waist. The dead man was so fast that it leaned back and spun again. It brought its bone blade arcing down in a strike meant to cleave him from shoulder to groin. Perfect. Rather than block the sword, he stepped back through the root. The draugr’s bone blade thudded down, severing the thick root. The tendrils trapping Mimir quivered and went still. “I’m out, Odin, I’m out!” Mimir’s voice filtered in through the broken roof and open door. It had worked. And then the two draugr from outside vaulted the severed root and crowded him, pressing him toward the back of the house. He blocked a flurry of white blades and stepped backward through the longhouse wall, just as Mimir had immediately done when he’d been freed. There were advantages to being pure spirit. He stopped maybe a spear’s distance from the wall. He looked quickly around, trying to find his uncle. Máni hung bright above the tall trees, his white light stark on the ground. Mimir was another two spears distant and throwing seidr around him in sweeping arcs that burned the white worms flooding up from the holes in the ground. “We need to get out of here, Odin. You ready?” “Yes, I’m—” The wall of the longhouse exploded outward. Odin spun. All three draugr followed in the splinters of wood and cloud of dust. The swordsman he had maneuvered into freeing Mimir led the small wedge of dead warriors charging him. A heartbeat later, they were on him. The lead draugr’s blade flicked out. He brought his shield up just fast enough to deflect the draugr’s blade from a strike at his heart. The bone blade grated along his shield, then juddered free to rip a deep trench across his forehead. Fire raced from his eyebrow to hairline. He roared with pain and stumbled back, fighting to deflect the flurry of attacks from all three draugr. His shield thudded beneath a handful of heavy blows while several more knocked his axe down and away. When he felt a strong arm wrap around his chest, he let the darkness take him. OUTRO Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 54 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. Odin found his uncle Mimir trapped inside the wrecked house of Loki’s dead wife Angrboda. The approach to the house was marked by small mounds of dirt. Inside the busted house was a barrow; there were similar barrow mounds outside the house, as well. Odin sprung the trap and was attacked by draugr. If you played any of the Elder Scrolls games — Skyrim, etc. — you’ll be familiar with draugr. They are the Norse undead and they’re totally badass. The Nazgul in Tolkien bear some similarities with draugr, as well. The Icelandic sagas have several draugr: Kar the Old and Glámr come to mind. I should probably do a bonus episode on draugr; they deserve it — I’ll get it done right after the one on the Aesir-Vanir war. But first, here’s a few other tidbits from the myths: Jarnvidr is an actual place and it does mean The Iron Wood. It is said to be east of Midgard and populated by witches. So, I thought it’d be a good setting for Angrboda’s home. One of Odin’s favorite shapes is a golden eagle which is how the chapter begins. The phrase “like a thunderbolt, Odin fell” is a reference to The Eagle, which is one of my favorite poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. The stuff about the spirit world and enchanted weapons is all part of my magic system. The white worms coming out of the mounds of dirt is also my invention; that becomes important later on. Next week, we’re back with Hodr. 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. 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 54 A measure of wisdom each man shall have, But never too much let him know; The fairest lives do those men live Whose wisdom wide has grown. Larrington, Verse 54 Averagely wise a man ought to be, never too wise; for those men have the best sort of life who know a fair amount. This is another odd translation from Larrington who is usually so much cleaner in her language. I mean, Averagely? Kodratoff in his much more literal translation has this: Not over-much wise should be each human being, never (striving) towards wisdom; To the warriors life is more beautiful (for) these (who) are very intelligent and wise. Thanks for listening.