INTRO   Welcome to CHAPTER 79 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 Vidar Odinsson. We last saw Vidar in Ch 74 when he and his small warband, having emerged from the magical doorway the Jotunn used to attack Hals, explored the surrounding area and surveilled unknown Jotunn activities at a frozen lake in a remote part of Utgard. Readers know what the Jotunn are doing — they are taking Jotunn, who’d been magically preserved in a way we weren’t told — out of that frozen lake and then bringing them into a stone-home inside the cliff near the lake where they are awakened. Those Jotunn warriors will form the backbone of the army that will attack Gladsheim after Midwinter…and after Loki kills Baldr. Readers have learned all of this through the viewpoints of Loki and Vafthrudnir. In Ch 74, Vidar couldn’t get close enough to see what the Jotunn were doing at the lake. He also believes that his presence was discovered by Jotunn shamans. So with that short summary, let’s rejoin Vidar. Chapter Seventy-Nine Vidar Vidar and his warband slumped, panting to a halt. Six snow bears, horned heads lowered, white plumes rising from their wide black nostrils, blocked their way. Two nights earlier, Vidar’s ragged warband had passed northward through this narrow cleft. It was the only way they’d found through the tall, ice-slick ridge that had led, ultimately from the doorway to the frozen lake where their presence had been discovered. Faced with passing southward now, the same cleft looked narrower and taller. And there hadn’t been any snow bears the first time, either. The snow bears, almost in unison, clawed the icy rock beneath their heavily furred paws. Those paws were each the size of a shield. Their thick bone-white horns curled out and down, coming to sharp points beside toothy jaws slavering with venom. “If that’s a feral pack, Jarl, grease me up and roll me down to ’em now,” Garilon said. Vidar looked sideways at his kjolr. “You’re suggesting what?” With his bared axe, Garilon pointed at the beasts. “Those are young males. A large pack has two, maybe three if the matron is strong. But six? Never happen. Not unless shamans are involved.” “That bird—the shaman—stopped shadowing us last night,” Vidar said. “I haven’t seen any since.” As one, the snow-bears began to growl and advanced a few steps, their claws clicking and grinding against the ice and stone. There was something decidedly unnatural about how they moved. “They’re dominated, Jarl, they must be,” Garilon said. “The shaman stopped shadowing us to control those beasts. Which means some Jotunn scouts took over. I’ve caught a glimpse here, a slight whiff of stale wolf there, but this confirms it.” “Any suggestions, beyond the obvious?” Garilon exhaled into cupped hands and shrugged. “Jarnsaxa once asked me a similar question, though the odds were more in our favor then. Doesn’t change my opinion though. We fight. And raise such a battle din that the Watcher hears us.” Vidar met Garilon’s steely gaze and then looked back to the men and women who followed him, who trusted him. They’d taken a knee and were taking the shields from their backs and readying their weapons. They knew what had to happen. Beyond them lay gray stone, ice and snow, and heavy clouds promising more of the same. He reached into his bag and withdrew his last spool. He held it up so the thread caught the light. Not much left of that either. “We go through them.” he said, setting his spool of witchthread on his belt hook and drew out an arm’s length stretched hung taut, like a spider’s web, between thumb and forefinger. Garilon drew his axe. “The matron’s probably on the other side, maybe with the rest of the pack and a Jotunn warband, too. The shaman are likely hidden in the rocks above so they can direct these beasts. Archers up there, too, and maybe a few with shield and spear to protect them if we were to somehow scale the cliffs.” “We need not fear their weapons—or claws and venom. Not yet, at least,” Vidar said. “As you say, Jarl.” Vidar pulled another loop of witchthread free; the spindle rattled. Then he gazed inward until he met his fylgja’s green gaze. Her tufted ears were up and her emerald cat’s eyes met his. They shone with anticipation. Not yet, he whispered to her, but soon, I expect. If Garilon was correct and the matron—and a Jotunn warband—awaited them on the other side of this narrow gap, then his fylgja’s strength would be needed. But not yet. The seidr his father had taught him would suffice. Sight returned piecemeal—the trampled, snowy ground, the glint of seidr, the wet leather of his gloves. He met Garilon’s gaze. “We’ll get through them and reach the doorway.” “Yes, Jarl.” Vidar pitched his voice to carry to his warband. “We’ve come far—crossed this snowbound realm, and learned what we could. These beasts stand between us and home, but my song will protect you from their claws and their venom. When the Jotunn face us, if they’re brave enough—my song will shield you against their weapons. And though my charm will eventually fail, we will not.” He met Garilon’s gaze. The older man nodded, his expression as bleak as the stones and sky around them. “All right, warriors. Move!” *** Three of the snow bears lay dead and steaming on the frozen ground behind them, spears sprouted like saplings from their sides. The remaining three had fallen back beyond the reach of the warband. But they stayed close enough to launch spittle at the front ranks. It spattered across the wooden shields, sizzling before it froze. Whenever it landed upon the Aesir, the beasts gibbered and cavorted, but protected by Vidar’s seidr, the warriors were unharmed. Vidar’s song kept the charm heavy around them like water-drenched wool. The narrow pass was behind them now, the latter half of his warband marched in an awkward sidestep, their shields raised to ward against the expected fall of arrows. Those in the middle ranks scanned the top of the high cliffs, watching for Jotunn archers to rise and unleash those arrows. Yet the snap of Jotunn bowstrings remained unheard. Garilon searched everywhere—forward, behind, up, and to the sides. He moved from one side of the inner square to the other, muttering orders to each aktaumr. Alarmed shouts from Vidar’s warriors echoed off the defile’s widening walls. The horned heads and heavy shoulders of more snow bears creeped into view, perched among the jagged rocks and ice as easily as the golden great-cats of Vithi perched on the smooth stones dotting those plains. The ground shook; something heavy crashed down in front of the shields. Focused as he was in maintaining the charm, he had just the merest sense that this snow bear was far larger than the others. Vidar flung out another strand of witchthread to strengthen the protection he’d woven. “That’s the matron,” Garilon shouted. The snow-bear bellowed and charged. She hit the line so hard that the spears valiantly thrust into her hulking white-furred shoulders snapped like dead branches. And just like that, she broke their line. With a backhand smash of one black-clawed paws, as big around as nearly two shields, she sent a trio of warriors on the left stumbling backward. She tossed her horned head and knocked a pair of warriors down on the right. She grabbed two of the fallen warriors, pivoted in place—snarling and dripping venom as she gnashed her short-nosed snout—and flung the warriors out of the formation to her pack. They flew, shouting and yelling in battle-rage and fear, but not in pain, for the galdr he sang protected them. Garilon snatched up a fallen shield and leaped in front of Vidar, along with another warrior, Harafn. The matron raised her head and with deep rumbling roar called the other beasts down from the top of the defile, her tail thudding in counterpoint. The ground shook as another four snow bears from atop the ridge landed behind their matron. She spat venom at him. Garilon blocked it with his shield. Then Harafn yelled and as Garilon lowered his shield, Vidar saw that the matron had snatched up Harafn in one black-clawed paw. She spun and whipped her clubbed tail at Garilon who, again, blocked it. Then she leaped a dozen feet away to land closer to her pack, closer to where she’d hurled the two warriors who had scrambled up and were running back toward the warband. The matron leaned back on her haunches and deliberating held Harafn up. He struggled and kicked, but could not break free. The matron ran her claws down his face and body, peeling off his armor like onion skin. But Harafn’s flesh was kept whole by Vidar’s charm. The matron looked right at Vidar. Realization slammed through him like his brother’s lightning. She was smart. She knew what she was doing. The matron crushed Harafn in one paw. She shoved the dead warrior into her mouth and chewed. Blood and venom dripped from her chin. Vidar heard Harafn’s bones grinding in her maw. Rage took him. His fylgja howled within him. “No, Jarl, it’s what she wants,” Garilon shouted. “Your magic is the only chance we have.” But his rage…his fylgja…wanted something very different. Together they could kill this matron—and not just kill her. They could rend her limb from limb, devour her spirit and then, he heard his own mad laughter, slaughter the rest of the pack and then the Jotunn, and then find more to kill and eat and eat and kill, for once they began, there were none here, none anywhere, who could stop them. “Jarl, we need you!” Garilon shouted in his face, so close that spittle dampened his cheeks. “Your warriors need you!” Blinking, Vidar came back to himself. He looked within himself and saw only his fylgja’s wild, feral grin, impossible on her great-cat face, except that he saw it and knew her for what she was…what she’d always been…what his father had warned him again…a wild spirit born in the Gap and meant to roam free. No, he said to her. No. I won’t let you take me again. She sank down, into the depths…his depths…but not in defeat. Merely at bay. “Good, Jarl, good,” Garilon said, shaking him by the shoulders. “Strengthen your magic. If we reform the wall, we have a chance.” Not trusting himself to speak, Vidar simply nodded and flung out another long strand of magic and began singing again, strengthening his warriors’ witcharmor as the shield wall reformed in front of him. “Well done,” Garilon yelled, “Bow formation and fall back to the cliff. We can win this.” The few remaining aktaumrs repeated the order and the wall of shields, bristling with too few spears, began to retreat. Garilon called out encouragement, grabbed him by the arm, and guided him backward. His spool of witchthread rattled empty. Of course he knew what it meant, but he couldn’t help looking down at the empty spool spinning on his belt hook. Song still upon his lips, for he still held a spear’s length of thread in his hands, he met Garilon’s gaze. The kjolr’s face was impassive. The matron launched herself at the shield wall—and burst through it like a thrown spear cracking a breastbone. Again she was among them, horned head lowered, warriors tumbling aside or thrown high as she tossed her head. The other snow bears crowded in behind her, black taloned paws flashing. The matron stopped, slammed her long clubbed tail against the ground, and spat venom at him. Not at the warriors or his kjolr, but at him. Directly. As his song died on his lips, he watched the spittle arc through the air. How could something deadlier than an arrow’s black promise look as innocuous as a stream of water sprayed from a child’s mouth? Too slow, the distant part of his mind told him, as he began to throw himself sideways. That same part of his mind prepared for the pain. It will eat your flesh and devour your eyes, as the venom did to your brother. And then Garilon was in front of him, blocking his view, raising a shield and, again, blocking the venom. Vidar landed on his shoulder, ice and sharp rock digging in. He felt the pain. His magic was gone. “Jarl, are you all right?” The distant part of his mind caught up and took control. He coughed and pushed himself up to one knee. “My weaving won’t last long.” Which was a lie, of course, but he couldn’t bear to speak his failure aloud. “Your orders, then, Jarl?” The shield wall was completely broken. His warriors fought in clumps of fours. Jalla stood alone above the bodies of her fallen friends, bloody axe swinging in tight arcs while her battered shield kept claws from her belly. If she lived, he’d make sure her fearlessness was acknowledged as a true Einherjar. “Jarl,” Garilon repeated more urgently. At least some of the beasts were down. He counted two on their sides, broken spears jutting from red-stained pelts. But too many snow bears remained. An aktaumr cried out, and Garilon’s head snapped around. Led by the matron, a wall of snow bears charged at him. These beasts were bigger than the males they had killed before, though they lacked the shielding expanse of bone that protected the other beasts’ shoulders. Which meant these were the females. Two clumps of his warriors saw the threat and braced themselves, but the snow bears knocked them aside like they were children playing at battle. Garilon raised his shield and stepped in front of Vidar. And then Garilon was gone, flung away in a jumble of flailing limbs. Vidar was knocked backward. Ice and snow poured down his back as he slid to crack his head against a rock. He hadn’t even made it to his feet. OUTRO Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 79 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. Not much happening myth-wise in that chapter. 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. Again, the numbering differences across the translations persists still. This will resolve itself soon. Bellows, Verse 79 Certain is that which is sought from runes, That the gods so great have made, And the Master-Poet painted; . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . of the race of gods: Silence is safest and best. Larrington, Verse 80 That is now proved, what you asked of the runes, of divine origin which the great gods made and the mighty sage coloured;* then it is best for him if he stays silent. Thanks for listening.