INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 84 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 were last with Vidar in Ch 81 in which he’d struck a bargain with the spirit within him. He loosed her bonds in return for her direct help in killing the matron snow bear who’d torn through Vidar’s warband and nearly killed Vidar himself.

With his fylgja’s assistance, the matron snow bear was easily dispatched — though Vidar suffered some wounds in the process. And, many of his warriors were hurt or killed.

So, let’s rejoin Vidar now.

You can find me online at: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Matt-Bishop/author/B073NK4HDC The show's public site is here: https://rss.com/podcasts/fensalirpodcast-kinsmendie/ The source for my short reading from Snorri’s Prose Edda is here: https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/pre/pre04.htm The source for my reading from the Havamol is here:https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/poe/poe04.htm Larrington’s translation of the Havamol can be found where books are sold online.

Chapter Eighty-Four
Vidar
“All along the far ridge?” Vidar asked, leaning back into the dubious shelter of the tall boulder.
“That’s what I’d do.” Garilon tugged the cowl of his hood up.
They now stood at the top of the ravine that just a few nights earlier they had marched out of. Unlike that first night in Utgard, the sky overhead was the dense white-gray wool of low-hanging clouds from which blew a squall of snow and ice. Bitter gusts of wind shrieked through the jagged rocks and ice. The only benefit of the storm was that it prevented the Jotunn warriors, who must be lying in wait for them, from using the short, black recurved bows they favored.
“If we could spare a couple warriors, we could get some idea of what’s ahead,” Garilon continued.
Vidar heard the clipped tone and unspoken concluding phrase: but there’s not enough of us left. But Garilon’s face, hollow-cheeked with exhaustion and hunger, was devoid of expression.
I will go.
Go where?
Scout ahead.
You can do that?
In answer, his fylgja leaped from him and vanished into the storm. Apparently, now that he had given up controlling her through the runes, she could go where she chose.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said with a shrug he regretted as pain returned to his wounded shoulder.
How far can you go? he asked, not sure if she had to be present within him in order to hear him.
I’m not entirely sure.
Garilon opened his mouth to ask but then seemed to realize that an unusual method of scouting was being undertaken.
Do you have a name? Vidar asked his fylgja.
Of course.
When nothing further came, he asked, May I know it?
In time, you may.
He suppressed a frown and adjusted the rough sling his left arm was in. “This may take a while. Might as well rest.”
So together, he and Garilon crunched back through the knee-deep snow, buffeted by random gusts, his ankles almost rolling with every other step on the uneven ground. They stepped behind the lumpen line of boulders, mounded with snow and ice, where the warband hid. Once tucked in among the boulders, the wind’s shriek dropped to a dull moan, and it grew oddly warmer.
His twenty-seven remaining fighters, mostly unwounded, had used their shields to mound the heavy, packable snow into walls and then, using groups of spears as columns with shields balanced on top had formed a makeshift roof.
These warriors of his, these stout-hearted men and women, had all taken turns carrying him through the night as his fylgja worked her magic within him to quicken the healing of his wounds. Sadly, he’d no seidr left to similarly aid his warriors.
Those who were still awake nodded respectfully to him as he entered. They were all in a big huddle, leaning against each other for warmth. The fuel for the witchstoves had been used up. He didn’t deserve their respect. He’d broken his warband as casually as a child breaks a toy.
He’d needed to know what was going on. Why the Jotunn had attacked. The worst part was, he still didn’t know. He’d seen something at the frozen lake, but what exactly? Only the Jotunn knew. Nor had he learned anything about how the doorways worked—only that they existed. All he’d really succeeded in doing was get his warband slaughtered.
There are two dozen archers up here tucked in among the rocks above the doorway.
Well, that settled that. Jotunn. Any idea what tribe they’re with?
Let me ask them.
Wait, what? Don’t—
That was a joke.
Vidar shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes with one hand. Can you tell me how exactly you even know what a joke is?
A better question is how you know what a joke is.
Garilon thumped down opposite him.
“There are a couple of dozen archers in the rocks above the doorway,” Vidar said.
The kjolr took the news as if he’d expected it. His eyes flicked sideways to the line of huddled warriors, dwelled there for a moment, and then returned to meet Vidar’s gaze. And held it, steadily. For too long.
Anger rushed in, nearly swamping what he knew to be true—that his decisions had led to the destruction of his warband. But he’d had to do it. His father would have made the same decision. They had to know what was happening and why the Jotunn had attacked. If he had leaned too heavily on Garilon’s advice they might never have reached that frozen lake or seen the Jotunn at work. Maybe he didn’t know exactly what they were doing, but now he knew that something was happening about which they knew nothing.
Look at him again, his fylgja said as she settled back into him. His body warmed as she did.
So, he looked again—and reconsidered. Maybe Garilon’s expression had been more appraising than accusatory, more an unasked question than anything. Maybe the question had been: Was it worth the lives spent? And maybe there was another question there, as well: What will you do now?
He blew out a breath and rubbed his eyes. Then he pushed himself up to his feet. Who could say? Perhaps the Norns, if they ever spoke.
Tell me of those you scouted. Can we kill them? he asked.
Yes, unless one such as we is among them.
That’s possible? I mean, the Jotunn can do—become—what we are?
Of course.
Will I be able to use my arm?
It wasn’t broken and I did encourage your flesh to heal.
It is somewhat better.
He wondered if he would make the wound worse by using it. He lifted his arm from the sling and let it hang, throbbing, small jabs of pain alternating with longer, more generous doses.
When we fight, it won’t pain you.
Ignoring the look Garilon directed at him, he felt at the small of his back for his knife. Gone, of course. He’d left it in the matron.
And you’re that confident that even wounded as I am, we’ll be able to kill them all?
And feed on them, remember.
Yes, that was also part of our bargain. Answer me.
His fylgja smiled up at him from deep within himself. What happened to the matron after I lent you my strength? There’s a reason your father bound disir to Aesir.
Fair enough. She extended her limbs through his and her strength flooded in. The cold vanished, as did the pain in his shoulder. His sight grew clearer, sharper.
He extended an open hand to Garilon. “I’ll need your knife. I’ll be back when the archers are dealt with.”
Garilon dragged a nearby snow-crusted bag toward him. He dug in it and presented something to Vidar. “Use these instead. We paid for ’em.” 
In each hand, Garilon held one of the long, black-tipped horns that had once belonged to the matron. The base of each bore the ragged marks of an axe.

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 84 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

Not much happening myth-wise, but quite a bit in terms of my world’s magic system. Hopefully what I’ve done leaps out at you.

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 84
84. A man shall trust not the oath of a maid,
Nor the word a woman speaks;
For their hearts on a whirling wheel were fashioned,
And fickle their breasts were formed.

Larrington, Verse 84
The words of a girl no one should trust,
nor what a woman says;
for on a whirling wheel their hearts were made, deceit lodged in their breasts.

On first reading, Odin appears to be saying that women were made deceitful and one should never trust anything they say. Which I suppose is a fair enough reading, but it’s a little dumb. Odin’s neither dumb nor unwise, particularly at the end of his very long life which is when, in my opinion, he speaks the Havamal — at least in the universe I’ve created. He’s giving advice and reflecting on his experiences.

He’s known women he trusts completely — like his wife, Frigg — and those he doesn’t, like Angrboda — and those he respects, but doesn’t entirely trust, like Freyja. There are many more examples, as well.

In the early chapters of this first book, we met three women who Odin definitely does NOT trust. At all. Do you remember who they are? They cluck, like hens in a yard.

I choose to think that Odin had those three women in mind when he spoke this stanza.

Thanks for listening.