INTRO   Welcome to CHAPTER 90 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 Vafthrudnir. The last time we were with him, he’d been badly wounded in a fight with Freyja. Let’s rejoin him, now. Chapter Ninety Vafthrudnir Vafthrudnir bolted upright, hands pressed over his ears, awakened, startled by the hungry howling of wolves right outside his tent. Heart pounding, his first thought was that Ygg’s wolves had found him again. His wife Um nudged him with her elbow and, with terrified eyes, looked a question at him. Her ears were also covered. He drew in a deep breath, the tent’s air was stale and warm but he didn’t smell wolf. The sound roughened, more like a draugr trying to escape its barrow—or the screaming of a mad seidkonur riding a roof—then it deepened and grew as mournful as a battlefield full of dying Jotunn. He knew the sound now. How could he have forgotten? It was Goldtooth’s horn. He’d heard it blown before. Three times. The first sounding had filled the slack sails of the nearly defeated Aesir army. The second winding marked the abduction of Idunn and the fruits she warded while the third had marked the start of the Last War. This was the fourth time. Loki had succeeded. Vafthrudnir’s vision blurred as he fought back the unexpected sob that would unman him. Um frowned, not understanding, until sadness bloomed in her eyes like summer’s last, fragile flowering. They sat that way for a dozen heartbeats, unmoving, not touching, simply looking at each other. Tears fell from her eyes; he held his in. Another dozen heartbeats later, he realized his ears were merely ringing. He removed his hands. Silence had returned to Jotunheim. Well, comparative silence. The heavy fabric and hides of their tents dulled most everyday noises, but not the uproar that followed the Gjallarhorn. Everyone had heard it, but unlike Vafthrudnir, they didn’t know what it meant. War had begun. His people were terrified at the prospect, but they didn’t know the plan—not all of them, anyway. And many of those here would indeed die, but only so that their kinsmen could live. Because an Aesir had been murdered. He rolled from their furs and began dressing. Um clapped her hands to get his attention. “Where are you going?” she asked in the hand speech. He tugged on his breeches and tied the fastening. His fingers moved in reply. “The Skrymir will want to discuss what just woke us.” “So the plan reaped it’s sad harvest, then?” He nodded. Her head fell forward into her hands, long black hair obscuring her face. Her shoulders shook. He pulled on a shirt and a heavier wool tunic. His shoulder ached where it always did, every morning, since the Skrymir had hauled him down from the tree. That old pain had been joined by the new ache mirroring where Freyja had wounded him and Fimbulthul alike. He sat to pull thick wool socks on but instead embraced Um, both for himself and for her, rocking slightly until Um pulled away. She smiled sadly, reached out, and wiped a tear from his cheek. Her fingers danced in the Jotunn speech. “I’m glad to see your tears. He did try to help us.” But for a wan smile, he didn’t reply. He leaned into her and hugged her again, tightly, burying his face in the soft fragrance of her hair. Perhaps they could have done it differently. Baldr had been kind over the last twenty winters. But Ygg’s hatred reached back far longer. There was no mercy in Ygg’s heart, so there could be none in his own. Loki’s vengeance was a tool. A means to an end. He didn’t like using it—a knife in Ygg’s back would have been better—but only fools refused to use the weapons at hand, especially in a fight to the death. And now that the deed was done? He clung harder to Um, and she to him. It was hard to stay here, in the present, and not remember the long-ago death of his first wife. Her old, weathered hands had clutched his until they shuddered as her spirit’s bright spark rode winter’s breath back to the Roaring Cauldron. Images of the frozen Jotunn he’d sent into the depths of Utgard’s many lakes—the same ones he’d pulled out over the last fifteen winters—floated up into his mind, their faces just below the surface. Most of those faces were young Jotunn who should have lived long, fruitful lives but had instead slept beneath the cold waters. At least they had another chance. Many would die beneath Aesir spears, but many more would live. And not in this wasteland, either, where a living child hadn’t been born in nearly ten winters. All those would-be mothers and fathers would have another chance, too. He pulled back, cupped her face between his hands, kissed her gently, and whispered, “I have to go. You’ll be here when I return?” “Depends how long you’re gone. At midday, I’ll be working with the seidkonur, but I’ll be back by the evening meal.” She managed the last word without a laugh. Calling it a meal was a joke—boiled water flavored with what roots they could scrounge. Some oats. A few fish each week. All the Jotunn, here in Utgard at least, ate like that. He pulled the inner tent flap back to duck through, she called to him. He glanced back, expecting to meet her dark eyes, but she was staring at the spot where their empty cradle had once stood. When she did face him, her expression was fierce. “No pity.” Vafthrudnir nodded and left, his cheeks dry once more. OUTRO Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 90 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. This chapter’s mostly backstory with a touch of catching up. We see the far-reaching sound of Heimdall’s Gjallarhorn and we see that the Jotunn plan is unchanged. Next week we’re back with Odin. We haven’t seen him since Ch 78, so it’ll be interesting to see where he’s at. 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 90 The love of women fickle of will Is like starting o'er ice with a steed unshod, A two-year-old restive and little tamed, Or steering a rudderless ship in a storm, Or, lame, hunting reindeer on slippery rocks. Larrington, Verse 90 Such is the love of women, of those with false minds; it’s like driving a horse without spiked shoes over slippery ice, a frisky two-year-old, badly broken in, or like steering, in a stiff wind, a rudderless boat or trying to catch when you’re lame a reindeer on a thawing hillside. Thanks for listening.