INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 92 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 Loki. The last time we were with him was Chapter 47, when he’d been with the Skrymir in the tunnels and caves deep below Utgard. 

Let’s rejoin him, now.

Chapter Ninety-Two
Loki
Loki worked his jaw; his ears popped as his hearing returned. He rode the hall’s roof, tucked away in the shadow of the spread-winged eagle set above the door.
When he saw Goldtooth again, he would ram that horn of his so far up—
He peered down at the huge crowd gathered below, but he needn’t have worried. No one was looking up. There wasn’t much room to gather among the big buildings on Gladsheim’s central hilltop, but there was enough room for the hundreds who’d been inside the hall to mingle with the many more hundreds who’d been outside enjoying the festival.
Everyone knew something had happened. They’d all heard the scream of that blasted horn, after all, but only some knew what actually happened. Their confusion, their fear, was glorious. Even up here he could feel it…taste it, like sweet wine. 
And when the Jotunn came knocking on Gladsheim’s gates, they would again hear that horn and he would be another step closer to fulfilling his promise to Ygg.
He’d already accomplished the first part of his plan. He’d murdered Baldr—not directly, perhaps, but it was even sweeter that he’d duped Ygg’s blind, disaffected son into the deed. What better way to begin tearing down Ygg than destroying two of his sons.
Old Lopt had proven useful, just as the thousand other shapes he’d worn and discarded, and however many more he would wear before his children were free and avenged. Before his dead wife was avenged.
The ache for revenge floated on his mind’s current like an empty skiff. He would heap bodies into it, set it ablaze, and send it, burning, toward Gladsheim.
For now, though, the skiff of his thoughts thumped against the dock of recent memory—watching Hodr’s arm come back to throw, Mistilteinn’s dark tip just slightly behind Hodr’s other outstretched hand. Such a beautiful weapon, Mistilteinn. And it had flown so true. The time he’d spent learning at Eitri’s forge had been well spent.
The skiff of his thoughts drifted away from the imaginary dock. Caught in the eddies of memory, he saw again the shock on Baldr’s face as he stared down at the length of wood sprouting from his chest before he toppled over dead. How he hated that perfect son of the imperfect father. Loki’s children had been cast out long before they had the chance to thrive in the sun—all because those filthy, scratching hens spoke against them. And his brother…by their mutual blood oath…had listened to them.
He forced his jaw to unclench. Rage and hate were fine, but not now. He had to remain calm. Clear-headed. There was much more to do.
Easier thought than done, as the skiff of his thoughts, spun in the current of his rage and he glimpsed Frigg rising, eyes widening as she realized that something in her hall was very, very wrong. It hadn’t been easy crafting a spear almost entirely from mistletoe, but he’d had a hundred winters to practice before he’d needed to hack the heart from Baldr’s mistletoe. The trickiest part had been making the wooden blade look and feel like skymetal to a blind warrior’s hands. But oil, paints, inlays, and those Jotunn runes cut by Vafthrudnir had done the trick.
The skiff of his thoughts drifted further out into the sea of his memories. Dark coils undulated beneath the surface and lifted from the sea, black scales glinting in Máni’s cool light. In this memory, froth streamed from the heavy horns on his son’s massive head. His jaws parted in what only a father or a mother’s eye could tell was a sleepy smile. 
The yellow, snake-like eyes, bigger than a shield, blinked slowly and sleepily, and, as Ygg’s charm took hold, sagged shut. There’d been no hate in his son’s eyes, no anger—unlike his mother whose gaze flashed like a storm every time she looked at Loki—just sadness.
As Jorm slipped beneath the waves, Loki had wept in rage and fury and hopelessness—and then leaped overboard, becoming a sea-snake himself, and followed Jorm down and down and down until his son’s immense coils—he was longer than three longships at that time—slumped into the sea floor like a ship’s anchor rope cut free. And so Ygg had taken Jorm.
And this night, Loki had taken Baldr and Hodr in long overdue repayment. Soon, Jorm would be fully avenged and freed from his long sleep. He would make sure of it.
Through that memory, another place arose—a rocky island, long white beaches, thick green forests and cool, wet air. In the center of that island, his second son, the great wolf, struggled against the long thread that bound him to the yellowed knob of Ymir’s ancient bones fixed with Ygg’s seidr into the island’s rocky spine. 
Fenrir pulled continually against the thread he’d been duped by Tyr into accepting around his neck. Blood ran through his thickly matted fur, joining older, dried blood. A howl rolled like a river from his son’s foaming jaws. Only an unquenchable thirst for revenge stopped Fenrir from removing his own head, because that thread, thinner than a fish’s breath, would never slip nor break nor otherwise part. Eitri and his sons had crafted it, after all. 
Fenrir would be avenged. He would make sure of it.
Loki clenched his fists. He was tempted to strike now. He could probably take Goldtooth unawares and kill him, given all the confusion. He rubbed his eyes, till the tears were gone. He couldn’t risk it. Goldtooth would die, but Ygg must die first. And Ygg wasn’t here. Nor did he know where Ygg was. 
So instead, he glared up at the moon, a morsel dangled over the teeth of the eastern mountains. Just one more memory to dwell on, then. A cloud drifted across Máni’s face. Through some trick of his mind, the cloud’s soft, puffy lines withered, becoming instead the harsh lines of a corpse long in a barrow. Slowly, deliberately, the cloud turned toward Loki, half its untouched, pale and whole—too much like his dead wife’s visage—yet also unique in its beauty. Yet half was gaunt and mottled with a blue-black stain, like blood spilled on a new dress. It was his daughter’s face, Hel’s face, her smile sad and lonely.
Then that smile sank behind the mountain of bone where his son howled and that mountain then sank beneath waves that shimmered like scales and all that was left was his anger and fear and sadness. Loki shuddered with a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
“Soon,” he whispered to the night.
“Soon,” he promised the folk below him, “I will set such a fire that the heavens themselves will burn.”


OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 92 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

So, Loki was Lopt. I wonder how many of you guessed that? I’d really like to know—given that this was my first novel, I’ve no idea if I pulled off this bit of mystery.

Lopt is actually one of the names given to Loki in the myths. Loki has been Lopt from the moment we met Lopt in the book. Figuring out how to arrange Loki’s timeline so that he was available to dupe Hodr was challenging.

The spear Mistilteinn … that’s just the word for Mistletoe in Old Norse. I thought it fitting even if it’s kinda on-the-nose. In Chapter 62 where Lopt gave the spear to Hodr, Lopt said something along the lines of “every weapon has a name, you’ll learn this one’s in time.” That was foreshadowing to Ch 88.

In Ch 62, Lopt also referred to the spear as shaped from a “golden bough.” That’s a reference to the book, The Golden Bough by Sir James Frazer. In that book, the golden bough refers to mistletoe and the myth in which Baldr is killed. The only thing that could kill Baldr was mistletoe…because his spirit was hidden in the mistletoe.

Loki has experience with Svartalvar smiths. When he shaved Sif’s head — that’s Thor’s wife — Loki was forced to journey to the Svartalvar and replace her hair with threads made from gold. The smiths — Eitri, Sindri and Brokk — though it’s possible that Eitri and Sindri are the same person were the Svartalvar who crafted Sif’s replacement hair. They also crafted the weapons used by Odin and Thor — thanks to Loki. It wasn’t much of a stretch to have Loki learn from those smiths since he could just shapechange and return as an apprentice. He learned woodworking in a similar way—from Alvar shapers. The Alvar are the ones who crafted the wand Odin used to move thru Yggdrasil.

As for the rationale for murdering Baldr…and duping Hodr to do it…this chapter tried to show Loki’s rationale. Simply put: He hates Odin and wants to destroy him and all Odin built…in the same way he believes Odin destroyed Loki’s life.

In the myths, Loki is usually considered a Trickster figure. And while Tricksters usually range from pranks and jokes to malicious acts, it seemed to me that murdering Baldr and more than that, which I’ll leave for a future episode, went beyond cruelty.

Loki had to feel betrayed by Odin and the Aesir for him to pursue such drastic action. The exile of his children and the death of his first wife were obvious turning points for Loki. 

In writing the book I was (and still am) concerned that Frigg and Odin turning a blind eye to Loki’s involvement was perhaps myopic on their part. I tried to obscure Loki’s involvement by introducing both the spirit beneath the well (who does have a name) and the witch Yelena. Not sure I pulled it off, but I’d love to hear what you listeners think.

Next week we’re back with Frigg for the final chapter of Kinsmen Die.

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 92

Soft words shall he speak and wealth shall he offer
Who longs for a maiden's love,
And the beauty praise of the maiden bright;
He wins whose wooing is best.

Larrington, Verse 92

He has to speak fairly and offer precious things, the man who wants a lady’s love;
praise the body of the radiant woman:
he who flatters, gets.

Thanks for listening.