INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 2 of the Kinsmen Die podcast, home of fantasy fiction based on Norse mythology that’s written and read by me, Matt Bishop.
 
I’ve written two novels – Kinsmen Die and Dark Grows the Sun. They are the first two books in my series called And the Heavens Burn. 
 
In this podcast I will read both books and, when it’s finally finished, that third, concluding book in the series.
 
My goal is to share my love of Norse mythology and, obviously, my books. I believe I’ve done something unique when it comes to the retelling those old stories because the point of view characters in my books are the Aesir themselves. 
 
In CHAPTER 1, we met Frigg, the Almother, wife of Odin and mother of three: Baldr, Hodr and Hermod. In this chapter we will meet Vidar Odinsson. 
 
Everything you’ll hear is based on my interpretation of the source materials – the Poetic Edda and the Prose Edda, along with a stack of books that discuss the myths … and another stack of academic articles that do the same.
 
Right now, I’m planning to read one chapter per week. Every five episodes will be a combination recap and explication of how I incorporated the myths and why I made the choices I did – without spoilers! Like River Song, I frown upon spoilers.
 
Kinsmen Die has 92 chapters. Dark Grows the Sun is about half that. So, this is gonna take a while. I truly hope you enjoy the journey.
 
Before I begin, let me just say – I’m learning the art of podcasting as I go. I’ll do my absolute best to produce a quality product for your listening pleasure. And, I’m just a writer reading his book – I’ll do my best to not suck too bad.
 
So, my friends, whatever happens, do NOT crack the bones of Thor’s goats.
 
Let’s do this.

Chapter Two
Vidar
“Jarl!”
Vidar wrenched his gaze from the massive column of black smoke and ash that had piled high above the burning town and turned in his saddle. His kjolr, Garilon, rode toward him, pointing at the low curving slope of the hill ahead of them. Survivors staggered down the road, dark figures against the harsh blue of the midwinter sky.
Vidar thumped a clenched fist on his saddle’s pommel. He and his warband had ridden all night to reach this mining town in the mountainous outskirts of his district. And what had he done? Spent more time staring at the smoky remnants of the town than its folk. He hadn’t even seen them.
He guided Hrimfaxi off the road; light snow puffed up around her hooves. The sky’s chill steeds cantered through the tall golden grasses that stretch as far south and westward as he could see.
His people, the Aesir, had been at peace with the Jotunn for more than forty winters—ever since the Last War had ended. But last night, an exhausted messenger had arrived at Vidar’s hall. Come at once, Jarl. The Jotunn have attacked Háls—they’re killing everyone.
So he’d mustered what warriors he had to hand—the sixty spears now trailing Garilon—and ridden all night to get here.
Garilon reined in beside him and spoke in a voice like a sturdy cart’s creaking axle. “Odd that the Jotunn would leave so many alive.”
“Doubly odd that they’re not running,” Vidar gestured toward the approaching townsfolk. “If it was the Jotunn.”
“Indeed, Jarl. Shall we ride forward to meet them? No doubt they’ll have better information than the messenger.”
The wind gusted, pungent with ash and smoke. It blew Vidar’s cloak open, running down the neck of his heavy shirt and past him to make his fox-head banner snap and crack. He swore, hauled his cloak shut, and leaned forward to thump Hrimfaxi’s neck. She whinnied into the wind’s teeth, blowing twin clouds from her nostrils. They’d ridden all night and she was tired, hungry, and thirsty. Just like every other horse and rider in the column.
His eyes went to the pack of townsfolk again, easily several hundred in number. “Let them all clear the hill first. Just in case. The town was how big?”
“Less than two thousand, Jarl.”
At an itch between his shoulder blades, Vidar threw a glance at the sharp line of the ridge above Háls. Ice and snow was caught among the ridge’s jagged, toothy rocks like decaying flesh in a snow bear’s jaws.
He shaded his eyes again. His uncle Heimdall could easily glimpse any Jotunn tucked between those rocks, but he couldn’t, even though the ridgeline wasn’t that far away. The ridge itself erupted up out of the plains south of Háls and ran in a crooked line northward behind the town, then into the thick forest and the low-shouldered mountains beyond.
“Isn’t there an old logging or mining road along that ridge?” he asked.
Garilon grunted in agreement. “I believe so, Jarl. Disused, though, if memory serves.”
“Good place to hide.”
“That’s where I’d head if I were them. Only high ground around here, aside from the mountains. Good view of the grasslands here and the farms north of us. Can probably even see the Svol. I haven’t seen anything moving up there, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. Jotunn or outlaws, they’ve been here for a lot longer than we have. Days, maybe. Plenty of time to dig in.”
“Or run away,” he countered, lowering his hand and turning toward his kjolr. He pressed gloved hands against his saddle horn and shifted his weight. Outlaws definitely would have run, but the Jotunn?
Garilon gave a slight shrug. “Yes, Jarl.”
“Scouts, then, up the ridge. Carefully.” His tone took the question out of it. He pointed toward the farms, east of the town but a good distance north of his column. “And that way, out across the fields and into the bordering forest. Up into the mountains, too, if they see the need.”
“Yes, Jarl.” With quick gestures, Garilon sent a pair of riders galloping north toward the dark green line of trees that ran all along the mountains’ base and then up its shoulders. He sent another pair west through the tall, snowy grasses to scout the high ridge.
Vidar watched them until he could no longer see the clumps of snow flying up from the horses’ hooves. He ran his thumb along the carved grip of his distaff. A gift from his father, the distaff hung on his right side, a pouch with a pair of silver shears and only one charged spindle beside it. These were the tools of seidr, the magic his father had been teaching him. His sword hung on his left side. A bone-handled seax nestled at the small of his back.
He gestured with his chin toward the line of townsfolk drawing closer. “Let’s go find out what happened.”
Vidar squeezed his legs together and Hrimfaxi pranced forward, tossing her head, bridle jingling, happy to be moving again. Garilon fell in beside him, barking commands that kicked the double column of warriors into motion with their eyes on the ridge to the west, the fields to the north, and even the plains behind them. Not much was likely to come from behind them, but Garilon had commanded the Einherjar during the waning winters of the Last War. He knew what he was doing.
Vidar rode down the column and nodded at the warriors. Although he only said a few names—Smar and Mikill; Jalla and Hevred; Kvella and Rollo—he knew them all. He had even sparred with some of them, though that was seldom enough, given his various projects and obligations as the district’s jarl.
Another itch between his shoulder blades. Vidar shielded his eyes against Sól’s glare and scanned the ridge from one end to the other. Nothing but a herd of low clouds running fast, racing their shadows, edges sharp against the sky’s brilliant blue. He stared longer but saw nothing but sharp rocks, patches of snow and ice, and dozens of clouds sliding ceaselessly over the ridge, flowing down the cliff and rushing eastward.
Was it those clouds and their shadows that kept drawing his attention? He dropped his gaze back to the road and the ragged clump of townsfolk a few dozen yards away.
Garilon leaned toward him. “Those scouts we sent are good men. Cautious. Thorough. If the enemy’s up there, we’ll know it soon. And we’ll set more eyes to watching from down here once we get these folk sorted out.”
Raising his voice to be heard over the clattering hooves, Vidar said, “Sound the horn for Gladsheim anyway, Garilon. I want reinforcements moving our way. I’m not confident in the Einherjar garrison’s attention to duty.”
Before he had ridden from his hall in Vithi, Vidar had sent a bird to the Einherjar garrison in the northeastern part of his district. Like Vithi, it was about a night’s ride from Háls. If the hersir of the garrison had dispatched a column of Einherjar as he was supposed to, those warriors should be here soon.
Over the last dozen winters, though, the Einherjar had not only tripled in size, but they had also become recalcitrant to any order except the Alfather’s. And since Odin, his father, had been gone these twenty winters, the Einherjar did pretty much as they pleased—unless the Almother stepped in and made the consequences of further disobedience perfectly clear. Of course, his mother had no way of knowing what was happening here in Vithi, not until the bird he’d also sent to Gladsheim arrived. Even when it did, it would take at least of pair of nights before the Einherjar arrived from Gladsheim.
Their best chance at reinforcements was the Einherjar garrison to the northeast. Or Heimdall’s ears.
It seemed that Garilon hesitated for just the briefest moment before nodding. “Yes, Jarl.” He reached beneath his cloak for the silver-wrapped horn.
A moment later, the horn’s voice split the air like a fox’s hoarse shriek. Heimdall would hear it all the way back in Gladsheim. He would tell Frigg, and she would kick the Einherjar into motion.
If Heimdall wasn’t dead drunk.
But why had Garilon hesitated? Did he disapprove of calling for reinforcements a second time without having set eyes on the enemy?
The wind gusted, blowing a swirl of snow across the road.
He would rather the Einherjar be on the move sooner rather than later. It would be two nights at least before they arrived. And if this Jotunn attack turned out to be nothing, then he’d have the all clear sounded, and the Einherjar would turn back.
Simple.
Either way, it wouldn’t be Garilon who would ultimately have to face the consequences—or suffer the loss of honor.
It would all be on him. 

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 2 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. We met Vidar and experienced him arriving at the town of Hals which has, apparently, been sacked by the Jotunn.
 
I’m a big believer in value for value. So, I have several requests:
1)   Please leave a review on whatever podcast app / platform you use. They really help.
2)   Please share the podcast. That also helps a ton.
3)   And finally, please consider supporting my work by buying my books on Amazon or in some other way – likes, follows, Patreon, Locals, a boost through the Lightning/Bitcoin network, etc.
 
I’d also enjoy hearing from you. You can email me at mattbishopwrites@gmail.com
 
All the links will be in the show notes.
 
And with that, I will leave you with this thought from the sayings of the High One, Odin himself:
 
This is the Bellows translation, available on Sacred Texts
https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/poe/poe04.htm
 
 
Verse 2 
 
Hail to the giver! | a guest has come;
Where shall the stranger sit?
Swift shall he be who, | with swords shall try
The proof of his might to make.