INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 6 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. Right now, I’m planning to read one chapter per week. 
 
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 are the Aesir themselves. 
 
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.

In the last few chapters we’ve met Frigg and Odin, Hodr and Loki, as well as Vidar Odinsson to whom we return in this chapter.

When we left Jarl Vidar, he and his warriors had ridden through the night to render aid to the townsfolk under his protection.

Their town, Hals, had been sacked and burned by unknown forces — possibly the Jotunn with whom Vidar’s people, the Aesir, have been at peace for many years. 

In this chapter we’ll also see that emotional intelligence is just as critical as being a wily coyote.
 
Let’s do this.

Chapter Six
Vidar
The wind blew straight from the town into Vidar’s face. It tasted of burned wood, stank like lost livelihoods—and stoked his rage.
The townsfolk were not thirty yards distant now, filthy with ash, clothes torn and burned, streaked with blood. Most coughed and spat filth from their chests even as they staggered with exhaustion. Everywhere he looked, he saw babies clutched to their mothers’ chests or small children, eyes vacant from the terror of the sudden flight, draped across their fathers’ shoulders. Some of the older ones staggered along on their own.
These were his folk. Fellow Aesir, regardless of rank. And even if he hadn’t been their jarl, he would have been upset. Hands tight on the reins, he pulled in a deep breath of wintry air, hoping to calm the rage that roiled the waters of his mind like a longship’s oar.
The green slits of his fylgja’s eyes slid open and glared up at him from the darkest depths of his spirit. Interest coiled in her eyes, just above the bedrock of her hate for him. Or was she simply wondering why her host—him—had become so very angry?
Keep your mind like the waters of the Bay of Thund in winter, still and cold. Until you want her to wake up, of course.
The time his father had spent teaching his son how to control the fylgja had been too brief. Not for the first time, Vidar cursed himself for allowing the Alfather to shackle him with this spirit.
The memory still angered him, which was less than ideal since he was trying to calm down. He exhaled long and slow, closing his eyes and focusing instead on the regularity of Hrimfaxi’s walk. When his thoughts slid off that, he pictured himself standing knee-deep in Vithi’s swaying grasses, the summer’s heat rising around him, relaxing the knot in his chest even as he felt her stir deep inside his mind.
She flicked her long tufted tail once, twice, as if lazily mocking those same wind-brushed grasses. She stood, too, heavy muscles flexing as she raised her head. Dull and gray, her taloned paws clicked and tapped just as they might in a real cell. Her bonds clinked, reminding them both who controlled whom. She was his fylgja and bound to his spirit—his hugr—just as he was bound to her.
Her green eyes challenged him.
Why had he ever agreed to this? Why?
Another part of his mind answered. Because your father convinced you.
He breathed out, focusing on the runes tattooed around his wrists. He sang those words in his mind, plying them the way an animal tamer might snap his whip in the air above a beast. His fylgja merely blinked, laid her head back on her paws, and like a spent witchlamp, her eyes winked out. Her tufted ears flicked attentively this way and that. She’d obeyed because she had to—only a fool would think her cowed.
He opened his eyes, and awareness flooded back. Garilon was speaking to him. About...? Vidar gathered the words from the ground of his memory like leaves shaken from autumn limbs.
Ah, yes. The townsfolk. Of course. He needed to speak with them.
The sharp snap of his banner brought him back into focus, and he blinked away the daze of Sól’s brightness.
“Jarl? Are you all right?” A note of concern dwelled in Garilon’s rough voice.
Vidar glanced around. His kjolr must have been concerned, because there was maybe twenty feet left between Vidar, Garilon, their warband, and a clutch of townsfolk who could only be the town’s leaders. They stood waiting. Fidgeting.
One older man took a step forward and removed a battered cap.
Vidar met Garilon’s wary gaze. “I’m fine, Kjolr,” he said with a nod he hoped looked decisive. “Let’s speak with those we rode to protect, eh?”
“Yes, Jarl,” Garilon said, leaning back in his saddle. “If I may, Jarl, their gothi is Dorvath. He’s in the front there, the one with his cap in hand. You met him several winters ago.”
“I remember him.” Vidar squared his shoulders. “Send some warriors to shepherd those townsfolk to those boulders and scrabble of trees. Keep the rest on watch.”
“Of course, Jarl.”
Vidar reined in a dozen paces from the elders and dismounted. He cursed to himself when he heard Garilon order the warband to halt and stay mounted and alert. He should have been the one to do that.
He pushed the thought down and brought a smile to his face instead, then pitched his voice to carry the remaining few feet. “Gothi Dorvath, I am Jarl Vidar. We met several winters past after I took command of this district. I wish we were meeting again under more favorable circumstances.”
Many winters had etched their cold, dark days into the gothi’s face and bearing, wearing him down like a gnarled tree. His clothes, ragged and burned, were smeared with blood and dirt. He might be bent, but like that gnarled tree, he still stood, fighting the stoop of age and the weightier press of exhaustion and fear.
Dorvath was a free karl in his own right and chosen to lead Háls by his peers, but Vidar extended his right arm to greet him as an equal. To have the man duck his head seemed wrong, given the cruel doom the Norns had delivered to him this past night.
“I remember you well, Jarl Vidar.” The gothi’s voice was as solid as his grip. Dorvath didn’t deserve to have his later years thrown into chaos by this attack—his home burned, his town and trade destroyed. None of them did, these free men and women, landowners and tradesfolk, farmers, miners, and merchants. It didn’t matter who was behind the attack.
His rage crested and washed him over the gunwales of his mind, driving him back down into his mind’s depths where his fylgja now circled like a wolf of the sea. Cold emerald eyes met his, and she bared white teeth—distant promise, distant threat. He gasped and swam up and up till cool reality broke around his upturned face.
His gaze refocused on the gothi and the karls of his council. To a person, their expressions were wary. A few had stepped back. Others rested their hands on the meager weapons hanging from their belts.
Odin had warned him this would happen when she was awake. She would try to influence him, toy with him and play his emotions just as Bragi plied the harp. What he should have done, he realized, was spend more time with her awake in his mind. That practice might have made his current situation easier.
She’ll take advantage of your emotions—she’ll play on them, try to manipulate you. She’s very far from being a dumb beast. That’s what Odin had told him. He had also said, The runes work, to a point. You must learn to let her speak, but don’t let her sway you.
And that was something else it would have been good to practice. But it didn’t matter right now. Let her glare and threaten. She couldn’t take control unless he let her. She was his tame disir. His fylgja. She would obey him. He hurled that thought down at her. Her long, slow-swimming arcs continued.
To buy himself another moment, he raised a hand to shield his eyes against Sól’s glare. He’d been too silent too long, staring off into the empty air. Who wanted a jarl prone to erratic, disturbing silences? No one.
“Your pardon, Gothi. Good karls and drangr, the sight of you and the unfortunate folk of your town has brought such grief and rage welling up into my heart that I was beside myself for a moment.” He bowed slightly from the waist. “My apologies.”
When he straightened, they were somewhat more at ease, eyes less narrowed with suspicion.
Still shielding his eyes with one hand, he said, “And poor rescuer that I am, I also forgot to offer what few provisions I have strapped to my saddle.”
He turned to see Garilon already approaching. “Knowing you’d want it done, Jarl,” Garilon said, “I collected most of the provisions the warband brought with them.”
The kjolr handed several heavy bags of provisions and skins of beer to the gothi and other elders as the wind kicked up and swirled snow through their midst.
Vidar smiled and raised a hand by way of introduction. “Gothi Dorvath, this is my kjolr, Garilon. For a time he led the Einherjar during the waning years of the Last War. Now he is my second-in-command.”
“Gothi.” Garilon gave a respectful nod that included the karls and drangr standing just behind the town’s chief.
“Thank you, Kjolr.” The gothi accepted the provisions with a smile and age-knotted hands. He stepped back and handed them off to those behind him.
And with that simple gesture, Vidar noted, much of the unease drained away like water after a heavy rain.
“Jarl, as you ordered, the warriors are assisting the townsfolk as best they can with what little supplies and water we brought,” Garilon said. “The others watch both for our scouts’ return and for sign of the enemy. By the looks of it, we should also see what spare blankets or other gear the warband has. And if I may, Jarl, I recommend we get everyone moving.”
“I agree, Kjolr, thank you.” Vidar drew nearer to the gothi. “If you and your council would walk with us, we’ll find what shelter we can alongside your people. And then you can tell us what happened.”

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 6 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. 

We spent more time with Vidar who’s realized that maybe staring off into space and acting weird is perhaps not the best way to win friends and influence people.
 
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 6 
 
A man shall not boast | of his keenness of mind,
But keep it close in his breast;
To the silent and wise | does ill come seldom
When he goes as guest to a house.