Welcome to CHAPTER 13 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. Every five chapters, I recap the key plot points and provide some insight into the myths I’ve referenced in the book as well as some of the creative choices I’ve made along the way.

In Chapter 11, we were with Loki as he, himself with himself, beside the Franangr.

In Chapter 12, Hodr Odinsson had returned home and shared a meal with his significant other, Alara. Not that the Norse used that term, of course.

In this chapter we’re back with Vidar Odinsson. When we last left him, he’d just been scolded by the town elders. They were a bit unhappy with how little he remembered about them or their town.


Let’s do this.

Chapter Thirteen
Vidar
“You must have some of Heimdall’s blood in you, Canewin,” Vidar said, shaking his head. Strain though he did, he couldn’t see more than a haze of snow hugging the fields to their north.
She grinned but kept her eyes on the ridgeline, maybe four hundred yards distant and twice as high. “Not that my mother’s ever said, Jarl.”
“Any sign of the other scouts?”
“Not yet, Jarl. Thought I saw something move up there just now, though.” She pointed. “On that flatter area just south of that big sharp rock on the peak.”
Sól slipped from behind a cloud and he shaded his eyes and looked, wishing for the farseer he’d built so many winters earlier. Even though it was too big to move without a cart, he could have read runes cut into the stone up there. Though they would be upside down.
“Keep an eye out,” he said, lowering his hands.
Beside him, Garilon sheathed his sword with a dull thunk of cross guard against scabbard’s throat. He had just flashed sunlight off the blade to tell the incoming scouts where they were.
Vidar cleared his throat. “So, Kjolr, what did the gothi tell you?”
“Well, Jarl, the gothi doesn’t know how many Jotunn attacked, what tribe they were, or whether they had shamans or snow bears with them. All he could speak of was lots of arrows and maybe thirty Jotunn attacking as he and the surviving miners fled back down the road toward Háls. I asked several of the men to speak with the survivors. They might get more.”
Vidar grunted. His angled shadow on the frozen road was a clear sign that Sól had begun her westward descent. “And your assessment?”
“Honestly, Jarl, based on what the gothi told me, we could be facing anything from a small group—maybe twenty or thirty—to a full warband. Or more.” He pointed at the approaching riders. “But they’ll have much better information.”
“Your pardon, Jarl, Kjolr,” Canewin said. “I saw movement again on the ridge. Same place as before.”
“The scouts?” Vidar asked.
Canewin cupped both hands around her eyes. “It’s—sweet Aegir. It’s the Jotunn. And they’re—”
Garilon whistled and gestured toward the warriors holding their horses nearby.
“Oh, no!” she said, voice rising sharply. “Jarl, they’ve rolled spear-throwers into place.”
A dozen black lines arced toward them, swifter than birds, followed, a pair of heartbeats later, by the deep twang of heavy bowstrings.
Vidar turned and sprinted back toward the boulder and the scrubby clump of trees surrounding it. Beyond that boulder, the townsfolk had begun massing for the march to Vithi. Garilon was right beside him, shouting orders as he ran.
If the Jotunn were lucky, and had already found the correct range, the spears would kill dozens of townsfolk and wound still more.
He heard the spears shatter against the frozen earth but couldn’t see where they’d fallen. No screams reached him, though, which meant they’d probably fallen short.
He looked up when he heard the whistling passage of another flight. This volley also went over the scrubby line of screening trees. A second series of splintering crashes reached his ears.
Garilon shouted at him. “It was about a seventy count between when that first release went overhead and the second. It’s been twenty already. I guarantee this next volley will do far more damage.”
As Vidar cleared the trees, he could see into the temporary camp. This time, shadows rippled over the ground, followed by multiple crashes as the huge spears slammed to the earth. One black spear split a young man’s chest and pinned him to the frozen dirt with a broken cough and a splattering of gore across the snow.
Even some of the misses were dangerous. The spears shattered on impact and threw jagged fragments in all directions. The lucky were simply knocked down in a bloody spray; the unfortunate clutched arms, legs, or chests that had sprouted a forest of splinters.
A small group of his warband galloped toward them, leading the horses they’d left behind.
Vidar looked back westward—the next wave of spears was already arcing toward them black, wingless shapes against the bright sky. The enemy’s rate of fire was improving now that they had the range. But how could they see what they were hitting?
On impulse, he looked up. Several birds wheeled in slow, deliberate circles above them. Shamans. Had to be.
The next flight of bolts smashed down. More screams as townsfolk died or were injured. His heart pounded, and his fylgja pounced upward, eager for the fight.
Young Lukr reined in beside him, dust and snow billowing around them. Hrimfaxi whinnied  and Vidar mounted, nodding his thanks.
Garilon, already mounted, charged toward the clutch of warriors trying to keep the townsfolk moving southeast away from the ridge.
Vidar dug into his satchel for his spindle, heavy with thread. He unscrewed the metal cap of the hand distaff he wore opposite his sword, slotted the hollow spindle on the handle, replaced the cap, and teased free a long strand of thread. The spindle rattled as it spun free. He blew out a long breath, composing his thoughts. Then he squeezed his legs, and Hrimfaxi trotted right toward the center of the fleeing townsfolk.
In a loud voice, he began singing the galdr Odin had taught him. He forced the power of     the charm out through his lungs and his chest and his mouth.
As he sang, he flung the thread out toward the folk. Quicker than a striking snake, it darted through them, spearing each one through the chest. Not that they could see it. All they saw was their jarl riding through their midst, arms moving as if he were casting a net over and over, fingers dancing, drawing the thread back so he could knot the spell and send it out again, strengthening the weave.
He felt the coming flight of the bolts like an incipient headache. They would land any second now. They had to. He didn’t so much sing the galdr now as shout it, willing power into every syllable.
 Spears hammered into the panicked townsfolk. One struck a child, knocking the boy face down into the frozen earth. Another hit a young woman. She spun away sideways, her scream cutting off in a horrible explosion of air as the breath was knocked from her. Another struck one of his mounted warriors. The force threw the man from his saddle. More fell elsewhere. Behind him. To his sides. Shrieks went up all around him.
But without exception, the spears did no harm to those they struck. The boy who was knocked down stood up, his eyes and mouth wide. The young woman staggered to her feet, helped up by those near her. The fallen warrior—Helga—clambered up, a burgeoning grin on her face.
All around, shrieks of dismay and fear turned to disbelieving, raucous laughter.
Another wave of spears fell. Again, townsfolk were knocked down, but the spears caused no injury. As long as Vidar sang, as long as he had enough thread, his charm blunted the Jotunn spears and prevented them from biting.
Garilon’s voice cut through the noise. “Your jarl’s bought us some time. Make it count! Move. Directly east. Now! Move!”
And finally, they did begin to move. They helped each other up.
Vidar watched the birds circle lower. He kept singing, the powerful words tearing at his throat. Another wave fell, this flight clustered tight with the one prior. More townsfolk were hit, but they rose uninjured. It seemed the Jotunn were at the extreme end of their range.
As if mocking that thought, another wave of spears swooped down swifter than a cloud’s shadow. He’d sat too long in one place. Throat raw, Vidar sang louder—till a tremendous impact knocked him from the saddle.
The last thing he heard before he hit the ground was Hrimfaxi’s defiant whinny.
 
***
 
Vidar woke to the sound of leaves rustling in a light breeze. No, not leaves. Voices, whispering, their sibilance masking the words’ meaning. He rose from the stillness deep inside his mind, slipped past the fylgja chained within and her calm green gaze, and opened his eyes—only to shut them again, dazzled by the bright blue sky.
“Take another moment or two, Jarl. One of those spears hit you.” It took him a heartbeat to place the voice; it was Garilon.
“It’s a wonder you’re alive and unharmed,” Garilon said, “though I expect it was that charm you sang, eh?”
Lying still a moment longer, savoring the earth’s cold embrace, Vidar  opened his eyes and saw three birds still wheeling high above in long, lazy arcs.
And then, before his mind caught up with his tongue, he said, “Well, not all of it.”
Garilon squinted at him. “I’ve seen your brothers in battle before—the Sigfather too, of course—but never saw any of them take a hit quite like that. Except Thor, and he hardly counts.”
Instead of answering, Vidar sat up. The world spun once, twice, and then settled back down where it should be. His right side ached. He moved his arm. Nothing damaged.
A dozen mounted warriors stood around him in a loose circle, facing outward. He glanced up. No more giant arrows.
He pushed himself to his feet, suppressing a grunt. Garilon stood with him, knees popping, one hand out to steady him if he needed it. He didn’t. Wouldn’t have taken it if he had.
“How long have I been out, Kjolr?”
“Long enough for a couple of men to drag you out of range. Sorry about that mess down your shirt.” Garilon grinned briefly.
He felt it now, a wet lump dripping down his back. He loosened his belt to shake out what he could. A bit of slush and dirt was better than getting thumped with a few more spears. He re-belted his trousers, smoothed his shirt and overtunic, and tugged his leather armor back into place. The straps all along the right side of his armor were destroyed, and he pulled it off and threw it on the ground with a snort of annoyance.
“And Hrimfaxi?”
“She’s all right. Bit scared when you and she got hit—and you knocked off—but she’s smart and well trained. Took off around the line of fallen spears but then came back around. If she had hands, she probably would’ve picked you up and carried you.”
“Good. That’s good.” He turned slowly in place to take in his surroundings, rather than moving his head. He almost didn’t want to ask how many he could have saved if he’d acted sooner, but he did anyway. “How many of the townsfolk? Our warriors?”
“Best count is forty-three townsfolk dead or missing,” Garilon said, his voice flat. “Of our men, only two. Rikr died on the ground. The valkyr—Noplin—tending him died too.”
He gripped Garilon’s shoulder in commiseration. Two men down. And more than forty townsfolk. He looked toward the high ridge. Nothing visible, though it was more distant than the last time he’d seen it—hence the lack of wood and iron rain.
“There’s worse news, though, Jarl.” Garilon pointed south and west where the high ridge met the plains. “You can just see it there—that bit of blackness hugging the ground. Seems to be moving, least that’s what Canewin says. Any idea what it is?”
He followed Garilon’s arm and did indeed see the dark foggy mass hugging the ground. He shook his head. The stars that appeared over his vision made him wish he hadn’t.
“Also, Tryggulfr and Harafn reported in. Tryggulfr says there was at least one warband of Jotunn in the forest.”
“So that confirms what you guessed.”
Garilon nodded. “Yes, Jarl, but I’m wondering if we’re facing more than just one. If there’s a second or a third...”
It was a good point. If they faced multiple warbands, they should withdraw and cover the fleeing townsfolk. If there was only one, their best option might be to attack. Might be. Successfully protecting several hundred fleeing townsfolk with only sixty warriors against a Jotunn warband that had at least twice as many warriors seemed a losing strategy.
“And one more thing, Jarl. Look at the town. What do you think it means?”
Vidar did and immediately realized what Garilon meant. The tall column of black smoke was entirely gone. It could not have burned out so quickly.
Garilon spat on the ground. “Almost as if the town had never burned.”
“I don’t know how they did it, Kjolr.” Assuming the Jotunn shamans had. Nothing his father had taught him about seidr could explain how they might have extinguished the fires much less why they’d bother.
He looked again at the dark fog hugging the lower ridgeline and then back toward the slowly departing herd of townsfolk. They might live out the night if he and his warband could stop the Jotunn here. Or slow them.
Vidar glanced up at the still circling birds.
“What are you thinking, Jarl?” Garilon asked, tone level.
“They have shamans with them,” he said, pointing up. “That’s why their missile attack was so accurate. And it means they know how few we are in number.”
“So we have a fight on our hands.”
“I believe we do.” And it was one they’d have to win to protect the townsfolk.
Or die trying.

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 13 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. 

Vidar and his war band were attacked by the Jotunn. Vidar used magic — seidr — taught to him by his father. I’ll have much more to say about magic and this particular charm — galdr — that Vidar sang in the next recap episode.

You might be interested to know that I did a fair bit of editing to that chapter, both to make it sound better and b/c I just didn’t like some of what I’d rewritten. I didn’t go full Lucas though and retcon it.
  

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I’d also enjoy hearing from you. You can email me at mattbishopwrites@gmail.com

  
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 13
 
Over beer the bird | of forgetfulness broods,
And steals the minds of men;
With the heron's feathers | fettered I lay
And in Gunnloth's house was held.