INTRO   Welcome to CHAPTER 14 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 argued , 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 Chapter 13, Vidar and his war band were attacked by the Jotunn. Vidar used magic — seidr — taught to him by his father to aid the townsfolk. In this chapter we’re back with Odin. When we last left him, he was getting ready to ride out to Vidar’s aid. Let’s do this. Chapter Fourteen Odin We are here, Huginn croaked into Odin’s mind. Well flown, Odin replied, standing up from cleaning Sleipnir’s hooves. What do you see? Fire and smoke, said Muninn. Smells of food, added Huginn. My son? The folk of Háls? Folk fled, said Huginn. The fox readies for battle, added Muninn. Odin swore to himself. So it absolutely was an attack and Vidar, riding under his banner of the fox, was about to answer the Jotunn in the only tongue they understood. Glancing westward at Sól’s descent, he swore again. Even if they left now, they still wouldn’t arrive until dawn. Have you seen the Jotunn? No. Keep looking. Shamans may be there, so be wary. I will arrive by dawn. Yes, Wing-Father. He looked down the long double row of armored Einherjar, all dismounted alongside their horses doing the same thing he was doing—cleaning hooves. A few groused and grumped that the thralls had already done it, but one of the aktaumr walking up and down the line cracked those fools about the heads. “You’d trust your life to the work of someone who might hate you? Who might have reason to see your horse stumble, break a leg, and send you tumbling into a tree?” Even though those aktaumrs were all older, grizzled men, Odin didn’t recognize their seamed faces. But they touched their foreheads with respect when they felt his eyes on them. He bent to finish his task, running his hand down Sleipnir’s eighth leg—the second rear leg on her right—past the hock to the hoof. He lifted the hoof and sent the pick round it, checking the crevices. Sound hooves, sound journey. “And here I thought to find you impatient at my tardiness.” Odin looked up. Baldr had led his horse into the clearing where they were readying for their ride. Sól broke out from behind the lone afternoon cloud and set Baldr’s dark blond hair to glowing. “An impressive sight, is it not, Father?” Baldr gestured toward the line of horsemen behind him. Most were mounting now, heads capped with leather helms chased with silver. Even their shoulder armor, also leather, bore bright ornamentation. They all held their long spears just so, wide brown shield straps across their chests and polished sword hilts hanging from every warrior’s belt. All of it glinted in the sunlight. Clearly, much of the gold the Einherjar were granted each month was being spent outfitting the warriors. Each with a sword? Extravagance. Each with a shining helm? Ridiculous. He grunted. “Pretty enough, but will they hold an edge? Will they stand in the shields when the Jotunn bear down upon them?” “I’ve missed your poetic turn of phrase, Father. It’s good to have you back.” Baldr’s grin seemed to add a bit of extra warmth to the day. He grumped more. “I don’t remember them taking the better part of a day to muster. We need to ride, not fool about with pretty armor, provisions, and tents.” “Forty years is a long time to go without war,” Baldr said. “And so you’ve all lost your edge, then?” Baldr grinned. “It’s there. Dulled with disuse, maybe—but many old blades will take a new edge.” He added more quietly, “If need be.” “Do you disbelieve Vidar’s call for help, then? Or Heimdall’s eyes?” Baldr shook his head, golden curls shedding sunlight like dew, his smile fading. “Of course not. I knew that not all the Jotunn wanted peace. The Skrymir’s said so himself—and said that he’d dealt harshly with those who opposed the treaty.” “Not harshly enough, it would seem.” “Not even the Skrymir can control all the tribes, let alone those who have stayed away from Jotunheim,” Baldr said. “I’m sure many secret places remain in that broken land. Any number of rogue tribes could hide away and we’d never know, especially not with Heimdall the way he’s been. One of those rogue tribes might have attacked Vithi. But perhaps we can still find a way back to peace. Too many enjoy it for war to win out.” “Or too few,” Odin replied, turning toward the approaching thud of hooves. “You don’t happen to know why the Jotunn attacked, do you, Father?” Was that a bit of chill in Baldr’s tone? He met his son’s eyes. “How would I know? I just got back. And son, the Skrymir—regardless of who holds that title—rules all the Jotunn. There are no ‘rogue tribes’ in Utgard.” Hersir Saglund reined in a few paces away and saluted. His armor was even prettier than that of the warriors behind him. Silver highlights glistened in the warm sun, and golden eagle wings rose from the helm, all but inviting an axe to catch upon them. “My warband is ready, Sigfather.” The “my” set his teeth on edge, but he let it pass. He had embarrassed Saglund earlier today and he still needed him—at least until he’d figured out just how broken his Einherjar might be. “Have they been trained to ride with me?” Odin asked. “A fast ride, mind you. We hunt our enemies, and my power will speed the way.” “Yes, Sigfather, they’ve been trained. Some have even ridden with you before. Many winters ago.” “Good. Give the order.” With a crisp salute, Saglund wheeled his horse and trotted back down the long line of Einherjar calling out the order to prepare for a fast ride as he went. Odin hauled himself up onto Sleipnir’s broad gray back, dug into his bag, and withdrew the spindle he’d just used to enchant Freki and Geri. He met Baldr’s gaze, clear and still like a mountain lake on a calm day. “Last chance, son. Are you sure you don’t want to stay and help prepare for Midwinter?” Baldr laughed. “You’re right. Sitting in a dark, smoky hall, staring at the walls, listening to Mother and Nanna plan the feast would be much better. No, I’m riding with you.” Odin grunted. Midwinter was still a week away. Less planning had gone into the Vanir War than these yearly feasts celebrating Midwinter. The festival centered on the main hall in Gladsheim, but celebrations were held at every one of the smaller halls throughout the city and lasted for several nights. “Gladsheim’s hall isn’t dark. She glitters gold in the light of a hundred torches.” “And all her guests cough, wheeze, and wipe grit from their eyes, thanks to the smoke from all those torches,” Baldr countered. “It’s a wonder it hasn’t burned down yet.” “Nonsense! What smoke there is—if any, mind you—rises high and drifts away,” he retorted as he unwound a thread from the spindle. “Besides, Gladsheim’s hall is ten times taller than the tallest Aesir. Even the tallest among us couldn’t touch the spears framing her roof.” “Not that one would, slick as they no doubt are with the grease from ten thousand meals,” Baldr said, a broad shining smile on his face. Odin sniffed. The clatter of Saglund’s mount’s hooves against the packed, frozen dirt sounded loud above the creak of leather and the stamping of horses in the column. “Sigfather, we are ready.” Odin nodded. “Very well. I will check that the way is clear.” He sent his mind out, seeking Freki and Geri. I answer, Freki said. And I, said Geri. The way through the city is clear? Yes, Pack-Father. Good. Go quickly. Clear the way to Vithi and Háls beyond. We go. He nodded to Saglund. “Give the order to move out.” Hersir Saglund lifted a silver horn to his lips and blew a few sharp notes. Before their echoes faded, Odin squeezed his legs together. Sleipnir whinnied, tossed her silvery mane, and began walking. Baldr fell in beside him on his right, Saglund on his left. And behind them, the first Odin-led warband in more than twenty winters rode out. Odin extended his hand, and Gungnir flickered into it. He settled the dark ash shaft of the long spear into the crook of his arm and let it slide down until it was braced in his stirrup. He unscrewed the cap at one end of the crossbar below Gungnir’s foot-long blade, withdrew the hollow spindle from his bag, slotted it onto the crossbar, screwed the cap back on, and teased free the thread. The spindle rattled and the thread glowed like the dense coils of Sif’s hair after Loki had made good his promise to replace it. He smiled at the memory of that mischief—remembered laughing to himself about it until Thor had returned from the east and flown into a rage. He had ordered his blood brother to make it right. Loki had done more than that. He not only convinced the Svartalvar smiths to weave new hair from the finest gold but also to craft marvelous weapons and devices. Gungnir had been one of them; his heavy gold arm ring was another. He glanced at Saglund and nodded. The hersir blew another short, silvery sequence into the chill air. The column shifted into a trot, hooves thudding on the frozen road. Warned by the wolves that the Alfather would be riding, the folk had lined Gladsheim’s streets. Children sat upon their parents’ shoulders. Older boys and girls sat on the low thatch roofs of the longhouses, smoke rising from the holes cut in the roofs. The most adventurous perched on the high, stout beams of smithies, tanneries, and stables. He raised Gungnir, saluting the crowds of Aesir lining the street. Their answering roar rolled back from the city’s high central hill. The crowds grew thicker as Odin and his warriors wound through the city, following the broad road that looped like a noose around the central hill before heading westward. And then he had to squint to see anything beyond Sleipnir’s ears as they turned into the dazzling sun along the stone road that flowed out Gladsheim’s western gate.   ***   Odin raised a clenched fist, and Saglund blew the staccato call for make ready. The column thundered through the West Gate, heavy timbers stretched high overhead. Broken stone filled the gap between the inner and outer row of timber. The gate itself, iron-banded wood, stood wide. Odin braced Gungnir against his stirrup and trusted Sleipnir to lead the column straight along the road. He closed his eyes and listened close for the beat of Sleipnir’s eight hooves to overlap the cadence of the other horses. Once he found the rhythm, he raised the witchthread to his lips and sang his charm. The tip of the thread incandesced brighter than a falling forge spark. He flicked his wrist and sent it plunging forward into Sleipnir’s chest. Faster than thought, the thread of light emerged from Sleipnir’s side and plunged into the chest of Shining, Baldr’s mount. From there, it speared through every horse in the long column until the tip came back around to Odin’s hand. With a deft flex of his fingers, he twisted the tip around itself and flung it back down through Sleipnir and around the column again. Each pass wove the loop tighter around the company of Einherjar. With each pass, he sewed more strength into the horses. With each pass, he more strongly felt their hearts and lungs and legs beating in time with Sleipnir’s. He urged Sleipnir to move faster, a canter and then a gallop. And still he sang strength into the horses. His spindle rattled around Gungnir’s crossbar as the thread unspooled. Another weave, and they moved faster than any horse could sprint. A final cast, and the sound of their hooves became like the ocean’s roar. Around them, the landscape blurred into the dull browns and muted greens and brilliant whites of Asgard in winter. OUTRO Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 14 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. Odin and Baldr, along with the Einherjar, ride through the city of Gladsheim to aid Vidar. Odin used one of the songs that only he knows — the song being a magic charm, a galdr. I’ll have much more to say about those songs that Odin knows in the next recap episode. If you’re interested in supporting the podcast, 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 or in some other way – likes, follows, Patreon, Locals, etc.   I’d also enjoy hearing from you. You can email me at mattbishopwrites@gmail.com    As always, I’m going to read from the Havamal, sayings of the High One, Odin himself. But this week I’m going to read from four different translations: - Bellows - Larrington - Crawford - literal translation by Yves Kodratoff First up is Bellows, https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/poe/poe04.htm   Bellows, Verse 14 Drunk I was, | I was dead-drunk, When with Fjalar wise I was; 'Tis the best of drinking | if back one brings His wisdom with him home. Next is Larrington, this is her translation of the Poetic Edda, published through Oxford World’s Classics in 2014 Drunk I was, I was more than drunk at wise Fialar’s; that’s the best about ale-drinking that afterwards every man gets his mind back again. Crawford, his translation published in 2015 Verse 14 I was drunk, I was too drunk, At Fjalar’s house. The best kind of feast Is the one you go home from With all your wits about you. Literal by Kodratoff, link in the description Verse 14 Drunk I have been Have been totally drunk At learned Fjalarr’s home Because a drinking party is (at its) best When later comes up to (the drinker) What controls the man’s spirit So, why four different translations? Because I found the last two verses in Bellows confusing So, I went to other sources to try to figure them out. Here’s my summary Bellows: the best drinking is when you bring wisdom back Larrington: you sober up Crawford: you get home safe with your wits about you Kodratoff: this is much more mystical…as if the drinking, the state of being drunk, shows to the drinker what controls his/her spirit … maybe it means that you drink yourself blotto and that unleashes your creative spirit which you can take advantage of A couple comments: - Odin said he was drunk. So, when he warns people about the dangers of beer and ale, he apparently has some experience - Fjalar could be another name for Suttung. It could also be the name of the “dwarf” — the Svartalvar — who, along with his brother, murdered Kvasir and from that man’s blood brewed the mead of poetry. Odin’s theft of the mead of poetry is an important story that I might address in a bonus episode. It does not directly factor in to my story - this drinking party reminds me of other verses in the Havamal, and of the Vafthruthnismol, in which the guest might engage in contests of wits with the host or maybe other guests. So its perhaps not impossible that Odin’s just saying that “hey I survived a drunken party and got out of it with my mind and body intact”