INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 21 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 TEN chapters, or so, 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.

Before we roll into Chapter 21, here’s a quick summary of what’s gone before:

Vidar Odinsson fought Jotunn warriors outside the town of Hals — which the Jotunn had burned down. Vidar then lost control of his fylgja — his familiar — which possessed him.

Odin, after being going for twenty winters, returned home at the behest of his wife Frigg. A few hours later, he rode out again to help his son Vidar — but not quite in the way he’d expected. It was by Odin’s magic that Vidar was saved from the fylgja…of course it was Odin’s magic that bound the fylgja to Vidar in the first place.

Frigg summoned Odin back because their son, Baldr, has been having bad dreams which have worsened to the point where he’s nearly dead come morning. She hoped that Odin would figure out the problem and heal him. Frigg ability to see the future has also returned and, so far, she’s not liking what she’s seeing.

We’ve also met blind Hodr Odinsson and his girlfriend and soon-to-be wife, Alara. It’s not entirely clear what’s going on with them just yet…but clarity will gallop in soon enough.

And then there’s clever Loki, father of Vali and Narfi, husband of Sigyn. At least that’s his second wife. Loki’s up to something too, but we’re not quite sure what.

In this chapter we meet Vafthrudnir.

Let’s do this.

Chapter Twenty-One
Vafthrudnir
Vafthrudnir opened his eyes. The sight of Vithi’s wide white plains, where he’d just been—in spirit, at least—was replaced by dark cave walls that reflected the sullen red glow of his fire’s remnants. He shivered , despite the heavy bearskin he’d draped over his shoulders.
Welcome back, his fylgja said. One of my cousins had a romp, eh?
If by romp you mean slaughtering more than two hundred Jotunn, then yes, she had a romp.
Well, what would you call it?
He sighed. Both he and the Skrymir had expected Ama’s attack on Háls to fail, but not as quickly as it had. Vidar Odinsson had just moved himself from the category of known threat to deadly foe, perhaps on the same level as the Thunderer and Ygg himself.
Assuming he wrests control back from my sister, his fylgja said.
Or finds common ground with her, Vafthrudnir thought. Makes it a partnership rather than a master-thrall relationship.
What are the chances of that? She’s got him now, and she’ll fight him tooth and nail to keep control. I would.
Vafthrudnir stood, stretched, and rolled his head on his shoulders. His neck bones cracked and popped. He shivered again and wrapped the bearskin more tightly around himself.
Ygg’s returned.
I saw, his fylgja said, slithering into view. She’d taken the shape of a long wyrm, complete with bony head and back spines. Not that it mattered what form she took, Fimbulthul was a disir, a creature spun from the raw stuff of the Gap itself. She had played among its currents, and when Vafthrudnir died, she would return to them.
Anything happen while I was elsewhere?
Ygg’s return now complicated everything. He needed time to think on it. And he had to tell the Skrymir.
I scared away a young snow bear—a male, probably excluded from his pack. Looked strong; be a bull soon enough.
I meant anything I should care about?
Oh. No, not really.
Good. Help me move this boulder then?
Fimbulthul slid forward and wound her way up his leg. When her head was level with his own, she merged with him. Strength thrummed through every part of his hamr. Better still, he no longer felt cold.
He stepped forward and leaned into the boulder that mostly filled the entrance to the cave. It scraped and ground against the frozen soil in the groove he’d carved over the past several hundred winters. Moonlight filled more and more of the gap. With his fylgja inside him, he could feel every line and ridge of the boulder he’d just rolled back.
He remained inside the cave, though, just in case Goldtooth was watching. He knew Ygg was occupied, because his wolves and ravens were in Vithi.
Back to Jotunheim? Fimbulthul asked.
Yes.
Vafthrudnir spread his arms and shifted. He hopped forward on long talons until he reached the narrow ledge outside the cave. Then he launched himself up on snowy wings and soared away.
 
***
 
Vafthrudnir stood outside the Skrymir’s hall in Jotunheim, the last city belonging to the last Jotunn. Trampled snow covered the three steps up to the platform outside the big, iron-banded doors.
The chiefs are about to leave, his fylgja said inside his mind, her airy body drifting back out through the hall’s doors.
He grunted his thanks and leaned on the railing, gazing down over the snow-covered tents, longhouses, and few remaining halls of Jotunheim. The scents of cooking meat, spicy stews, and baking breads hung in the night air. The recent harvest had been unusually good, the best in nine winters.
Supplemented by the dry goods Baldr had brought during his last visit, most Jotunn would enter the long, dark days ahead with unexpected company: full bellies. That bounty had already caused several of the chiefs to argue for delay, to build their strength for another winter, maybe two, while trade grew and their people recovered.
The big iron-banded door squealed open like a happy baby, a sound this sad city hadn’t heard in more than a dozen winters. Burly in their furs and wools, six figures stomped into view. These were tribal chiefs of Hill and Lake, Mountain and Plains, Forest and River. Names that had meant nothing in generations. Better to call them Squalor and Famine, Death and Dying, Lickspittle and Fear.
Follow them, please. Make sure they don’t cause trouble. Warn me if they do.
His fylgja looked at him and yawned, then grew a spined tail expressly so she could twitch it at him. He sighed and suppressed the urge to rub his temples.
She settled onto his shoulder. All six? How am I supposed to do that? And what does ‘trouble’ mean?
He bowed to the clan chiefs as they pooled on the wide platform outside the door. As high shaman of the Jotunn, he was second in rank only to the Skrymir. These chiefs knew it, but they still treated him like a mere tribal shaman. But he didn’t mind. Sometimes it was better to appear less than he was.
Figure it out. You know our plans. If they speak out against them or conspire with each other, let me know.
Without the continued support of these six men and women, the plan he and the Skrymir had hatched would never succeed. So he played to their egos. The stupid ones—Lake’s chief was the best example—took his bow as deference. The suspicious ones inclined their heads to him in return. Of those, Hill’s chief was the least trustworthy. Her tribe had profited the most from trade with the Aesir.
All the chiefs but one tromped down the steps and onto the path toward the city and, he assumed, their respective dwellings. Unless any chose to meet by themselves in secret.
Lake, however, stepped forward, bulky in his furs, his lean face deeply lined and burned nearly red by many winters wind and cold. “What do you have to report, shaman?”
He’s kind of an idiot, isn’t he? observed his fylgja.
Vafthrudnir replied in the hand language. “The Skrymir awaits my report, chief.”
Lake scowled and replied, long fingers dancing. “I know what he wants, but it was my tribe that attacked Háls.”
“I would’ve thought your shaman would have reported by now.”
“She did. Their initial attack succeeded, and they’d spun ships to finish the Aesir. We haven’t heard anything since.”
“That’s because Ama’s failed. The warband you sent has by now been destroyed.”
Lake’s icy expression cracked. “What do you mean?”
He is an idiot.
“The Aesir killed Ama and the warband he led,” Vafthrudnir said, his fingers moving more slowly. “All of them. If you’ll excuse me, I must inform the Skrymir.” 
He gave a quick nod and then pushed past the chief—then stopped as if he’d forgotten to say something. Which he hadn’t, of course. “Oh, and chief? Ygg has returned. Long before he was expected. I’m sure you know what that means for our people, especially considering that Jotunn axes—your tribe’s axes—just felled several hundred Aesir. I hope your desire to reclaim honor lost long ago has not destroyed our people’s last best chance at escape.”
He gave a quick nod, set gloved hand upon cold iron, and hauled the door open.
His hand is on his axe. And the way he’s glaring at you right now...
Kill him if it clears his belt.
Vafthrudnir paused in the doorway, then, without haste, stepped through and shoved it shut behind him.
Well, he obviously reconsidered. Too bad, really. Following people is such a waste of my gifts.
See where he goes. Stay with him if it’s interesting. If not, find the other chiefs.
Fimbulthul leaped from his shoulder, shifted into a blob of tentacles floating on wispy wings before passing back through the closed door.
The Skrymir’s bellow came a heartbeat later. “What now?”
Vafthrudnir went in, affecting Lake’s imperious tone. “Skrymir, I wanted a private word about how you’re setting the other chiefs against me.”
The Skrymir’s hall was wide and high-roofed. Aside from the entryway, it was dimly lit. The sections on either side of the entry were the Skrymir’s to use. He slept on one side and worked on the other, meeting with the chiefs and charting the course of their people.
And grim work it had been for a very long time, for them both. It helped that they’d been friends even before their parents had set them before the rising of Muspell’s sparks. 
The Skrymir had his back to the door and was yelling over his shoulder as he urinated into a bucket. “Rán’s wet, saggy tits, Lake, if they’re against you it’s your own fault—for what you’ve done. Don’t expect me to support your stupidity.” All the other Jotunn used communal jakes since the urine was used to tan hides. As the chief of chiefs this was one privilege the Skrymir accepted, but he still carried his own bucket down to the tanner.
“You still need my support, Skrymir, I don’t appre—”
The Skrymir finished and spun around, a scowl on his broad face. When he saw who it was, he blew out a breath and grinned. “You bastard, Vaft. I thought I’d have to waste more of my morning with that dimwit.”
“A dangerous one,” he replied and then switched to signing. “I asked Fimbulthul to follow him.”
The Skrymir grunted and gestured toward the chairs clustered around the single lit hearth set deeper in the hall. The hall’s back wall was mountain stone itself, into which had been shaped wide tunnels that led down into larger caverns where it was somewhat safer to speak aloud. Up here, though, they mostly used the Jotunn hand language.
Once they were seated, the Skrymir’s fingers began dancing. “So Ama’s attack on Vithi has failed.”
Vafthrudnir nodded and related what he’d seen, ending with the most important news. “And, even better, Ygg has returned. Now we’ll have to—”
“I know,” the Skrymir said aloud. A grin broke across his face, shedding a hundred winters’ worth of worries. He struck the arm of his chair before signing, “It’s great news.”
So the spies in Gladsheim had reported back while he was observing Ama’s destruction. “How is any of this good news? We needed Ygg to stay away until after Midwinter at least.”
“I know, but I think it solves our supply problem.”
“Sure it does. The Aesir march on Jotunheim within the week, or maybe the Thunderer arrives tomorrow and brings the mountain down on our hovels. No need for supplies if most of us are dead.”
The Skrymir smirked, shook his head and reached for a jug of ale —passing over the wine—and poured two cups. “None of that will happen. Not that quickly, at least.”
Now that the trade route had grown more active, wine had again made an appearance in Jotunheim. The richest chiefs, Hill and River, bought it thinking it somehow implied higher status. He was continually astounded at how petty his people could be. Here they were on the brink of extinction, yet the chiefs still plotted and maneuvered while exulting in their perceived higher status. 
Before handing him the cup, the Skrymir signed, “We already needed another month to get more supplies. I think we can use Ama’s attack to buy us that time.”
Vafthrudnir accepted the offered cup. Then he set it down to sign, “They’re never going to believe the ‘rogue tribe’ excuse. We’ve used it too many times.”
“All we need is to buy a few nights until Loki strikes.”
“I don’t see how tha—”
The Skrymir raised a hand then signed, “We don’t attack at Midwinter as we agreed. We wait until we’re ready. A month longer, at the most.”
Vafthrudnir snorted. “Loki will balk at that. He’s relying on that attack as a distraction.”
“Yes, but I can be very convincing.”
When he and the Skrymir had been boys, his friend had staggered back from the rising of Muspell’s sparks, frozen and gibbering about a vision granted by one of the wild land disir. He had convinced him the vision was real, that it would happen and that the pair of them could save their people. And a winter later, once Vafthrudnir had also been set before the Rising, he’d come back with a shaman’s gifts. Just as his friend had said would happen.
“You’re going to show him where the doorway in Gladsheim is, aren’t you?” He didn’t relish the idea of sharing too many secrets with Farbauti’s son. Loki had too long a history of double-dealing.
The Skrymir shrugged. “I don’t see that we have another option. Ama’s failure means any new warband we muster now stands a good chance of being noticed by Ygg or Goldtooth. So we play the innocents, which, as I said, will buy us a few nights.”
He frowned and looked down into the fire. Trust Loki still further? Both he and the Skrymir had known Loki before he had sworn a blood oath with Ygg and joined the Aesir. The Jotunn had been holding their own against the Aesir until then. After Loki defected, they’d lost two wars and ended up confined to desolate Utgard.
He looked up at the sound of the Skrymir knocking his knuckles against his chair. “He’s not going to betray us. Not now.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Absolutely. He would’ve done it by now. He already knows enough to wreck everything. And he’s the one who approached us, remember?”
Of course he remembered. Who approached whom wasn’t the issue. Nor was his problem a faulty memory.
“I have to offer something in exchange for delaying our attack,” the Skrymir continued. “He’ll be risking more than us at first—and trusting us to do what we said. He’ll want something for that.”
But the doorways? A hundred winters of planning and effort hinged on them. Literally all their hope as a people. He signed, “It would be best if I were with you when Loki arrives.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“Because I don’t trust him? He knows that already. I haven’t made a secret of it.”
“How will your distrust help me convince him to go ahead alone?”
It wouldn’t.
“Just don’t show him too many,” he said aloud. Sometimes the hand language just wasn’t forceful enough. And those words were innocent, even if Goldtooth happened to hear them.
“Only a few,” the Skrymir signed, expression grave. “I promise.”
Vafthrudnir switched back to using his hands. “Is he still planning to come here after Ithavoll?”
“Yes. Our spies said that Ithavoll won’t happen until Ygg’s back from Háls, which means we probably gain another night, maybe two, beyond what our play-acting will buy us.”
“Good. That’ll give me a chance to figure out what the chiefs are planning. Lake was more than usually confrontational just now.”
The Skrymir shook his head. “I need you to join Beli and Helveg. He thinks he’s found another doorway.”
“Now’s not really the best time to scout those. I’m needed here more than out there, even if I don’t join the conversation with Loki.”
“And what if this new doorway leads to an even better place than the others? We need every advantage to grapple with the Aesir and win. Besides, Helveg needs snow bears, and their shamans can’t handle that alone. So when you get there, you can help with both.”
Vafthrudnir grunted and stared into his cup of ale. He sent a thought out to Fimbulthul. Anything?
Lake’s being verbally abused by Forest and Plains. Your hands are so expressive sometimes.
What are they saying?
Fimbulthul delivered the mental equivalent of a shrug. Only that they’re distancing themselves from Lake.
When his gaze refocused, he found the Skrymir’s eyes on him, curious. He set the cup down and signed. “Forest and Plains want nothing further to do with Lake.”
The Skrymir clapped his hands. “Perfect. Aside from Lake, we’re united—and he’ll fall in line, too.”
Vafthrudnir gave the slight upward flick of the hands that meant he wanted to talk about something different. “Let’s go over this supply problem. That month you mentioned? I think I can halve it. But my solution, coincidentally, relies on the same doorways you’re going to tell Loki about.”
 
***
Vafthrudnir tapped the map spread out on the table. “We take what we need from here and here,” he said, first pointing at the silver square marking Ifington and then at the one for Gladsheim.
“We don’t have the numbers to hold Ifington long enough,” the Skrymir said.
Not only was Ifington home to thousands of Aesir, but it supplied the Fortress at the Breach with food, drink, and weapons. The Aesir army, led by Tyr and Ullr, maintained a large presence in Ifington as well.
“We won’t need to. Not if we start now,” Vafthrudnir signed.
The people of Ifington, Gladsheim, and all the Aesir towns had been stockpiling food and drink for months in preparation for the Midwinter celebration only a handful of nights distant. Ifington alone probably now held enough supplies to keep ten warbands for a month, maybe longer.
He flipped through the maps until he found the one detailing the long stretch of road between Ifington and the Breach. He tapped the green disk to the east of road among what passed for trees in that section of Utgard.
The Skrymir scowled. “How is that going to work? Even if we load up the merchants, they’ll be expected at the Breach. The whole caravan can’t just vanish.”
“No, but we already have a warband hidden on the other side of this doorway. All we need to d—”
“—is have the warband step through, seize the supplies, and step back.” The Skrymir traced a finger down the long line of the road from the Aesir fortress to the silver square representing Ifington. “That doorway’s completely exposed, though, right? Goldtooth and Ygg—or both—could easily see what we’re doing. Not to mention the possibility of an Einherjar patrol stumbling across us.”
Vafthrudnir raised a finger in the air. “Yes, but our friend has sent the loyal Einherjar elsewhere. And, Ygg is about to be too busy intimidating our envoy while also trying to understand those dreams affecting his son.”
The Skrymir’s frown deepened. He hadn’t won him over yet.
“Here, let me show you the other half of my idea.” He flipped back to the detailed map of Gladsheim. It had taken their spies months to get enough information to map the buildings and streets. He tapped a square inked into the thin hide right beside a red-painted silver square in what the Aesir called the Lower Tier. “We can also steal supplies from this storehouse. It’s one street away from the building where the doorway is. A building which our friend controls. Getting in and out of the storehouse—”
The Skrymir held up a hand. “I can see loading up our caravans in Ifington. We won’t be discovered there, given our allies’ help. But to do the same in Gladsheim itself? To anyone paying attention, it’ll be like watching ants marching back to their mound.”
“It’s risky,” Vafthrudnir said. “But it’s Midwinter. Thralls moving supplies through the city are already a common sight. A few more doing the same shouldn’t attract any notice. We also don’t need to rush it. We can seize the bulk of them later. But the more in the storehouse now, the smoother things will go later.”
“It’s a risk.”
He met his oldest friend’s gaze. The Skrymir knew the problem as well as he did. It was taking longer than either of them had expected to reclaim the supplies from beneath the frozen lakes, and so much of what they had pulled out was ruined. They just didn’t have enough food for both the colonies and all the warbands. Unless they piled another risk atop all the others they’d taken.
The Skrymir gave a mirthless smile and gestured at the maps. “You trust all those who’ll handle this?”
“Absolutely.”
The Skrymir stared at him for a long moment. “Do you remember when we stood beneath the night sky all those winters past?”
Of course he did. All of this had begun on that night, the last of several in the brutal cold. He waited.
“The great glory of Muspell’s sparks had just cleared the mountains, Ymir’s chill lights above us. You remember what I said to you then?”
How could he forget?
The Skrymir rapped the table and gestured at the maps. “Go ahead with it. We’ve risked more before this. And we will again before it’s all over.”
Vafthrudnir grinned. Their entire plan was one wobbly stone of risk stacked upon another. He wouldn’t let them fall now. 

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 21 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. For those of you at home keeping track that chapter was nearly 3,500 words long.

We met Vafthrudnir — or Vaft to his friends…and when he’s playing online games. Vafthrudnir is the High Shaman of the Jotunn. He, too, has a fylgja…a familiar…a disir. It should be obvious that their relationship is a little different from the one between Vidar and his fylgja. 

We also get a glimpse of Jotunn society and their nefarious plans. 

Please take a few moments and rate and/or review the podcast — that provides valuable feedback for me and helps boost the show’s visibility. As does sharing it.

And if you’re so inclined, shoot me an email at mattbishopwrites@gmail.com.

I’d love to hear from you.
  
As always, I’m going to read from the Havamal, sayings of the High One, Odin himself.

I’m reading from both the Bellows and the Larrington translations


Bellows, Verse 21

The herds know well when home they shall fare,
And then from the grass they go;
But the foolish man his belly's measure
Shall never know aright.


Larrington, Verse 21

Cattle know when they ought to go home, and then they leave the pasture;
but the foolish man never figures the measure of his own stomach.


Thanks for listening.