INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 22 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 22, 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 gone 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 the last chapter we met Vafthrudnir, high shaman of the Jotunn. He had apparently been watching the battle outside Hals — remember those circling hawks? — before returning to Jotunheim to meet the chiefs of the major Jotunn clans and then have a confab with the Skrymir — high chief of the Jotunn — to discuss their nefarious plans, which involve Loki. 

There was a lot packed into that chapter — let me know what you think of it, and Vaft, by rating and/or reviewing the podcast or by sending me an email.

Thanks to those of you who’ve purchased my books. It is greatly appreciated. And thanks to my buddy Kevin who’s been hugely supportive of this audio endeavor and keeps finding my errors. Thanks dude!

Let’s do this.

Chapter Twenty-Two
Hodr
Hodr’s foot thumped against the step on the low platform separating what Alara called the serving table from the rest of the way house. He reached out with his right hand to find the cool oak of the casks. With his left, he found the table’s smooth, warm wood. Farther down, the stoneware cups sat in neat rows. Still farther was the door to where the cooks worked—mostly women and thralls who did nothing except cook simple foods and serve them to the traders in the large common room.
Alara’s parents had built the way house, which was basically an oversized longhouse adapted to the needs of the traders constantly passing through Ifington rather than those of a single family.
“Master Hodr, I didn’t see you come in,” the thrall said.
“Nor I you,” he replied, then held a hand up to forestall the stammered, cringing apology. “Finish what you were doing. I’ll take over.”
“Yes, Master Hodr.”
Head cocked, he listened to the sound of beer pouring into the cups. They scraped and clinked as they were placed on the platters. And he heard the distinct swish of Alara’s dress and her laugh, a bird’s feathers on the air, as she approached the table where he stood.
“I’m finished, Master,” the thrall said.
“Fine. Go see Cook. I’m sure she needs help.” He began setting a few stoneware cups in a neat row by his right hand. It was easy enough to reach behind him, but he liked having a reference point on the table.
“Hodr, you didn’t need to work this evening,” Alara said. The delight in her voice brought a smile to his face.
“I know, but I enjoy it. And there’s little enough I do around here otherwise.”
“Mucking out the stables doesn’t count? I think the traders here would disagree. As would I.”
Hodr heard the heavy, uneven steps of a drunk trader approaching. A moment later, the man’s hot bulk rocked the neat row of cups he had arranged.
The man thumped the table. “So my friend, what does your nose tell about the weather? Will the seas be smooth for my trip home?”
Hodr nodded his head toward the voice. “The air smells dry, Rollo. But I hear the wind building in the west. If you sail tomorrow, you’ll have a swift passage. After that, I expect storms.”
“It always amazes me how you know it’s me,” Rollo said. He slapped the table, and his laugh, thick and wet, turned into a cough.
Alara touched Hodr’s hand. “I need three cups of beer.”
Recovered, Rollo set down the cups he’d brought. “I could use a couple more myself.”
Hodr felt for the cups, turned to the casks behind him, and began filling the cups.
“You should charge us traders for asking your man here about the weather,” Rollo said to Alara. “Three winters I’ve been staying here. He hasn’t been wrong once. Even saved my ship one winter.”
“That’ll be one silver then, Rollo,” Hodr said, turning back with the cups in hand.
A coin clinked down. “A bargain.”
“We can’t accept that, Rollo,” Alara said. “That’s as much as you’d pay to stay for three nights.”
“Maybe, but if it saves me a shipment or gets me home safe, it’s coin well spent.” Rollo picked up his cups and slid a step closer to where Alara stood. “Those new way houses being built, mistress, they look nice. Big. But I’ll keep staying here because of my friend’s nose, and because I like it. Not all the caravaners are like me, though, especially the new ones. I don’t make these trips from Gladsheim to Vanaheim and back again for my health. Take it from me—I’ve figured out what folk want, what I can provide, and then I deliver it. You’ve the same thing here.”
And then he was off, staggering back into the crowd of traders.
Hodr could almost hear the thoughtful expression on Alara’s face. He turned away to fill the cups she’d requested.
When he turned back, she touched his hand again. “You know he means well, right?”
He shrugged. “Sure. It’s fine. We can talk later. It’s not a bad idea, really.”

***

All evening, Hodr listened to Alara’s quick step across the inn’s floor. Each footfall cut through the shouts and laughs of the caravaners having a last meal under a roof before taking to the road. Ships came in from the east along the coast from Vanaheim and Alvheim and unloaded their cargo onto the wagons headed south to Gladsheim. The caravaners would set off before dawn and would arrive back before Midwinter, assuming fair weather. Most had their own homes and families to reach, where they would remain through the rest of the winter.
And through it all, Alara’s feet moved lightly, quickly, surely, between the tables. A pause there to drop off a platter, three strides to the next table, a dozen back to him.
“Three more cups of ale,” she said. And then she was gone again to answer a hail from another table.
Hodr reached right and picked up the first cup. Then he turned around, found the middle keg—he had notched it—and moved his hand to the right for the ale keg. He couldn’t do that much around the inn to help, but he could pour drinks.
“Good morning, sir.” The voice behind him itched at Hodr’s memory. “I’ll have some of that honeyed mead when you’re done there, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Just a moment.” He finished pouring the third cup and set it down with the others.
“I’m off to Jarnstadr tomorrow,” the man said.
“Cup or horn?” Hodr asked. The horns held about twice as much, but they cost twice as much, too. 
“A horn,” the man said.
He waited for the scratch of coins on the table before him.
“Just have it added to my bill,” the man said. “I’m good for it.”
Hodr tapped the table with a thumb. “Rule is, you come to my table, you pay at my table.”
“But I’m through here all the time. I’m Lopt, the smith. You’ve seen me before. So has the mistress.”
“Not I,” Hodr said, shaking his head, even as he remembered the man’s voice.
“What? This is my second trip this winter alone—” Lopt cleared his throat. “Ah, I s—ahem—well, I meant no offense. Just a turn of phrase.”
Hodr heard a coin click down on the table. He picked it up and ran his thumb around the edge and across the face. There were several types of copper coins in use, each with its own weight and markings he could discern despite being blind.
He held the coin up. “You get two horns for this weight, if you want.”
Lopt slapped the table. “Well, all right, if that’s the case then tell you what, why don’t you join me? Consider it an apology for the offense I gave, unintended though it was. As I said, I’m through here a lot.”
Hodr pocketed the coin, felt for where the horns hung from hooks behind the table, and poured the smith a drink. He held the horn out. Lopt’s warm calloused fingers brushed his own as he accepted the horn. 
“That’s kind, but I don’t drink while I’m working.” He forced a grin and held up a hand, which he made tremble. “Need a steady hand for the pour. Mistress gets angry if I whet the floor’s thirst.”
Alara’s laughter floated above the din, and then he heard her quick, approaching step.
“No? Well, have it later then.” The smith’s voice dropped a notch, and Hodr felt the man fade back a pace.
He heard the whisper of Alara’s fingers on the tray he’d loaded with cups of ale. “Talking about me?” The smile in her voice was warm sunshine.
“Only good things, Mistress,” Hodr said. The worn heel of her left boot scraped against the floor as she spun and left.
“Better be,” she called back.
“The Norns smiled on you,” Lopt said.
“How’s that, then?” Hodr asked.
After a pause, Lopt said, “I give offense again, I see. Also unintended. I meant only that she’s lovely and obviously cares for you.” Hodr heard the man take a sip. “Good thing I’m not at my forge this morning. Having made this many mistakes with my mouth, Aegir only knows how many fingers I’d have hammered flat by now.”
Alara’s laughter drifted through the sea of voices. Hodr shook his head and offered his arm to Lopt. “I can hear an insult when one’s intended. I know you meant none. I’m at fault for being too prickly. I’m Hodr.”
“A pleasure,” Lopt said, clasping Hodr’s arm with a wrist and forearm corded with muscle. “I run a smithy in the village a day’s ride east. I make weapons for the Einherjar.”
“You’ve come through a few times this past year,” Hodr said.
“Every few winters the Einherjar doubles or triples its order, and my sons and I forge enough to make Svartalvar proud and then run ourselves ragged delivering everything. This winter, my eldest’s expecting his firstborn. I told him to stay home. Nothing quite like seeing your child take their first breath. My youngest son got his leg broke by one of our horses. Bit wild, that one—the horse, I mean—but strong. Pulls twice what the others do.”
Hodr swirled his rag across the tabletop. “I’m sorry to hear it. He mending?”
“Oh, aye,” Lopt said.
Hodr heard him take a swallow of mead. “I paid for one of those healers who trained at Jarl Baldr’s fregnahol to ride out and fix him up. She’s here in Ifington. Expensive, but the Einherjar pay well.”
Hodr’s reply was delayed by the realization that he hadn’t felt the reflexive twinge of anger he usually did when his brother’s name was mentioned. “I hear those valkyr are quite skilled.”
Lopt snorted. “Not skilled enough. He’s still flat on his back, with me running twice as many carts back and forth to Gladsheim. A bit of rest tonight then dawn will find me well on my way home. Don’t fret I’ll be back this way again a few nights later. Hoping to fit in another trip before Midwinter.”
“Tell you what, I’ll have Cook put some food together for you. For the road.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Lopt said.
“Not so kind,” Hodr said, smiling. He knocked the table with his knuckles and pointed toward the smith. “You overpaid by a few coppers, remember. I’ll make sure she puts some extra in there for you, and I’ll fill a wineskin. Smooth the way between us.”
“Thank you, my friend,” the smith said.
Hodr felt Lopt’s strong, hot hand clasp his shoulder. He felt his smile, too, like the warm sun on his face. Something thawed inside him—and then he wondered why the smith was going out of his way to befriend a blind man pouring drinks in a way house. Was this what a normal life was like? If so, he rather he liked it.

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 22 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it.

We were back with Hodr as he served drinks and chatted with various folks in the way house owned and run by Alara. 

As I mentioned earlier 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 22

A paltry man and poor of mind
At all things ever mocks;
For never he knows, what he ought to know,
That he is not free from faults.

Larrington, Verse 22

He’s a wretched man, of evil disposition,
the one who makes fun of everything;
he doesn’t know the one thing he ought to know: that he is not devoid of faults.

Thanks for listening.