INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 26 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.

Today, we’re back with Vidar. The last time we were with him, he’d just been questioned by his half-brother Baldr regarding the attack on Hals. We also get to see Odin from Vidar’s perspective and we dive a little deeper into what makes Vidar tick.


Let’s do this.

Chapter Twenty-Six
Vidar
Squinting against the brightness, Vidar straightened outside the tent. His muscles ached, but Baldr’s elixir continued working its magic. He felt stronger with every passing moment.
The cold air, heavy with wood smoke, burned in his lungs. He found himself in a makeshift camp comprised of a few dozen black tents arranged in circles around large fires. A cooking pot hung above the nearest fire. On the broad back of a chill wind rode the simmering smell of onion, garlic, and boar flesh— a typical Einherjar stew—along with the muted clatter of rattling pots rattling, weapons being sharpened, men laughing and horses whickering.
Those sounds fell away, though, as the nearby warriors noticed him—and then rose to acknowledge him. Like that long tense moment when the strain comes on the anchor’s rope, time slowed. He felt the weight of his warriors’ regard, saw the respect in their eyes and felt, more strongly than ever, the absence of those he’d failed to save. Gravely, he returned the salute of those he had.
Odin’s gloved hand fell on Vidar’s shoulder; the anchor jerked free. Time resumed.
His father spoke quietly in his ear. “And now you have an inkling of how it feels.”
Vidar stepped out from under his father’s hand. “When did you return, Father?”
“Just in time, of course. You did well, son.” Odin’s genuine smile stole some of the sting he heard in the unsaid words—that he’d lost control of his fylgja. 
“All right, you lazy oafs,” Garilon shouted, approaching through the loose assemblage of warriors, kicking those who didn’t move quite fast enough. “Get some warm food in your bellies, the tents broken down and your gear in order. We’ll be riding out before long.”
Garilon halted a few respectful paces away, but Odin waved him closer. To Vidar Garilon presented a large bundle of spare leather armor, along with a heavy wool overtunic and another cloak. An axe with its belt lay over it all. “Fresh from your packs, Jarl. Well, most of it. And if I may, it’s good to see you back on your feet.”
Vidar nodded his thanks and accepted the bundle. “Good to be seen, Garilon.”
He felt his father’s disapproval at the familiarity like heat on his neck. He ignored it. He knew he had a lot to learn, but some familiarity with his kjolr—the man who’d held the warband together when Vidar hadn’t—was the least of his worries. Vidar donned his armor quickly, welcoming the added warmth of the overtunic, and finished by buckling the wide belt around his waist and sliding the scabbarded axe into a comfortable position.
“Apologies for the axe, Jarl. Your sword was lost.”
“That’s all right, Kjolr. Better to have something than nothing,” he said patting the axe’s head. “How are wounded doing? And what have I missed?”
The tent flap pushed out, and Baldr emerged, blinking, into the sunlight.
“Extremely well, Jarl,” Garilon said, with a respectful nod to Baldr. “Your brother’s worked wonders.”
Baldr bowed slightly in acknowledgment. “Speaking of the wounded, I’m off to check on them.” And without another word he headed toward a trio of black tents to the left of the central campfire.
“I’ll join you shortly, Baldr,” Vidar called after him.
Baldr raised a hand in acknowledgment and ducked into the first tent.
“As for what you missed, Jarl,” Garilon continued, “well, there’s quite a bit. If you’re feeling up to a walk afterward, it might be easier to show you.”
Vidar looked at his father. “Will you be joining us?”
Odin grunted. His sharp features were impassive, and his eyes were deeply shadowed even in the bright sunlight. The sun glinted in the silver bands plaiting his grizzled beard. “Lead on. You and I need to speak, but we can do so afterward.”
Vidar frowned inwardly. Baldr had warned him.
He turned back to Garilon. The kjolr couldn’t have missed Odin’s implication or Vidar’s body language, but his face remained inscrutable. Natural enough, given that the last place he likely wanted to be was caught in a battle of wills between father and son.
“Well, Kjolr, lead on. The wounded’s tent first, and then where you will.”
“Very good, Jarl.”
 
***
 
Vidar dismounted onto trampled grasses and followed Garilon across the red-stained earth, frozen into an ankle-twisting sea of peaks and valleys. Odin trailed behind them, his eyes on the sky and a pair of circling birds more than the battlefield.
Squinting against Sól’s glare, Vidar forced himself to take it all in: six rough lines of mangled corpses, limbs twisted, heavy-browed faces frozen in pain or fear, more like hewn trees than the men they’d been. Almost without exception, the bodies had been savaged—great gaping rents in their flesh, white bone protruding, backs broken, limbs missing.
Wings clattering, his father’s massive ravens landed on the dead and stabbed their beaks into the frozen flesh. Vidar glanced at his father, who returned the look impassively.
He knew what his father was thinking. These were the enemy. The Jotunn had attacked, slaughtered Aesir and destroyed Háls.
But he, Vidar, had done this. He’d torn these warriors apart. His fylgja had, really, but it had been his body. His lack of control had made this happen.
Garilon stepped up beside him. “This is what the Alfather and I wanted to show you.” He thumped his boot into the eyeless corpse of a middle-aged Jotunn male whose belly had been clawed open. His shaved head was covered in blue, swirling tattoos, bright against the ashen skin, that showed he’d likely been a shaman.
Vidar squatted to look at the unfamiliar crossed spears pattern beneath the knot of tight, flowing swirls. “Lake Tribe, but I don’t recognize the clan markings.”
“We don’t either, Jarl,” Garilon said.
“Which means we can expect the Skrymir to claim it was some ‘rogue tribe’ that attacked us,” his father said. “Have your sweeps found any other Jotunn, Kjolr?”
“Not yet, Sigfather,” Garilon said. “We’ve been moving slowly, not wanting to overextend ourselves before the reinforcements arrive.”
“Reinforcements?” Vidar asked.
“Yes, Jarl. A full warband’s on its way from Vithi, and the Sigfather’s directed the Einherjar to remain and assist us.” Garilon gestured toward the white-shouldered mountains. “This morning, I sent a heavy patrol into the mountains. Trygg’s leading ’em. I’m hopeful they’ll find something despite the fresh snow up there.”
“Are they headed up the mining road?”
“Yes, Jarl, to the camp. If nothing’s there, Trygg’ll backtrack to where he and Rikr, Aegir keep him, cut trail through the forest the first time they were up there.”
Vidar nodded. That had only been, what, three nights ago? Already it felt as if more than a week had passed.
“Seems you have things well in hand, Kjolr. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Jarl. My pleasure to serve.”
“What of the town itself and their dead? From here, it looks as if the town is basically destroyed.”
“It is, Jarl. A few of the homes furthest from the northern entrance weren’t touched by fire, but I doubt any of the townsfolk will want to live in them. Fear of draugr.”
Vidar gave him a questioning look. “Why draugr?”
Garilon pursed his lips, looked sideways at him and away again. “Well, Jarl, some of the townsfolk died at the town’s northern gate. The ground was too disturbed to tell—may Aegir preserve and protect them—whether they were dragged there and killed or if they held the gate while the rest fled.”
Vidar stood blinking in Sól’s light, disbelieving what he’d heard. His fists clenched, and he felt his face growing warm. His people might have been executed?
“I want to see where it happened.”
“With respect, Jarl, there’s nothing to see. We removed the bodies and said the words,” Garilon said. “But, certainly, we can ride to—”
Odin stepped forward. “No, we don’t have time for that. We’ve spent too much time on this already.”
Vidar’s temper flared, but his father raised a hand palm outward. “I need you back with me in Gladsheim, Vidar.”
Vidar forced his anger down past his pounding heart and gave a Garilon a tight smile. “Thank you, Kjolr. Please give me a few moments alone with the Sigfather. I’ll be with you shortly.”
Garilon touched his brow in salute. “Of course, Jarl. I’ll wait with the horses.”
 
***
 
“Why is it you need me back in Gladsheim, Father?” Vidar was careful to keep his tone respectful. He stood facing Odin, hands gripped behind his back.
“Two reasons. The first is related to the reason Frigg called me back—the dreams Baldr’s been having. Did he mention them to you?”
He shook his head. He wasn’t about to mention the dream he’d had of a burning Baldr in a flaming ship. He wanted to stay here and figure out what happened and how the Jotunn got to Háls, not return to Gladsheim at his father’s heel.
Odin raised an eyebrow. “He said nothing at all of the dreams?”
He shook his head again. “He asked me questions. Some of which you heard.”
“A simpler man might think you were avoiding my question, Vidar.”
He grinned, spread his hands, and met his father’s gray gaze. “What else can I say? No, he did not say anything about dreams he was having.”
His father grunted and nodded. “All right, son. I pushed because Frigg’s visions are returning. She won’t say exactly what she’s seeing, but she’s worried. And she’s already spent several months trying to figure out why Baldr’s dreams are happening. Nor can Freyja figure them out.”
“So this why you’re back after twenty winters gone?”
His father nodded.
Again, his temper flared. “Because of dreams? Others here, myself included, could have benefited from your presence before now.”
He gestured at the lines of corpses. “Maybe I wouldn’t have done this.”
Odin snorted. “They’re the ones who attacked—and they killed at least three times their number.”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” though of course it was, at least in part. “I lost control. She took over. If you’d spent more time training me...”
 “Vidar, there comes a point with all baresarks when the only thing left to learn cannot be taught.”
“So all baresarks end up doing what I did?”
Odin smiled. “Well, usually not with such practical benefit. But we all have lost control, usually within the first few winters of becoming a baresark. It’s like riding a mad stallion toward a cliff so hidden in the mists that you can’t see where the edge is. Maybe you stop in time, maybe you don’t. If the baresark plunges off the cliff, the fylgja takes over. Unlike the falling man, the baresark doesn’t die. Usually. The shifted baresark is contained by his brothers and sisters until the fylgja spends its strength. Then the baresark reasserts control, this time with the knowledge of exactly where that cliff’s edge is. After that, a baresark doesn’t usually lose control again.”
He frowned. “Far too many ‘usually-s’ and ‘typically-s’ in that explanation, Father. But what you’re saying is that once the fylgja ran out of people to devour, I would have reverted.”
“Oh no, that’s not what I meant at all,” Odin said with a grin. He clapped Vidar on the shoulder. “But you’re here and whole, so why dwell on it?”
So he would’ve stayed shifted, a thrall to his fylgja? He pushed the notion of it away. “It would’ve been nice to have been told all this before the disir and I were bound together.”
“Yes, I’m sure it would’ve been. But I don’t tell any baresarks. They all learn it the hard way. I did. And if I’d told you, would you have pushed as hard in that fight as you did? There’s a balance point for everything, son. Too much caution or too much risk—either can end in ruin. Finding that balance takes practice, and it’s something you must figure out on your own.”
Vidar knew that he was cautious by nature. He preferred having time to reflect and plan and test before committing to a course of action. But he couldn’t do that with a fylgja. Dealing with her was a never-ending wrestling match with immediate consequences.
He peered inward at the magic binding his fylgja. Three knots pulsed above her body—head, heart, and belly. “So why make her sleep?”
“She wreaked havoc with your body and spirit, your hamr and hugr,” his father said. “Grappling with her before you regain your strength would be stupid. I tied those knots so that you could undo them. When you are ready. Or when you must.”
Vidar pushed off the depths of his mind and shot upward. “And there’s nothing else you can teach me about how to deal with her?”
“You know where the cliff is now, Vidar. Nor are you blind to what the disir can truly do to you. You either stop short...”
“... or fall off,” he finished.
 
***
 
“I left it in Vithi. No reason to bring it with me. It doesn’t work.” Vidar glanced sidelong at his father. “You think that’s what Baldr was hinting about?”
“It makes more sense than the Jotunn sneaking across Asgard just to assault a skymetal mine,” Odin replied.
Vidar clucked his tongue, urging Hrimfaxi forward. He and his father were riding slowly back to camp. “Those mines closer to the Breach are much better defended than Háls, so coming here makes some sense. But having snuck here successfully, it seems foolish to burn the town, much less allow a messenger to escape.”
“Which is why Baldr was hinting at that device as their motivation. He must suspect you have it, so he’s leaped to the conclusion that the Jotunn were after it.”
More than fifty winters ago, his father had given him a scorched and broken fragment of a device the Jotunn had been caught using in the forest just north of Gladsheim. His assignment had been to figure out what the device did.
Vidar’s stomach soured. All this couldn’t have been over that device, could it? Had he brought this attack down on Háls? “You think that prompted this attack?”
“I don’t know,” his father said. “What do you think?”
“I have no idea what it does, so I can’t really guess at the value the Jotunn place on it. Or even how they know where it is.”
“They have their spies, I’m sure, as do we. Though the amount of time that’s passed since they lost this…thing…argues against that explanation. Only their very oldest would even remember it—or perhaps care.”
Vidar rubbed Hrimfaxi’s reins between thumb and fingers. “Unless it were extremely valuable. Then they’d probably put more effort into finding it.”
“But you’ve had no success in figuring out what it does, so we can’t even say that, can we?”
How could he have known a damaged relic might hold a secret valuable enough to go to war over? “No, we can’t. And as I said back then, it was extremely unlikely that I could figure out its purpose from one fragment—unless that fragment was the critical piece.”
“Which, by your expression, I assume it was not,” Odin said.
“I don’t think so, no,” he said. “Even knowing what it looked like before it was broken and burned might have helped, but...”
“So what have you figured out?”
He sighed in frustration. “Little enough.”
The thing—the relic—was as long as his forearm and made of heavy, polished ironwood. He had recast the partially melted gold setting that had topped one end and replaced the cracked red gem it had held. He’d also replaced a dozen golden strands, as fine as Sif’s hair, that ran from the setting through the hollow center and, because the device was broken, dangled from the end partially melted together and scorched from the fire it had been rescued from.
“When I finished rebuilding all I could, I twisted the setting—it was designed to be turned—and it clicked.”
Odin looked hard at him for a long moment. “That’s it? Just a click?”
He nodded. “It was like the sound a sword makes when its cross guard strikes the scabbard’s throat.”
“And when did you discover this?”
He pursed his lips and looked skyward, eyes tracking the sparse clouds without really seeing them. “I finished reassembling the device right after the Harvest Council at Ithavoll. So several full moons ago.”
His stomach twisted again as he saw in his mind’s eye the route the Jotunn might have taken across northern Asgard from the Breach assuming they got past the fortress and snuck around Ifington’s bustle. Once in Asgard, it would’ve been relatively easy to avoid the few settlements along Asgard’s rugged northern coast. And if they’d finally found a harbor in Utgard, traveling by ship to Asgard would’ve been simple enough.
But still, why burn Háls? All that did was invite attention. If they’d marched here undetected, then they probably could have reached his city, Vithi itself, without being discovered.
Odin was still looking at him intently. “And you haven’t touched it since?”
He shook his head. “I set it aside. Other things to do.”
“And you felt nothing when it clicked? No seidr or anything else?”
What else was there? “No, Father.”
Odin grunted. “Well, several moons was probably enough time for them to get here. Maybe they slipped a pair of ships through, or they marched across, somehow avoiding the patrols at the Breach.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Vidar said, and then he swore. “Could this have been a diversion?”
It made sense. Attacking Háls—and doing it slowly, allowing some folk to escape so that a warning would be sent—meant that word would get to Vithi. As jarl, he would, of course, muster a warband and ride out quickly. The Jotunn might guess that more warriors would follow behind such a fast-riding warband.
He was about to put heel to Hrimfaxi when his father reached out. “Hold a moment, son. Garilon and I had the same thought. We’ve had more time to think about it than you, after all. Freki and Geri haven’t found anything. I sent them ranging back toward Vithi. Nor have my ravens seen anything either.”
“And Heimdall hasn’t seen or heard anything?”
Odin snorted. “He can’t see the end of his nose, let alone hear more than the boom of an empty cask.”
So, no. His uncle’s increasing drunkenness over the past dozen winters had become legendary. Given his father’s feelings about imbibing overmuch, he’d known how his father would respond—which now gave him an opportunity to argue against returning to Gladsheim at his father’s behest like some trailing duckling. 
He wanted to follow the Jotunn’s trail wherever it led. He needed to. Making sure that happened meant being a little devious—no matter how unused to it he might be.
“Of course,” Vidar said.
Odin continued. “Freki and Geri are keeping the road between here and Vithi clear so we can retrieve that device. If a Jotunn warband has somehow avoided their noses and attacked Vithi, we’ll make short work of them when we arrive. From there, it’s back to Gladsheim and quickly.”
Now or never, then. “Speaking of that, Father, I feel it’s my duty to stay here and figure out how the Jotunn got here.”
Odin shook his head. “Garilon is more than capable of leading that effort. I’m leaving some Einherjar behind to help in the search. If they find something, even under all this snow, they’ll send a bird. You can return then if it makes sense.”
Vidar kept any hint of challenge from his voice. “That’s of course true. Garilon is quite capable. But if there is another warband here, mine will need me.”
“Is that so?” his father said, clucking his tongue and reining in.
Vidar did the same. The Einherjar trailing them stopped a respectful distance away.
He met his father’s flat gray eyes. “Let’s say that within a few nights, at least, we find where the Jotunn trail leads—or at least a good indication. My guess is they’ll be in an even more remote place than Háls. Garilon will have to send a bird, since Heimdall’s unreliable. Say, two nights for the bird to reach Gladsheim and then at least that long for me to meet up with him. That’s nearly a week wasted.”
“Thor could be there much more quickly.”
“True, but he’s not always in Gladsheim, especially with Midwinter approaching. He’s mostly been in Thrudheim. Even so, say it takes Thor a night to get to wherever Garilon is. In that time, the Jotunn could slip away—or wipe out my warband and whatever Einherjar are with them. But if I’m with them...”
Despite his father’s frown, he forged ahead. “But if I’m there, I can make an immediate decision based on whatever we find. It’ll probably just be a trail that leads over the mountains or back east toward the Breach. But what if there’s another warband up in the mountains? Or in the forest? I don’t want to lose a few hundred warriors, Father. With respect, I believe my duty’s with them.”
So there it was, his best argument for staying here. Logical and pragmatic. Even so, his father’s eyes remained as unreadable as cold, wind-blasted stone.
After several pounding heartbeats, Odin replied. “All right, Vidar, you’ve convinced me. But if I send my ravens or wolves, you’ll need to return immediately.”
“Absolutely, Father. Thank you.” Then a thought leaped like a fish from water. “If I had that charm you used to ride so swiftly to my aid, I could return that much more quickly when I’m needed.”
Odin barked a laugh. “All right, Vidar. You’ll have it.”

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 26 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. For those of you keeping track, that chapter was nearly 3700 words. 

We were with Vidar as he found out what happened to Hals and what he did to the Jotunn war band. And what he plans to do next.	

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


This verse — which continues in the same vein as those read last week — is another good example of why it can be valuable to use different translations. Which is what I’m doing this week by adding a “as literal as possible” translation by Kodratoff in addition to the usual Bellows and Larrington versions

I’m including all these translation b/c I found (and still find) them confusing, so this process here echoes what I did when first reading the Poetic Edda. 

Bellows, Verse 26

An ignorant man thinks that all he knows,
When he sits by himself in a corner;
But never what answer to make he knows,
When others with questions come.

Larrington, Verse 26

The foolish man thinks he knows everything if he cowers in a corner;
he doesn’t know what he can say in return
if people ask him questions.

Kodratoff, Verse 26

An unwise person thinks himself as all-knowing
if he owns a wretched shelter.
He does not know to hit (on the idea) of what to say to others if people try him.


I have no idea why this verse stresses someone being in a “corner” or “shelter” … except to maybe suggest that being wise (for lack of a better word) requires people to interact with each other. To test their minds against others as warriors test each on the battlefield.

But that’s just what I think. What do you think?

 

Thanks for listening.