INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 27 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 Hodr. The last time we were with him, he served drinks and chatted with various folks in the way house owned and run by Alara. 

Let’s do this.

Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hodr
Hodr stepped into the stable yard, his spear tapping before him. The air was thick with the sound of carts being readied, traders calling to one another, and horses stomping the ground and blowing, ready to be on the move. One of the thralls must have seen him coming, because his spear did not clunk into what should have been the closed stable door. Indeed, the earthy smell of horse manure and hay was also stronger than it should have been. He touched the chilly wood of the doorframe, heard the familiar creak of Kona’s door open and then the familiar clop of her hooves on the frozen ground.
“Here are the reins, Karl,” the thrall said. He smelled faintly of ale and the oat-crusted bread Cook baked every other morning.
Smooth, worn leather was held against his hand. It smelled of old sweat and horsey earth. “Thank you.” 
He took the reins in his spear hand so that he could stroke Kona’s nose and pat her neck. She’d been with him from the moment he slipped out of Gladsheim all those winters ago.
Reins in one hand now, spear in the other, he said, “All right, Kona, let’s go.” And following her lead, he walked out of the fenced yard surrounding Alara’s hall.
 
***
 
A large, growing city at the tip of the northernmost point of Asgard, Ifington straddled the river Ifing where it emptied into the Great Sea. If Gladsheim was the brilliant central gem of Brisingamen, Freyja’s torc, then Ifington was one of its two complementary jewels—smaller, but still stunning to the eye.
Sometimes as Hodr walked through Ifington on his way to the market, the memories of the battle that had cost him his sight slipped out like rats from a trading ship. The Ifington of then, though, had been far smaller than the spreading trade center of today.
Ifington was built on the bones of the Jotunn settlement it had once been. According to his father, when the Aesir and Jotunn fled in their ships from their homeland, beset as it was by pounding, tall waves, exploding, fiery mountains and wild storms nothing, they had all, for a time, lived in these lands. The Aesir moved further south, leaving behind the constant fighting with the surviving Jotunn, who chose to remain closer to the icy waters of the Thund west of Ifington and the Great Sea, whose waves pounded Ifington’s eastern shores.
Kona’s hooves struck a sharper, harder note. A step later Hodr found his feet on Old Bridge. It was the quickest route to the market, and Kona knew it meant less time before snacking on the traders’ apples and oats.
His scarred eye sockets began to burn, just as they did every time he set foot on this bridge. During the Last War, the remnants of his warband had held this bridge against repeated, vicious Jotunn assaults.
Thor hadn’t been able to help; he’d been fighting the Jotunn who’d braved the failing ice of late winter to run across the Ifing to attempt to gain a foothold on the southern shore. Odin had battled the shamans’ magic while Ullr and Tyr had directed the army while Heimdall had coordinated from the center. Heimdall had seen the pack of snow bears the Jotunn drove toward the bridge Hodr held. Heimdall had heard his cries for reinforcements.
Hodr sucked in the icy air blew out a breath and clucked his tongue. Kona was happy to pick up the pace. Clop-clop, tap-tap across the Old Bridge—which had been new when he’d fought upon it. Since then, two other bridges had joined Old Bridge. Were the Jotunn to attack Ifington again, it would be much harder to stop them reaching what were now commonly called Asgard’s shores.
Kona’s hooves changed tone again as they stepped off the wide ramp onto frozen earth. A riot of voices stormed Hodr’s ears; smells of sizzling fish and other roasting and stewing meats swamped his nose. It had taken weeks before his feet, let alone Kona’s, knew the route to this market and those others dedicated to specific trade goods. One market had even sprung up outside the northern wall, frequented by many Jotunn traders seeking to avoid intrusive searches and petty thefts by the town’s wardens. It had taken still more weeks before Kona could lead him there. Not only was it safer and easier with her, but her broad back was the easiest way to get his purchases back to the way house.
In the bustle of the marketplace, he bumped into quite a few people. He heard their sharp intake of breath as they rounded on him, about to let loose with some invective. He might have learned to hide the slight smile when that same breath faded and they apologized for jostling a blind man, but he had never learned to ignore the stab in his warrior’s heart as he remembered battles he would never again fight.
He’d been strong once, his name known and respected—not like Thor or Tyr, or even Ullr with his bow, but then he’d never had a runeforged weapon to aid him much less the protection Baldr had been given.
He’d just been Hodr, a normal warrior—stronger than most, certainly, but normal just the same. The snow bear’s venom had burned that all away. Neither his father’s magic nor his brother’s healing skills had been able to restore his sight.
“Back again, eh, Hodr?” called Uni in a friendly, familiar tone. “I thought that last catch would last longer.”
“So did we, but the fish was so good that many paid for second helpings,” he replied. He stopped before the trader’s booth and sniffed. “Smells like you’ve more of the same.”
“I do indeed. Loaded a full hold a pair of days ago off the coast east of here and packed them in drift ice. As fresh as can be.”
“Smells like it. I’ll take the same weight as before—and at the same price,” he said, smiling. The haggling was about to begin.
“The same weight I can do, but the same price? It’s even more expensive to get this catch up here now that the rush of Midwinter is upon us. And would you believe the fisherfolk are charging double now? Double!”
Hodr laughed. “Uni, only a moon’s passed since you sold me that first hundredweight. You mean to say that much has changed since then?”
“These fish get harder to catch as winter progresses. They tell me they’re sailing out farther and farther which takes more time. It’s costing them more, so it costs me more—”
“So how much will a hundredweight cost me?” Hodr interrupted.
The trader blew out another breath. “For you, my friend, five silver—good silver, mind you.”
“Five? That’s nearly twice what I paid before. The fish better cook themselves at that price—never mind that the mistress would make me sleep with the pigs if I parted with that much of her silver.”
Hodr heard the creak as Uni leaned against the stout pole of his tent. “I hear business for your mistress has never been better—and that you might well be moving up in the world...”
 
***
 
The best part about living as long as he had was that the Hodr who defended the bridge in the Last War was only a memory to most people. With his name and reputation all but dead, he was just a blind man in a vibrant town, happy to have haggled the merchant down to four silver and two copper.
Kona was less happy. Not only had she left the sweet oats behind, but she had carried the fish and other goods back up the ramp. She’d been a warrior’s horse, not a packhorse.
Alara knew who he was, of course, and loved him despite it. She’d made a place in her life for a warrior who could no longer fight, whose name was lost. She’d stopped trying to convince him he could make a new name that stood for something else. Instead, she’d just shown him what their life together could be like—should be like.
Judging by the familiar sounds around him, they were nearly back at the way house.
“’Ware the horse!”
The cry rang out above the general din of foot traffic, carts, and other horses. All around him, Aesir shouted and scattered. In their haste, several bumped into Hodr. Kona whinnied. Her feet clip-clopped in a quicker cadence than usual. She was between him and the row of trade shops lining the street.
Someone slammed into him. He staggered, caught himself with his spear, and barely avoided hauling Kona’s head down. She whinnied again. Through the reins, he could feel her head turning as she faced the clamor behind them. Her hooves clacked against the cobbles marking the road’s edge.
Not far off, a chorus of voices screamed, “Quick! Grab his halter!” Through his feet, Hodr felt dull, pounding vibrations. They were punctuated by the pattering, thumping sounds of booted folk scattering every which way.
A loud metallic bang sounded behind them, followed by a prolonged rumbling. Kona started and jerked her head up. Someone thudded into him and knocked him in the opposite direction. Kona’s halter ripped free from his hand.
He stumbled forward. His spear caught on something, and he fell. The spear bent and then snapped as his weight came down on it. He hit the ground, and his breath left him in a loud grunt.
Thunderclaps approached, rapid, concussive blows that vibrated through his head. He hauled in a breath and got his hands underneath himself to push back up.
“Pull him back! Pull him—”
It wasn’t thunder, of course, but hammering hooves.
Hodr felt hands grab his legs. He tried to push himself up, but something cracked hard against his head and sent him tumbling. The road stones dug into his back and banged his elbows and knees.
“Sweet blood of the Mother!”
He rolled up against something that smelled of wet wood and lay still. Cold stone dug into one cheek while a hot sheet of blood ran down the other and into his mouth. His stomach twisted and he vomited, the sharp stink reminding him of the battlefield.
More hands pressed against him, one cupped behind his neck, others pulling against his hip and shoulder until he felt the hard stones pressing into his back. A hammer went to work inside his skull.
A deep voice called out, “That’s the blind man who works for Mistress Alara. I’ll fetch her.”
Another voice, closer to him, high and sweet: “You! Get the valkyr.”
The pounding in his head swelled and he vomited again. His throat burned like his face had when the beast’s venom had stolen his sight.
“Roll him back over,” urged one voice while another, more distant, cried out, “What did they do—oh, what did my horse do?”
He knew that voice, but his thoughts slipped away. 

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 27 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. 

We were with Hodr as he ran errands for Alara — and then got trampled when a horse broke loose. One the last few Hodr chapters I’ve been saying that “clarity” regarding his plot line would soon gallop in. Those hooves have arrived.

We also heard a little world building going on, which I’ll summarize here.

In the myths, the river Ifing separates that lands of the Aesir from the lands of the Jotunn. I wanted to incorporate that, so I created Ifington. The suffix “ton” simply means “town.”

There are several bridges within Ifington. One I creatively named “Old Bridge” … which is where Hodr fought in the Last War against the Jotunn — and where his eyes were burned from his skull by the venom of a snow bear. More on them later.

This chapter also references a cataclysm which the Aesir and Jotunn fled many winters previously — and how this city, Ifington, was settled by both clans but the Aesir left, moving south. That wasn’t an end to the strife between Aesir and Jotunn, however. 

When the Aesir, under Odin’s leadership, moved south they eventually found the place that would become Gladsheim…which then got them involved in a war with the Vanir.

Those of you who follow my minimal social presence…or who know me in real life…have probably noticed my enjoyment of the Brothers of the Serpent podcast, Randall Carlson and his podcast Kosmographia, as well as the books written by Graham Hancock. If you haven’t already, check all of them out — Carlson and Hancock are easy to find in Youtube and the Joe Rogan podcast.

In short, they advance a hypothesis that our civilization is not the first this planet has seen. An older one was wiped out in the cataclysm that brought about the Younger Dryas ice age.

I knew nothing about any of their ideas when I started writing Kinsmen Die. I did start the series with the idea that the Aesir and Jotunn, Vanir and Alvar, were not “gods and giants, elves and dwarves” but a civilization who existed before humans.

I mention all this b/c as I re-read Kinsmen Die I am also editing — some of those edits are b/c I just don’t like what I’m reading…and some is to add a little more backstory, a little more detail, here and there. Part of that process includes clarifying the cataclysmic imagery that I’ve since learned about after having absorbing those podcasts and books I mentioned.

I’m not making Greedo shoot first or anything. I am enhancing what was already there. There will be more of that, too, since my writing of book three has all but ground to a halt.

That’s due to a whole bunch of life stuff that’s happening for me and my family right now, but also b/c I have a gigantic conceptual, thematic and dare I say theological hole in my story that my subconscious mind is point to with Looney Tunes signs…but my conscious mind is still, like Jacob and his sparring partner, wrestling with.

Some of this will become more apparent as the story unfolds in Kinsmen Die, particularly with Odin and his arc.

But, I’ve rambled enough for one week. Might do more next week since we’ll be back with Odin for a short chapter. 

Before then, if you have the time and inclination, please take a few moments to 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.

Bellows, Verse 27

A witless man, when he meets with men,
Had best in silence abide;
For no one shall find that nothing  he knows,
If his mouth is not open too much.

Larrington, Verse 27

The foolish man in company does best if he stays silent;
no one will know that he knows nothing, unless he talks too much;
but the man who knows nothing does not know even if he is talking too much.


Thanks for listening.