INTRO   Welcome to CHAPTER 33 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 along with some commentary about the source materials I’ve referenced in the text. Today, we’re back with Vafthrudnir. We’d last left him in company with Helveg as they were about to attack a snow bear nest. Let’s do this. Chapter Thirty-Three Vafthrudnir “Left flank, brace!” cried the aktaumr. Vafthrudnir glanced left in time to see a dark shape hammer into the shields of the outer wall. The Jotunn comprising the inner wall leaned into their shieldmates, bracing them. Steinfastr moved to stand behind that section of the shield wall. He would dominate any beasts that attacked there. The warriors grunted with effort, the white clouds of their breath billowing around their heads. The snow bear’s claws scrabbled and scraped on the glacier’s ice as it pushed inward trying to break the line. Warriors on either side of the beast thrust and jabbed their long spears into its shaggy flanks. It slipped away. “Right flank!” cried an aktaumr on the right just as another snow bear slammed into the shields. That was Kali’s side. She was prepared, at least, hands already up, witchthread dangling between them like slack fishing line. A heartbeat later, a pair of snow bears hit the shields on the left. The line bowed inward under the impact. One of the beasts tossed its long-horned head back and forth, trying to pry shields away, while the second went low, trying to hook legs. Even as the bears tried to force a gap in the shield wall, others struck elsewhere—the rear section, from the sound of it. Which meant that he should probably expect— Eyes front, his fylgja whispered. With a thunderous boom, another pair of snow bears hit the wall in front of him. It too bowed inward, the warriors roaring with the effort of holding the line. Thanks to his fylgja’s warning, he’d already cast his witchthread outward. The fingers of his right hand danced as his left pulled more thread from his spindle which swung, spinning, from the short hook protruding from the left side of his belt. The pair of snow bears before him savaged the wall, horns grating and banging against the shields. The warriors held. As soon as his witchthread settled onto the first beast’s horned head, he began to sing. His fingers flicked and sent the thread spearing sideways into the other beast’s head and then tugged the thread back to him. It flew fast as thought. He wove it around the thread he’d pinched between thumb and forefinger, and then flung out another long loop, doubling the strength of the first weave. Then he dropped his left hand to his silver knife and whipped the blade up to sever the witchthread. He sang louder, sending his will flooding down through the thread. Too many shamans tried to dominate with brute strength, pounding on the beast’s mind like a smith on an ingot. That technique worked. He’d used it himself. It was quicker than the seductive method he’d come to prefer, and it took more effort. His approach was a lullaby. Slower, yes, but he wouldn’t have to throw loop after loop of witchthread. The two he’d sent would suffice. Still singing, he felt the beasts’ resistance falter. He sang lethargy into their limbs. Sleep, he encouraged. Watch the left flank, his fylgja whispered, even as another pair of beasts again slammed into them. I almost have them. Can you— But his fylgja had already leaped down from his shoulder and streaked across the dozen spear lengths to land on one of the snow bears. He could feel her bite deep into its shaggy neck, drinking its essence like a thirsty cat. The beast spun, flailed its barbed tail, and bucked, shrieking the whole time. Then it bolted back toward the nest. The other beast followed. He felt the pair of bears he’d snared collapse. Their wills were his, and they were asleep. He looped the witchthread around one of the small bone hooks set into his belt, and finished his song. He glanced over to where Kali stood, her own dominated snow bears asleep just outside the shield wall. She wore a curious, thoughtful expression, as if she’d been studying what he’d had done. Four down. Two to go. *** Helveg advanced to within several spear lengths of the nest’s outer edge. The matron had yet to show herself, but her pack were all dominated and asleep where they’d fallen. Any sign of her? he asked his fylgja. She’s south of where you are, hunched down. Given the size of the snow bears they’d taken, this matron was very old and very big and very cowardly. Each beast was bigger than one of the scout’s wolves. But where the wolves were rangy, the thick-furred snow bears were bulky with powerful limbs ending in wickedly hooked claws. Their heads were topped with black-tipped horns that curled down to project on either side of their broad, heavy-jawed snouts. Bony plates ran down their backs, some with clubbed tails some with barbs. The matron’s deep roar rumbled over the warband. Maybe not so cowardly. “Steady now, Helveg,” Beli said, pitching his voice to carry above the building wind. The clouds he’d seen earlier had moved in very quickly, changing a bright sunny morning into a gray snowstorm. “Hersir, she’s south of us,” Vafthrudnir called. As his fylgja whispered new directions into his mind, he added, “And moving eastward.” “You heard the High Shaman,” Beli said. “Stand firm. This will be over soon.” The square of shields tightened still further, now three warriors deep. Helveg had reversed face so that three sides of the shield wall faced the bare glacier. The section facing the nest was only a single row deep. He stared out into the swirling snow. Every dozen heartbeats, he saw a dark shape flicker past. The aktaumrs on the sides would occasionally shout “Brace!” only for nothing to happen. His fylgja gave a heartbeat’s warning before the matron roared out of the screening swirls of snow. The matron slammed headlong into the shield wall’s corner, knocking warriors aside even as she flung two up and over her shoulders. She was bigger and heavier than any of the other females in her pack. Thanks to that moment of warning, he’d cast out his witchthread sooner than either of the other shamans. But almost as one, their fingers danced, pulling their threads back even as their voices found a harmony in the enthralling charm. He found it interesting that Kali imitated the lullaby he sang, while Steinfastr hammered out his charm. The matron slid to a halt, snow and ice fountaining up around her massive clawed feet. With a roar he felt in his belly, she tossed her head back and forth in an attempt to sever the unseen lines of magic with her black-tipped horns. Snow bear horns were prized for their ability to disrupt sorcery. During the First War with the Aesir, the Jotunn had made snow bear horns into bone blades that could kill a baresark where skymetal could not. The matron abruptly changed direction and charged Steinfastr. The man dove aside, losing hold of his witchthread in the process. Before he’d even pushed himself up, the matron’s clubbed tail came around like a ship’s boom and slammed into his chest. He flew a dozen spear lengths, skidded bonelessly across the ice and lay still. Fimbulthul leaped onto the matron’s back. She had taken the shape of a long-toothed cat from the southern plains. Kali ran right, widening the angle between herself and Vafthrudnir. He cast out another quick loop of glistening witchthread. Fimbulthul bit into the matron’s neck. The matron bellowed and twisted, but Vafthrudnir went the opposite way to Kali, further opening the angle. He sent another loop, as well, making his song more commanding. Lulling would work, but this beast might well snap the threads first. He could feel his fylgja greedily drinking the matron’s essence. Kali tugged and hammered at the matron with her song, and the matron staggered. The reaction should have been impossible, given their relative sizes, but the seidr bound the matron’s spirit more powerfully than her body. Vafthrudnir went with the matron’s stagger, but then tugged just before the matron tried to charge Kali. Massive cords of muscle rippled beneath her densely furred hide, and the matron staggered back toward him. Kali threw another loop and sang louder. Then she tugged as he had done, and the matron’s huge head snapped downward. He tightened his loops of witchthread, his own song now a hammering, and stepped closer, taking up slack while also tugging downward. The matron tried to rear, heavy shoulders bulging, but he and Kali leaned into their threads, straining, and kept her down. Her clubbed tail thudded against the frozen earth, swinging wild, smashing great dents in the frozen ground. He and Kali took turns stepping in and taking up slack, their voices pounding the air like surf. Close now, an arm’s length away, the matron could have gutted either of them with a flick of her head, but Kali laid her hand on the matron’s head. Fimbulthul opened her jaws and stepped back, licking insubstantial lips with an equally insubstantial tongue. Vafthrudnir put his hand on the matron’s bony skull a moment later. Each of them made three quick looping gestures above the matron’s head. Her neck went limp, and they stepped back. He met Kali’s eyes, the blue-ice glare fading from them, just as a similar gleam no doubt faded from his own. He nodded once to her, then turned to the Hersir. “It is done.” OUTRO Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 33 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. We were with Vafthrudnir as he and his fellow shamans, along with Helveg, successfully dominated a pack of snow bears. As with last episode, there wasn’t too much going on myth-wise this week. The shamans are using seidr, one form of magic in Norse myth and in my world. It is characterized by the use of witchthread which is sent out and brought back to the shaman, forming a loop, basically, a circuit in a way, between shaman and the object he or she is working their will upon. I modeled seidr on weaving and spinning, which has some basis in myth. More on that in a future chapter. Next week we’re back with Odin. 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. As usual, I’ll be reading from Bellows and Larrington. We are STILL nearing the end of the verses in which Odin provides advice about how to conduct oneself in a hall during feasts. Bellows, Verse 33 Oft should one make an early meal, Nor fasting come to the feast; Else he sits and chews as if he would choke, And little is able to ask. Larrington, Verse 33 An early meal a man should usually eat, unless he is visiting friends; he sits and gazes round hungrily, acts as if he’s starving, and doesn’t make conversation. Thanks for listening.