INTRO
 
Welcome to CHAPTER 35 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. And, with each episode, when it makes sense, I provide some commentary about the source materials I’ve referenced in the text.

Today, we’re back with Vidar Odinsson. We’d last left him about to attack some  Jotunn who’d occupied the mining camp in the mountains above Hals. 

In one of the earliest chapters, one of the miners had recounted the attack on his workers on the road up to that camp. After that attack, the Jotunn had rolled on down the mountain and sacked Hals but not before they’d sent a messenger for help — which is what brought Vidar and his warband to Hals, followed by Odin, Baldr and some Einherjar. 


Let’s do this.

Chapter Thirty-Five
Vidar
With false dawn upon them, Vidar looked back along the line of Einherjar kneeling in the snow behind the miners’ longhouses. The last man in the column raised a hand and made a sharp downward chopping gesture, which meant the scout from the opposite side had just slipped back across and told them the warband was in place.
Vidar raised his axe, swung it downward, and then he was sprinting alongside the warriors toward the barricade. Two dozen pounding heartbeats later, they were all in the open space that stretched before the sharpened pine stakes.
Surprised shouts went up from the Jotunn. A few heartbeats later, a flight of black-feathered arrows thumped into the snow ahead them.
As he ran, panting as his feet sank ankle-deep into the snow, he again considered the wisdom of not unbinding his fylgja. She slept still, compelled by Odin’s magic. Without her power protecting him, these arrows could kill him. But if he lost control again, he was a danger to everyone. And his father wasn’t around to save him a second time.
His father had given him another spindle charged with witchthread so once they were a little closer he’d sing the protection charm that would render these arrows as deadly as the pine needles scattered atop the snow before him. Besides, Skeggi and the other scouts had counted only thirty Jotunn. The combined strength of his warband and the Einherjar was more than double that. Add the charm to the mix, and victory was assured.
A pair of arrows cracked into his shield, one after another, staggering him. Despite his laboring breath, he bellowed. Those warriors around him, all with shields, along with those carrying spears behind them, echoed his battle cry.
He risked a peek over the rim of his round, scarred shield. Six archers, arms moving smoothly, plucking arrows, nocking, drawing, sighting, then releasing. Five hard thwacks resounded from the leather-covered shields his warriors held.
The morning was noticeably brighter, and more details about the Jotunn came into focus: short, recurved bows; dark leather caps on wide heads above broad bearded faces. The Jotunn fought in much the same way as the Aesir, which made sense since they had been at each other’s throats for hundreds of winters. Shields and spears comprised the main battle line, with hand weapons—axes, swords, hammers, and clubs—for close quarters. Archers were fewer but could turn the tide of battle.
But not this battle.
He and the Einherjar were nearly upon the Jotunn barricade, maybe three spear lengths away. No need for the protective charm. Not yet, anyway—which was good; witchthread unspent meant more for when he truly needed it. The snow wasn’t as deep here, so he could run faster—another dozen paces now, so close he could taste the pine sap from the stakes.
The ground collapsed beneath his weight. He hit the far wall of the pit and bounced off. Blood bloomed in his mouth as he fell sideways to the bottom, his armor caught on something that gashed his side. The wind exploded from his mouth when he hit, and his vision dimmed. Some of those nearby weren’t so lucky, as several agonized screams attested. A body landed on top of him, pinning him. Hot blood spattered across his face.
The pit was dark. The smell of frozen earth mixed with the hot tang of fresh blood. He shoved the warrior off him, his side screaming in protest. He needed to get his shield up between him and the sky before—
Black-feathered arrows showered down. More screams from around him. The arrows all missed him, except for one that cut a deep line of pain along his thigh.
To his left, an Einherjar twitched on a wooden stake. With each convulsion, he slid a little further down the gore-stained wood.
More arrows fell. Thuds and screams marked where they missed or struck flesh. He was just as lucky this time. The one arrow that did strike him drove the metal banding of his helm into his brow, drawing blood and painting stars before his eyes.
He blinked, wiped the blood away with one filthy glove, and hauled on his shield, bringing it above his head as he tried to stand on the now-slick earth, ready for more arrows.
But the expected arrows didn’t fall.
Which meant that, maybe, Garilon’s attack had just hit—or fallen into its own pit.
Keeping the shield above his head, Vidar counted a handful of long, rough-cut pine spikes on which were pinned the four unluckiest Einherjar. How long had the Jotunn been here that they could have dug such a deep pit in frozen ground?
Above, screams and battle cries and shouts mingled like rolling drums. He had to get out. Had to see what was happening. He dropped his shield and tried to climb out. A moment later he was sliding back down, having found no purchase.
He’d have to sing the charm from here. 
He glanced right and left. At least ten warriors had survived the fall. He shouted at them, beckoning them closer. Harafn arrived first, hunkered beneath his own shield.
“I’m going to get us out of this, Harafn, but I need you to help me.”
The man looked blankly at him.
“Harafn! Help me and we live.”
Harafn shook his head, and his eyes refocused. “Yes, Jarl.”
“Good. Now when the others get here, I’ll stand on my shield. You must lift me up. You hear me?”
“Yes, Jarl.”
He gripped Harafn’s shoulder. “Good man.” 
He produced the spindle and yanked free an arm’s length of witchthread. He brought the tip to his mouth and sang, casting the witchthread first into himself and then outward into Harafn and the warriors grouping around him.
And none too soon, either, for the black rain of arrows fell again. Two struck him, one on his upturned face and one on his shoulder. Both staggered him, but from surprise, not pain or injury. He regained his balance and kept singing.
“Jarl, we’re ready,” Harafn shouted.	
He nodded and stepped onto the shield the warriors held awkwardly in front of him.
Another sheet of arrows fell and bounced off them. And then, wobbling, he was lifted up.
Once his head was above the pit’s lip, he again cast out his witchthread. It flew, faster than thought to where Garilon stood behind a tight shield wall that slowly advanced toward the defending Jotunn.
The Aesir spearmen were probing the ground ahead of the shields. Garilon must have seen Vidar’s warriors fall.
Vidar flung more witchthread at Garilon’s group of warriors, but he couldn’t see the Einherjar column, so he couldn’t protect them.
Harafn shouted up at him. “Jarl, we can’t hold you much longer.”
A pair of Jotunn archers drew on him, deliberately, and let their arrows fly. He braced himself; the arrows struck like hammers, but they fell to the ground.
Vidar looped the witchthread around itself and then tied it off. He drew his knife and slammed it into the ground, using that bit of leverage to pull himself onto the ground outside the pit. As he got to his knees, a black arrow broke against his shoulder.
The men in the pit and the warriors with Garilon would be protected for a time, but he had to break the Jotunn line.
So, he sprinted at them, hoping that there wasn’t another pit. The Jotunn spearmen behind the barricade saw him coming and leveled their spears. The archers turned from releasing volleys at Garilon’s warriors to loosing another flight of arrows at him.
They were too slow. He barreled forward, slamming his shoulder into the barricade. His charmed skin deflected the outward-facing wooden spikes. The force of his charge knocked down one of the stakes, he stumbled, and then he was through.
Jotunn axes slammed into him so hard he was driven this way and that, but though the sharp metal cut his armor, it only slid across his skin.
He punched the nearest spearman; the man flew backward in a spray of blood and crackling bone. He caught the thrusting spear of another beneath his armpit, pivoted, and ripped the spear out of the Jotunn’s hands. Vidar flung the spear at the nearest archer, killing him.
What felt like three spears jabbed him in the small of the back, driving him stumbling forward. But now he was within grappling reach of several more spearmen in the Jotunn line. He clubbed the first one with his fists, but the ones farther away scrambled backward.
Vidar spun, only to be struck again by those same three spears—two in the chest, one in the neck. He grabbed one spear that was withdrawn too slowly. He yanked it toward him, bringing the spearman with it. He elbowed that Jotunn in the face, knocking him down. Vidar jerked the spear from him, spun in a tight arc and jabbed one of the attackers through the neck. He stomped on the fallen Jotunn till he felt bones break. The remaining spearman ran. 
He stood there, chest heaving, breath white in the cold morning air, long shadows of the trees draped over the camp. 
It was over. Five bodies at his feet. Only five? It had felt like more.
Garilon and the warriors in his section of the warband charged toward the mountain’s rocky face and the wide black mouth of the mine entrance. A handful of Jotunn fled before them. The remaining Einherjar, having pressed through the barricade, covered Garilon’s left flank. The mine swallowed the Jotunn. 
Garilon called a halt. Best to not charge a prepared position without more scouting. Vidar glanced back at the pit that he and the others had fallen into. With the blood still pounding through his head, he couldn’t hear the cries of the wounded—the warriors he’d so foolishly led. But he couldn’t have known the pit was there, nor could he have scouted the open area without betraying his warband’s presence. Maybe he’d just made the best decision he could have, with the information he had. But because of that, his warriors had died.
And now, some Jotunn had escaped. Maybe they’d simply fled. Or maybe they’d run to warn another warband. Now they’d have to be even more cautious when they walked into the mine’s black gullet.

***

“Ultimately it’s my failing that caused their deaths, so let’s hear no more talk of it,” Vidar said, meeting Garilon’s eyes and then those of the Einherjar kjolr. “All those who fell here will be remembered on the stones I cut and paint in Vithi.”
He, Garilon, and the Einherjar kjolr, Jorundr, sat before a fire set outside the longhouse closest to the mouth of the disused mines. The Bifrost stretched overhead, a broad, white-and-blue sparkling road between the southern and northern skies.
“Hersir Saglund needs to be informed of what happened here,” said Kjolr Jorundr.
“I’m sure the Alfather will do so after he’s read my message,” Vidar said. “The birds should be in Gladsheim within two nights, by which time we’ll be in there.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the mouth of the mine. Garilon had set guards and built makeshift barriers. He’d also had torches placed along the entrance’s walls so that light flickered fitfully all the way down to the first large cavern. 
“You mean to go in tomorrow, Jarl?” Garilon asked. He leaned forward, picked up a long branch, and stabbed the fire. A tongue of fire licked up, curled around the hanging pot, and sank back down again.
“I do. You said the scouts didn’t find traces of the Jotunn elsewhere, so either they were very good at hiding their tracks, or they’ve been here for a long time—which doesn’t quite make sense since Háls was attacked less than a week ago—”
“Or maybe they found another way into the mines,” Garilon said.
“Exactly.”
Kjolr Jorundr broke in. “There may also be another warband that’s now marching toward us. Or there could be one headed back from across the plains. Or both.”
“Neither the Alfather nor my scouts found any trace of additional warbands near Háls, Vithi, or here,” Garilon said.
“What if your scouts, or the Sigfather, missed something?” Jorundr said.
The young Einherjar had seen maybe thirty winters, which meant that the first time he’d probably ever seen the Sigfather was when he’d ridden with him to Vithi. If that fast ride hadn’t been enough to convince him that the Sigfather could do things that others could not, well, nothing Vidar said now would penetrate the young man’s skull. 
Great feats in one area didn’t make Odin infallible, of course, just worthy of a bit more respect.
Garilon simply continued. “We also haven’t found any supply caches yet, not even on the warband we destroyed. One of our warbands operating this far from a camp would have to carry everything they needed, particularly food and drink. During the Last War, our supply lines stretched for miles. The Jotunn would—”
“Maybe they’ve just stashed all that inside the mine,” Jorundr said.
“My point is that they had to get all of it here—and might even have foraged and hunted to supplement what they brought. And yet no one in Háls had any idea the Jotunn were less than a night’s ride distant?”
“Maybe some in Háls did know,” Jorundr said.
“That had occurred to me,” Vidar interjected, “especially since that person or persons was probably among the survivors and is now warm and well fed in my hall. However, the Alfather traveled back to Gladsheim through Vithi. He and the Einherjar with him would’ve prevented another attack. Not that he’d found even a trace of additional warband, anyway.”
He leaned forward, scooped some stew out of the steaming pot and poured it into a bowl. He handed it to Jorundr, then filled two more bowls for Garilon and himself. This wrangling was getting them nowhere.
“You and your Einherjar will remain here, Kjolr Jorundr, along with those wounded among my own warband.”
The man’s expression flickered quickly through a range of emotions that Vidar couldn’t quite track. But if anything, he sensed more relief from Jorundr than anything. Which was odd for an Einherjar. Jorundr settled on a simple, “Yes, Jarl.”
Vidar turned to Garilon. “You’ve already picked out those of ours who’ll remain behind.”
“Yes, Jarl.”
A reserve force might prove unnecessary, but it was better to be cautious when headed into the unknown—and if they had to move fast, the wounded would slow them.
He continued. “Let’s focus on the immediate problem. We know there’s a handful of Jotunn inside the mine. Maybe more. So, what do we know about the mine itself?”
“Just that this branch has been disused for ten or so winters,” Garilon said. “The gothi said they abandoned it for the richer, higher-quality finds beneath the western slopes.”
“Do any in our warband have experience working in a mine?”
“I don’t know, Jarl, but I’ll find out.”
“If we do, they should lead the way—not too far ahead, but far enough they can make sure the rest of us don’t fall into an open mine shaft or something. I know it’s not that type of mine, but it couldn’t hurt. And the Jotunn may have placed traps. We’ll also need trackers up front to spot any trail the Jotunn may have left.”
“Makes sense, Jarl,” Garilon said.
“And how long will our supplies last? Enough for a fortnight?”
“Yes, Jarl. More, actually, if we ration, which I wouldn’t recommend—not yet, anyway. Even if we’re in there for a week, this camp should be reinforced and resupplied by then.”
“Good.” Vidar scraped the bottom of his bowl and stood. “Let’s get some rest, then.”

OUTRO
Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 35 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. 

We were with Vidar as he attacked to the Jotunn occupying the mining camp in the mountains above Hals. 

There’s not a lot going on myth wise in this 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. 

Bellows, Verse 35

Forth shall one go, nor stay as a guest
In a single spot forever;
Love becomes loathing if long one sits
By the hearth in another's home.

Larrington, Verse 35
A man must go, he must not remain a guest always in one place;
the loved man is loathed if he sits too long in someone else’s hall.

This week’s reading is a good example of why I usually prefer Bellows to Larrington. I like the poetic turn of phrase in Bellows and the alliteration, that third line, for example: love, loathing long, and the use of “hearth” and “home” in the last line

But, your mileage may vary.

Thanks for listening.