Frostworld: Ice & Blood: A LitRPG/GameLit Viking Adventure

by Blake Arthur Peel

  It wasn’t long before the Norvaask fireborn arrived, their crimson-colored robes black in the light of the stars. More than a score ran up the stairs, belts laden with clay flasks and hands devoid of axes or spears.

  Fireborn didn’t need weapons. Fireborn were weapons.

  Even in the dark, Jarl could pick out Freya. Her contemptuous features stood out among her peers and her long braid danced wildly behind her as she ran.

  Despite himself, Jarl glowered. Freeze my sister, he thought, jaw tightening with bitter resentment. She doesn’t deserve to be here. It should be me defending the clanhold, not her.

  They’d been friends once, when they were children. Jarl would often tell her of his plans to become a battleborn. Freya would listen and even encourage him, playing along with his fanciful dreams and coming up with dreams of her own. Everything changed when she became a fireborn. She’d left for the Temple, becoming the sole property of the clanhold’s Aesir, and soon forgot about who she was and where she came from. Jarl hardly recognized the arrogant woman she’d become, so focused on her own personal ambitions and forgetting about her family and friends. It had been hard on Jarl, losing his sister, but it had been even harder on their mother. A part of him would never forgive Freya for what she had done to her.

  Jarl watched from the shadows as the fireborn climbed to the upper layer of the terrace, forming ranks behind a low, ice-covered wall. In unison, they reached to their belts and removed the flasks hanging there, swiftly uncorking them and drinking their contents.

  Flame spirits, Jarl thought, noting the way several of the fireborn grimaced and gagged at the taste. According to the Aesir, the potion allowed them to control the Life-giving Flame—the source of their magic.

  Tossing their flasks to the ground, the fireborn spread out and faced the battle raging before them, mouths smoking like forge fires. They each fell into a fighting stance, their arms raised with palms open to the sky. One by one, they filled their hands with fire. The flickering flames materialized as if out of thin air.

  The oldest of the fireborn, an elderly man with a gray, knotted beard, shouted something Jarl couldn't hear and threw his fire, sending it soaring over the shield wall and into the churning mass of enemy raiders. The others followed suit, lobbing fireballs and refilling their hands once again.

  Despite the enmity he felt toward his sister, Jarl couldn’t help but be amazed by the display. Every time he saw the fireborn use their destructive powers, he felt his jaw go slack.

  They worked with terrible efficiency, creating spheres of pure fire and sending them flying through the air. When the fireballs made impact, they exploded in blinding bursts of light, causing those caught in the flare to scream in agony. Clothing and skin and hair ignited like torches.

  It was strangely beautiful, and for a time, Jarl couldn’t look away.

  Despite the arrival of the fireborn, the raiders still managed to push through the defenses. Many of the enemy battleborn carried heavy shields of iron and fire-proofed hides, protecting them from stones, spears, and magical flames. There were hundreds of them, an entire warband of wild-eyed, shrieking men and women. Fireballs whizzed through the sky in both directions, and soon, the defenders were hard-pressed to keep the raiders from flooding into the clanhold itself.

  They need more men, Jarl thought, silently wishing he could dive into the fray and aid his side’s warriors. More warbands must be on their way. That, or they’re busy guarding the other passes.

  He knew that even if the raiders managed to break through, they wouldn’t be able to take the entire clanhold. It was too vast. The narrow confines of the ravine presented too many bottlenecks, and the raiders would have to fight for every bridge, every terrace. Such an effort would require a much greater force—multiple warbands instead of just one. Still, they could burn longhouses and steal provisions and treasure. Such a blow would leave them weakened against further attacks from the other clanholds.

  Part of the defense broke and a handful of raiders rushed into the lower layers of the Frozen Terrace, their axes glistening with blood.

  “Frosts,” he swore quietly, watching as the hulking men tried to flank the Norvaask fireborn.

  One of them glanced back and noticed the oncoming raiders, crying out and drawing the attention of his companions. They turned, brought their flames to bear on the attackers, and showered them with blazing spheres of death. The attack was defeated almost as soon as it began, the enemy breaking and fleeing after several were ignited. Their screams echoed off the stones and created a cacophony of pain that chilled Jarl more than the wind.

  Additional Norvaask warriors made their way to the Frozen Terrace, their boots pounding up the steps as they came to join the battle. One of them passed perilously close to where Jarl crouched, the spike on the man’s axe nearly grazing his thigh.

  Jarl decided it was past time for him to leave.

  When the opportunity presented itself, he broke away from his shadowed alcove and retreated back down the way he’d come. He snuck down the walkway to the warmer and more sheltered terraces below, his pulse racing. You’ve gotten your fill, he thought. Now it’s time to go home and rest.

  He didn’t pass any more battleborn on his descent. Most, if not all the warriors seemed to be present at the fighting or guarding the Clan Lord’s hall.

  The muggy air was a welcome break from the frigid cold of the tundra. Jarl had been so lost in watching the raid that his fingers had grown numb, his ears and nose burning painfully on his frostbitten face. Still, his heart beat like a war drum in his chest. The struggle of battle was like a vice to him, stirring his blood with an exhilaration sweeter than the richest mjöl. It was the way of life in the clanholds. It was how men proved their worth and secured their place in the Immortal Halls.

  Sticking to the darkest shadows, Jarl crept down a narrow street beneath the Frozen Terrace, the thrill fading within him. He passed abandoned longhouses and merchant stalls, every step bringing him closer to the life he detested. Even with the sounds of fighting still raging in the distance, he couldn’t help but feel disappointment at the thought of returning to the mud fields on the morrow. His soul would be forever claimed by the Dregs. Some things never changed.

  A ragged scream ripped through the air above his head.

  Jarl looked up in time to see a large battleborn slipping from the terrace above, his legs flailing wildly as he tried to keep from falling. There was a flash of light and the warrior fell, stunned from the fireball that exploded just above his handhold. It all happened so quickly. One moment, he was clinging to the edge of the Frozen Terrace. The next, he was falling through the air and thudding onto the roof of a grain seller’s stall. The reed thatch cracked and splintered, sending up a cloud of dust as the battleborn crashed through and landed hard on a pile of bulging sacks.

  Without thinking, Jarl rushed over to him, feet nearly sliding on a patch of ice. Instinct told him to run, to flee back to his home where it was safe, but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to leave a member of his clanhold if he needed help.

  He stopped at the entrance to the stall. It only took a second for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, his breath caught in his throat. The symbol emblazoned on the battleborn’s coat was clear as day, a rune pair known by nearly everyone in Norvaask.

  “Jotungard,” Jarl muttered, the hair rising on the back of his neck.

  The man groaned and rolled from the hvet sacks, broken thatch falling off his broad frame. He was clad from head to toe in heavy leathers, a wolf’s pelt slung over one shoulder and chain links protecting his chest and belly. His axe was a cruel piece of blackened iron, and somehow it had fallen beside him, buried blade-first into a loose pile of grain.

  Jarl pulled out his hand scythe as the battleborn got to his feet and shook himself, dropping even more detritus. After a moment, the man turned to regard him, his dark eyes glittering in the light of the stars.

  “Where’s your axe, little man?” the brute ask
ed in a lightly accented voice. His gaze flicked to the makeshift weapon in Jarl’s hand.

  “I left it at home,” Jarl replied, trying hard to sound confident. He even managed a self-assured smile and nodded at his scythe. “This should do just fine.”

  The battleborn chuckled. “You have stones, I’ll give you that.” He reached for his axe, picking it up as if it weighed nothing at all. “I think I’ll keep that little blade of yours when I’m done with you. Maybe I’ll use it to pick my teeth.” He abruptly swung his weapon, his lumbering movements surprisingly swift for a man of his size.

  Jarl stumbled back, the axe singing past and narrowly missing his arm. I need to be faster than him, he thought, remembering the fight between Asger and Bjorn earlier that day. When he tires, he’ll make a mistake. That’s when I’ll strike.

  The battle continued to rage above, nobody missing the lone warrior who’d apparently fallen to his death.

  The raider snarled and emerged from the broken stall, axe gripped firmly with blood-spattered hands. He pressed forward, backing Jarl to the drop-off on the far side of the terrace, murder glinting in his eyes. When the next attack came, Jarl was practically standing on the edge of the precipice. He ducked and stepped to the side, putting several feet between him and the angry warrior.

  “Face me, coward!” the man roared, spinning and lashing out with his axe. He winced as his body twisted, but the expression only lasted a fraction of a second.

  He’s already wounded, Jarl noted, catching the brief show of weakness. Others might have missed it, but to him it was plain as day. He’s favoring his right side. That must be where he landed when he fell. There was blood on him, but there was no telling how much was his and how much belonged to the men he’d killed.

  Jarl raised his scythe and continued to watch the battleborn, ready to evade at a moment’s notice.

  The raider growled and charged, rushing Jarl like a bear going in for the kill. His axe fell in heavy strokes, once, twice, and a third time, but Jarl managed to dodge every attack. On the final stroke, the blade glanced off the ground, sparking and putting him off-balance.

  Seeing his chance, Jarl lunged, driving his sharp, serrated iron into the battleborn’s exposed flank. The blow was true and should have ripped into flesh, but instead, it skittered off layers of ring mail beneath the leather.

  0 Damage.

  Before Jarl could react, he felt a blinding flash of pain as the raider’s forehead slammed into the bridge of his nose. The headbutt sent him sprawling, hot blood gushing from his nostrils and dripping down his chest.

  -3 Health Points.

  New Affliction: Broken Nose.

  Disadvantage on all Perception rolls.

  Jarl scrambled backward onto a patch of ice, blinking against the tears blurring his vision. He could hear the battleborn’s footsteps, loud and unmerciful, and knew that the axe would come next. The imposing man loomed over him like a mountain, his beard quivering with rage.

  Wrapping his fingers tightly around the handle of his scythe, Jarl braced for the attack that he knew would end his life.

  The battleborn sneered derisively. “Is this what Norvaask sends to defend its clanhold? A mudborn farmer with a scythe?” He snorted and lifted his axe for the killing blow. “Pitiful.”

  The iron fell and Jarl rolled to the side, flinging himself out of harm’s way with all the dexterity he possessed.

  Dodge: 15 + Agility Modifier (0).

  Successful.

  He avoided the attack. The axe bit deep where he’d been just a second before, cracks spreading like spiderwebs on the ice. The raider let out a roar and tried to pull the weapon free, but it wouldn’t budge—the blade was held fast by the frozen ground.

  Jarl leapt to his feet, his pulse thundering in his ears. He acted on instinct, springing scythe-first at the man’s unprotected neck. Before the battleborn could react, the edge of the farming tool sliced into his flesh and opened him wide from ear to shoulder.

  Critical Hit: 12 Damage.

  He gasped and let go of his axe, reaching to staunch the flow of blood as it splashed onto the stones. Dark gore steamed in the cold night air, and the raider nearly slipped as he dropped to his knees. He looked up at Jarl with disbelief, but when he tried to speak, it came out as an unintelligible gurgle, a fountain of blood oozing past his lips and into his beard.

  Jarl stepped up to the raider and regarded him coldly. Panting, he asked, “How’s that for a mudborn farmer?” Without waiting for a response, he wrenched the scythe free, tearing open the wound even further and sending the man sputtering onto his back.

  Then, all was still.

  Encounter Summary

  1 Enemy Defeated.

  -3 Health Points.

  -2 Stamina Points.

  Affliction: Broken Nose.

  +50 Experience Points.

  Jarl exhaled and staggered backward, his trembling legs threatening to buckle. He’d never killed a man before. He felt numb, like a light within him had been smothered, leaving him empty and dark. He stood for a long moment waiting for his nerves to settle, his breaths coming in great, heaving gasps.

  Unexpectedly, a golden nimbus surrounded him, and a sound like rushing winds filled his ears. Gods, what’s happening? Jarl thought in alarm. Am I dying? No. I feel... stronger.

  His muscles swelled beneath his clothing and, somehow, he felt more powerful. The world came into sharper focus around him, and for an instant he felt vitalized, a euphoria more incredible than anything he’d ever felt suffusing his very core. It clashed with the black void inside of him, overwhelming but not completely dispelling it. The sensation vanished seconds later, the light fading to nothingness.

  He was alone on the night-darkened terrace once more.

  Strange, Jarl thought, blinking and shaking his head. Was that real, or am I just imagining things? He felt different, more whole, like a part of himself that had been missing his entire life had been finally returned to him. The shock at having killed someone still remained, but it was lessened by the new strength that now filled his body.

  An idea struck him, and he checked his stats, all other thoughts fleeing his mind.

  Jarl Beckström

  Class: Battleborn — Level 1

  Strength: 15

  Agility: 12

  Fortitude: 14

  Intellect: 8

  Perception: 10

  Charisma: 13

  Health Points: 7 out of 16

  Stamina Points: 4 out of 14

  Defense: 13

  Rage Points: 2

  Feats: None

  Special Abilities: Determined

  Resistances: Cold (racial bonus)

  Afflictions: Broken Nose. Disadvantage on all Perception rolls.

  Experience Points: 50 out of 300

  Jarl’s jaw fell open. His eyes widened in amazement. He’d done it. He’d actually levelled up. Defeating a warrior was the achievement he needed—the achievement he’d been striving for—to change his fortunes.

  He’d actually become a battleborn.

  Horns blew on the Frozen Terrace, and he knew that the raid had been repelled. As quickly as it had begun, the battle was over. The attackers would flee to Jotungard while the defenders gave chase, capturing those they could and clipping their ears, turning them into thrall.

  I need to be out of here when they return, Jarl thought, tucking his scythe into his belt without bothering to wipe away the blood. If they catch me, then I’ll be flogged. Or worse.

  He turned to depart, then the axe caught his eye. It rose from the ground like a banner, the iron haft bound with fire-blackened leather. He took a hesitant step toward it, then another, reaching for the handle. The grip felt good in his hands, like the weapon was made for him. It came free with only two tugs, the curved blade glistening wetly in the night.

  Jotungard Battleaxe

  Damage: 1d8 slashing

  Weight: 4 lb.

  Durability: 95 out of 100

  Propert
ies: Versatile (two hand = 1d10 slashing)

  Jarl stared at it for a moment, considering, then quickly tucked it under his arm, holding it close as he made his way back down to the Dregs.

  Chapter 4

  Life-giving Flame

  “I wouldn’t blame anyone for doubting my story. If I hadn’t experienced what I had firsthand, I might not believe it myself.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 1

  “You did well tonight,” Kelvar said, tugging thoughtfully on his knotted gray beard. “I’ve seldom seen such talent, and I’ve been training fireborn since before you were born!”

  Freya took the cue and humbly bowed her head. “Thank you, Vanir. You’re too kind.”

  He waved his hand. “Bah. It’s a simple truth, child. You’re an asset to the clanhold. Slaying nine battleborn in a single fight is no easy task.”

  “Ten, actually,” Freya corrected, swelling with pride. “I blasted a man off the terrace after he slipped on some ice.” Killing the raiders had given her close to 500 Experience Points. She was well on her way to reaching level 6, a feat that astounded even her.

  “Ten,” he amended. “Very impressive. But you still have a way yet to go until you’re as skilled as Runa. She was able to kill fifteen of the raiders and break an entire shield wall on her own, if I’m not mistaken. There’s a formidable strength in that one. You’d do well to learn from her example—no one’s perfect, and there’s always room for improvement.”