He grunted and gave the huskarl an annoyed look. “What are you implying?”
Vig shrugged, then looked around to make sure no one was listening. “For all we know, Raynar was captured or killed by Jotungard. If Raynar is dead, then what will that mean for the clanhold? Ivar isn’t the man he once was—we both know that.”
“That tongue of yours is going to get you killed one day,” Sten growled, hand straying to his belt knife.
“It hasn’t yet,” Vig replied. “In fact, it was this tongue that helped unify the warbands and put your family in power. Don’t forget.”
Sten snarled in exasperation. “Speak plainly, Huskarl. I grow weary of this conversation.”
Vig held up his hands, sweat beading on his ruddy forehead. “It’s as I said earlier. The clanhold needs strong leadership. Otherwise, the warbands will tear themselves apart, and we’ll be at the mercy of the other eight clanholds. You know as well as anyone that I’ve always served Clan Haig. My concerns are not for myself, but for our people.”
Sten crossed his arms but didn’t say anything, his expectant gaze boring into the huskarl.
“The men respect you because you’re still a fighter. You still act like a battleborn. If your brother can’t show strength, then Jotungard and the others will slowly destroy us. That spy was only the beginning.”
Sten lowered his voice. “You speak treacherously, Huskarl. I could kill you for saying such things.”
“And yet,” Vig countered, “you know that what I say is true. Ivar may have killed the old Clan Lord and taken his place, but you were the one who fought on the battlefield. You slew all of your brother’s enemies. The spirit of war may have left him, but it still burns brightly within you. That is what we need to defeat Jotungard. Temperance will be the death of us all, mark my words.”
Sten stared at him for a long moment. Though he loved his brother fiercely, he knew that Vig’s words were true. Ivar no longer desired bloodshed. They’d practically had to twist his arm to get him to even consider declaring war on Jotungard. He cared more about his personal legacy than the needs of the warbands. Many whispered that Clan Haig had grown weak and that the days of glory were behind them. The other clans openly mocked them without reprisal. That was why Sten had to quell such talk whenever it arose.
It wasn’t just about defending his family’s honor. It was about maintaining order.
“Your suggestion has been heard,” he said at length. “Now, get out of my sight before I cut your heart out and feed it to the swine.”
Vig bowed his head low. “As you say, my lord.”
Sten left with his thoughts in a swirling tempest, leaving the fat man alone in the tunnel.
He’d go and speak to his brother yet again about the merits of a war with Jotungard. Such a thing would certainly unite the warbands and fill their hoards with treasure. It would help if Raynar was gone for good, but that would also mean that the succession was broken. Petty warlords would arise, and it would mean a potential civil war in the clanhold itself.
Somehow, Sten needed to pull his brother out of his melancholy. He needed to bring back the old bear that had taken Norvaask by force all those years ago. Ivar wasn’t the only one concerned about the progeny of Clan Haig. Sten would do anything to make sure his family stayed in power... even if—gods forgive him—that meant doing something drastic.
Chapter 14
The Old Man of the Tundra
“He was a hero, a legend given flesh. Even warbands from other clanholds revered him.”
—Memoir, Rune Plate 4
Cold.
For a time, it was the only thing Jarl could feel. It weighed down on him, pressed in from all directions, threatening to overwhelm him. But even in his delirious state of half-awareness he fought against its effects.
New Affliction: Hypothermia.
Movement slowed.
Disadvantage to all Strength, Fortitude, and Agility saving throws.
Cold Damage over time.
-7 Stamina Points.
Am I dead? Jarl wondered groggily as he lay immobilized beneath a crushing weight. Is my soul trapped in the spirit realm? Why haven’t I moved on to the Immortal Halls?
The uncertainty terrified him.
Pain welled in the back of his skull, throbbing like a heartbeat behind his eyes. The pounding reminded him of war drums, beating a relentless rhythm that served only to distract him from the cold. Death wanted him—he knew it. It enveloped him in a chilling embrace that made him want to sleep. Even now, he could feel its icy tendrils reaching for him, caressing his chest and face as they tried to worm their way into his mouth...
His eyelids snapped open.
A black tentacle rested on top of him, squirming like a serpent and forcing itself against his lips.
He let out a strangled cry and bucked against the weight pinning him down. His right arm was stuck, but he managed to pull his left one free, bringing it up to fight against the creature trying to enter his mouth. It wriggled violently at his touch, twisting and curling as he wrapped his frozen fingers around its sleek body. Still, he somehow managed to get a firm grip.
Yelling wordlessly, he hurled it away. The disgusting appendage thudded somewhere in the distance.
“Frosts take me,” he murmured, resting his head back against the ground. “What the Hel was that!?”
The tentacle, or whatever it was, had left a sticky film on his face and lips. It tasted like rotting flesh, and he grimaced as he wiped it away with the back of his glove.
Above him, it was snowing, the dark gray sky indicating either early morning or late evening. He didn’t know which it was. The only thing he knew was that he was cold, and that if he didn’t get up and start moving, he would die.
Grunting, Jarl pushed against the weight covering the lower half of his body. It was hard and stiff, but after a few attempts he eventually got it off.
Taking a deep breath and sitting up, he realized that the weight had been a corpse, a frozen battleborn with a cloven head. Around him, dozens of other bodies littered the ground. In an instant, he remembered where he was and what had happened here.
The battle, he thought, mind reeling as he pushed himself shakily to his feet. The corpses... they came alive!
Only now they were still, petrified in death and covered in a thin blanket of snow.
All around him, black tendrils waved, protruding from every mouth and wound imaginable. The wide basin had once again become a graveyard, only now the worm-like creatures had found fresh bodies to make their hosts.
Bile rose in Jarl’s throat, but somehow, he managed to keep from vomiting.
“I’m the only one left,” he whispered, searching vainly for survivors among the writhing mass. They’re all dead. Soon, they’ll turn into draugr.
He needed to leave, to get out of this gods-forsaken place before he became like them, but where could he go? The tundra was an unforgiving place, even in the most favorable conditions. He had no water or food—he’d left all his supplies back at camp. But I can’t stay here. There’s no telling when these bodies will rise up and attack me.
Head spinning, Jarl picked up his fallen axe and began making his way through the field of corpses. The back of his head was crusty with blood, and his legs and arms ached where they’d been pinned.
He checked his stats, afraid of what he might see.
Health Points: 7 out of 26
Stamina Points: 0 out of 20
Afflictions: Head Wound. Fatigued. Hypothermia.
Need to get out of here, he thought numbly, tripping over severed limbs and discarded weapons. Maybe I can find a cave to sleep in to keep warm. If I can get out of this basin, I can search the tundra. There’s still enough light to see by. It was a weak plan. Even if he managed to locate such a place, he doubted that he’d ever wake up.
Better than no plan at all...
Dark tendrils squirmed as he walked by, almost as if they could sense his warm blood. They reached for him like
black eels, eagerly stretching from the bodies of his fallen comrades. Jarl did his best to ignore them and keep his attention fixed ahead. When one of the tentacles came too close, he cut it in two with a swipe of his axe, causing the bottom half to retract into the corpse's mouth like a tongue. The other half twitched pitifully on the ground, spilling gobs of oily ichor.
Jarl gagged but continued forward, stubbornly ignoring his pounding headache. His legs felt like they were tied to leaden weights, but he managed to keep placing one foot in front of the other. After several agonizing minutes, he began making his ascent up the slope to the tundra.
Almost there, he thought, gritting his teeth.
Something grabbed his ankle.
Cursing, he stumbled, face stinging as snow filled his mouth and nose. He twisted and kicked against the vise on his leg.
Strength Check (Disadvantaged): 9 + Ability Modifier (2) - Affliction: Fatigued (3).
Unsuccessful.
It held fast like an iron manacle.
He turned and saw that one of the nearby corpses had come to life, its dead eyes aglow. The tentacle that hung from his open mouth wagged hungrily, its slick surface dripping with a thick, viscous fluid.
"No!" Jarl screamed hoarsely. He reached for his axe so he could bury it in the monster's skull.
It wasn’t there.
Desperate, he searched and saw that the weapon had tumbled out of reach, landing in a snowbank down the slope. It might as well have been on the other side of the Ice Barrens.
He continued to kick and struggle against the draugr's hold, but the creature refused to release him. Around it, others began to rise, their purple eyes glowing like amethysts in the waning light.
Gods above! Jarl thought, panic building inside him. Please, help me! Hear my prayers!
He’d never felt such fear in all his life.
With a flash like lightning, fire exploded on one of the nearby draugr, engulfing it in brilliant orange flames. It staggered with awkward movements but didn’t cry out in pain as the fire consumed it. Another flash followed, then another, until flaming undead torches surrounded Jarl, brightening the battlefield with garish light.
The draugr holding his ankle let go, its attention on a new target up on the rise above them.
Jarl didn’t hesitate. He scrambled away from the flames and burning enemies, rolling away into a small depression several yards away. The snow softened his impact, but the pain in his head was intense and his vision was starting to blur.
Lifting his gaze, he saw a dark figure standing at the edge of the basin. It appeared to be a man in rough leathers and a heavy fur cloak, but power shimmered around him like heat coming off a bonfire. Both of his hands were alight with flames and the ground surrounding him seemed to smolder, sending up wisps of smoke.
Jarl watched with a detached fascination as the man attacked the draugr with magic, throwing fireball after fireball in their direction and burning them to cinders.
The gods heard me, he thought dazedly, a faint smile gracing his lips.
Then he dropped to the snow, oblivion overtaking him.
When Jarl awoke, he was actually warm.
He opened his eyes to see that he was in a small cave. A thick bear pelt covered his body, and a strip of cloth was wrapped around his head, binding his wound and covering his ears. A fire smoldered in the center, filling the space with orange light, and all along the uneven walls were supplies packed in raw hide bundles. A pot bubbled on the coals, and a curtain of skins blocked the only exit, keeping the warm air trapped inside.
Jarl sat up, causing the pelt to slide off his naked chest. He immediately regretted the movement and winced, his throbbing head growing dizzy. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a series of long, deep breaths until the vertigo subsided, leaving him with nothing but a dull pain on the back of his skull.
“Freeze me, that hurts,” he muttered, tentatively opening his eyes once more.
He appeared to be alone. Apart from the crackling flames and the bubbling pot, everything was quiet and still.
His mind went back to the battlefield and what he’d seen before he passed out. He remembered the dead rising and slaughtering Grennik’s men, how their corpses had been infested by those... things. One of the black tentacles had nearly wriggled into Jarl himself. The memory made his stomach convulse, and he shook his head to banish it, which only made the overwhelming dizziness return.
While waiting for his head to clear again, he remembered the stranger who’d rescued him. He must have brought Jarl to this place to bind his wounds and care for him.
Why would he do that? he wondered. Strangers of any sort weren’t commonly friendly. Could he have been a scout sent from Norvaask?
That seemed unlikely.
Regardless, Jarl knew that he couldn’t tarry here long. Evil things were stirring on the tundra, and the heir of his clanhold had been confirmed dead. Somebody, perhaps Halvard, needed to be notified of these things at once, and Jarl was the only one who could do so.
Grunting, he picked himself off the comfortable sleeping mat and got unsteadily to his feet. The world seemed to spin around him, but somehow, he managed to remain standing. His clothes were on the far side of the cave, folded neatly on top of coiled rope. Even so, it felt like an impossible distance to cross.
He exhaled slowly and looked around for his axe. It wasn’t anywhere that he could see.
Before Jarl could begin the arduous journey to his clothing, the skins covering the exit parted and a man stepped into the cave. He was of a medium height and slender, with long limbs and narrow shoulders. He was bound from head to heel in furs, with only his frosty blue eyes exposed. He wore no visible weapons except for a hook which hung from his belt, carrying a brace of large snow rats. Around his arm was perched a lithe, furry creature with glittering black eyes. It looked directly at Jarl and bared a mouth full of tiny white fangs.
The man took a few steps inside and stomped, shaking snow from his boots and clothing. Then he removed his scarf, revealing a thick gray beard that reached down to the middle of his chest. His face was weathered, bearing many deep lines, and he appeared to be old—well into the twilight of his years.
He smiled upon seeing Jarl and lifted a gloved hand in greeting. “I’m glad to see that you’re awake. I was beginning to worry about you. You’ve been out for three days, near enough.” Looking to the animal on his arm, he raised his voice an octave and continued, “Looks half-dead to me, but these days, I suppose that’s better than full-dead.”
Jarl wasn’t sure how to respond. He stood there awkwardly, naked and wearing only a look of confusion as the old man regarded him. Three days? No wonder he felt so weak. Not knowing what else to do, he stooped and picked up the bear pelt to cover himself. "Who are you? Which clanhold are you from?"
The newcomer chuckled and returned to his normal, deeper voice. "I'm not from any clanhold, Jarl Beckström. I'm merely a stranger who happened upon someone in need. And you’ll have to forgive my friend here. He isn’t used to receiving guests."
Jarl's jaw dropped, ignoring the fact that the old man seemed to be speaking on behalf of the animal. "How do you know my name?"
Still chuckling, the man walked to the center of the cave. The furry creature leapt from his arm and bounded over to a small pillow, where it curled up into a tight little ball. The stranger set his dead rats on a large, flat stone, then pulled off his gloves and began warming his hands by the fire. "It's not as complicated as you might expect, although you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you. Suffice it to say that I'm a concerned wanderer of the Ice Barrens— a servant of all and a subject to none."
Jarl didn’t immediately respond. He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the man’s true intentions. No one went out of their way to aid the weak, especially when there wasn’t a benefit to be gained. The Aesir preached against such practices, declaring that “only the strong were fit to live.” That was how the world worked. Every man, woman, and child on Njor
drassil belonged to a caste in a clanhold, for that was the only way one could survive the harsh realities of life. Jarl had never heard of someone living on their own, except for...
His jaw went slack as understanding dawned on him. "You're the Old Man of the Tundra, aren't you?"
The stranger glanced at him over his shoulder, one eyebrow cocked. "A silly name, truth be told. I was never really fond of it."
"I thought you were a myth!"
The old man smiled and returned his gaze to the fire. "As you can see, I’m quite real. My name is Hjalmar, in case you were wondering. The mink is named Beast."
From the pillow, the mink perked up at hearing its name.
Jarl opened his mouth, but a wave of dizziness came over him and he sank back down to the sleeping mat, groaning in misery.
"Careful, now," Hjalmar said. "You took a nasty blow to the head back there. Not even a battleborn can bounce back from something like that. You should rest until you're fully healed."
How... does he know I’m a battleborn? No, that was just an expression.
Nothing made sense anymore. Jarl cradled his pounding head as he tried to sort through his muddled thoughts. The Old Man of the Tundra was a legend as ancient as the mountains themselves. The singers told of a wanderer, more bear than man, who traveled the width and breadth of Njordrassil doing the will of the gods. He was a hermit who lived off the land, and was said to be part god himself, an immortal being who dwelt apart from society. Jarl had never believed that the Old Man of the Tundra existed. Though, he also didn’t believe in draugr until recently.
"The soup’s almost done," Hjalmar remarked, slurping loudly from a scrimshaw spoon. "Once you get some food down, you'll start to feel better."
Frostworld: Ice & Blood: A LitRPG/GameLit Viking Adventure Page 17