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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  "You're a fireborn," Jarl said, looking up to where the weathered man crouched by the fire.

  "That's correct," Hjalmar answered as he plunged the spoon back into the broth and began stirring.

  "You saved me... burned those draugr to ash."

  "Draugr?" Hjalmar asked, glancing over at him thoughtfully. After a moment, he shrugged and went back to stirring. "I suppose that's as good a name as any for those creatures. Their like hasn’t set foot on this world for many, many years." He paused and slurped again, swishing the soup loudly between his teeth. He nodded in satisfaction. "No thanks are necessary for saving you, lad. As I said, I’m here to serve the people of the Nine Clanholds. You were in need, and I acted."

  Jarl gave the man a serious look. "Even so, I owe you my life. There’s a debt of honor between us—one that I must repay."

  "Bah," Hjalmar replied with a wave of his spoon. "None of that. If you want to repay me, eat some of this soup. It isn't much, but it will at least help you recover your strength."

  Jarl accepted the steaming bowl that was offered and took a sip. The broth was a dark, salty mixture that contained chopped mushrooms and small strips of meat. Judging by the dead rats his host had brought in, he was fairly certain what he was eating. The soup was thin fare but quite tasty, and before long, Jarl was licking the bowl clean. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Hjalmar refilled the bowl, insisting that he should eat his fill.

  After his third helping, Jarl leaned back and belched, feeling contented for the first time in days. The old man was right—he felt much stronger after eating.

  Hjalmar remained close to the fire, his eyes staring ponderously at the coals. He ate in silence, clicking his tongue every so often and tossing bits of meat over to Beast. The mink devoured the food hungrily, its razor teeth making short work of the cooked rat.

  Jarl watched Hjalmar curiously for a time, intrigued by his character. The old man didn’t conform to the standards of what he’d come to expect from people. He spoke to his pet like it was human, muttering responses back and forth and carrying on entire conversations. Even while sitting his posture was straight, and despite being a fireborn, he carried himself like a seasoned a warrior. He was kind and generous, giving freely of his substance without expecting anything in return.

  He was an enigma to Jarl, but one that, strangely, he respected.

  Feeling slightly abashed from staring, Jarl got up and made his way over to his clothes. While getting dressed, he asked, “Have you always lived out here?”

  Hjalmar turned away from Beast and shook his head. "Not always. I’m originally from Seal Spear, but I left many years ago."

  "Seal Spear?" Jarl’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. "That's on the other side of the continent!" He’d heard of the distant clanholds of Seal Spear and Whale Tusk, of course, but had never met anyone from there. They were far removed from the other clanholds of Njordrassil, and rarely ventured from their distant coasts.

  "Like I said," Hjalmar said, "I've been away for quite some time. I spend most of my days on the Ice Barrens, travelling between the clanholds."

  After pulling on his shirt, Jarl looked at him with open curiosity. "But why wander the Barrens? Why live such a solitary life?"

  Hjalmar absently rubbed at a medallion hanging from his neck. It was an odd piece, fashioned from fine silver in the shape of an eye with two irises. Both pupils were fixed with a small stone, one white and one red. Jarl hadn’t noticed the jewelry until then. "Think of it as... a calling," the old man remarked, his eyes distant as he gazed at the fire. He shook his head as if to clear away troublesome memories. "Forgive me, I haven’t entertained guests for a long time. I fear I've forgotten how to hold a conversation... at least with another person." He smiled apologetically and dumped the remainder of the pot on the ground for Beast to lick up, then proceeded to pack it with snow from near the cave's entrance. "Let me make you some drik. It'll help with the healing process and make it easier for you to sleep."

  Jarl finished dressing as Hjalmar put the pot back over the coals.

  The Old Man doesn’t seem crazy, he thought to himself. He may talk to animals, but his mind is sharp. And he seems to know things. Maybe he can tell me more about what’s been going on.

  Clearing his throat, Jarl sat back down on the sleeping mat. "Earlier, you mentioned that the draugr haven't been to this world in centuries. What did you mean by that?"

  Hjalmar hesitated for just a moment, then began adding dried kerr roots to the pot. "This isn't the first time their kind has slithered to Njordrassil," he replied without looking up. "The last time, they nearly eradicated every living thing on this world. They’re like a plague—parasites that inhabit the bodies of the dead—and with every corpse they control, they multiply. The only way to truly destroy them is with fire." He trailed off and stared again into the glowing embers of the fire pit, his brow furrowing deeply.

  "Where do they come from?" Jarl prodded, both fascinated and horrified.

  "Somewhere very far away," Hjalmar replied softly. He coughed and looked back at Jarl, appearing older and more tired than he had before. "These draugr... they're controlled by a being known as Siryyx, an ancient and powerful creature born of darkness. He’s the one behind all of this, and if we ever hope to stop the growing armies of the dead, he’s the one who must be killed."

  "Siryyx." Jarl repeated the foreign word. "Is he a god?"

  "Not quite," the old man answered with a shake of his head. "Though, I suppose you could say that he was created by a god. He used to be a man, but he left his humanity behind long ago. Now, he’s a twisted monstrosity, more of a weapon than a man."

  Jarl sat back and rubbed his face, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to steady himself. This was all too much. He could barely comprehend everything he was being told. He wanted to believe that Hjalmar was lying to him, that he was just a crazy old man living alone on the tundra, but something about the way he spoke gave Jarl pause.

  He was inclined to believe him.

  I’ve actually seen the risen dead with my own eyes, after all. I know for myself that this isn’t some hoax.

  Jarl leaned forward, fixing Hjalmar with an intense stare. "If what you’re telling me is true, then the Clan Lord needs to know."

  Hjalmar barked a laugh and began stirring the now-bubbling brew. "I should think that every Clan Lord in every clanhold needs to know, my boy."

  Jarl frowned. "What are you saying?"

  Hjalmar tasted the spoon, grimaced, and continued stirring. "I'm saying that unless the clanholds unite their battleborn under one banner, they’ll be picked off one by one and destroyed."

  This time, it was Jarl's turn to laugh. "Unite the clanholds? You've got to be joking."

  "I assure you that I’m not."

  Jarl scoffed. "Only one man has ever managed to unite all nine clanholds, and he died more than six hundred years ago!"

  "Thane Rorik of Wulfgard," Hjalmar answered. "Yes, I'm well aware. Their battleborn still trace their lineages back to his sons, if I'm not mistaken. Still, it was he who was able to defeat the draugr the first time they came to Njordrassil, and even then, they only barely managed to survive."

  "Those are just legends," Jarl insisted.

  "All legends come from somewhere," the Old Man countered. "You'd do well to remember that. Today's heroes will become tomorrow's legends." He glanced down at the pot, then added with a pleasant smile, "The drik is ready."

  Jarl watched suspiciously as Hjalmar filled two small cups with brown liquid and handed one of them to him. Drik was a bitter drink, but it did wonders to ward away the cold.

  Drik: Health regeneration over time. +1 to Fortitude rolls.

  New Condition: Warmed. Afflictions from Cold reduced.

  Sleeping will result in “Well Rested” modifier, regardless of bed quality.

  Jarl sipped in silence for several minutes before eventually asking, "How do you know all of this? Who are you, really?"

 
Hjalmar sighed. "It's as I told you, Jarl Beckström. I'm just a man—a wanderer who wishes to serve the people of this world. If I know things, it’s because I’ve spent my days traveling and speaking with all sorts of people. If I understand the past, it’s because I’ve studied it diligently. Believe me when I say that Siryyx and his army of draugr are among the gravest threats Njordrassil has ever known. It is incumbent upon us to do something about it, or risk total extinction."

  "Us?" Jarl asked, nearly choking on his drik. "What do you mean us?"

  Hjalmar grinned. "I need your help in uniting the clanholds, lad. You and I are the only people alive who know the extent of what we’re facing. We can start with Norvaask and Jotungard, as they are the closest, and then we can move on to the rest from there. Time is working against us. Every warrior that falls in battle only adds to the enemy's ranks."

  "But you don't understand," Jarl said, starting to feel overwhelmed. "I'm a nobody, a lowborn farmer from the Dregs. How can I hope to unite anyone?"

  “Ah, but you’re not just a lowborn anymore, are you?”

  Jarl gaped. Frosts, he does know that I’m a battleborn! He opened his mouth, but all he managed to get out was, “How?”

  The Old Man’s eyes twinkled. “Changing your class isn’t as uncommon as you think. I’ve known many in my day who managed to do just that.”

  It took a moment, but when Jarl finally found his tongue, he replied, “Well, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m just one man. I have a low Reputation among my people and no allies among the battleborn. What you’re asking is impossible.”

  Hjalmar eyed him for a long moment before finally pushing himself to his feet. He crossed the distance between them and knelt before Jarl, bringing their faces uncomfortably close. "I've been alive a long time, lad. A very long time. I’ve met men and women from all walks of life and have grown very good at reading people. You, my young friend, have the heart of a true warrior. You levelled up by fighting a superior foe. You convinced one of the warbands to let you join them. Even with a grisly head wound and draugr on the verge of killing you and all of your fellow warriors dead, you continued to fight. That took courage. Never underestimate the power that you have within yourself."

  For a moment, Jarl was speechless. No one had ever spoken to him that way before. Hjalmar's words were impassioned, his stare like cold iron, and his words stoked the flame inside Jarl like a fireborn in the heat of battle.

  He held the Old Man's gaze for a long while before finally nodding. He set his jaw and said the only words that came to mind. "All right. I’ll do what I have to."

  Hjalmar's face softened and he smiled. "There's a good lad." He patted Jarl on the shoulder and returned to his place by the fire, refilling his cup of drik.

  Jarl finished his own cup and began to feel groggy. The back of his head still hurt, but the hot food and drink had relaxed his aching body. He yawned and settled back on the sleeping mat, the thick bear pelt completely enveloping him.

  "Better get some sleep," Hjalmar noted. Beast abruptly hopped off his pillow and climbed atop his master’s lap, nestling close like a dog looking to get scratched. The Old Man obliged. "In the morning, we can head back outside if you feel up to it."

  "I need to find Raynar Haig's body," Jarl said sleepily, fighting back another yawn. "The Clan Lord... needs to know the fate of... his son."

  "All in good time," Hjalmar said in a deep, soothing voice. "Now, it’s time to rest."

  Before he knew it, Jarl was drifting off, his eyelids closing as if of their own accord. When sleep finally came, it was accompanied by dreams of dead men, with ice-crusted axes and glowing purple eyes.

  Chapter 15

  Reunions

  “Battleborn were raised from birth to be warriors. Marriages were carefully chosen to breed the strongest men and women, and weaklings were often killed to keep bloodlines pure. As a child, I always hated the fact that they were fed and supported by starving families like my own.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 4

  Jarl awoke the next day feeling rejuvenated. The back of his skull was still sore, but his persistent headache and dizziness were gone. Curious, he checked his stats.

  Jarl Beckström

  Class: Battleborn — Level 2

  Strength: 15

  Agility: 12

  Fortitude: 14

  Intellect: 8

  Perception: 10

  Charisma: 13

  Health Points: 22 out of 26

  Stamina Points: 18 out of 20

  Defense: 13

  Rage Points: 2 out of 2

  Feats: None

  Special Abilities: Determined

  Resistances: Cold (racial bonus)

  Afflictions: Minor Head Injury. -1 to Intellect and Perception rolls.

  Experience Points: 350 out of 900

  He pushed himself up to a sitting position, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Hjalmar was busying himself with something on the far side of the cave, and a fresh fire crackled merrily in the pit. Beast was curled up near the blaze and appeared to still be sleeping. Sunlight filtered in through the hides covering the exit, indicating that it was already well past dawn.

  “Good morning,” Jarl grunted, throwing off the bear pelt and getting to his feet.

  “Ah, you’re up,” Hjalmar remarked, glancing at him from over his shoulder. “There are some biscuits in that bag over there and a pot of drik near the fire. Feel free to help yourself.”

  Jarl went to the proffered bag and pulled out a piece of hardtack, grateful that he was able to walk again without the world spinning around him. He gnawed on the hardened biscuit and searched for a cup so he could pour himself some drik. “Where did you get the hvet to make bread?”

  “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not completely cut off from civilization,” Hjalmar replied gruffly. “Sometimes, I meet warbands or trading caravans during my travels.” He nodded at a pile of fur-wrapped bundles. “I spend most of my days trapping, and trade the pelts for supplies I can’t gather myself.”

  Nodding, Jarl dipped a cup into the lukewarm drik and took a long pull. Beast looked up at him and sniffed in annoyance.

  Trading caravans were rare, and were often made up of the middleborn merchant caste and their servant thrall. During peacetime, they would venture between clanholds to exchange thralls and other goods.

  Every clanhold was known for different industries. Norvaask was renowned for its grain and farming, while Jotungard mines yielded the best iron. Skaarvald and Börstad harvested vast amounts of fish from the sea, while Whale Tusk and Seal Spear went whaling for scrimshaw. Fjondur and Vödheim were said to have fought wars over who had the best timber, while Wulfgard was known to produce the finest leather on all of Njordrassil. None of the tales mentioned the Old Man of the Tundra trading with the clanholds, but there was much that was strange about Hjalmar.

  Setting the cup down, Jarl readied himself for departure by pulling on his coat and removing the bandage from his head. It came off easily enough, but he winced as the blood-crusted cloth peeled away from his hair. Beast regarded him with suspicious, beady eyes from his place by the fire as he began tugging on his boots. The mink chittered loudly soon after, drawing the attention of Hjalmar.

  "You going somewhere, lad?"

  "I need to get back to the battlefield," Jarl explained, tying the straps of his boots. He shot the furry creature an irritated look. "Raynar Haig's body could still be out there. I plan on being the one to bring it back."

  "You sure you’re up for the journey?" Hjalmar asked. "Head wounds can be quite serious."

  Jarl flashed him a smile that was more confident than he felt. "I'm much better this morning. Besides, if these draugr are as dangerous as you say, then word needs to be taken back to the clanhold at once. If I return empty-handed, then I'll be back where I started—a lowborn despite the fact that I levelled up. But if I can bring back the Clan Lord's son, I'll be hailed as a hero. He'll be more likely to publicly recognize me as a
battleborn."

  "He won't listen to you if your mind is addled, regardless if you've found his son," Hjalmar said, tapping his temple with two fingers.

  Jarl shook his head. The action hurt, but only mildly. "I appreciate your concern, but really, I'm fine. This can't wait. I need to get back."

  The Old Man eyed him for a moment before letting out a sigh of acquiescence. "If you insist," he said. Turning, he began rifling through a pack of supplies and pulled out a familiar war axe. "You'll be needing this, I'd wager." He handed the weapon over to Jarl.

  Jotungard Battleaxe

  Damage: 1d8 slashing

  Weight: 4 lb.

  Durability: 75 out of 100

  Properties: Versatile (two hand = 1d10 slashing)

  "That's Jotungard iron, if I don't miss my guess,” Hjalmar said. “How did a Norvaask man get his hands on that?"

  Jarl took the axe and shrugged sheepishly. "I was defending my clanhold during a raid."

  Hjalmar grunted in response. "The heart of a battleborn, indeed. Well, I may as well give you a ride back to that gods-forsaken battlefield. We're a long way out, and with the snowfall, it'd be a difficult journey on foot."

  Jarl quirked an eyebrow at him. "A ride?"

  Hjalmar nodded and bade for him to follow. Beast jumped up and latched onto his coat sleeve. “Bumpkin’s in for quite a surprise,” he said in his strange, high voice.

  “Quiet, Beast. Don’t be rude.”

  They left the cave and stepped onto the open tundra, squinting at the sun’s light reflecting off the newly fallen snow. The desolate land sprawled out before them in all directions, dappled with low, glistening hills and mounds of ice-covered stone. To the north, Jarl could see that they were closer to the Howling Peaks, and by extension, Jotungard territory. Being near to the foothills instantly put him on edge.