"What makes you think I’d ever want to talk to you?"
"I'm your sister," she responded stiffly. "And it's about what happened when we were on the tundra."
Jarl laughed bitterly. "My sister? I seem to remember you disavowing me, or have you forgotten? Where has my sister been for the last nine years? Where was she when that skrill Vig Heraldsen ordered me flogged? I'm not going to listen to a single word you have to say." With that, he turned and drove his spade back into the mud, grunting as the action sent waves of pain rippling down his back.
Freya made a disgusted sound and threw her hands up in exasperation. "What do you want me to say, Jarl? Do you want an apology? I'm sorry that your impulsive nature got you flogged. I'm sorry that I became a fireborn and left this place behind. But you need to listen to me when I say that I need to speak with you. This is too important to ignore."
Jarl didn’t even bother to look up at her. "Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in front of my friends."
The others kept their heads down, purposely avoiding both of their gazes.
For a minute, Freya said nothing. She continued to stand on the terrace, wringing her hands in as if unsure about how to proceed. Finally, she let out a frustrated sigh. "Fine," she said, lowering her voice. "Have it your way." She shuffled forward to the very edge of the terrace and leaned down, casting her eyes about as if afraid she might be overheard. "You were right about the draugr. The warbands are going to attack the wrong enemy."
Jarl's head snapped up. He frowned at her, concerned that he might have misheard. "What did you just say?"
She bit her lower lip. "You were right about the draugr. Please, don't make me say it again."
Arvid, Fisk, Dag, and Erik all eyed each other in amazement, their shocked expressions mirroring how Jarl felt. He looked up at his sister, feeling his heart leap within his chest. Then a sudden thought occurred to him, and he narrowed his eyes. "Is this some sort of joke?"
She gave him a flat look. "Don't be stupid," she said, still keeping her voice low. "When’s the last time I joked with you?"
"It’s been years," Jarl admitted, rubbing his chin with dirt-stained fingers. "But why the sudden change?"
This time, Freya crouched to get closer to them, the hem of her robes touching the muddy stones unheeded. "I was put in charge of the funeral rites for Raynar's body. After the ceremony, those... things came out of him, like black worms. They brought him back to life and he attacked me, and I was forced to burn him to protect myself." She shuddered visibly. "It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen."
"Then he was infested after all," Jarl murmured, his thoughts racing. This revelation gave him a new glimmer of hope. His sister, one of the most cynical and hard-nosed people he knew, now believed that the draugr were real. More importantly, she now understood just how dangerous the creatures could be. If he could win her over to his side, then he could probably win over anyone.
Two witnesses were always more convincing than one, especially when one of them was a fireborn.
"Frosts take me," Fisk swore, running a hand through his hair. "This is all... a bit much."
"The world’s gone mad," Arvid agreed.
"Don't be so dramatic," Erik said before looking to Jarl and Freya. "You two have a plan, don't you? Something that’ll stop those things?"
The two siblings stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. Neither one of them had any idea what to say. Finally, it was Freya who broke the silence. "The Clan Lord will be in no place to listen. I incinerated his son when he was supposed to be burned tomorrow at sundown in front of all the highborn. When he finds out, he's going to be furious. He might even execute me."
"Halvard will listen," Jarl put in. "He's proud, but he's a good man. If we provide him with enough evidence, he'll pull back from attacking Jotungard."
"Then we'll need to go find him," Freya concluded, straightening and adopting a cool and imperious mask once again. "Brother, I know that the two of us have had our differences in the past, but right now, we’re the only ones in the clanhold who have actually seen the draugr. It's up to us to do something about it."
Jarl nodded, setting his jaw in determination. "All right. But what do we do now?"
"First, we need to get you out of these wretched fields and into some warm clothes." She pointed up to the crack of sky high above them. "Then, we need to get to the tundra and try to catch up with the warbands before they attack. We’ll need to leave at once if we’re going to reach them in time." She paused, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth before adding, "And I suppose that we’ll also need to find you an axe."
Chapter 21
Flight
“As you know, a fireborn needs to imbibe flame spirits to use magic. This allows them to wield fire the way a battleborn wields a spear. They can burn men alive and throw fireballs, and their presence often determined whether a battle was won or lost.”
—Memoir, Rune Plate 5
Jarl and Freya immediately began making their way to the Frozen Terrace, pausing only briefly to gather clothes and supplies from their family's longhouse. They shoved food and blankets into bags, picking up bandages and even medicine just in case. Myrna wasn’t there, but Freya scrawled some runes on a scrap of leather using charcoal, explaining that they’d left together and that she shouldn’t worry about them. After that, they departed, barely stopping to say farewell to their grandmother before they left the Dregs.
They ascended the ravine in silence, taking the cliffside roads and rope bridges that would lead them to the top of the clanhold. When they passed the Commerce Terrace, the tier dedicated to the middleborn traders and craftsmen, Freya led them straight to an ironworker operating a great bellows beside a mud-brick furnace. The grizzled man glanced up at her as they approached and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Fireborn," he said respectfully.
"You, there," she replied in a clipped tone. "Do you have any weapons?"
"Weapons?" the ironworker asked, taken aback.
"Yes," she answered. "Weapons. Axes, spears, knives, and the like. Do you make those here?"
He frowned but nodded. "Yes, fireborn. Of course I make weapons. But I'm not selling anything today. The warbands cleared me out before they left."
She looked over his furnace with a critical eye, her gaze lingering on his anvil and tools. "Cleared out, you say?"
"Yes, fireborn. Cleared out my stock."
"And I suppose the same can be said about every ironworker here?"
"That's right."
"Then what's that over there?" She pointed to a table near the back of the workstation. It was covered in a cloth with bulging shapes underneath.
"That?" the ironworker asked, eyebrows pinching together. "That's nothing. Not for sale, I'm afraid."
"It's nothing, or it's not for sale?" She strode past the flustered craftsman and pulled the cloth off the table, revealing a gleaming set of five axes resting on its rough surface. Jarl's eyes went wide. They were some of the most beautiful weapons he’d ever seen. Freshly sharpened blades reflected the red glow of the furnace, while darkwood hafts seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Each axe had a jagged spike on the reverse side of the blade, and all of them were etched with the runes of Norvaask and braided ropes of silver, endless knots meant to symbolize eternity.
Freya pointed accusingly at the weapons. "What are these?"
"Nothing!" the ironworker cried, waving his hands as if to ward away a feral beast. "They’re just gifts, meant for the highborn!"
"Gifts?" Freya asked, arching an eyebrow. "And did you disclose the existence of these 'gifts' to the battleborn when they came for requisitions? I can't imagine the warbands would leave such treasures behind."
"They... they're my finest work," the man sputtered. He was sweating profusely now, and not just from the heat of his furnace. "I couldn't just let them take them. A man needs to be able to feed his family—you understand,
right?"
"Then you were planning on selling them," Freya said, her voice menacing as she looked down her nose at him. "Lying to a fireborn is a serious offense. I could have you drowned in the Fire Well for this."
The blood drained from the ironworker's face. He sank to his knees and began to beg, pleading for her to spare his life.
Jarl couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped forward to say something, but Freya shot him an irritated look and motioned for him to back off.
"Of course," she said after a moment, her tone softening, "I could be persuaded to overlook this transgression should the proper payment be made." She gestured at Jarl. "My... friend, here, happens to be in need of a weapon. One of these axes should do. Give him one as tribute, and I’ll forget this conversation ever happened."
The ironworker leapt to his feet and began nodding eagerly. "Yes, yes of course! Thank you, fireborn. Thank you!" He strode to the table and waved Jarl over. "Choose any one you like."
He selected one from the middle, picking the weighty axe up and testing it in each hand.
Norvaask Battleaxe +1
Damage: 1d8 slashing
Modifiers: +1 to Melee Attacks and Damage
Weight: 4 lb.
Durability: 150 out of 150
Properties: Versatile (two hand = 1d10 slashing)
Though heavier than the Jotungard axe he’d used before, it felt good in his grasp, almost like the weapon had been made for him specifically. He looked at the ironworker. "This is perfect. But I don’t have any money to give you."
"It’s a gift! Take it," the man said, grinning nervously. "Now, please, I don’t want anyone else to see...." He trailed off and covered the table again, pulling the cloth over the remaining four axes.
Jarl gave him a meaningful look. “Thank you, good man. I greatly appreciate it.”
"Next time a fireborn comes asking questions, see that you answer truthfully," Freya admonished coolly. "Good day."
With that, the two of them departed, leaving the Commerce Terrace behind.
"You didn't need to steal from him," Jarl said after a moment, glancing back at the ironworker sympathetically. The poor man was sitting down now, running his hands repeatedly through his thinning hair. “We could’ve found another way.”
"We don't have time to suffer fools," Freya replied briskly. "You needed an axe for the journey, and I supplied you with one. What does it matter how we got it?"
"It does matter," Jarl said. “It matters to me, and it certainly matters to him.”
She snorted. “Him? He’s a nobody. Who cares? Now, let’s move on, shall we? We’re not out of the clanhold yet.”
Jarl reluctantly let the matter drop. Looking down at the new axe in his hands, he made a mental note to repay the man whenever he returned to the clanhold.
New Personal Quest: Repay the ironworker.
By the time they reached the top of the ravine, a light snow had begun to fall. It dusted the Frozen Terrace with a thin blanket that made everything appear white and pure. The Pillars of Norvaask, blue and foreboding, towered over the flat expanse like sentinels, and the ever-present mass of steam that bubbled up from the Fjondar seemed to mingle with the gray clouds above.
Freya led the way up the Frozen Terrace and toward the guard post, where a handful of battleborn stood beside a smoking brazier. They looked up as her and Jarl approached, eyeing the weapon in Jarl's hands.
"The way’s closed, fireborn," one of them stated, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. "Sten Haig's orders."
"Stand aside," Freya commanded. "We're on official business from the Temple."
"We?" he asked, looking pointedly at Jarl.
"Isn't that the lowborn who was flogged for impersonating a battleborn?" another one asked.
"That is him!"
The warriors all chuckled amongst themselves.
Jarl could feel his cheeks growing red, but he kept his mouth shut. There wasn’t anything he could say to these men that would make them listen. Freya was the only one capable of convincing them to allow them to pass.
"The High Aesir herself gave us our orders," she lied. Then, pointing to Jarl, she added, "This one has information regarding the attack. He must be taken to see Sten Haig at once."
"Him?" the battleborn asked skeptically. "I doubt that."
Freya shrugged. "Take it up with the High Aesir."
The guard, now appearing annoyed, looked to his fellows then back at her. "We take orders from the war leader, no one else."
"And yet, your war leader isn’t here," Freya countered. She fixed him with an intense stare. "The Aesir speak for the gods, and they’re still here at the clanhold. Would you like to suffer their wrath? I'd be happy to go and tell them that this important mission is being delayed because a few stubborn battleborn don't have the sense to listen to their betters." She turned as if to leave, but the guard muttered a curse and told her to wait.
"Have it your way," he grunted, motioning at the wilderness beyond the ice towers. "See how well you fare out there alone."
The battleborn turned away from them, shaking their heads and laughing about how they’d be dead come morning.
Freya ignored them and strode right past their brazier. "Come on, Jarl," she said. "Let's go."
They lost sight of the clanhold by the time night fell.
A darkness, made deep by the heavy cloud cover, settled over the cold tundra and made it nearly impossible for the pair to see what was in front of them. The snow had stopped, but that somehow made it colder, worsened by an incessant wind picking up from the north.
They eventually decided to camp at the base of a small hill, crouching in a divot that provided some protection. Hunkering down, they each pulled out blankets which they’d taken from their longhouse, though the coarse fabric did little to stave off the chill.
Jarl watched in the near-total blackness as Freya rummaged through her satchel, eventually retrieving what looked like a handful of stones. Digging with gloved fingers, she made a little hole in the ground and deposited the stones inside. Then, she pulled a flask out of her cloak. She took off her glove and drank, and a few seconds later, a tiny fire sprang from the tips of her fingers. Jarl watched in fascination as lines of smoke trickled out of her mouth and nose, and was doubly surprised when she reached forward and lit the stones, creating a warm fire that burned brightly.
"You've been a fireborn all these years," he said quietly, "and you’ve never once shown me what you can do."
Freya smirked, but didn’t take her eyes off the flames dancing on her fingertips. "Well, now I have. Does it exceed your expectations?"
"Yes," he answered honestly, bobbing his head. After a brief pause, he gestured at the fire. "What are those stones? I've never seen anything like them before."
"Emberstones," she said, eyes reflecting the light of the fire. "They come from deep underground. The fireborn often use them as a light source at the Temple. Fires made from wood or hvet husks produce more heat, but emberstones are easier to carry. They can also burn for days and are reusable." She gave a half-shrug and returned her attention to the flames sprouting from her hand. "I thought they'd be useful on our journey, so I stole a few."
A silence fell between them as the fires burned, creating a circle of light that blacked out everything else beyond. After a few minutes, the smoke stopped pouring from Freya's mouth and nose, and the flames died out on her fingers, somewhat dimming their little camp. The fire from the stones was still warm enough to prevent them from freezing, and Jarl was grateful that they didn’t have to sleep in the dark. He remembered the first night he’d spent out on the tundra and wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.
Eyeing her from across the burning emberstones, Jarl spoke up again, voicing a question that had been nagging at him. "Why are you out here, Freya?"
She frowned at him. "I thought that was obvious. To stop the draugr."
"Yes, but why come here yourself?" he pressed. "Why bring me? It seems like an
unnecessary risk to yourself, going against the wishes of the Clan Lord. Don't you want to become an Aesir?"
Freya stared at him for a long moment before responding, her expression unreadable. "Contrary to what you might think about me, Jarl, I'm not a monster. I actually do care about the future of our clanhold, and I don't want innocent people to die. I was one of the few fireborn who remained behind, and I'm the only one who’s actually seen a draugr, so it falls to me to find a solution."
"Well," Jarl replied simply, settling back, "if that's true, then you're a better person than I took you for."
"And what did you take me for?" she snapped.
Jarl shrugged. "I took you for a fireborn."
"And what’s that supposed to mean?"
Jarl took a deep breath before continuing. "In my experience, fireborn only ever care about one thing—themselves. Lowborn, laborers, thrall... we're all the same in their eyes. They don't care about how many people suffer due to their petty squabbles, only that their own extravagant lives remain the same. They’re cruel and pretentious. The battleborn aren't much better, but at least they’re honest and willing to put their lives on the line for their clanhold."
Freya's green eyes blazed. "Fireborn fight in battle all the time," she shot back. "We do just as much for the clanhold as the battleborn.”
"From behind the protection of a shield wall," Jarl muttered. "Burning people from a distance isn’t the same as fighting them up close."
“And being a mud farmer isn’t the same as being a warrior,” she retorted.
Jarl stared at her hard for several moments, trying to think of what to say next. He could feel heat rising in his chest, his cheeks flushing with rage. The feeling was caustic, a deep boiling that threatened to overcome him. He forcibly pushed it away. No good will come from bickering, he thought, wrestling down the anger. We won’t be able to work together if we’re always at each other’s throats.
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