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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  She gave him a curious look. “Battleborn have denser bones than everyone else, you know. Their Fortitude only increases as they level up. There’s no way a simple lowborn could have endured this much damage....” She trailed off for a moment, then said, “You really are a battleborn, aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t lying to you before.”

  “I know,” Freya replied quickly. “But... well, hearing it is one thing. Seeing it firsthand is something else.” She cleared her throat and looked at Jarl’s back, noting the blood that had seeped through. “And what about this?”

  Jarl shrugged. “It hurts, too. What do you want me to say?”

  Sighing, she began rummaging through her satchel, eventually producing a small clay jar. “Battleborn or no, you’ll need new bandages and medicine before we go any further today. I’ll not have you collapsing on the way to the war camps. I’m not a field surgeon, but I have had some training in the healing arts. Now, strip off your coat and shirt.”

  Grumbling and more than a little annoyed by her commanding attitude, Jarl did as she said. The coat came off easily enough, even with one hand, but the shirt was another matter. It stuck to his back like tar and stung terribly when he peeled it away from his skin. Still, once it was off, the cold air felt good on the exposed wounds, dampening the pain. The emberstones were still smoldering in the divot where they’d slept, and they gave off a warm glow that helped stave off the chill of the morning. Inching closer, he turned his front to the flames and let his back face the chilling wind.

  Freya sucked in a breath as soon as she saw his lashings.

  “What?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Surprised?”

  “It’s just... so much worse than I thought,” she said.

  Jarl scoffed. “You’d have known if you’d been there when they flogged me.” Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  Her expression hardened as their eyes met. “There was nothing I could have done,” she said firmly. “I’m a fireborn, not the Clan Lord. Besides, I needed to report back to the Aesir.”

  Jarl opened his mouth to respond, then quickly thought better of it, closing his mouth and turning his gaze away from her. There was no sense in starting another pointless argument. It would only serve to sour both their moods.

  Opening the jar, Freya began administering the medicine to his wounds. The salve smelled sweet and earthy, and it burned when she rubbed it on his skin. Jarl gritted his teeth and grunted whenever she touched a particularly sensitive area, but after a few minutes the pain began to recede into a tingling sensation radiating across his back. With the medicine applied, Freya took out some clean bandages and bound the lashings, wrapping the strips of cloth tightly around his chest.

  +3 Health Points: Healing over time.

  “Okay,” she muttered, coming around to his front, “let’s take care of that arm.”

  He lifted it up and she repeated the process on the wolf bite, smearing liberal amounts of the whitish salve all over the gashes.

  +2 Health Points: Healing over time.

  As she worked, her gaze flickered over to the dead alpha. “I still can’t believe you killed that thing,” she remarked, shaking her head. “It’s the biggest dire wolf I’ve ever seen.”

  Jarl said nothing, only grimaced as she ran her fingers over his wounded flesh.

  Freya set aside the jar and began wrapping the arm in a bandage. After a moment, she asked, “Are you going to take a trophy?”

  Jarl arched an eyebrow. “A trophy?”

  “Yes,” she replied, pulling the bandage tight. “When battleborn kill a great beast, they usually take a trophy to prove their valor. That’s how they get those ridiculous names, like Skullcrusher or Wyrm Slayer.” She smirked to herself, then added, “You could be Jarl Wolfbane.”

  “Jarl Wolfbane,” he repeated, a faint smile gracing his lips. “I like the sound of that.”

  Freya finished, tucking the loose end of the bandage beneath the bindings on his wrist. “There,” she said, nodding in satisfaction. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”

  Jarl raised his arm in front of him, flexing his fingers appreciatively. He felt better now, with the medicine soothing the pain and making it bearable. “Thank you, Freya,” he said.

  She made a face as she wiped her gooey fingers on a rag. “Don’t mention it.”

  With his wounds taken care of, the two gathered their supplies and prepared to continue their journey. Jarl dressed in some of the spare clothing he’d brought, though he still had to wear his tattered, bloodstained coat. Freya kicked snow over the emberstones to quench the fire, then deposited them in her bag for reuse. For food, they nibbled on salted pork and rock-hard biscuits, washing them down with ice-cold water.

  Before departing, Jarl approached the alpha’s dead body. It lay where they’d left it last night, its snout covered in Jarl’s blood.

  Laying his axe across his thighs, he crouched, inspected the carcass, and ran his fingers through the beast’s matted fur. He thought about what Freya had said, and wondered what type of trophy he could claim from the animal. He had neither the time nor the tools to skin it, and he didn’t think he had the strength to carry the enormous head around. Finally, he decided on taking the tail.

  Using the blade of his axe, he cut away the skin at the base of the tail and tugged it clean off the bone. It was difficult without the full use of both his arms, but he still managed it after only a few attempts. The tail was longer than his arm, bushy, with gray fur and a black spot on the end. It was too long to string from his belt, so he draped it over his shoulders, pleased by how warm it felt against the back of his neck.

  Freya rolled her eyes when he approached her wearing a grin, and the two departed soon after, picking up the path where they’d left off.

  They continued on their trek through the wilderness, traversing endless moors and clusters of low hills. Fortunately, the combined warbands of Norvaask left an obvious trail for them to follow, and the way was clear. Even so, Jarl found himself wishing that he had Hjalmar's dog sled to make traveling easier.

  The pair mostly walked in silence, each focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Jarl's injuries made the going slow, his back twinging with every step and his arm throbbing dully. Freya appeared to be exhausted. Her drafting seemed to have taken a greater toll than she let on. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her shoulders slumped in obvious fatigue.

  However, neither offered a word of complaint. Each stoically trudged forward, wearing grim masks of determination, not wanting to appear weak in front of the other.

  After several long hours, they stood on top of a rise overlooking a wide expanse of snow-covered flatlands. The tundra was ringed on all sides by rolling hills, hinterlands at the feet of the Howling Peaks, which marked territory fully owned by Jotungard. What gave them pause wasn’t the looming mountains nor the fact that they were on an enemy clanhold's doorstep, but the immense army stretching out before them. All the warbands of Norvaask were gathered together, represented by banners marked with runes. Campfires burned everywhere, brazenly releasing pillars of smoke. If they were trying to make their attack a surprise, they were doing a poor job of it.

  "There must be thousands of battleborn here," Freya marveled. She pointed to a cluster of red-painted tents near the center of the encampment. "See those, there? That's where the fireborn are staying. Frosts, I doubt there's ever been such a host in a hundred years."

  Jarl remained quiet as he studied the gathered warbands. The sight of such an army was certainly stirring, but it also made him uneasy. They've exposed their entire force, he thought, chewing on his lip. We're vulnerable here. Gods forbid, if Jotungard or the draugr attack us in these hills, we'll all be crushed. The clanhold will fall.

  It seemed like quite the gamble. Of course, Sten Haig didn’t seem concerned by the odds.

  Looking down, he noticed some movement at the bottom of the rise. He nudg
ed Freya, getting her attention. "Looks like we're about to have some company."

  A group of warriors made their way up the slope, spears and axes brandished as they hiked quickly toward their position. The battleborn wore full battle armor, chain links and cured leather, and carried themselves like men looking for a fight.

  "I'll do the talking," Freya said, stepping out in front of her brother. "We can't risk them recognizing you and laughing us away."

  Jarl grunted and gripped the handle of his axe in case things got ugly.

  "Hail," Freya called when the battleborn drew near. "I come from the Temple of the Life-giving Flame in Norvaask. I have an urgent message for Halvard Bloodhammer."

  The group halted a few paces away from them, many of the warriors lowering their spears. "And what message is that?" one of the men asked.

  "It's urgent," she replied. "And private. Escort us to the war leader's tent. I must speak with him at once."

  "How do we know you're not a Jotungard spy?"

  Freya sighed and gestured at her robes. "I wear the runes of Norvaask. I know High Aesir Sigrun personally and am a student of Vanir Kelvar. Now, I demand you let us through."

  "Freya?" The voice came from among the guards. The man was lithe and handsome, with a clean-shaven face and laughing blue eyes. He wore red robes just like her. "Frosts, it is you! What are you doing here? I thought you were staying behind to help officiate the funeral?"

  "Brimir," she said, stiffening as her imperious mask slipped. Her expression betrayed the fact that she was taken completely off-guard. "I... I've come with a message for War Leader Bloodhammer."

  "You know this woman?" one of the battleborn asked Brimir.

  "Of course!" he replied with a chuckle. "This is Freya Beckström—one of the finest fireborn in our clanhold!"

  Reluctantly, the warriors all lowered their weapons.

  "And who’s this?" Brimir asked, turning his attention to Jarl. "Your bodyguard?"

  Freya glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned sheepishly back to regard the other fireborn. "My brother," she replied, sounding more than a little embarrassed.

  "Oh," Brimir replied, his eyes widening with sudden understanding. "I see."

  "Beckström?" The battleborn perked up. "Isn't that the name of the lowborn the Shieldbreaker whipped?"

  "Aye, that's the one!" another guffawed. "I heard he also got a beatin' at the hands of old Ironfists!"

  The entire group began to laugh at him.

  Jarl could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. He took a step forward as if to confront them, but Freya put out a hand and stopped him. "Brimir," she said, forcing a smile, "would you please escort us to Halvard's tent? It’s urgent."

  He gave Jarl a bemused look, then nodded. "Of course." Then, leaning in close to her, he said in a not-so-quiet whisper, "And when you're done, perhaps you could visit me in my tent. I've missed you so much these last few days." His mocking eyes never left Jarl.

  They made their way down the hill and into the sea of tents and campfires. The battleborn led the way, followed by Freya and Brimir, who walked arm in arm, and then finally Jarl. He made sure to keep his face neutral, though inside he was afire with rage. Take a breath, you fool, he reminded himself, ignoring the curious stares of the people he passed. Stopping the draugr is too important. You can’t afford to get yourself flogged again for killing a fireborn with your bare hands.

  He pointedly avoided looking at Brimir and the way the bastard ogled his sister.

  When they reached the middle of the war camp, they came upon a familiar tent: hide and fur-lined walls supported by a pair of mammoth tusks lashed together in a cross formation. It stood among a dozen similarly sized tents. The other war leaders, Jarl realized. Warlords and rivals from every warband in our clanhold. Frosts... it’s amazing they can camp so close without being at each other’s throats. One was larger than the others, surrounded by banners carrying the Clan Lord’s runes. This one obviously belonged to Sten Haig.

  An honor guard stood outside Halvard’s tent, which, to Jarl's dismay, included Asger Ironfists and Bjorn Stonebreaker.

  "This one again?" Bjorn bellowed, his red beard quivering. "I thought you were dead!"

  "Not yet," Jarl responded, shouldering his axe.

  The big battleborn shook his head in amusement and snorted, reminding Jarl of a bull moose. "Frost-blinded skrill. You must be cracked in the head!"

  "What are you doing here?" Ironfists asked, his tone more subdued.

  "We're here to see the war leader," Freya said, pulling away from Brimir. She approached the honor guards with all the confidence of an Aesir. "We have an important message for him."

  The men looked at each other, exchanging dubious glances.

  "Trust me," she insisted. "The Shieldbreaker is going to want to hear what we have to say."

  Asger eyed her for a long moment before finally nodding. "All right," he said. "You can go in, but leave your weapons with us." He gestured at Jarl. "I especially don't want this one causing any trouble."

  "Certainly," she replied. "I'll make sure he's well-behaved."

  Jarl handed his axe over to Bjorn, who let out a low whistle when he took it. "That's a beauty," he remarked, running his thumb along the iron head. "I might just keep this one for myself."

  "No, you won't," Jarl said firmly, which earned him a few raised eyebrows.

  Bjorn chuckled. "As you say, mudborn. As you say."

  Asger led the two of them into the great tent, his movements reminding Jarl of the dire wolves they’d fought. He was different from the other battleborn he’d met—more stoic, less of a braggart. Part of him really respected the man they called Ironfists, even if he’d once beaten him half to death.

  Voices greeted them as they approached the center of the enormous tent, a gruff exchange of words that signified the end of a discussion. “Sten says we begin marching at nightfall. Go, spread the word to the rest of the warband. Tell them to be ready.”

  Halvard knelt before a leather map that was spread out across the floor. It seemed to depict the lands of Jotungard and the foothills of the Peaks, outlining every crag and game trail along the way. Braziers lit the area around him, their smoke curling up to holes cut into the roof. Everyone fell silent and narrowed their eyes in collective suspicion as Asger led the newcomers in.

  "War Leader," he said respectfully. "These two claim to have an important message for you."

  The Shieldbreaker looked up and grunted in disbelief. "What in the frozen Hel do I have to do to get rid of you, lad? You're like a stone that keeps getting caught in my boot."

  "If I may, War Leader," Freya began.

  "You may not," Halvard responded, cutting her off. Her jaw dropped in surprise, but he ignored her. "I want to hear it from your brother. Now, out with it. Why have you come back?"

  Jarl glanced at his sister uncertainly, then stepped forward, meeting the man's hard, single-eyed gaze. "You must convince the warbands to turn back, War Leader. The clanhold’s in danger."

  “Danger,” he repeated skeptically. “From who?”

  “The draugr,” Jarl said after a brief hesitation.

  Muttering filled the tent. Some even chuckled and shook their heads.

  Halvard didn’t look pleased. “Not this again. I thought I told you—”

  “It’s true,” Freya interrupted. “I’ve seen them in the flesh.” She went on to tell them about how Raynar Haig’s body had been corrupted by the black tentacles, and that his reanimated corpse had attacked her, forcing her to burn it with her powers. “These creatures are dangerous,” she concluded, “and, if left unchecked, will pose a serious threat to the clanhold.”

  “You have to call off the attack on Jotungard,” Jarl put in. “It’ll only weaken both clanholds, and every warrior that falls in battle only grows the army of the dead.”

  Several gathered in the tent looked troubled by their words, including Asger Ironfists, but most still wore doubtful expressions.


  "Who is this man?" one man asked. Jarl didn’t recognize him. “He presumes to command us like some highborn!”

  “He’s just a lowborn,” Knut Baardsen, one of the captains, replied. “A lowborn with a knack for stirring up trouble.”

  “He may be lowborn, but I’m a fireborn,” Freya said haughtily. “I speak with the authority of the Life-giving Flame. You can’t simply ignore my testimony.”

  “This isn’t your precious Temple, witch,” Knut growled. “We’re battleborn. Your words have no power here.”

  “Enough!” Halvard barked, bringing silence to the entire tent. He stared at Jarl and Freya for a long moment before finally exhaling and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Gods, we don’t have time for this. I have preparations to make. Do you have any proof to support your claims?”

  Jarl dropped his gaze to his boots. “No, War Leader.”

  “So,” Halvard said, “I have only your word and the word of your sister to go by. You would have me defy the wishes of my Clan Lord and fight an enemy that no one else has seen? You would have me disrespect my men by denying them vengeance and the spoils of war against our most hated rival? Surely, you can’t ask so much of me without even a shred of evidence.” There was an edge to his voice, a dangerous note beneath the supposed calm.

  “I swear by all the gods that we’re telling the truth,” Jarl insisted. “If you continue with this attack on Jotungard, every single one of your men will die.”

  Uncertain whispers followed the bold declaration.

  Freya crossed her arms, an impatient look on her face. “So, what’s it going to be?”

  Halvard pushed himself to his feet. Standing, he towered over them all, his body like a chiseled mountain. “I am not leading this attack, Sten Haig is. But even if I were in charge of all the warbands, my answer would still be no.” He turned and pointed to the exit flap, his expression darkening. “I’ve already flogged you once. I don’t wish to do so again. Leave my war camp at once, Jarl Beckström, and don’t ever come back. If you do, I swear that I’ll cut off your head myself.”