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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  They resumed, slowly but surely making their way to the top of the waterfall. Freya wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually, Runa called for a halt.

  “This is good enough,” she shouted. “One of us will have to go to the other side.”

  Freya looked to her left. A narrow ledge cut behind the ice, forming a cave of sorts that led to the far side of the waterfall. It was small, but she thought that she’d be able to fit through. If not, she would face certain death.

  She grimaced at the thought. They were high, perhaps one hundred feet off the ground. Don’t think, just act, she thought, moving tentatively for the ledge.

  “Freya, let me....” Runa began.

  “No. I can do this. Just wait here for a moment.”

  She carefully made her way to the cramped passage, using the broad handholds to steady herself. The path widened somewhat, allowing her to turn and shimmy through the ice cave. The sounds of battle faded as she went inside, and she was overcome by claustrophobia. Holding her breath, she inched her way to the other side, determined not to get stuck.

  Eventually, she emerged, stepping out onto another ledge that glistened in the light of the stars. Her foot slipped on a patch of ice, causing her to lose her balance.

  Agility Check: 4 + Ability Modifier (0).

  Unsuccessful.

  She screamed and flailed her arms as she slid toward the precipice. Her bottom hit the stone hard but she kept moving, the ground passing quickly beneath her until she fell over the side of the cliff.

  In a last-ditch effort, she twisted, grabbing for something, anything to save her.

  Agility Saving Throw: 16 + Ability Modifier (0).

  Successful.

  Her fingers found purchase on lichen-covered stone. It held firm, though her fingernails ripped painfully as she came to an abrupt stop.

  -1 Health Point

  Heart pounding, Freya pulled herself back onto the ledge, shaking uncontrollably.

  “Freya? Freya! Are you all right?” Runa’s voice was faint, and came from the other side of the waterfall.

  “Yes,” she returned, suppressing the terror of what had almost happened.

  “Good. Are you ready to begin?”

  She got to her feet, hands still trembling as she removed her gloves. She took a few calming breaths, then said back, “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “All right. Draft everything you can into the ice. Hold nothing back.”

  Mouth leaking smoke, Freya drew upon the fires inside of her to fuel her spell.

  Flaming Grasp

  -10 Magic Points.

  2d6 Damage on Touch.

  Her hands alight with fire, she pressed them against the frozen wall. Water bubbled at her fingertips and lines of steam leapt into the sky. She looked to the side and saw an orange glow where Runa drafted as well. Despite their combined strength, the ice was thick. It would take some time for them to destabilize it enough to cause an avalanche.

  Frosts... I’m so tired...

  Freya could feel herself start to sway. Dizziness clouded her vision and her stomach convulsed with a wave of nausea.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to give in to the demands of her body. There wasn’t anything she could do. If she didn’t finish this, then everyone on the valley floor would be killed, overwhelmed by the draugr horde.

  She prepared another spell, this one more powerful. Hopefully that would be enough to break the ice.

  Fiery Arc

  1d12 fire damage (AOE). Area affected: 20-foot arc.

  -15 Magic Points.

  Flames fanned out before her, further weakening the ice wall and sending streams of water gushing down.

  Another wave of dizziness came, and she paused, leaning heavily against the rock to keep from falling. So much had happened... the beacon, the fighting, the deaths of her friends. Freya had never pushed herself this hard before—physically or emotionally. “You’re so weak,” she whispered, bitterness tinging her voice. “No wonder the High Aesir rejected you. You’re half the fireborn you thought you were. You’re nothing....”

  Gritting her teeth, she cast another spell aimed at the heart of the now-pitted ice.

  Flames

  -2 Magic Points.

  1d6 Fire Damage on Touch.

  The fire sprang from her fingertips, creating a cloud of steam that seemed to envelop her.

  Freya wanted to weep, to sink to her knees and give up. The sickness was everywhere—her stomach, her mind, even her skin. The discomfort of using too much magic was intense, second only to her own feeling of worthlessness.

  Something cracked, a loud groaning sound that rattled Freya’s teeth.

  She glanced up to see a large fracture forming on the waterfall, spreading like a spiderweb from where she stood to the peak of the mountain. Taking a step back, she braced herself for a barrage of ice and stone, but nothing happened. After a nerve-wracking moment, the noise stopped.

  “Runa!” she called, hoping to be heard over the sound of the wind.

  “Yes?” came the reply a moment later.

  “Your flame spirits... are you out?”

  “Almost. I only have enough to cast one or two low-level spells.”

  Freya checked her stats, though she already knew what she would see.

  Magic Points: 17 out of 60

  She grimaced. Not nearly enough. The ice was still holding, and she doubted she had enough to make a difference. Her eyes drifted to the small cave she had crawled through. The ice there was the thickest. It was located in the center of the waterfall, where her and Runa’s fractures converged.

  “Freya?” Runa’s voice was filled with dread. “Freya, are you still with me?”

  “Yes,” she replied, straightening. An iron weight settled in the pit of her stomach, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “It’s all come to this,” she whispered. “Gods... help me to do what I must.”

  Taking a deep breath, she delved into the tunnel once again, wriggling her way through to the other side. There, she met Runa’s gaze. The woman had a look of resignation written across her features. “Runa, I’m sorry for the way I treated you before. You didn’t deserve that. I was petty and cruel, and you’re a greater fireborn than I’ll ever be. The clanhold will need you in the days to come.”

  Runa frowned. “Freya, why are you saying this?”

  “If you find Jarl, tell him that I’m sorry too. And... tell him that I’m proud of him.”

  She stared at Freya, then realization dawned on her. “No, Freya you can’t—”

  “I have to,” she replied. “It’s the only way.” Her voice hitched and she cleared her throat, adopting the impassive mask she’d so often worn. “I’ll wait for you to get to safety. Send up a flare when you’re ready for me to draft.”

  Runa opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again, realizing that this was indeed the only way. She gave her once-rival a small nod, then began to climb down, slowly descending the uneven cliff.

  Freya settled down, feet dangling over the edge as she looked out over the valley. Fighting still raged below, but it appeared that everyone was in position. The draugr milled out in a great mob, their purple glowing eyes like thousands of tiny stars twinkling on the ground below. They would be thoroughly crushed when the mountainside fell on top of them. She doubted anything would be able to survive the deluge of snow and rock that she would unleash.

  “Perhaps this is to be my punishment,” she whispered to no one in particular. “I sought only my own ambitions since becoming a fireborn. I never stopped to help anyone... never thought about using my powers for good.”

  The wind continued to howl, and she was grateful for the flame spirits roiling within her. At the very least, she would be warm when she met her end.

  Heaving a sigh, she crawled into the ice cave and prepared to cast her spell.

  It wasn’t long until she saw the signal, Runa shooting a flare into the sky from somewhere down below. It was time. This would be the momen
t that defined her. Gods have mercy, Freya thought, bringing her hands up. Her heart was pounding, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps. Aiming for the cracked ice in the middle of the waterfall, she began to draft, expending her remaining Vigor to make the spell as potent as possible.

  Fire Blast

  -15 Magic Points.

  -1 Vigor Point.

  8d6 Damage on Direct Hit.

  Chapter 27

  An Enemy Worth Fighting

  “You must forgive my ramblings. It feels like a lifetime ago that these events transpired. Even so, I will recall them to the best of my ability. It’s my wish to prevent similar tragedies from occurring in the future. Now, I will recount the war that nearly drowned Njordrassil in ice and blood.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 6

  The top of the waterfall exploded in a powerful display, sending ice and chunks of rock cascading down.

  Jarl watched with awe as the mountainside split, large cracks forming all along the frozen expanse. The noise was incredible, as though the very earth groaned in pain. It started small at first, a gentle shower of frost, but it soon grew into a deluge of epic proportions, an avalanche of snow and glacial ice from the highest peaks.

  Men cried out in amazement and fear, but the draugr were unmoved. They continued their assault as if the mountains themselves weren't coming to bury them.

  “Gods above,” Brynjar swore at the same time Bjorn said, “What in the freezin’ Hel?”

  The avalanche swept down from the heights in a rolling cloud of white. The battleborn pulled back instinctively, retreating toward the center of the rise upon which they stood. The draugr pressed forward to fill the gap, even as the thunderous snowfall fell upon their backs.

  Jarl closed his eyes as a wave of frost hit him square in the face, stinging his skin and clinging to his beard. The wind blasted him backward and he lost his grip on his axe, the weapon disappearing in all the commotion.

  There was only cold and noise, a dull roar that filled his ears and rattled his bones.

  It felt like the end of the world had come upon them.

  He waited for death to overtake him, to sap his remaining Health Points and take him away to oblivion, but nothing happened. The rumbling subsided and the world around him grew still.

  Eventually, he opened his eyes and found that most in the area around them had been spared, the avalanche having filled the rest of the valley.

  Aside from a few stragglers, the draugr horde was gone.

  Blinking, he got to his feet, feeling woozy from the exhaustion and loss of blood.

  Others got up as well, muttering curses and wondering aloud at what had happened. The fireborn brought down the waterfall, Jarl realized, finding his axe half-buried in the snow. He had no way of knowing who was responsible for saving them, but something gave him the sinking suspicion that it was his sister. No one could have survived a fall from that height. If it was her, then she’s probably dead.

  “Well, that was lucky,” Bjorn said, shaking the snow from his hair.

  “I don’t think luck had anything to do with it,” Asger remarked, eyeing the mountaintop.

  Fighting resumed as the remaining draugr were dealt with, but it was over quickly. Just like that, the battle ended. They had won, but at a terrible cost.

  Jarl regarded the other battleborn, who looked just about as bad as he felt. “What do we do now?”

  Asger put away his hatchets and scratched his chin. “I suppose we pick up what we can, then get the Hel out of this place before Jotungard shows up.”

  Bjorn snorted and spat to the side. “Bah. If those bastards are smart, they’re miles away from this place, drinking mjöl by the light of a hearth.” He paused, then gave the other battleborn a wide grin. “Speaking of mjöl, I sure as Hel could use a drink. What say you, Beckström?”

  The others turned toward him as if genuinely curious about his opinion.

  “Me? Um.... Well, yeah. I could use a drink.”

  The big warrior boomed a laugh. “That’s the spirit! You’ve definitely earned one, that’s for sure. Come on lads, let’s get to it, then. The night is young.” He slung his greataxe and set to work, the other battleborn following.

  The survivors of Norvaask gathered their wounded and burned their dead, leaving the valley before dawn’s light reached the horizon. They returned to the tundra, setting up camp at the crest of a hill and nursing their considerable wounds.

  It was a sober procession, despite their victory. They had faced death itself, legends given physical form, and many of their comrades had been killed in a battle that no one expected.

  It was a lot for the people to take in.

  The sun had risen to reveal a beautiful, cloudless day. After drinks had been passed around, many wandered off to find some rest, while the healers worked hard to take care of the never-ending stream of wounded.

  Jarl sat alone beside a firepit, unable to sleep. His thoughts were jumbled, and though he was hurt and tired, he couldn’t seem to turn off his mind. Quietly, he stared at the flames. They reminded him of Freya and the time they’d spent together travelling. He was only just beginning to see her as a human again—like he had when they were children—but now she was gone. He felt a pang of loss that was surprisingly keen.

  She hadn’t been among the fireborn survivors, but it was a young woman named Runa who had confirmed his suspicions. She’d told him about Freya’s sacrifice and offered condolences and some words of comfort—if a bit awkwardly.

  Jarl barely heard them. He was empty, bereft. He’d always loved his sister, deep down, even when she acted like an arrogant witch.

  Now, she was truly gone. He’d never get the chance to rekindle his friendship with her.

  He’d never get to tell her what she meant to him.

  Sighing, he checked his stats for perhaps the fifth time that morning, eager for the distraction. In the aftermath of the battle, he’d levelled up.

  Jarl Beckström

  Class: Battleborn — Level 4

  Strength: 16

  Agility: 12

  Fortitude: 14

  Intellect: 8

  Perception: 10

  Charisma: 13

  Health Points: 7 out of 46

  Stamina Points: 3 out of 34

  Defense: 13

  Rage Points: 0 out of 2

  Feats: None

  Special Abilities: Determined, Adrenaline Surge

  Resistances: Cold (racial bonus)

  Afflictions: Flogged Back. Disadvantage to Strength and Agility rolls.

  Health Points capped until fully healed. Too much movement can result in Bleeding.

  Wounded Forearm. Unable to fight with two hands.

  Experience Points: 3,000 out of 6,500

  He felt stronger, but that didn’t give him much joy. Even after everything that had happened, he was right back where he’d started. Battleborn he didn’t recognize had confiscated his axe shortly after setting up camp. They’d said they weren’t sure if a lowborn was allowed to carry a weapon, and he didn’t resist them.

  I fought beside you in battle, he thought glumly. And still, you can’t accept me?

  Perhaps that was simply the way the world was. It didn’t matter what you did; if you were born to the wrong class, you could never rise above your station.

  A man approached from the side and cleared his throat. “Beckström?”

  Jarl looked up. It was the man with the drooping mustaches from the Shieldbreaker’s warband. He thought his name was Gorm.

  “The war leader wants to meet with you,” Gorm said. “Said it was urgent.”

  Jarl nodded and, without saying anything, got to his feet.

  Together, the two made their way through camp, walking in silence past the legions of wounded men. Smoke drifted up from dozens of fires, the smell of cooking mixing oddly with the stench of blood and death.

  Halvard Bloodhammer was now the de facto leader of the Norvaask battleborn. Apparently, Sten Haig had fled with
his honor guards shortly after the battle was joined. Many in the camp were deriding him as a deserter and a coward, while at the same time lauding Halvard as a hero. The other war leaders, it seemed, had all been killed in the fighting.

  They found the war leader’s tent among the others, the crossed mammoth tusks making it easy to find.

  Jarl recognized the men standing guard outside. Asger Ironfists, Bjorn Stonebreaker, and Brynjar Fastblade all nodded at him respectfully, though none said a word. They merely watched him walk into their master’s tent, their expressions unreadable.

  They know I’m about to be punished, Jarl thought. I went against the war leader’s orders in coming back. Will he simply flog me this time, or will he make good on his threat and cut my head off?

  It was dark inside, though a pit of glowing coals illuminated a small group of figures. The captains surrounded a prone form on the ground, their voices engaged in hushed conversation. All of them stopped as soon as Jarl approached.

  “Is it him?” a gruff voice asked. “Make way, you idiots. I need to speak with him.”

  The warriors parted, revealing Halvard Bloodhammer lying amid blankets and furs. His wounds were bound with fresh bandages, and despite the fact that he couldn’t stand, his commanding presence still dominated the tent.

  “You called for me, War Leader?” Jarl’s voice was contrite, broken.

  Halvard stared at him for a long moment, his one good eye weighing him. “Yes, I did. I wanted to talk to you about what happened. You coming back. The draugr. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Jarl shook his head, unable to meet the powerful man’s gaze.

  The Shieldbreaker snorted. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, I suppose. A lot’s happened since the last time we spoke. I didn’t listen to your warnings. If I remember right, I told you that if you ever came back, I’d chop off your head myself. Do you recall?”