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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  “Yes,” Jarl answered without looking up. “I remember.”

  “And yet, you came back anyway. You put yourself in mortal danger to protect me and my warriors. Why would you do such a thing?”

  Jarl shrugged. “I didn’t really think about it. It just felt like the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing to do.”

  Silence. The captains didn’t dare to speak. Finally, Jarl looked up, his brow furrowing slightly.

  Halvard shifted in his bed. With great difficulty, he managed to sit up, his face twisted in pain. “You’re one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever met, Jarl Beckström,” he said after a moment. “You’re brash and impulsive, and you have little to no regard for the traditions of our people. But...”—he paused, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—“you’re also one of the bravest men I’ve had the pleasure of fighting beside. Without you, I’d be on a pyre, burning with the rest of our dead. You have my thanks for saving me.”

  Jarl was taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. “Of course, War Leader.”

  The Shieldbreaker eyed him for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. No one else so much as moved in the tent, and the only sound came from the crackling fire. Finally, he heaved a sigh. “Tradition be damned. I want you by my side in the days to come. Your talents are wasted in the mud fields. We need men like you if we’re going to survive the future.”

  Jarl frowned at him. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” Halvard replied, “that I’m taking you into my warband—into my very honor guard, lad. We’re in for some dangerous times, and I want you to be the man guarding my back. I officially recognize you as a battleborn of the clanhold Norvaask.”

  Jarl was stunned. His mouth worked, but he didn’t know what to say.

  The others looked on approvingly, nodding and stroking their beards at the declaration.

  Halvard leaned in, his expression bemused. “You’re not going to pass out on me, are you soldier? You look a little pale.”

  He shook his head. “No. I mean... you honor me, War Leader. But aren’t the highborn the only ones who can legitimize a class change?”

  “To Hel with the highborn,” Halvard snapped. “I don’t see any of them here, bleeding for the clanhold. The only one was Sten, and that coward fled as soon as the fighting started. No, in times of war, a war leader can raise new battleborn. And war is here. Now, will you join my band or not? I won’t make the same offer twice.”

  Jarl dropped to one knee. “Of course. Thank you, War Leader. I swear that I’ll always serve to the best of my ability. I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t, lad.” His voice was gentle, almost paternal. “Now, get up. Battleborn don’t grovel. And get yourself some healing and rest. I need you in fighting shape as soon as possible.”

  He stood, feeling several feet taller than he had before. The captains nodded at him, silent but accepting. Not a one looked angry or disappointed. In fact, they all seemed to agree with Halvard’s decision.

  Stepping back outside, the light rested upon him, warming his face. He couldn’t wipe the grin off, even if he tried. Everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of, was now his. Part of him wondered if it were real or if he had fallen asleep and this was all just a pleasant dream.

  The others were waiting, as before, but now they appeared happy to see him. Bjorn was smiling widely, and Brynjar was beaming. Even the dour Asger seemed more jovial than usual.

  Jarl stopped before them. “I, uh... just spoke with the war leader.”

  “We know,” Bjorn guffawed. “We’re not stupid, you know.”

  Brynjar approached him. “We heard about what he was planning to do,” he explained, his still-battered face soft, even friendly. “Now that it’s official, we wanted to congratulate you.” He extended a hand. “Welcome to the honor guard, brother.”

  Jarl shook it, again at a loss for words.

  Asger reached beneath a fur bundle and pulled something out. It was his +1 Battleaxe, polished and shining in the morning light. “A battleborn should never be without his weapon,” he said, cracking a small smile. He handed it over to Jarl, haft-first. “You’ve certainly earned it. Use it well.”

  Jarl accepted the axe, and for a moment was overcome with emotion. He fought back tears, his throat catching when he whispered the words, “Thank you.”

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” Bjorn said, coming up and slapping Jarl hard on the back. “You’re a crazy bastard, Jarl Beckström. But we could use a little crazy around here, now that the dead have arisen and the world’s gone mad.” He grunted and shook his shaggy red mane, then produced—seemingly from out of nowhere—a horn of mjöl. “I think you’ve earned this more than that pretty axe of yours.”

  Jarl set his weapon aside and accepted the beverage.

  The others pulled out horns as well, and they all raised their drinks to him.

  “To Beckström!” Bjorn shouted. “May his axe stay sharp, his armor stay bright, and his bed stay warm with the most beautiful women! Honor and iron!”

  Everyone around him repeated the toast, “To Beckström!”

  Jarl took a long pull of the sweet liquid. Never had anything tasted so good.

  Blue fingers, numb from cold, broke through the snowbank, slowly—and painfully—clawing a path to freedom.

  Freya blinked against the sunlight, amazed that she’d survived. She breathed deeply for the first time in hours, tears running down her frozen cheeks as she emerged from her icy prison. Golden rays warmed her frostbitten body. It was a beautiful sight. If she hadn’t been waiting on death’s doorstep, she would have laughed for joy.

  Pulling herself from the tunnel she’d dug with her bare hands, Freya collapsed on the snow, panting and quietly weeping. She closed her eyes, too weary to do anything else, and merely drank the sunshine like a woman dying of thirst.

  Health Points: 3 out of 22

  Stamina Points: 0 out of 16

  Magic Points: 2 out of 60

  Afflictions: Frostbite. -2 to Agility rolls. Risk of losing fingers and toes.

  Concussion. -2 to all Intellect and Perception rolls.

  Exhaustion. Disadvantage to all saving throws.

  Broken Ribs. Breathing labored and movement slowed. -4 to all Strength and Agility rolls.

  Her afflictions were numerous, but despite her fall and subsequent burial, she somehow still clung to life. The waterfall’s ice cave had sheltered her during the avalanche as far as she could tell, protecting her from being crushed. That was extremely lucky, but the true miracle was that she hadn’t succumbed to the cold while remaining unconscious beneath a mountain of snow.

  2 Magic Points, Freya thought, smiling weakly to herself. It wasn’t much, but the last of her flame spirits had been enough to keep her from freezing to death.

  Feebly, she lifted a hand, drafting the last of her magic reserves in an attempt to stave off hypothermia.

  Heat

  -2 Magic Points.

  Warmth spread throughout her limbs as the spell worked, melting away the cold that had almost killed her. It hurt terribly, a stabbing like tiny needles that eventually gave way to an uncomfortable tingling sensation, but she felt her Frostbite affliction dissipate.

  Grunting, she laid her head back down and closed her eyes against a sudden headache.

  Still have my emberstones, she thought, feeling the pouch bulging in a pocket. I could make a fire, melt some water, rest.... Then, when I have the energy, I can make the trek back to Norvaask.

  It would be a long journey, hiking across the tundra in her condition, but she had no other choice. Besides, she’d rather die under an open sky than encased like she had been in a frozen tomb.

  The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

  After a few minutes, she pushed herself to a sitting position, taking in the scene around her.

  Most evidence that there had been a battle here had been swept
away, buried beneath the mountainside. Still, there were traces: a weapon here, a spot of blood there, a body part sticking oddly out of the snow. The draugr were no more. The raw force of the avalanche had apparently killed them all, and the surviving battleborn and fireborn had long since left.

  She was alone, trapped in unfriendly territory with a battered, broken body and no supplies.

  But at least I’m still alive.

  The thought was enough for her to try getting to her feet.

  It took a couple of tries, but eventually she was able to stand, the world spinning around her as she tried not to topple over. The vertigo passed, and she was able to breathe a little easier, despite the pain coming from her broken ribs.

  The sun was still low in the sky. If she left now, she’d be able to travel a good distance before it got dark, maybe find a safe place to settle down for the night.

  Footsteps crunched across the snow behind her, and she turned, gazing up the slope that led into the valley.

  An armed patrol was approaching, spears and shields held in the metal-clad hands of about two dozen warriors. For an instant, Freya thought that they must be battleborn from her clanhold, looking for survivors. But then she saw the rune pairs stitched upon their banners. They weren’t the familiar symbols of Norvaask, but the ones of another clanhold.

  The dreaded word fell unbidden from her lips. “Jotungard.”

  Her heart seized within her chest.

  The patrol marched efficiently into the valley, unperturbed by the single bedraggled fireborn waiting for them at the bottom.

  She didn’t have the energy to flee, nor did she have the flame spirits to put up a fight. She merely stood there, watching as the battleborn took up positions around her, their weapons raised as if waiting for an order to put her down.

  A woman stepped out from among the ranks, her well-made armor clinging tightly to her muscled yet feminine frame. She had golden hair woven in an intricate braid that fell over one shoulder, and she carried a magnificent-looking spear inlaid with ivory and threads of gold. Her face, beautiful yet severe, was surprisingly young, and her iron-gray eyes stared imperiously at Freya with all the confidence of a queen.

  “A stray,” she remarked in a lightly accented voice. “How very sad. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, fireborn?”

  One of the warriors stepped up beside the woman. He had a cross-shaped scar in the middle of his face. “What are your orders, Spear Maiden? Should we kill this Norvaask wretch?”

  The woman, the infamous Spear Maiden of Jotungard, seemed to ponder this for a moment before shaking her head. “No. Fireborn can be useful, once their loyalties are broken. Put her in chains. We’ll throw her in with the rest of the thrall and take her back with us.”

  Freya stood dumbly, mouth agape as the battleborn took her and roughly searched her person. They stole her coins, emberstones, and empty flasks, even stripping the jewels and ringlets from her hair. Finally, they clamped manacles on her wrists and ankles, connecting her to a large battleborn’s belt with a heavy chain.

  “You won’t cause any trouble, will you?” The Spear Maiden regarded her expectantly.

  Freya looked down at her boots, every inch of her body growing numb.

  “Good.” The woman thumped her spear against the ground, prompting her warriors to fall in line.

  “It looks like there was a battle here,” the man with the cross-shaped scar said. “They must have buried most of it with that avalanche we heard.”

  “Smart,” the Spear Maiden replied. “But the draugr are still a threat. They’ll come back, and when they do, we’ll need to be ready for them.” She gestured with her spear. “Let’s get back to the clanhold. My father will want to know about what happened here.”

  “Aye,” the man concurred. “That he will.”

  “Let’s move out!”

  With that, they began marching, taking Freya away from the battlefield, her clanhold, and the only life she’d ever known. As the reality of her situation set in, the blood drained from her face. Oh gods, she thought, struggling to keep from being dragged by the hulking warrior. They’re... going to make me their thrall!

  Part of her wished she’d stayed buried beneath the snow.

  Epilogue

  Somewhere North...

  Siryyx the Devourer, Disciple of Archon and Infester of Worlds, stood on a lonely mountaintop, pondering the world that would soon be his. The elements assaulted him, the bitter cold and biting wind encircling his body, but he felt nothing. Comforts and discomforts no longer affected his mortal tabernacle. He was apart—indifferent. He was ascended now, and had been for centuries. Nothing could stop him from achieving his goal, not even the frozen hellscape of this tiny, insignificant planet.

  Every knee shall bow before the end, he thought, his eyeless gaze observing the tundra far below. All shall die... and then, all shall serve.

  The natives were beginning to fight back, of course. He’d expected that before even coming here. But his army was already sizable, and growing more each day. Soon, his children would cover this land like a plague, infesting every clanhold and burrow, turning all flesh to his will.

  It will be a good staging ground, a foothold for the true conquest to come. His tentacles quivered at the thought. After assimilating Njordrassil, he would expand until he filled all of the Living Worlds, his consciousness spanning the stars. And then... his glory will be made manifest. The Age of Transcendence will begin, and I will be the one responsible for ushering it in.

  He turned from the ledge and made his way to the ancient stair that had been carved into the mountain’s face. His children followed, a score of reanimated corpses, their silent obedience unwavering as they descended to the lower level. This place was old, almost as old as Siryyx himself, built by the first men who’d settled Njordrassil when the Living Worlds were still new. It had once been a sacred place, a hollow hewn from the mountain itself, with primordial runes and forgotten symbols etched into the lichen-covered stones. Now it was a ruin, a shadow of a shadow.

  He reached out, long fingers brushing the walls as they hiked toward the mountain’s heart. At his touch, the symbols glowed blue, their magic activating even after all these years.

  Not all a ruin, he mused, leading his silent procession. Power still resides here... power from He-Who-Fell.

  The path was narrow and encrusted with veins of ice. Even so, they made it through easily, eventually coming to a wide, circular chamber beneath an enormous dome. An oculus was carved into the top, allowing a column of moonlight to filter into the cavern. It fell on a stone dais, giving just enough light to draw their attention to what rested there.

  At long last... I’ve found it! A treasure beyond worth!

  A pillar of crystalline ice stood before them, shaped and smoothed by careful, forgotten hands. It glowed a soft blue, and its magical hum filled the sanctum with a mournful note, a reverent dirge. Warding runes surrounded it on all sides, protecting the treasure from the world—or, perhaps, protecting the world from the treasure. Inside, encased by the diamond-hard ice, was a shard of black metal. It was no larger than a human hand, the top coming to a razor-sharp point, but it radiated such power that even Siryyx felt a stab of fear upon seeing it.

  He approached tentatively, all too aware that he was treading upon holy ground. His minions waited in the background, obeying his silent command.

  The protective runes stopped him, of course. Their magic was potent, and they wouldn’t allow him to get too close to the ancient prison. Not that it mattered. With time, he would be able to dismantle the spells holding him back. For now, he was content to stare at the black shard, to revel in its darkness. This was why he’d come, after all. This is what he’d been searching for all these years.

  At long last, he thought, wishing he still possessed the ability to laugh. The return is now imminent. Nothing can stop the resurrection of my master. The time of glory is nigh.

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