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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  He was about to demand answers from the voice, to curse and shout in anger, when an unusual sound pricked his ears. It reminded him of the waves of the sea, a dull roar that crashed and receded, only to come back once again. He and the youngbloods stood mesmerized, watching the fallen star as the sound grew ever louder, coalescing into an ear-splitting thrum that rattled his teeth.

  A flash erupted from the runes, knocking him back with a force equal to what he’d felt when the star struck Njordrassil, only this time, Torbjorn somehow managed to keep his wits about him.

  He gasped and blinked against the sudden brightness, rolling to his side and trying vainly to get to his feet. Black magic, he thought groggily. Need to find my axe.

  When his sight returned, he saw that the youngbloods were on the ground as well, scattered like ragdolls. They gagged and kicked, clawing at their throats like men being strangled.

  “Ugo? Ugo!” He scrambled over to where the youngblood thrashed on the cold stone.

  Ugo’s eyes were bulging out of his skull, his veins swelling against his neck as something dark and slimy wriggled into his mouth. It was like an eel made from solid darkness, a tendril of shadow that violently forced its way into him.

  Torbjorn fought desperately to pull the thing away from the poor lad, but grasping it was like trying to grasp an oiled rope. Its long, viscous form slipped right through his fingers. It descended into Ugo’s throat until only the bottom of its tail remained, like a wagging black tongue.

  Within seconds, Ugo went still, as did the other youngbloods lying around him.

  I’ve always admired the will of your kind, the haunting voice said. The Children of the First are a determined breed.... It is your greatest strength... and your greatest weakness...

  Snarling, Torbjorn reached for the knife at his belt, his vision growing red as the desire to kill overwhelmed him. He jumped to his feet and turned to face the demon that attacked them, his knife raised and ready to throw. However, when he tried to step forward something held him, an invisible force rooting his feet to the ground. No matter how hard he struggled, he was unable to move.

  Unknown Magic

  Strength check failed. Restrained.

  “What sorcery is this?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with rage.

  The star opened before him, the very rock blooming like a mud flower. Smoke poured from the opening, as if released from tremendous pressure, and a creature unlike anything Torbjorn had ever seen stepped out—a nightmare given flesh.

  The being wasn’t human, nor was it akin to anything else on Njordrassil. It walked upright like a man, but that was where the similarities ended. Its skin was mottled green and purple, the color of an old bruise. Its fingers and toes were long and slender, barbed with black, cruel-looking nails. It wore a midnight robe and stood at least a span taller than Torbjorn himself, with no discernable eyes and a tangle of dripping, convulsing tentacles in place of a face.

  “Gods above,” Torbjorn muttered. “Life-giving Flame, preserve me. Save me from this evil.”

  The creature seemed to chuckle as it stepped from the star that was not a star. Your gods are dead, Child of the First. At long last, the time for your eternal destiny has arrived…

  With a slender finger, the creature pointed, and Torbjorn caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

  One by one, the corpses of the fallen youngbloods stood and shuffled over, arraying themselves in a wide circle around them. The tendrils that had wormed their way into their mouths shone with a purplish light, their tails hanging grotesquely from open jaws. The dead eyes of his former brethren stared sightlessly at him even as their bodies moved of their own accord.

  “What have you done to them?” Torbjorn cried, his own body still frozen in place.

  I have... repurposed them, the creature replied, its tentacle mouth shifting. The guise of free will has been stripped away. Now, they can serve a higher purpose...

  Despite himself, Torbjorn began to weep. The tears trickled down and froze almost instantly on his cheeks.

  Do not grieve for the fallen, the creature purred, its voice almost soothing in his mind. Grieve for the living... for it is they who will suffer the wrath of Archon when he returns.

  With that, the creature raised a hand, revealing a hole set in the center of its palm. Another dark, slimy tendril shot forth, landing in front of Torbjorn with a wet thud. The vile thing twitched to life almost immediately and slithered up the old warrior’s leg, making its way inexorably toward his mouth.

  Chapter 1

  Battleborn

  “Greatness isn’t something you’re born with. Believe me. This is a fact I know better than anyone.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 1

  The crowd cheered as the two men pummeled each other, the cramped cave around them thick with the scent of blood and sweat.

  Jarl watched with fascination as the violence unfolded, both combatants struggling to beat the other senseless with nothing but their bare hands. He stood shoulder to shoulder with dozens of lowborn and middleborn onlookers, men and women who’d come from all over the clanhold to watch this contest of strength. They shouted and taunted from behind the painted circle, their demeanor almost feral as they observed the bout, and Jarl had to fight to stay near the front where his view was unobstructed.

  “Give him a thrashing, Bjorn!” one man yelled at his side, his eyes alight with bloodlust and his beard flecked with spittle.

  Bjorn, the bulky, red-haired battleborn, wrapped his powerful arms around the other man’s shoulders, the veins popping out of his neck as he strained to wrestle him to the ground. His opponent, the bald-headed Asger, held firm in his position, grunting in exertion as he grappled with the taller man. Both were shirtless and covered with a sheen of sweat—in fact, almost everyone in attendance was sweating profusely. Iron braziers burned all along the perimeter of the cavern, their glowing coals filling the air with a stifling heat.

  Jarl, however, barely noticed his own discomfort. His eyes were fixed on the fighting before him.

  “Asger’s wearing him down,” he muttered to Erik, noting the way the shorter man leveraged his opponent’s weight to his advantage.

  His best friend snorted beside him. “You freezin’ mad? Bjorn’s favored to win! You think a man of that size will go down easily?”

  Jarl didn’t reply. He simply watched, amazed by the technique both warriors used as they fought. Strength versus agility, brute force versus speed.

  Asger’s faster, he thought, noting how the smaller man managed to break away and easily avoid Bjorn’s heavy-handed strikes. All he needs to do is wait until his stamina is low, then attack when an opportunity presents itself.

  It was a winning strategy he’d seen before.

  Bjorn let out a frustrated roar and lunged for Asger, but his hands grasped only air. The shorter man dodged out of the way, managing to stay just out of Bjorn’s reach.

  “Catch that wily bastard, Stonebreaker!” one of the onlookers shouted. “Crack him on the head! Spill his brains!”

  Already, Jarl could see that Bjorn was slowing down, his hulking body growing sluggish as the fight dragged on. He swiped again and again, attempting to pull the other battleborn into another grapple, but each time Asger was able to deflect and evade, always moving just beyond his grasp.

  Growing desperate, Bjorn charged like a boar, his shoulder dropping as he attempted to knock Asger from the ring. The smaller man barely managed to dodge and Bjorn stumbled, nearly falling out of the ring himself.

  There it is! Jarl thought, noting Bjorn’s exposed flank.

  Sure enough, Asger immediately pounced, rushing the red-haired giant with a raised fist. There was a loud crack as Asger’s knuckles connected with the side of Bjorn’s head, causing the bigger man to instantly drop to his knees. Half the crowd cheered while the other half groaned, but all eyes watched closely as the large battleborn struggled to gain control of his senses.

  Jarl couldn’t see the Damage that
had been dealt, nor could he see the Hit Points that Bjorn lost. Stats were intrinsic, individual things, numbers that flitted like thoughts through a person’s mind. They governed everything in the world. And right now, it appeared that Bjorn’s stats were critically low.

  Asger circled his dazed opponent like a dire wolf, his countenance grim as the mob raged around him. Then, once more raising his swollen fist, he delivered a second, far more savage punch to Bjorn’s jaw, sending him crashing unconscious to the ground.

  The crowd went wild.

  “Freeze me, Jarl!” Erik shouted over the cheers. “How is it you’re always right about these things?” He grinned broadly and looked at his friend, but saw that Jarl wasn’t smiling or cheering at all. He just stood there, eyes focused unblinkingly upon Asger. “Hey! Beckström! What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Several men pushed their way through the crowd and bent to remove Bjorn from the ring. Even with four of them, they had a difficult time hauling the big man off the ground.

  Huskarl Vig, a round, middle-aged highborn with a forked beard, stepped into the ring. As the fight’s arbiter, it was his duty to declare a victor. He took the winning battleborn’s wrist and thrust his arm into the air. “Asger wins!”

  This was met by thunderous applause.

  Beaming, Vig looked around the cave, his other hand sweeping in a grand gesture. “This has been a legendary fight! Our clanhold finally has a new champion! There are none bold enough to challenge Asger Ironfists to fight!”

  “Ironfists! Ironfists!” The crowd chanted the title—the new honor name.

  Jarl shouted too, but not in adoration. At first his words were lost in the din, but when the noise faded, he shouted again, this time gaining everyone’s attention. “I’ll challenge Asger Ironfists!”

  The entire cavern fell into stunned silence.

  “What are you doing?” Erik hissed urgently at his side.

  Jarl ignored him and continued staring, his eyes never wavering from the sweat-streaked warrior before him. “I will challenge Asger Ironfists to fight,” he repeated, “for the honor of being named the new champion.”

  For an instant, everyone regarded Jarl with shock and curiosity, gaping in the face of such an unprecedented challenge. Then, after the surprise wore off, they burst into raucous laughter, their scorn filling the cave.

  “A lowborn fighting a battleborn? Wouldn’t that be a sight?”

  “You daft, boy? He’ll break you in two!”

  “You’re a right frostbitten fool, you are!”

  Their contempt was so great that for a moment, Jarl’s stony demeanor nearly cracked. You expected this, he reminded himself sternly. You knew how they’d react when you challenged him to fight.

  The only one who didn’t appear amused was Asger himself, the shirtless battleborn crossing his burly arms as he looked Jarl up and down. From his expression, he wasn’t impressed with what he saw at all. He frowned deeply as his lips twisted, his posture indicating that Jarl presented no threat to him whatsoever.

  Vig stepped forward and levelled a finger at Jarl. “You forget your place, boy,” he said haughtily. “Asger is battleborn. You are not. Don’t do anything that’ll embarrass your family.”

  Pretending not to be intimidated, Jarl mirrored Asger’s posture and crossed his arms, shrugging nonchalantly. “I may not be battleborn, but I can still fight.”

  The graybeard scoffed and shook his balding head. “I won’t allow it. Such a spectacle would bring shame upon us all.”

  Jarl, his heartbeat quickening, met Vig’s eyes with a determined stare. “Perhaps it would. Or, perhaps you’re afraid that if I win, I’d bring shame upon you, Huskarl.”

  Those around him muttered to themselves, one man emitting a low whistle at Jarl’s brashness.

  Erik covered his face and let out a muffled groan.

  Vig’s cheeks flushed violet. “You speak boldly for a mud farmer,” he spat, his soft, many-ringed hands balling into fists. “I doubt you’ll be half as bold when you’re flogged and strung up in a blizzard—”

  Asger cut off the arbiter’s threat with an upraised hand. “Enough,” he rumbled, fixing Jarl with a flat expression. His visage was like that of a boulder. “Bold indeed.” He rubbed his chin, as if seriously considering the younger man’s offer, then nodded. “I will fight this lowborn, if only to teach him a lesson.” There was no malice in his words, only cold dispassion. It was a simple statement of fact.

  Everyone else in the cave, however, erupted in a chorus of cheers.

  “What have you done?” Erik asked, face growing pale as snow.

  “What I must,” Jarl replied, pulling off his coat and shirt and stepping into the ring. His body was nowhere near as muscular as Asger’s, but he was still strong. Years of working in the mud fields had given him a lean but sturdy build, with thick shoulders and a flat, tight stomach.

  “He’s going to kill you,” Erik murmured, his timid voice nearly swallowed up by the crowd. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Jarl glanced over his shoulder and gave his friend a self-assured smile. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  Vig retreated from the ring and shot Jarl a predatory grin, a look of triumph in his dark eyes. I’m going to enjoy watching this, those eyes seemed to say. You asked for what’s coming.

  Jarl ignored him, choosing instead to focus on the battleborn.

  Asger was of a similar height and age as Jarl, but with a clean-shaven head and a chiseled jaw covered in a short blonde beard. His scarred flesh bespoke a lifetime of armed conflict, and the hardness of his gaze reminded Jarl of the other battleborn he’d seen—men who’d been changed by the bloody realities of war. If Jarl won this fight then everything would be different. He would level up, become a battleborn himself. His entire life—and the respect of his family—would drastically improve in the social hierarchy of the clanhold.

  Whatever the risk to himself, it was worth it.

  Somebody offered Asger a health potion, but he refused it, his eyes never leaving Jarl.

  “People of Norvaask,” Vig called from the side, his resonant voice carrying over the boisterous crowd, “it seems that we have another challenger who thinks he can best our champion: Jarl Beckström, the lowborn mud farmer!”

  The declaration was met with mocking laughter.

  “Fighters, lock hands,” Vig continued with a sneer. “Let’s get this farce over with.”

  The two made their way to the ring’s center and shook, Asger’s hand bearing the hard calluses of battle. Jarl’s hands were callused, too, but from wielding farming tools, not weapons. After the wordless exchange they parted, each going to an opposite side of the ring to await the official start of the match.

  Remember your training, Jarl thought, closing his eyes and taking a deep, calming breath. You’ve sparred dozens of times with the lads. You’re the best fighter of any of them. The noise disappeared around him, and for a moment, he was alone. You can win this. His Health and Stamina Points are low. Strike hard and fast... don’t give him any openings. Once this is over, everything will change. You’ll finally be one of them.

  He opened his eyes, his gaze settling on his opponent.

  “Ready,” Vig boomed. “Begin!”

  Jarl brought up both his arms and fell into a fighting stance, the shouts of the crowd roaring back to life around him. His pulse pounded, heart thudding loudly in his chest, but he suppressed his nerves so he could focus on the fight.

  There was only him and Asger Ironfists. Nothing else mattered.

  The battleborn brought up his fists as well, his movements practiced and steady from years of fighting as he approached the middle of the ring. He watched Jarl like an eagle watching a rabbit—eyes impassive and calculating as he scrutinized his every movement. Without warning he struck, throwing a quick jab that narrowly missed the bridge of Jarl’s nose.

  Jarl jumped back as the spectators howled, many of the people he knew personally
calling for his blood. He’s testing me, Jarl realized. Checking my reaction time. He wants to be certain of my skill before fully engaging.

  Again, Asger attacked with a quick pair of punches before rocking back on his heels. Jarl managed to block both strikes, but just barely.

  The battleborn was unbelievably fast.

  Knowing that he needed to go on the offensive, Jarl moved in, searching for an opportunity to strike. Fighting too defensively would be a losing strategy here. His only chance was to knock Asger out before the warrior had a chance to react.

  Asger shifted his weight, indicating he was about to throw another punch. Instead of falling back, Jarl strafed to the side and lashed out, clipping the battleborn on the ear.

  1 Damage.

  This was met by whoops from the crowd. Asger danced backward, shaking his head in surprise and pain.

  Weren’t expecting that, were you? Jarl thought, gaining confidence. He pressed the battleborn further, leaning heavily on the element of surprise.

  Lunging, he struck again by landing a heavy punch in Asger’s ribs.

  2 Damage.

  The bald man grunted and blocked Jarl’s third attack, using his forearm like a shield to absorb the blow. Then he lowered his shoulder and shoved Jarl back, causing him to stagger.

  Asger didn’t waste another second, springing forward and raining blows on him. It was all Jarl could do to keep the other man’s attacks from hitting him directly.

  “Make ‘im bleed, Ironfists!” someone shouted from the periphery. The words were echoed by many others. Jarl took a hit hard on the lip, his mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood.

  -2 Health Points.

  I need to find an opening, he thought frantically, bringing his arms up to protect his face. Otherwise, I’m finished.