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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  He took a few steps back, and luckily, Asger didn’t pursue. The battleborn merely flexed his arms and turned his head, causing his neck to pop.

  Spitting a mouthful of blood to the side, Jarl shook himself and blinked furiously to refocus. The taunting voices began to wear on him, pressing in from all directions, but he fought to suppress the sudden worry twisting his stomach. He needed one direct hit to stun Asger, maybe even break his nose. That would give him the opportunity he desperately needed to knock the man unconscious.

  Growling, Jarl moved forward once again. He struck, jabbing wildly only to be blocked at every turn. He felt like he was underwater, his movements slow and ineffectual against the bald-headed warrior. Still, he pressed on, using every move in his repertoire to get past the man’s defenses.

  Fortune seemed to smile upon him as one of his fists got through, connecting directly with Asger’s mouth.

  4 Damage.

  -1 Health Point.

  Jarl felt a stinging pain as a tooth sliced his knuckle. He instinctively recoiled, pulling back and shaking his hand.

  Asger spat out the broken tooth and laughed, a booming sound that carried over the noise of the crowd. “Good hit,” he said, his mouth a bloody rictus of a smile. “But that’ll be your last one, I think.”

  With that, he charged, his grin twisting into a determined snarl.

  Before he could bring his hands up to defend himself, Asger rammed into Jarl with enough force to knock him to the ground. A second later, the man was on top of him, fists moving faster than Jarl thought humanly possible.

  -2 Health Points.

  -3 Health Points.

  -2 Health Points.

  Blow after blow connected with his face, pain blossoming on almost every part of his skull. Jarl struggled to block the attacks, fought like mad to get the crazed battleborn off of him, but to no avail. The man’s legs had him pinned down.

  He was stuck.

  The shouts of the crowd began to fade as the attacks fell, and soon, he grew numb to the pain. In a final attempt to bring a fist up to hit Asger, he succeeded only in grazing the man’s shoulder. Then he took a punch to the temple and everything went black.

  Chapter 2

  Hearth and Kin

  “It isn’t a matter of circumstance, nor is it a matter of raw talent. Greatness is earned by blood, sweat, and no small amount of pain. The singers don’t mention the thousands of small, seemingly insignificant efforts that, when added together, create something truly legendary.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 1

  “Jarl... Jarl! Are you okay? Wake up!”

  Jarl groaned as consciousness returned to him, an intense, throbbing pain radiating from his skull. He blinked one of his eyelids open—the other was so swollen that it remained shut—and squinted against the sudden brightness. He was lying on his back in the middle of a large cave.

  “Thank the gods,” Erik breathed, relief filling his voice. “Frosts, Jarl, I thought you were dead!”

  “Not yet,” he murmured, tasting blood on his tongue. He pushed himself to a sitting position, grimacing at the pain in his face. “What… what happened?”

  “You challenged Asger Ironfists to fight,” Erik answered bluntly. He crouched at Jarl’s side, eyebrows knitting together in concern as he looked over his friend. “He knocked you out then stormed away. Didn’t even wait for Vig to call the fight. Everyone just sort of left after that. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He trailed off and looked away, as if embarrassed to continue.

  The memories came rushing back. Jarl remembered publicly insulting the Clan Lord’s huskarl and challenging the battleborn to fight. He recalled holding his own for a time while the crowd shrieked, and he remembered Asger’s broken tooth cutting his knuckle. Finally, he remembered being knocked back and beaten, the warrior’s fists pounding him again and again until darkness swallowed him.

  Erik eyed him for a long moment before going on. “What in the frozen Hel were you thinking, challenging a battleborn? You could’ve gotten yourself exiled or killed! I wouldn’t be surprised if half the clanhold has heard about this by now.”

  Jarl sighed. “It was the only way, Erik.”

  “Only way?” Erik’s voice was incredulous. “Only way to what?”

  “It was the only way to level up!” Jarl’s lip was split and swollen. Every word he spoke hurt, but he felt compelled to explain himself, his tone growing more heated. “It’s been done before—a lowborn becoming a battleborn. They respect bravery, strength. If I could beat one of them in a fight, then I’d be able to change my class, learn their ways. They’d have no choice but to accept me as one of their own.”

  Erik seemed taken aback by Jarl’s outburst. He dropped his gaze and didn’t respond.

  Grunting, Jarl rubbed the bruised flesh of his cheek and checked his stats. The numbers filled his mind instantaneously. They were integral to his being, the summation of his physical and mental composition, and so he was able to conjure them mentally with little effort.

  Jarl Beckström

  Class: Lowborn — Level 1

  Strength: 13

  Agility: 10

  Fortitude: 10

  Intellect: 8

  Perception: 8

  Charisma: 10

  Health Points: 1 out of 12

  Stamina Points: 3 out of 9

  Feats: None

  Special Abilities: None

  Resistances: Cold (racial bonus)

  Afflictions: None

  Experience Points: N/A

  “It doesn’t matter now,” he remarked bitterly, blinking the stats away. “I’m not dead and nothing’s changed. I’m still the same person I’ve always been.” He glanced around, noting that he and Erik were in the middle of the painted fighting circle. The cave was empty except for the crackling braziers and few bits of refuse discarded by the spectators. “How long was I out?”

  Erik shrugged. “An hour, maybe? I’m not sure. I haven’t been outside.”

  Jarl looked to his friend, suddenly feeling awash with gratitude. Erik’s straw-colored hair fell lankly across his forehead, and his shoulders, far scrawnier than Jarl’s, seemed to sag from the weight of everything that had happened. Erik probably felt the contempt of the crowd as well, and yet he chose to wait here with Jarl until he woke up.

  Only a true friend would do something like that.

  Jarl forced a smile, causing his torn lip to stretch painfully. “Thanks for staying with me. You didn’t have to do that.”

  Erik shrugged again. “I couldn’t just leave you,” he said. “The thrall would have taken you away for cremation. For a minute there, I honestly thought that you were dead.”

  Jarl chuckled darkly. “Then I owe you twice over,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. My head hurts and I could use a drink.”

  Erik offered him a hand and, together, they left the cave, taking the exit tunnel.

  Jarl retrieved his shirt and coat on the way out. They were filthy, having been trampled by dozens of shoes, but the thick, scratchy clothing would still keep him warm when they were outside. He pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as it brushed past his injuries, then picked up his pace, eager to leave the fighting ring behind.

  A cold, humid breeze struck them as they neared the end, and Jarl took a deep breath— through his mouth, as his nostrils were clogged with dried blood. The air tasted fresh, unlike the stale dankness of the cave, and it reinvigorated his lungs even as it sent a shiver down his spine.

  The clanhold of Norvaask was set in a great rift that cut through the tundra like an open wound. It was a narrow, winding ravine that stretched deep underground, and at the bottom, a river known as the Fjondar ran sluggishly from one end to the other, gathering in an enormous subterranean lake. The source of the river was the Fire Well, a hot spring located at the northern end that filled the clanhold with billowing clouds of steam.

  Even with the hot spring and the Fjondar, the cold from the world above was biting. Jarl shivered
and rubbed his arms as they stepped out of the mouth of the tunnel and descended the steps that had been cut into the side of the rift.

  He and Erik chatted amiably as they went, talking of small things as they passed more tunnel entrances and a few moss-covered hovels. This part of the clanhold consisted primarily of mines and burrows for hvet farming. It was an entire district dedicated to industry. Further up was where the majority of the people lived, their domiciles built in terraces all along the sides of the ravine. These terraces were connected by stone walkways and rope bridges, a dizzying network of pathways that crisscrossed through the mists.

  Norvaask was divided by class, like the other eight clanholds of Njordrassil. The terraces were grouped into three main tiers for the highborn, middleborn, and lowborn. The highborn dwelt in the highest tier, closest to the tundra on the southernmost part of the ravine. There, they lived in lavish longhouses built from timbers and stone. The middleborn made up the central tiers, their marketplaces and craft halls accessible to all who could afford to buy their wares. The lowborn, of course, were at the bottom, where the mud gathered thickly on the steaming shores of the river.

  The sun was setting, and Norvaask was already shrouded in deepening shadows. Fires burned all along the terraces and lights glowed from within hundreds of longhouses, illuminating the clanhold for the coming night.

  “How about that drink?” Jarl asked, pointing to a nearby mjöl hall.

  Erik shook his head. “We have mjöl in the Dregs. Besides, I’m not sure it’s best we show ourselves in public just yet. I doubt we’d get a kind reception.” He gestured to Jarl’s battered face.

  Remembering something, Jarl checked his Reputation, a weight settling in the pit of his stomach.

  Reputations

  Norvaask: Highborn (3)

  Middleborn (3)

  Lowborn (4)

  Battleborn (3)

  Fireborn (4).

  Overall—3 (Disparaged)

  New Reputation Modifier: Laughingstock.

  -1 to all Charisma rolls.

  Jarl groaned. Reputation was a ten-point scale. This debacle had dropped him an entire point. When he reached 2, he’d be considered despised, little more than a thrall.

  “Give it a month, and everyone will forget that this whole thing ever happened,” Erik said, offering an unconvincing smile. “People have short memories, especially when they’ve been drinking.”

  Jarl nodded but didn’t respond. Erik dropped the subject, and the two went past the mjöl hall, continuing their descent.

  The walkways had grown deserted this late in the evening, with only the odd drunk or battleborn patrol passing by. Those who saw Jarl sniggered quietly, their derision plain, but he did his best to ignore them.

  This was my doing, he thought sullenly. I’ll bear the consequences like a man.

  He held his head high, letting the cold night kiss his bruised skin and ruffle his thick red hair. That, at least, soothed his wounds. His pride was another matter.

  Delving deeper into the rift, they came to the poorest section of the clanhold. Near the mud fields and the slow-moving waters of the Fjondar were the humble clay longhouses of the lowborn—their kin. They were arrayed haphazardly along the bank of the river, sprouting from the mossy terrace like toadstools. Commonly known as the Dregs, this cluttered warren was the sort of place that always smelled of raw sewage. Every surface was moist, the stones covered in a thick layer of slime. The steam from the Fire Well ensured it was warmer than the rest of the clanhold, but that was no consolation.

  Jarl would rather freeze on the Ice Barrens than live like a rat in the Dregs.

  Lowborn were the laborers, farmers, and servants of society—the lowest of the low, apart from the thrall. Like the muddy stones they slept on, they supported the rest of Norvaask on their backs, harvesting their food and excavating their iron without any wealth or glory trickling down to them.

  It was an unfair reality, but it was one that Jarl had accepted long ago. That was why he fought so hard to escape—to claw his way to a better life.

  “You still thirsty?” Erik asked when they finally reached the bottom. “Johan’s place is just around the corner. I’ll bet Fisk and the others are there, too.”

  “You know, my head isn’t hurting that bad anymore,” Jarl lied. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight. I could use the rest.”

  “All right,” Erik said. “If you say so. Just try not to think too much about what happened. Like I said, everyone will forget about it in time.”

  Jarl nodded, then turned down a side road, making for home. After taking a few steps, he turned back, offering his friend a small smile. “Thanks again for staying with me, Erik. It means a lot.”

  “Of course,” Erik replied with a sheepish grin. “You’d do the same for me.”

  He bade Erik farewell and continued on his way, taking the path that would lead him to his family’s longhouse. His exhaustion had finally caught up with him. He wanted nothing more than to eat, drink, and melt into a hot bath so he could forget his troubles for a time.

  The path wound through the twisting neighborhoods, taking Jarl past the slave pens bordering the lower mines. Figures huddled in shacks of various sizes, resting fitfully after a day of backbreaking servitude. Jarl pitied the thrall, and not just because they were the only people on Njordrassil lower than himself. He pitied their broken spirits, the way their chains robbed them of even the most basic freedoms.

  He pitied their complete and utter lack of will.

  One of the thralls—slaves, by any other name—lay against the outer fencing, feebly shivering as he tried to pull his rags more tightly about him. He was all skin and bones, his face obscured by an unkempt beard and his wrists bound by heavy manacles. He didn’t even have a lean-to to call his own. Like all other thrall, both of his ears had been clipped; the cartilage cut away at the top when he’d first been taken captive. It was a universal symbol of slavery. It was a permanent reminder that this person could never return to civilized society—whatever that meant.

  Jarl paused as he walked past the wretch, a thought breaking through the gloomy cloud following him. Even with my humiliation, I’m better off than this man. I get to return to a warm house, eat supper. I’m not forced to spend the night in the mud like an animal.

  He approached the man, momentarily forgetting about his own fatigue. “Here, friend,” he said, shrugging out of his coat. “You need this more than I do.” The clothing was still dirty from when the spectators had trampled it, but the roughspun was still a better defense against the cold than tattered thrall garb.

  The thrall shrank away from him at first, as if afraid Jarl’s offer was a cruel trick. Then, shakily, he reached up and accepted the coat, handling it like a priceless treasure. “Thank you, m’lord.” His voice was a surprised rasp.

  “I’m not a lord,” Jarl replied. “But you’re welcome.” He continued home, leaving the grateful thrall to wrap himself in the coat like an oversized blanket.

  Wavering light streamed through the shuttered windows of his longhouse, the grimy, clay brick walls indistinguishable from the others on the terrace. Despite the nondescript appearance, Jarl found the place instinctively and made for the heavy strip of hogshide that covered the entrance. He took a deep breath of humid air before pushing his way inside.

  The common room was wide and sparsely furnished, with a few coarse rugs lining the hard-packed floor. It was uncomfortably warm, made so by the husk-burning hearth, but it was also clean and well-kept, their meager possessions organized to avoid clutter or dust. Only two people were in the room: his mother and mute grandmother.

  Myrna Beckström was a thin woman with graying red hair pulled into a tight braid that fell down her back. She stooped low over the hearth, stirring a steaming pot with an old scrimshaw spoon. Her mousy face, lined from years of toil in the flour mill, scrunched as she sniffed the stew. She narrowed her pale green eyes, contemplating whether the meal was ready to eat.

>   Frigga, Jarl’s paternal grandmother, was a withered old thing with brittle white hair. She sat on the floor, hunched over a pile of dried hvet fibers, her gnarled hands working deftly to weave them into a wide-mouthed basket. The old crone wore a constant mask of displeasure, and in all the years Jarl had known her, he’d never heard her speak so much as a single word. Her lips were a tight, disapproving line on her wrinkled face—a face that bore few resemblances to his father.

  Jarl’s father, Horik, had been a mud farmer his entire life. He’d died ten years ago when a sudden fever took him, leaving his wife, mother, and children to fend for themselves in the Dregs. Jarl remembered him as a tall man with auburn hair, an easy, disarming smile, and lean muscles like knotted rope. He’d taught his son everything he knew about working the mud fields, and after his death, it had fallen to Jarl to support the women as the man of the house. He was just a boy, barely twelve years old.

  He entered the room and Myrna looked up at him, gasping worriedly. “Jarl! Gods! What’s happened to you?”

  “Hello, mother,” he replied dryly, offering a weak smile. “The stew smells good.”

  She dropped her spoon and rushed to his side, resting a tender hand on his cheek. “Your poor face!” she exclaimed, brushing her fingertips across the swollen flesh. “You’re hurt so bad!”

  “I’m all right,” he said reassuringly, reaching up and gently pushing her hand away. “Just a bit of bad luck on my way home from the mud fields.”

  Myrna crossed her arms and gave him a flat look. “Bad luck? You tell me this is just a bit of bad luck? Be honest with me, Jarl. Were you attacked? I’ve heard that thieves have been roving the terraces lately, robbing people of their silver.”

  Jarl resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “It wasn’t like that, mother. This… well, I just got into a fight. That’s all.”