Her eyes widened. “A fight? With who?”
He hesitated for several heartbeats. The truth will only make her worry, he reasoned. Best to keep out the part about the battleborn. He cleared his throat. “It was just a scrap… in a mjöl hall. Got in a disagreement with a fellow over a game of stones.”
“A scrap,” Myrna repeated doubtfully. “Someone did this to you over a game of stones?” She motioned at his face.
“You should see what I did to him,” he answered ruefully, wincing as his smile reopened his split lip.
Myrna stared at him suspiciously, her eyes narrowing. On the floor, Frigga continued weaving her hvet fibers, completely oblivious to their conversation.
Finally, his mother sighed. “By the gods, Jarl, you’re going to worry me into an early grave.” She pulled him close and hugged him fiercely, her clean, earthy scent filling his nose. “Promise me you’ll be more careful? No more needless scraps that leave you looking like a piece of meat. You’re my only son. With your father gone.... Well, I’ll need you to take care of me when I’m old and gray.”
Jarl returned the hug half-heartedly. “I promise,” he replied, pressing his cheek against hers.
She released him and returned to the hearth, picking up her spoon and dipping it back into the stew. “Go and get yourself washed up,” she said, her stirring making the steam swirl. “Your sister will be joining us for supper tonight, and I’ll not have you looking like some disobedient thrall.”
Jarl’s heart dropped at the mention of his sister. Great, he thought glumly. As if this day couldn’t get any worse. He strode past his grandmother, stepping over her pile of fibers and pushing through the flap to his room.
Once inside, he found that he could breathe a little easier. His was a small room with a woven bed of reeds on the floor and a ceramic washbasin in the far corner, but it afforded him privacy he could scarcely get anywhere else in the clanhold. One small covered window made the room feel drafty, but it also made the space feel less like a prison cell, adding variation to the drab brown walls and the low thatch ceiling that nearly grazed his head every time he stood up.
He made his way over to the washbasin, stripping off his clothes and tossing them in a corner. He splashed icy water on his face to clean away the sweat and dried blood. Normally, he would have used warm water from the Fjondar, but he didn’t feel like making the trek outside. Dinner was waiting, and at that moment, he preferred to have a hot meal rather than a little comfort. The bath could come later.
Feeling refreshed, he put on a clean set of clothing—a homespun tunic of snow cotton and leggings of supple hogskin. Then, barefoot, he went back into the common room, his stomach grumbling insistently.
However, he forgot his hunger when he noticed that a new figure had entered the longhouse: his older sister, Freya.
Freya wore the traditional robes of a fireborn, rich silks beneath a long, painted overcoat of brown leather splashed with crimson. She looked like a younger version of their mother. Her red hair was pulled into a tight braid that hung lightly over one shoulder, its locks glittering with woven gemstones and copper rings. Though only two years his senior, she regarded everyone and everything around her with a sense of superiority, her mirthless green eyes staring out from beneath brows accustomed to frowning.
Myrna was already approaching her with arms outstretched. She embraced her daughter and placed a gentle kiss on each of her cheeks. “It’s good to see you, älskad. Welcome home.”
“Hello, mother,” she replied, returning the hug with only the barest hint of warmth.
Jarl said nothing as he walked to the stew pot and filled a bowl, his eyes pointedly averting his sister on the other side of the room. He had a feeling she’d have a few things to say about his injuries—she always had a few things to say—and he found himself silently wishing he’d taken Erik up on his invitation to go to Johan’s mjöl hall.
Gods know I could use a drink now.
“How are things at the Temple?” Myrna asked, taking Freya’s hands in her own. “It seems like so long since you’ve visited.”
“Things are quite well,” she answered with typical arrogance. “The Vanir say that I show great skill for one my age—I’m level 5 now, didn’t I tell you?—and because of this, I’m one of the most sought-after fireborn in the clanhold. The warbands all fight over the best fireborn, you know, so when it comes time for raids, I have my pick of the lot.” She turned her attention to Jarl, eyes critically examining his features. “Hello, brother. I trust that you’ve also been well?” There was a biting undertone to her words, her gaze as cold as ice.
“Never better,” he responded, setting his bowl aside and ignoring the obvious gibe.
Their mother looked at them both, her brows furrowing in concern.
“You seem to have been hurt recently,” Freya observed, walking over to the stew pot and picking up a bowl. “Did you take a tumble down the stairs?”
“Jarl got into a fight,” Myrna put in, her careful tone indicating she could sense the tension between them. “An argument in a mjöl hall gone wrong. Poor lad.”
“An argument in a mjöl hall, you say?” Freya asked, turning. There was something in her voice—derision, perhaps? Whatever it was, Jarl knew that she didn’t believe the story for a second. “How interesting. Because I heard a very different tale from my colleagues at the Temple. You see, they heard that my poor, ignorant brother picked a very public fight with a battleborn named Asger Ironfists.”
“A battleborn?” Myrna asked, shocked.
“Yes,” Freya said, staring intently at Jarl. “A battleborn.”
Jarl cursed inwardly. Freeze you, Freya, he thought, jaw tightening.
“Of course,” she continued, her eyes glittering in the light of the hearth, “I have a hard time believing such a ridiculous rumor. Not even Jarl would be foolish enough to put himself in such a situation. It would bring shame upon our entire family.”
Their mother turned to look at him. “Is this true, Jarl?”
Jarl was at a loss for words. He should have known Freya would eventually discover the truth. She always had a way of figuring things out before everyone else. As he stood there, regarding his mother’s shock and the cold rage brewing beneath his sister’s mask, he felt something solidify within him like molten ore hardening into iron. Resolve. He’d faced down Asger Ironfists and managed to break the man’s tooth. Surely, he could face the wrath of his poor, lowborn family.
“Yes,” he replied at length, drawing himself to his full height. “I fought the battleborn.”
Freya shook her head, her discontent now plain on her face. “You frostbitten fool,” she said. “How dare you do such a thing? Do you have any idea what people are saying about you? Did you think at all about how your actions might affect this family? How they might affect me?”
“What were you thinking?” His mother looked to be on the verge of tears. “He could have killed you, Jarl!”
“But he didn’t!” Jarl shot back. He could feel his cheeks growing hot. “I held my own against him, and for a minute, I actually felt like a battleborn! Next time, I’ll win and show this entire clanhold that I’m not just a mud farmer.”
“Next time?” his sister fumed. She took a step toward him and jabbed a finger at his chest. “What do you mean, next time? Your antics have made me the laughingstock of the Temple! I’ll not allow you to make a mockery of our family name. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am. You are a mud farmer, Jarl, and you’ll always be one, no matter how many times you get beaten up by those above you.”
Jarl glowered at her. Freya was a full head shorter than him, but her presence made her seem like they were equally matched. “Are you going to stop me?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice.
“Stop it, both of you!” Myrna cried, coming between them and placing a hand on both their shoulders. “I won’t have you fighting in my house. You two are siblings—the same blood! You shouldn’t speak to each other this way!�
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Freya held his gaze for a long moment before turning away in disgust. “He’s not my brother,” she said. “He’s just a fool who’s going to get himself killed.”
At the back of the room, Frigg cackled, her laughter filling the ensuing silence.
Myrna bit her lip as tears welled in her eyes, one of them even cascading down her cheek. She sniffed and turned away from them, doing her best to fight back a sob.
Jarl glared hatefully at Freya before storming away, taking his bowl of stew with him. He passed his grandmother on his way out of the common room. She grinned toothlessly and continued with her weaving, lost in her own addled thoughts.
He slipped into his room, the hogshide swishing behind him as he set down his stew and began to pace. Freeze that woman, he thought bitterly, blood still pounding in his ears. She’s a self-serving witch. She’s so obsessed with her own ambitions that she’s forgotten what it’s like living down here. Living as a lowborn.
The walls were thin, and he could hear voices muttering in the common room. His mother quietly wept as Freya tried unsuccessfully to comfort her, casting aspersions at Jarl at every opportunity.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, mother,” she said in a muffled voice, “but he needs to hear harsh truths. He’s gotten in more fights than half the battleborn in Norvaask, and what has it earned him? They laugh at him and mock the Beckström name.”
“He’s your brother, Freya,” Myrna said, sniffling. “You two may have your differences, but we’re still a family. Your father would be ashamed—”
“Our father’s dead,” Freya replied, cutting her off. “Besides, I doubt he’d approve of Jarl’s behavior.”
“He has a warrior’s heart,” Myrna answered sadly. She stopped crying, but her words were heavy with regret. “Even as a boy, he wanted to be a fighter. I always thought that by manhood, he’d have outgrown such fancies.”
“The only thing he’s outgrown is his good sense.”
Infuriated, Jarl sulked to the far side of the room where he could better ignore them, turning his attention inward. The stew remained forgotten where he’d set it, steam rolling lazily from its oily surface.
There had always been legends, tales of lowborn men and women who had accomplished heroic acts. In the songs, they always managed to level themselves to battleborn or highborn, earning all the accompanying rights, glory, and riches associated with their new class. Those were noble lines, and their grandchildren and great-grandchildren still strove to live up to their mighty deeds.
Jarl sat down heavily on his sleeping mat and ran his fingers through his hair.
No lowborn in living memory had risen above his station. Apart from the legends, it was completely unheard of. Sure, he and his friends would boast and talk about how they would one day be heroes. To them, it was wishful thinking. But to Jarl, it was a promise—a goal that he’d likely die trying to attain.
It would be worth it, he thought wistfully. I’d gladly face death if it meant I didn’t have to live out my days down here in the mud.
For a time, he lost himself in his own dark thoughts, the light of the hearth filtering in from the other room. He wasn’t sure how long it was, but when he eventually went back to slurp down his stew, it had grown cold. Even so, it had the same effect on his stats.
Health Points: 7 out of 10
Stamina Points: 5 out of 7
Food always affected a person’s Derived Attributes. Health and Stamina Points regenerated on their own, albeit slowly, depending on the severity of the wounds. Food helped to quicken that process, as did bandages and healing poultices. From what Jarl understood, Magic required some sort of potion to regenerate, but that only applied to fireborn. Their attributes were a mystery to him.
As he was drinking down the last of the broth, he heard a sound that caused him to perk up. He cocked his head toward the window, listening intently. It sounded like the clangor of metal—wild, panicked beats that rang through the entire clanhold.
Warning bells.
“A raid,” he whispered, his mood shifting to one of excitement.
Norvaask was under attack.
He could hear Freya’s voice coming from the common room, her tone brisk and short. “The Vanir will be waiting for me at the Temple. I need to leave—now.”
“Be careful, älskad,” Myrna said anxiously.
“Of course. Farewell, mother.”
Jarl knew by the sound of footsteps and the rustle of hogshide that she’d left, off to join the other fireborn to defend the clanhold.
It’ll be a splendid fight, he thought, setting down his bowl and looking longingly at the window. Raids between the clanholds were common occurrences, but he’d never actually seen one in person. Custom dictated that everyone who was not a battleborn or a fireborn hide until the battle was resolved. Custom, however, was not something that Jarl held in high regard.
I’ve already sullied my family’s name, he thought, reaching for his boots and pulling them on his feet. What harm could there be in watching a raid from afar?
He crept to the window and loosened the straps of the leather screen, pushing it aside and slipping out into the night.
Chapter 3
Way of Life
“After all, an axe must be hammered repeatedly to become useful in battle.”
—Memoir, Rune Plate 1
Jarl landed softly behind his family’s longhouse, his boots squishing in the muck near the hog sty. The beasts snorted and nuzzled together for warmth, their shaggy hides caked with layers of filth.
Warning bells rang all around him, echoing through the great ravine from the watchtowers on high. He could even pick up the faint shouts of men, harsh and urgent, somewhere in the distance. The sounds of battle were unmistakable.
Staying low, he snuck over to the storehouse on the other side of the sty. Amid baskets of grain and dried tubers he found a small hand scythe. It was typically used for harvesting grass stalks from the banks of the Fjondar, but if necessary, it could also serve as a weapon. Jarl wasn’t planning on doing any more fighting this night, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Even from a distance, raids could be dangerous. He felt much better being armed.
Hand Scythe
Damage: 1d4 slashing
Weight: 1 lb.
Durability: 50 out of 50
Properties: Light
He could sense the qualities just by touching it. They let him know how useful the weapon would be and how much damage it could potentially deal.
Tucking the scythe into his belt, Jarl set off for the stairs leading to the upper terraces, keeping to the shadows to avoid being discovered.
I wonder if the attackers are from Jotungard or Börstad? he thought as he made his long ascent out of the Dregs. Surely it can’t be Skaarvald. Their battleborn rarely travel outside of the Salt Horn. Bright flashes illuminated the night sky, and he realized that the attackers must have brought their own fireborn.
Every longhouse he passed appeared abandoned, the inhabitants having locked themselves away to wait out the fighting. Even the mjöl halls had gone dark. The whole clanhold seemed to be holding its breath, the walkways strangely deserted as every able battleborn and fireborn rushed to beat back the merciless raiders. Pale, hairless skrills darted underfoot, searching the empty streets for bits of food with their tiny red eyes gleaming.
Jarl crossed a rope bridge, hand on his scythe as he scanned the ledges above him. The closer he got to the surface, the more of the fighting he would be able to see.
Enormous towers of ice and stone rose from the tundra surrounding Norvaask, their glassy blue surfaces covered with dozens of murder holes. It was through these window-like vantages that warriors were able to throw spears at the attackers, preventing them from gaining entry to the lower terraces.
Judging by the number of shadows Jarl saw jostling above, the defenders were having a hard time holding the enemy back.
As he neared the top of the ravine, he shivered and sil
ently berated himself for forgetting to find another coat before he left. The air was much colder up here, where the heat from the Fire Well lost much of its potency.
Rubbing his arms against the cold, he took the stairs that would lead him to the uppermost ledge—a place many referred to as the Frozen Terrace. No one lived at the top of the clanhold. The Frozen Terrace was mainly used as a defensive staging ground, a buffer zone against attacks. In the event of a raid, it was the last place anyone other than a fighter wanted to be.
Suddenly, Jarl heard footsteps thudding on the walkway behind him. His heart leapt into his throat and he dove to the side, ducking into the shadows and pressing his back against the cold stone wall. Numbers flitted at the edge of his consciousness. Like everything, they determined the effectiveness of his actions, weighing his attributes, experience, and skill against the difficulty of any given situation.
Stealth Check: 10 + Agility Modifier (0).
Successful.
Five battleborn raced past, their chain armor jingling noisily. Their weapons were drawn and each of them wore a look of grim determination, but their eyes were fixed upward on the fighting. They disappeared around a bend and missed Jarl entirely.
He exhaled and stepped out from his hiding place, breath steaming in front of his face like a cloud. I need to be more careful, he thought as climbed the steps after them. If they see me up here, I’m as good as dead.
The Frozen Terrace was divided into three separate layers, each with a convoluted array of walls and burrows for the defenders to use while fighting off raiders. When Jarl reached the lowermost layer, he hid in an empty alcove, the angle concealing him in darkness while still giving him an unobstructed view of the battle.
Projectiles rained down from the watchtowers and pelted the attackers like hail from a summer storm. Brilliant surges of flame answered the spears, arcing up from the raiders in orange bursts and exploding on the ice. Battleborn on both sides struggled for dominance, one group trying to scramble over the defenses while the other tried desperately to repel them. It was chaos of the most brutal kind, and Jarl could only watch in mute fascination. There were hundreds of them, hardened warriors all. They screamed with savage fury as they fought and died, staining the icy stones with their blood.
Frostworld: Ice & Blood: A LitRPG/GameLit Viking Adventure Page 4
