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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  He shot a look at his traveling companion, a white mink perched atop his shoulder. “I don’t like this any more than you do,” he grumbled in a much lower voice—his own. “But this isn’t something I can ignore. We’re close now. I can sense it.”

  The mink stared at him with beady, blood-red eyes. The Old Man spoke for him, giving utterance to the dour creature he’d taken to calling Beast. “You’ve been saying that for hours, now. The problem with being ‘close’ is that it’s conveniently vague.”

  The Old Man chuckled. “True enough,” he said. “But I mean it this time. What I felt here was unmistakable. It isn’t much further.”

  Beast bristled but didn’t argue. Instead, he flicked his tail to cover his face, then curled into a little obstinate ball.

  “Fine, be that way,” the Old Man harrumphed. “I’m not going to let a little wind and snow keep me from completing my quest. I’ve waited too long on this gods-forsaken plain to give up now that something interesting is happening. You can pout all you want.”

  Beast ignored him.

  He trudged onward, lowering his head against the biting wind. They had been walking for a while, but the Old Man wasn’t sure how long. When the green star had fallen to Njordrassil, he’d been on the far side of the continent, trading with seal fishers on the Salt Horn. He made for the Ice Barrens with all haste, running his sled dogs to near exhaustion so he could examine the crash site personally. Normally, he would have taken the animals with him for the final leg of the journey, but he didn’t want to needlessly endanger them. They were his lifeline, his only connection to the rest of the world.

  If they died, the Old Man would follow soon after.

  He reached up and scratched Beast’s neck, causing the sinuous creature to let out an approving purr. Smiling faintly, he adjusted the pelts on his shoulders, giving the mink ample shelter against the cold.

  He wasn’t crazy. He must have told himself that a thousand times since he and Beast first started talking. He was just tired... and lonely. His exile had taken a toll on him, breaking down his pride and turning him into something he never thought he’d be—a hermit. Still, it wasn’t all bad. He had his quest and his animals. They kept him company on the long, lonely nights of Njordrassil.

  He wasn’t crazy.

  “Are we there yet?” Beast murmured.

  “Not yet,” he returned. “But almost. Can’t you feel it?”

  “I can’t even feel my toes,” Beast complained.

  The Old Man grunted. Something’s changed here, he thought, scanning the desolate land for signs of danger. Even the wind feels different. An unfamiliar, even sinister energy permeated the frozen wilderness, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  They were in contested territory, a long stretch of land between the eastern clanholds of Fjondur and Wulfgard and the western strongholds of Jotungard and Norvaask. It was a place commonly referred to by the locals as “bone country,” an expanse of tundra where the Ice Barrens eventually bled into the uplands of the Howling Peaks. It was the site of many great battles, and a favorite raiding place for roving warbands.

  And yet, for the last few days, the Old Man hadn’t seen any battleborn, nor had he seen any signs of the tundra’s creatures. It was like the wilderness itself had been stripped of life. Even the wolves and the caribou had fled.

  This is it, he thought, approaching a low, unnatural rise. Whatever it was that I felt, this is the source.

  He climbed the broken embankment, pausing several times to catch his breath before finally reaching the top. When he did, his blood turned to ice, a lead weight settling in his stomach.

  An enormous crater stretched before him, forming a depression so vast that he could barely see the other side. The frost-covered ground, once bluish white, was now scarred a deep black, with a large, oddly shaped boulder resting in the center. A foul stench hung in the air, but it wasn’t something he could smell. Rather, it was something he felt in his bones... and he’d felt it before.

  Beast shifted nervously on his shoulder.

  “Quiet, now,” the Old Man whispered as he descended the slope. “We need to keep our wits about us.”

  The footing was more treacherous here. It was as if the ice had suddenly melted and then refroze, creating a smooth surface leading all the way to the mysterious rock. A meteor, perhaps? What else could have made such a crater? The Old Man scratched his bearded chin. A meteor of this size should have destroyed half the clanholds upon impact. Curious...

  The meteor, or whatever it was, looked to have been placed here for a specific reason. It was unnatural, an object of immense magical potential rather than an ordinary stone. It radiated energy, melting and evaporating the whirling snow before it ever reached the surface.

  The Old Man grasped the medallion hanging around his neck. It was a simple treasure, a silver depiction of an eye with two irises, yet it was the most valuable thing he possessed—a key of keys.

  He removed the silvery chain and crouched before the fallen star, his eyes searching for anything that might give him a clue as to where it came from. Leaning in, he pressed it against the stone’s rough surface with his palm.

  Immediately, a jolt shot up his arm.

  "This power," he said, shivering but holding the medallion in place. "Gods... it can’t be...." A tingling sensation spread throughout his entire body, a distinct warmth that penetrated to his core. Only one force in creation had this sort of magic—a force that the Old Man had committed to memory and sworn never to forget.

  His heart clenched within his chest.

  “It’s him,” he said aloud. “Freeze me, but it’s started. He’s returning!”

  Beast chittered urgently on his shoulder. The Old Man turned, noticing for the first time dark shapes approaching from the edge of the great depression. They shambled like men, but the otherworldly glow of their eyes, like living amethysts, told him that they were far from the mere humans they’d once been.

  Cursing, he replaced the medallion and stood. His soulfire flared to life within him, slowly filling his magic reserves and granting him the ability to cast spells.

  “Should have been paying attention, you old coot,” Beast said.

  “I know,” the Old Man replied grudgingly, pulling off his gloves. “Gloating about it won’t do you any good if we both end up dead.”

  His innards grew hot as he took hold of the Flame Within, and his nose and mouth smoked due to the calefaction seeking release. He checked his stats, more than a dozen spells leaping to the forefront of his mind.

  Magic Points: 110 out of 170

  Vigor Points: 5

  Good enough, he thought, casting Flames.

  Orange fire leapt into his open palms, appearing with a great whoosh.

  -2 Magic Points.

  The spell surrounded him with a sphere of warmth, its light illuminating the darkening crater. Night was fast approaching, along with temperatures that could kill ordinary men.

  Fortunately for him, fireborn weren't ordinary men.

  The four creatures closed the distance between them with surprising speed, all moving with stiff, jerky movements. In addition to their purple glowing eyes, they had tentacles extending from their open mouths, wagging like black tongues in the waning light. They appeared to be battleborn from Wulfgard, but the Old Man couldn’t be sure. Not that it mattered now, anyway. They were husks—shadows of what they’d once been.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been forced to kill,” the Old Man muttered to Beast, squaring off against the attackers. “Then again... you can’t kill that which is already dead.”

  The first of the creatures lunged, claw-like hands grasping for his throat. The attack missed, giving the Old Man a chance to cast a spell.

  Flaming Grasp

  -10 Magic Points.

  27 Damage.

  He doused the monstrosity with a spray of red and yellow flames. It staggered backward, skin igniting like dry kindling, tentacle squirming wil
dly. Its eyes flashed and then grew dim as the body crumpled in a blackened heap.

  The others attacked in quick succession, gracelessly bearing down on the Old Man with ice-crusted weapons.

  He dove to the side.

  Dodge: 17 + Agility Modifier (0).

  Successful.

  The clumsy attacks missed by a wide margin, cleaving air and stone but leaving the Old Man unharmed. He threw out his hand and cast another spell, drawing upon the Flame Within to fuel his magic and amplifying it with Vigor.

  Burning Darts

  -5 Magic Points.

  45 Damage.

  Ten fiery projectiles shot from his fingertips and struck the attacking dead men, distributing damage evenly between them. They burst into flame, the heat flash-boiling the ice beneath their feet and turning it into steam. None of them cried out as they died. They merely thrashed soundlessly, tentacles writhing as if trying to escape their burning skulls.

  Stupid creatures, the Old Man thought derisively as they crumbled to ash. Their creator’s gotten sloppy over the centuries. Once again, he drew upon his soulfire, refilling his Magic Points without the aid of a potion. It was an art few fireborn understood, and one that even fewer had mastered.

  More of the walking dead appeared on the ridge above him. Dozens of purple-eyed abominations with black tendrils waving from open mouths.

  Beast chittered, his nimble form tensing in agitation. “Um, Hjalmar?”

  “I see them,” the Old Man replied. He took a few steps away from the meteor, his brows furrowing as he scanned the rim of the crater. With every second that passed, more of the undead battleborn appeared, materializing from the snowy darkness to peer down at him with glowing eyes. They were numerous—too numerous for him to fight off on his own, even with his abilities.

  “Hold on tight, Beast,” the Old Man bellowed, preparing another spell. “This is going to be a close one.”

  Flameshield

  -10 Magic Points.

  Fire spread from his hands and encircled his entire body, creating a burning armor that clung to him without harming his skin or clothing.

  The monsters flooded down into the basin without so much as a battle cry.

  Snarling, the Old Man rushed to meet them, his hands outstretched, mouth and nose trailing smoke. He cast Fire Blast, shooting a barrage of flames that spread out before him in a wide arc. The spell cost him 15 Magic Points and dealt 4d6 damage to everything caught within its wake.

  Many of the charging husks immolated, their flesh blackening with char, but a few remained upright, damaged but not destroyed. Their iron weapons glowed from the heat, and their eyes gleamed with amaranthine dispassion as they passed through the fiery blast.

  The Old Man strode toward the survivors, unperturbed. He wasn’t a stranger to such destruction, and he didn’t fear his own fires. As long as Beast was touching him, the mink would be protected as well.

  He made short work of the half-burned attackers, blasting them off their feet with fireballs that cost 15 Magic Points. Those that drew close were hurt by his flameshield, taking 2d8 damage.

  Even so, more came after him, an entire warband of battleborn running heedlessly down the slope. For every creature that he killed, three more took its place, their tendrils twisting like ravenous eels. The basin seemed to fill with shambling corpses, drawn in as though the mysterious rock were a lodestone. To make matters worse, the Old Man could feel his strength fading. He knew instinctively that he was quickly running out of Magic Points.

  I need to end this and get the Hel out of here, he thought, releasing another Fire Blast to keep the encroaching monsters at bay. Frosts, I’m going to be feeling this in the morning.

  Taking a deep breath, he prepared another—more powerful—spell, magnifying it with a Vigor Point. Closing his eyes, he focused all of his will on the Flame Within. Fires roared to life in his hands, coalescing into a blaze that warped the very air around him.

  Conflagration

  -25 Magic Points.

  2d10 Damage + 5 to all creatures in Area of Effect.

  The spell erupted from his fingertips, blasting in a ring around him—thirty feet in all directions. Those who failed a strength saving throw were hurled backwards, their bodies sliding across the melting ice while the rest were set ablaze. The heat was so intense that many were killed instantly, and those that weren’t smoldered like torches, taking damage over time.

  Seizing upon his opportunity to escape, the Old Man strode past the burning bodies with Beast huddling fearfully on his shoulder. The other monsters were too dazed to immediately pursue.

  He made his way up to the lip of the crater, huffing from the exertion of the climb. The heat from his drafting caused the air in the depression to shimmer, and beads of sweat formed on his face, dripping annoyingly into his eyes.

  The way was treacherous. The ice clinging to the bedrock of the tundra had grown slick from the blaze below. The Old Man slipped more than a few times, nearly tumbling to the undead nightmare each time. Somehow, perhaps by the intervention of the Great God of the Cosmos, he managed to make it to the top, where the unforgiving wind of the Ice Barrens greeted him like an old friend.

  There was still more than two score of the monstrosities on the slope, trying desperately to climb the uneven path to catch him.

  These bastards are going to chase me all the way to the Sea of Stormwinds, he thought, gasping as his lungs filled painfully with the frigid night air. Need to keep them from following me. He took a few steps back from the crater and drafted for a final time, pulling living fire through his body and concentrating it in his hands.

  Using every ounce of strength that he possessed, nearly all of his 45 remaining Magic Points, the Old Man spread his hands and directed the flames into the tundra itself, surrounding the edge of the crater with a Firewall. The barrier grew tall as he poured his power into it, creating a perimeter so thick and hot that anything passing through would take 6d8 fire damage. The creatures stopped before the magical wall, staring balefully at him through the translucent flames.

  When it was finished, the Old Man nearly fell to his knees, his ancient body quivering from exhaustion.

  “That’s that,” he murmured, pausing for a moment for the dizziness to pass.

  Beast nuzzled his cheek, concern evident in his gentle caress.

  The Old Man forced a smile. “I’m fine, I promise. Just... a little winded. I haven’t had to fight like that for some time.” When his gaze drifted back to the Firewall and the monsters standing patiently on the other side, his smile faltered. “We need to leave this place. It isn’t safe.”

  He turned, facing the open tundra and putting his back to the searing glow. The flames wouldn’t last forever. Within the hour, the spell would die down, allowing the dead warriors to cross unharmed.

  With any luck, he’d be able to put enough distance between them before that happened.

  Heaving a sigh, he started his long trek back to his cave, trudging through the snow and squinting until his eyes adjusted to the newly fallen darkness. He was tired, but if he came across any more of those things, he’d still be able to draft and destroy them. That wasn’t what worried him. What worried him was the force animating the corpses, the ancient terror that gave them life—or whatever twisted version of life they now possessed.

  “He’s returned,” the Old Man said aloud, pulling his gloves back on as the chill embraced him. “The day long prophesied is finally upon us. Narøkkr is here.”

  Chapter 6

  Whatever It Takes

  “I was raised in the humblest of circumstances, growing up in the lowest strata of society. Often, I would look up at the world above me with envy, dreaming of the day when I would stand among the ranks of the chosen.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 2

  Mud squelched beneath Jarl’s boots as he waded through muck up to his thighs. The foul stuff clung to his britches like tar and stunk like decay. He listened with half an ear as his friends chatted n
earby, their voices carrying over the wet sounds of the mud field sucking at their legs. It made the monotony of their task bearable, if not enjoyable.

  Even so, Jarl didn’t add much to the conversation.

  The raid had been three days ago, and yet his mind still lingered on that night—the night he’d levelled up... and killed his first man. He felt something deep within, but it wasn’t remorse. It was more akin to detachment, a hardening of his soul. He remembered how easily his scythe’s blade cut through the man’s neck, the way his blood gushed out like a punctured waterskin. He remembered the thrill of fighting and the desperate sounds of battle. Most of all, he remembered the way the battleborn’s eyes had grown dim, the light leaving his body forever.

  He bent down and harvested a tuber, pulling the fist-sized bulb out by its stem and depositing it into a basket slung over his shoulder. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he wiped it away, careful to use his forearm and not his mud-caked hands.

  The battle’s over, he mused, straightening and peering around. But why does it still rage in my heart?

  Steam rolled lazily from off the Fjondar. It washed over the mud fields, adding to the humidity before rising to the tundra, passing terraces and scores of people on its ascent. Around him, Erik, Arvid, Dag, and Fisk trudged through the mire as well, filling their baskets with every tuber, mushroom, and scrap of fungus they could find.

  “Gyda’s much too pretty for you, Dag,” Fisk said, his gap-toothed mouth grinning widely. “You’re so ugly, you probably couldn’t get a she-troll to kiss you!”

  “I am not!” Dag protested. His face, which resembled a toad’s, contorted into a frown that only made him appear more toad-like.

  Erik and Arvid burst out laughing.