“Shut up,” Dag grumbled, flinging a handful of mud at them.
“What do you think, Jarl?”
Jarl gave Fisk a blank look. “Huh?”
“Frosts, Beckström, pull your head out of your ass! We’re talking about girls!” Fisk cupped his hands as if imitating breasts. “If you could bed any girl in the clanhold, who would it be?”
Jarl shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”
Arvid scoffed. “What do you mean you haven’t thought about it? Your stones freeze off?”
“Jarl spends all his time training,” Dag grunted while pulling up a tuber. “He doesn’t have time to be distracted by women.”
Fisk and Arvid snickered, and Jarl could feel his ears start to burn.
Erik jumped to his defense. “You’re one to talk, Dag. If you spent less time drinking mjöl and more time training, maybe the girls wouldn’t run away from you like you were going to eat them for dinner.”
The others guffawed. Even Jarl cracked a smile.
“I’m husky,” Dag answered lamely, his frog face turning red. “Girls don’t like reeds like you, Erik. They prefer big men.”
“And battle scars.” Arvid gave Jarl a sidelong glance.
The bruises from Jarl’s fight with Asger Ironfists had already begun to heal, fading from purple to a mottled yellowish-green, but they were still obvious on his face. His split lip was scabbed over, and his eyes were still black from where he’d broken then reset his nose. But in truth, it was his pride that hurt the most. People mocked him whenever he showed his face in public, calling him names like “mud warrior” and “skrill.” It made him dread leaving his longhouse in the morning.
Jarl ignored the look Arvid gave him. While he still had bruises, he would bear them stoically. They were signs he’d survived a fight with one of the strongest men in the clanhold, and they reminded him every day how far he still had to go.
He may have levelled up, but right now, he was the only one who knew it.
“I just haven’t met the right girl,” he responded at length, returning to his work. “We’re not highborn, so we don’t have to marry for politics. I want to make sure I’m choosing the right one and not just a pretty face.”
“Who said anything about marriage?” Fisk replied with a lecherous smirk.
Arvid chuckled. “Jarl just hasn’t met a girl that’s tough enough for him. He needs a warrior woman, not some dull farm maid.”
“Bah, there’s only one woman like that, and she wouldn’t be interested in him,” Dag remarked. “The Spear Maiden.”
“Of course!” Fisk said. “She’d be perfect for him!”
“A good match,” Arvid agreed.
The others whistled and hooted, chortling amongst themselves at Jarl’s expense. Even Erik nudged him with his elbow, grinning like a fool. The infamous Spear Maiden was the daughter of Jotungard’s Clan Lord, a fierce woman who was more battleborn than highborn. It was said that she personally led raids against the other clanholds, that she was a fearsome warrior, a veteran of many battles. Apparently, she was also beautiful, a Valkyrie in the flesh. Many in Norvaask boasted of their intentions to defeat her and take her as their own personal thrall, but so far, no one had succeeded.
Jarl gave them the courtesy of a self-deprecating laugh, then told them to kindly shove off if they wanted to keep all their teeth.
They continued their work, harvesting and sloshing through the muck as their conversation shifted to other topics. As the day wore on, their baskets became heavy, the weight making it increasingly difficult to comb through the mud fields. Still, they had several hours before their labors were complete.
Somewhere to the south, a horn’s mournful wail reverberated through the ravine. Every head turned to listen, all work ceasing as it blasted a second and third time before fading away.
“Three horns,” Erik muttered.
“The Clan Lord,” Fisk said at the same time Arvid declared, “An assembly.”
Jarl frowned. Assemblies were only called by the Clan Lord during emergencies or in times of war. Raids were common enough between the Nine Clanholds, but a full-scale war was a rare thing, as it usually left both sides vulnerable to the other seven clanholds.
“Come on,” Jarl said, hefting his basket and making his way to the edge of the mud fields. “We need to see what this is about.”
“Assemblies aren’t for lowborn,” Erik reminded him, eyebrows knitting together in concern.
“Didn’t you learn your lesson last time, Beckström?” Fisk asked.
Jarl shot him a glare. “I’m a slow learner.” He continued his march through the muck, the others reluctantly following after.
Large basins of dirty water rested where the sludge ended and the stone walkways began. They were used by laborers to wash themselves clean after working in the fields. Normally, there were long lines waiting to use them, but the day wasn’t yet over. The basins were unoccupied, brown water still and placid.
Jarl and his friends washed quickly, scrubbing the mud from their hands and feet before traversing the winding steps. He could feel the eyes of the other lowborn watching him as he led the others away, but he paid them little heed. They weren’t battleborn. Why should he fear them?
The rift of Norvaask was deep, which meant the climb from the bottom was unbearably long. Lowborn seldom left the Dregs. Their homes were located near the hog farms and fields where they worked, so there was never any reason to leave. They planted and harvested food, sewed clothing and cured leather, then sent it all to the upper terraces with lifts and pulleys. Jarl, however, was used to the switchbacks, his muscles strong from years of running up and down the steps. His friends, however, huffed and cursed as they struggled to keep up.
The mid-level terraces, where shops, longhouses, and mjöl halls were carved from solid stone, were much busier than the lower levels. Middleborn tradesmen milled about in fine raiment, many leaving their homes and stores in a great rush of humanity, all flowing toward the Clan Lord’s hall.
Several passersby gave them strange looks. Although Jarl and the others tried to keep their heads down, their shabby, mud-stained clothes were more than a little conspicuous. Still, no one accosted them as they climbed, and there weren’t any battleborn to bar their way.
As they neared top of the middle terraces, Jarl pulled his friends into a shadowed alley between two longhouses.
“Come here,” he bade in a hushed tone. “Quickly. The Clan Lord’s hall is guarded.”
“Frosts, Jarl,” Dag complained, his breaths coming in rattling gasps. “How are you so fast? You’re not even winded!”
The truth was that ever since he levelled up, Jarl’s Strength was much higher than was normal for a lowborn. He didn’t tell them, of course. They probably wouldn’t believe him even if he did.
“It’s all my useless training,” Jarl answered dryly, watching the others with an appraising eye. They seemed to be doing better than Dag, though not by much. Arvid had a sheen of sweat slicking his forehead and Fisk was breathing heavily. Only Erik appeared to be unfazed by Jarl’s insistent pace, having climbed to the upper terraces with him many times before.
“How are we going to get past the guards?” he asked, running a hand through his straw-colored hair.
Jarl pointed. “There’s a passage through this alley that leads to a ledge. It overlooks the Clan Lord’s court and should give us a good view. It’s slick with moss and a bit tight in places, but we’ll be able to watch everything that’s going on without any battleborn seeing us.”
“Good,” Arvid replied, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. “Because, if we get caught eavesdropping on the Clan Lord, we’ll be set to mucking out cesspits with the thrall.”
Dag groaned. “We should have just stayed in the fields.”
Jarl could tell that the rest were thinking the same thing, so he gave them a reassuring smile. “We’ll be fine. Don’t be a bunch of cowards. Come on—I’m sure
whatever they’re going to talk about will be worth it.”
He began making his way deeper into the alley, squeezing between the back of the longhouse and the cliff face to enter the hidden passage. Grumbling, his friends followed, slipping and scrambling as they crossed the slime-slick stones.
Traversing the passageway required them to use Agility. This measured their personal dexterity, or their ability to move nimbly and with precision. Like attacking, checks and ability rolls were the result of any given action, quantifying a person’s skill and measuring it against the difficulty of the circumstances. As always, the numbers appeared in the back of Jarl’s mind, like a disembodied voice narrating his every movement.
Agility Check: 9 + Ability Modifier (1).
Successful.
The way was difficult, but they slowly managed to get through. They were forced to shimmy through the narrow gap in single file, moving sideways and up to where Jarl knew the secret ledge was located. Dag was the only one who truly struggled, his belly too wide for the cramped alleyway. He received a few scrapes and bruises, but eventually, he too was able to pass with a fair amount of wiggling and cursing.
They emerged into a large crack that ran parallel to the path below. It was like a walkway itself, shadowed and tall enough for a man to hunch inside.
Jarl grinned as he looked back at his companions. “See? We can see them but they can’t see us.”
“That’s nice and all,” Fisk groused, “but you didn’t say we’d be so tight. I’m stuck behind Dag, and he smells worse than a hog’s pen!”
“Shut up,” Dag snapped.
“Quiet,” Jarl cautioned sharply. “They can’t see us, but they can still hear us. Now, let’s keep moving. We have a ways yet to go.”
He led them through the crag, continuing over the last of the longhouses and onto the plateau sheltering the Clan Lord’s Hall. When they finally reached the spot that Jarl had told them about, there was enough space for all of them to spread out comfortably. The overhang was deep and shadowy, and the vantage afforded them a near-perfect view of the gathering, unobstructed by the growing sea of people.
The Great Hall was an immense building of thick stone and iron spikes. It dominated the plateau like a horned beast, with smoldering braziers for eyes and jagged spears for teeth. It was home to Ivar Haig and his family, along with his numerous huskarls, battleborn, and thrall. Its elevated position in the ravine made it a veritable fortress, looming over the entire clanhold opposite the Temple of the Life-giving Flame, watch fires ever burning.
Onlookers waited outside the massive iron-banded doors, highborn, middleborn, and battleborn alike. Jarl even saw a few fireborn mingling in the crowd, and for a moment he wondered if his sister was there. The thought of her put a sour taste in his mouth and he shook his head, turning his thoughts to more pleasant things.
His friends all crouched in silence, whispering with nervous awe as they stared out over the plateau. None of them had seen the Great Hall from this angle before, nor had they ever been privy to this sort of gathering.
After a few minutes, the doors opened, metal grinding on stone as the monstrous fortress appeared to yawn. An entourage stepped into the open and prompted excited buzzing from the crowd. It was composed of men and women in fine clothing, flanked on all sides by burly guards in bright silver armor. They fanned out, filling the platform and gazing down imperiously at the mob before them.
The Clan Lord’s family, Jarl recognized from his perch above.
Ivar Haig, Clan Lord of Norvaask, stood grimly at the forefront surrounded by his wives and servants. He wore a heavy wolf pelt over his shoulders and leather armor worked with golden chain. His long blonde beard was braided and decorated with rings and jewels that glittered in the morning light, and a plain circlet of iron adorned his brow, signifying his honored station. Even from a distance, Jarl could see that the man’s eyes were as hard as flints, surveying the gathered host with the cold stoicism of a seasoned commander. A warrior had to prove himself before being named Clan Lord, and Ivar Haig had done so many times over. His skills in battle were legendary.
Standing beside him was his brother, Sten, a renowned warrior in his own right. He was the spitting image of Ivar, though his stature and beard were both a bit shorter. He rested a hand on the hatchet on his belt and leaned over, whispering something to a nearby guard.
Jarl flicked his gaze over to another man who’d stepped out from the group. He had a round belly and a forked gray beard, his rotund figure a stark contrast to the powerful Clan Lord and his brother. Jarl’s lip curled in derision as he recognized him. Vig Heraldsen, the huskarl of House Haig, was the highborn who’d publicly mocked him when he challenged Asger Ironfists to fight.
“Men and women of Norvaask,” Vig began, his booming voice carrying over the crowd. “On behalf of our Clan Lord, I have been asked to speak concerning matters of grave importance. I implore you, lend me your ears!”
The din quieted until the court fell into an eager silence.
Vig tugged on his beard, nodding as he began his address. “Many moons ago, Raynar Haig, son and heir of our noble Clan Lord, left with his warriors to hunt mammoth on the northern rim of the Ice Barrens—land bordering Jotungard. He hasn’t returned or sent word of his whereabouts.” He paused as if to let the words sink in, then continued. “Three days ago, Jotungard sent a warband to raid our clanhold—to steal our treasures, kill our sons, and ravage our women. Our battleborn and fireborn fought back and threw the cravens out before they could even break past the Frozen Terrace.”
This was met with cheers and a smattering of applause.
The huskarl went on. “Jotungard was not content to merely raid our clanhold, however. The attack was just a ruse—a distraction so that a spy could be placed in our midst.” He turned back to the Great Hall, calling in a loud, theatrical voice, “Bring forth the prisoner!”
The crowd murmured as a pair of guards emerged from the open portal, carrying the battered form of a man shackled between them. His face was bruised, his beard caked with dried blood, and his bare feet dragged as the other men hauled him before the huskarl.
Vig sneered at the wretch. “This man was found impersonating one of our thrall. He murdered the thrall and stuffed his body in a sack, then attempted to infiltrate the Great Hall. We found him skulking about the Clan Lord’s own chambers, rifling through his personal belongings and rune plates.”
This was met with boos and jeers, the crowd spitting and cursing at the man who looked to Jarl to be half-dead. Some even took to throwing rocks at the prisoner, one of which caught the man on the top of the head and opened a bloody gash.
The huskarl threw up his hands and shouted for the mob to be silent. Several battleborn lifted their weapons menacingly, persuading them to stop under threat of violence.
When the noise died down, Vig whirled on the prisoner and levelled a finger at him. “Why were you hiding in our Clan Lord’s house? Are you an assassin come to slay us in our sleep?”
The prisoner shook his head. “I’m no assassin. There’s no honor in killing sleeping men.”
“But there’s honor in spying?” Vig asked derisively.
“My mission is my own concern,” the prisoner replied, straightening. “I’ll not betray my clan to the likes of you, Norvaask dog.”
More jeering from the crowd. Rocks flew freely, along with pieces of rotting fruit, but this time, the battleborn did nothing to dissuade the crowd. The prisoner shrank beneath the barrage, foul juices running down his already dirty, bloodstained body.
At length, Vig raised his hand again. “Assassins are dishonorable, along with spies and thieves. Darkness awaits such men in the hereafter. The best you can hope for now is a quick death and a decent burial cairn on the tundra.” He leaned in, and Jarl had to strain to hear what he said next. “Tell us what we want to know, or by the Life-giving Flame and all the nameless gods, we’ll flay the skin from your bones and feed your body to the eels.”
/> The prisoner said nothing. His eyes remained downcast, head bowed low.
Vig continued, raising his voice for all to hear. “Where is Raynar Haig and what have your people done with him? Is he alive? Has your Clan Lord taken him hostage? Tell us what you know.”
Weakly, the Jotungard spy met the huskarl’s gaze. His cracked lips parted in a bloody grin that was missing more than a few teeth. “I know nothing of your missing heir, drittsekk,” he rasped. “But I hope that he died a painful death. I hope that ice wyrms devoured his corpse. I hope—”
He was cut off as one of the battleborn cuffed him with the back of a studded leather hand. He groaned and spat blood at their feet.
Vig looked to Ivar Haig, who merely nodded.
“So be it,” the huskarl declared acidly. “You’ve squandered your last chance to earn back a shred of honor. I pray you’ve made your peace with the gods. For your crimes against Norvaask, I hereby sentence you to die. Guards, present the Clan Lord with his head.”
The battered man didn’t protest as the two battleborn forced him to his knees. He simply stared blankly at the crowd as they began calling for his death. One of the stone-faced warriors put a boot on his back, forcing him to lean forward as the other hefted a gleaming axe. Then, with one smooth motion, the warrior lopped off his head, sending it tumbling off the platform.
Jarl could hear his friends gasp as a red fountain gushed from the man’s neck. Their reactions mirrored those of many in the court. He watched in silence, though, wondering how a man could meet his death without even begging for mercy. He wasn’t afraid to die, he thought as one of the battleborn picked up the head and brought it to Ivar Haig.
The Clan Lord took the grotesque offering and held it for a moment by the hair, hard eyes studying the face. Then he tossed it unceremoniously into a nearby brazier, where flames devoured it hungrily.
Vig stepped back to the front as the guards hauled the body away. “There is Jotungard treachery at work here,” he proclaimed, drowning out the murmuring voices. “Killing an heir in cold blood is an act of war. Jotungard will be laid to waste, its people slaughtered and its women and children taken slave. The gods cannot abide assassins, nor can they abide cowardly attacks against their most favored clanhold. Be it known—”
Frostworld: Ice & Blood: A LitRPG/GameLit Viking Adventure Page 8
