The Clan Lord abruptly stepped forward, interrupting the huskarl’s tirade. All eyes turned to regard him, silence settling over the crowd. His gaze swept over his people, and for a moment, it seemed like he might not speak at all. “My son, the pride of my life, is missing,” he said, his voice sonorous and proud. “I know not where he is, or even if he’s still alive. I ask you this question, strong people of Norvaask: who will defend my family’s legacy? Who will help me find my son?”
A man called out from the midst of the court. “I would be honored to find your son, Clan Lord. The axes of my warband are yours.”
Ivar motioned for the speaker to approach.
A broad-shouldered battleborn came forth, standing taller than almost everyone in the crowd. He wore plain leathers and ring mail and had a huge war hammer strapped to his back. His white-gray hair was pulled back in a tail behind his head, and his face and arms were crisscrossed with old scars. A patch covered his left eye, and his plaited beard hung down past his waist, the end tucked into his belt.
Jarl instantly recognized him. “Halvard Bloodhammer,” he said, awestruck. “The Shieldbreaker!”
Like the Clan Lord, the man was a legend, a warrior without peer. Both his surname and his nickname “Shieldbreaker” came from the enormous war hammer he wielded in battle. It was said that he was a man of great honor and that he had defeated every clanhold on Njordrassil on the battlefield. There were even rumors that he had turned down the opportunity to become Clan Lord himself, saying that the gods made him to fight, not to rule.
Jarl had never seen him in public before. For him, it was like seeing a god among men.
“Halvard Bloodhammer,” Ivar said, echoing Jarl’s own words. “You honor me with your service.”
The one-eyed man knelt before his Clan Lord. “The honor is all mine.”
Ivar rested a hand on Halvard’s shoulder. “Let gods and men bear witness—the Shieldbreaker and his warband will venture out into the tundra and search for my son. If it is found that Jotungard is involved with his disappearance, then my wrath will be terrible.” He paused, then added, “Blood must be answered with blood.”
When the crowd dispersed, Jarl and his friends began making their way back to the Dregs. Despite their earlier complaints, the others were thrilled by all they had witnessed, the prospect of a potential war igniting their collective imaginations like a fireborn’s magic.
“It’s like something out of legend,” Arvid said, shaking his shaggy head in disbelief. “Old Halvard will find Raynar—dead or alive—and then he’ll rip Jotungard to pieces!”
“Yeah,” Fisk agreed, a gap-toothed grin splitting his face. “Maybe we’ll get a glimpse of the Spear Maiden after all! If they bring her back as a thrall, I might get to spend some quality time with her, if you know what I mean.”
“I’d be careful if I were you, Fisk,” Dag chuckled. “Even as a thrall, she’ll be more than capable of beating you to a pulp!”
His grin widened. “If she’s half as beautiful as they say, I’d let her do whatever she likes with me.”
The others laughed, but not Jarl. What Arvid said had struck him. It’s like something out of legend. There was truth to that. A dead highborn and a war between two of the greatest clanholds would be legendary. Such a conflict would certainly create opportunities for heroes to rise. Perhaps even lowborn ones. This is my chance, Jarl thought, an idea forming in his mind. A chance to prove myself before Halvard Bloodhammer... maybe even the Clan Lord himself.
In their eyes, he was still just a lowborn. They didn’t know he had levelled up. If he could fight alongside the Shieldbreaker, avenging the death of Ivar’s son, then he could gain experience and prove once and for all that he was a battleborn, a true warrior. They’d have no choice but to accept him.
Stranger things had happened, if only in legend.
There were still a few hours of daylight left, which meant they had to return to the mud fields to resume their work. They would doubtless need to redouble their efforts in order to make up for lost time.
No one would notice him if he slipped away.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Jarl said, breaking away from the group and heading toward his family’s longhouse. “There’s something I need to do.”
The others gave him strange looks but otherwise didn’t object. They had grown used to Jarl doing odd things, even getting himself into trouble. Arvid, Dag, and Fisk muttered farewells and continued toward the mud fields. Erik, however, stayed behind, his brows furrowing deeply.
“What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously as the others disappeared from view.
Jarl shrugged. “Nothing. Just need to go back to the longhouse.”
Erik crossed his arms. “And what do you need there?”
“Nothing, Erik. Frosts! I just... forgot something. That’s all. I’ll only be gone a bit.”
His friend didn’t look convinced. He stared at Jarl, his lips a hard line of disapproval beneath his pale, worried eyes. After it became clear that Jarl wouldn’t say anything else, he grunted and shook his head. “Freeze me, Jarl, but I know you’re lying to me. I know you too well. You have that look about you, the one you get when you’re about to do something stupid. Don’t try denying it, I’m not blind.”
Again, Jarl shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Just that... I need to be alone for a while.”
Erik uncrossed his arms and sighed. “You’re going to get yourself killed one day, you know that? Just promise me you won’t do anything too foolish.”
Jarl gave his friend an apologetic smile. “You know I can’t promise that.”
Erik gave him one last look and departed, muttering something bitter under his breath. Jarl watched him go, doubting himself for just a moment before ambition smothered his uncertainty like a candle.
“Whatever it takes,” he whispered, continuing down the path to the longhouse. “Whatever it freezin’ takes.”
He knew that his mother would be working at the mill and that his grandmother wouldn’t—couldn’t—betray his whereabouts to anyone. If his plan was going to succeed, he needed absolute secrecy, as well as supplies and plenty of warm clothing. Most importantly, though, he needed the raider’s axe that he had hidden beneath the floor of his room.
Chapter 7
A Bastard’s Strength
“Now, I know that hearts are easily corrupted by wealth and power.”
—Memoir, Rune Plate 2
Bits of hardened clay shattered as Runa drafted, channeling the Flame Within through her extremities and directing it toward her targets. Flame spirits roiled in her stomach, filling her insides with an uncomfortable warmth, but it only served to temper her frustrations, guiding them toward her mock enemies in the form of fiery projectiles.
Fireball
-5 Magic Points.
11 Damage.
Another clay battleborn burst with a puff of smoke, and within seconds, Runa was drafting again, her palm filling with a fist-sized sphere.
She was like a storm, a force of nature that refused to be extinguished. Her body was a conduit, a gateway for the Life-giving Flame. Everything outside the training room ceased to exist. There was only power—the intoxicating feeling that every fireborn knew intimately—and the clay warriors arrayed before her.
Five more, she thought, strafing to the side as if evading an attack. Child’s play.
After more than an hour of practicing, she was almost out of flame spirits, but she knew innately that she didn't need to drink another flask. There was enough power within her to obliterate the targets.
Growling, she hurled the fireball and thrust it away like she might push a man much larger than herself. It streaked across the training room in a flash and exploded between three of the warriors, breaking them instantly and scattering smoldering chunks across the sand.
She conjured two more fireballs, using up the last of her flame spirits. They glowed with an almost white light as heat radiated from her palms
and warped the air. Stepping forward, she shouted in wordless rage and flung them simultaneously. Both fireballs flew swiftly and struck their respective targets, erupting in a brilliant display of light.
Runa sank to one knee as the clay shards struck the sand, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, her pulse pounding loudly in her ears. She’d never drafted so much before in one session, and although the strain was sure to make her stronger, it still took a physical toll.
Even so, a small smile graced her lips, tugging at her scar as her heartbeat slowed and her breathing returned to a normal rhythm.
Gods, she thought, eying the remains of two dozen clay men, that felt… good.
Behind her, someone clapped. Runa spun to see a woman standing on the platform above her. She was clothed in fine alabaster robes trimmed with crimson, a headpiece of gilded antlers resting delicately atop her head. The raiments were exquisite, but it was her face which held Runa’s attention. It was a face everyone in the Temple would instantly recognize.
High Aesir Sigrun.
Runa immediately jumped to her feet and bowed her head. “High Aesir,” she said breathlessly. “Forgive me—I thought I was alone.”
“No apologies necessary, child,” Sigrun replied, the corner of her mouth turning up in a small, knowing smile. “I’d heard from the Vanir that you were a talented pyromancer, but seeing it with my own eyes? Well... you are quite exceptional.”
Runa’s eyes widened at the unexpected praise. “You honor me, High Aesir.”
The older woman waved dismissively. “An honor easily given.” She made her way down the steps to the sandy floor, her elegant robes trailing behind her. “Tell me, how often do you come down here?”
Runa shifted uncomfortably. “Three, maybe four times a week,” she admitted. “Though, I don’t usually go through so many targets.” Abashed, she gestured at the shattered remains of the battleborn behind her. “I probably use more flame spirits than the other students, but the alchemists never question me when I place my requisitions.”
Sigrun looked past her, eyes lingering on the still-smoking bits of clay. “Flame spirits can be costly,” she said, “but some might argue that having untrained fireborn can be even costlier. No doubt you were merely trying to increase your maximum Magic Points?”
“Yes, High Aesir.”
“A wise choice,” the older woman noted. “It’s also likely an uncomfortable one. Using so much magic can make the body fatigued, and flame spirits have been known to cause stomach cramps and other… more distressing symptoms. Would that other fireborn were so dedicated to their craft.”
Runa wasn’t sure how she should respond. It was true—practicing so much had put her in a near-constant state of exhaustion, and her stomach did ache incessantly, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the flame spirits or the constant bullying she endured. Even so, open praise from one of the most powerful people in the clanhold made her uneasy. She shifted nervously beneath the other woman’s gaze, trying desperately to come up with some kind of response. “I only wish to serve the gods, High Aesir. I’m their willing servant in all things.”
It was only a partial truth. Runa was grateful that the nameless gods had seen fit to endow her with magical abilities, but the true reason she came down here was to get away from her fire brothers and sisters. When she was drafting, she felt like she had some control over her life. Her peers made her feel like the runt of the litter, an unwanted pup who was likely to be devoured.
The High Aesir eyed her for a long moment, her face an unreadable mask. Her dark eyes seemed to scrutinize Runa’s every feature. She tried not to squirm beneath that impenetrable stare. “Would you walk with me, child? There’s something that I’d like to discuss with you.”
Runa’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” she replied immediately. “Of course, High Aesir.”
Sigrun turned on her heel and began climbing the stairs back to the upper levels of the Temple, leaving the younger fireborn to follow after. Runa glanced at the mess she would be leaving behind, then decided that she’d better comply with the woman’s request. There would be thrall who could clean up after her, and though she usually hated putting the servants out, she knew it would be better than rousing the High Aesir’s ire.
They ascended the steps in silence, entering the dimply lit tunnels beneath the Temple’s foundation stones. More training rooms lined the hall, including meditation chambers and holding cells for dissidents. Few people wandered these tunnels, and Runa found that the dark silence of the place filled her with trepidation.
What does she want with me? she wondered. Am I in some sort of trouble? Frosts… I should have just spent the evening studying in my room.
Runa didn’t have any friends. She never had. When she wasn’t training, she spent most of her free time alone poring over old rune plates. It was a solitary existence, but at least it kept her away from the often ruthless politics of the Temple. Had she made a grave error in going to the training rooms tonight?
Sigrun eventually broke the long stillness with a question, her eyes still trained on the path ahead. “Have you ever wondered why the gods separate us by class?”
It caught Runa by surprise. “Yes, I suppose I have at times.”
“And why do you think that is?”
She frowned. “I suppose… well, the Aesir teach us that our souls were chosen before we were born.”
“That’s right,” Sigrun replied, leading them up yet another flight of stairs. “The gods decided long ago who each of us would be in this life. But that isn’t the whole truth. You’re the bastard of Ivar Haig, correct?”
“Yes... I am.”
“Then surely you’ve wondered why the gods decided to place you in such unfortunate circumstances—to be shunned by your own family?”
Runa could feel her cheeks redden. Bastards weren’t esteemed highly in Norvaask, nor anywhere else in the Nine Clanholds. Everyone was entitled to a surname, even the lowest of the lowborn, but not bastards. Runa was no Haig—she was just Runa, a reject even among her own kind.
As she regarded the High Aesir, words failed her, and she couldn’t help but feel ashamed. She merely continued to make her way up the stairs, her throat growing tight.
Sigrun seemed oblivious to the embarrassment she’d caused. If she felt any sympathy for the younger fireborn, she didn’t show it. “Bastards aren’t the only ones who suffer in this world. However, they can be uniquely strengthened by the trials of everyday life—much like iron after it’s been molded by the blacksmith’s hammer.”
They entered the main level, a great courtyard with wooden statues and time-worn reliefs etched into every stone wall. Passing fireborn bowed in deference to the High Aesir, not sparing Runa a second glance. Together, they walked onto one of the many balconies overlooking the outer terrace. The fire well smoldered far beneath them, emitting clouds of steam that wafted toward the distant stars. The precipitous sides of the ravine glistened wetly, surrounding them with warm humidity.
Sigrun stepped up to the edge of the balcony and looked out over the clanhold, her ringed fingers clasped loosely behind her back. Runa, uncertain as to why she was there at all, stood beside the High Aesir, her stomach twisting into knots.
They were alone, with only the mossy stones to keep them company. For a time, they simply stared at the misty expanse in quiet contemplation.
“Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the fireborn ceased to exist,” Sigrun mused. “The world would fall into ruin, of course. The clanholds would freeze over and life on Njordrassil would cease to exist. We’re the flame that keeps the ice at bay, the sages and the judges of our entire civilization. The battleborn may be the clanhold’s might, but we are its mind and soul. We have to be stronger than everyone else, because without us, there would be only coldness and death.” She abruptly turned, her eyes studying the younger woman’s face with a strange intensity. “I have seen strength in you, Runa; a strength and a humility that is absent in the rest of
your peers. I find these traits curious. And intriguing.”
Runa lowered her gaze. “You honor me.”
“Honor has nothing to do with it,” she replied. “I speak only what I deem to be true. You are strong, Runa. Even if you can’t yet see it yourself.” She sighed and gazed back out at the clanhold, her expression softening. “It’s no secret that I’ve been searching for a personal ward. Half the fireborn in the Temple have already thrown themselves at me, requesting that I consider them. But none of them stand out from the others. Not like you.”
Runa could feel her heartbeat quicken, her eyes widening at the elder woman’s implication. “But… High Aesir, surely you can’t mean—”
“I mean exactly what I say,” Sigrun interrupted, turning to fully regard her. “Runa, I name you my personal ward, attendant to the Aesir of the clanhold of Norvaask. May the gods smile upon you and bless you with their strength.”
New Reputation Modifier: Sigrun’s Ward.
+1 to all attack rolls.
+10 Magic Points.
The declaration came like a thunderbolt, striking Runa dumb. She stood stock-still, mouth agape, her mind frantically trying to comprehend what was happening. How can this be? Surely, this must be some sort of cruel joke. The High Aesir can’t possibly want me to be her ward—can she?
There was no disputing the look on Sigrun’s face. Her eyes were as cold and imperious as the tundra, her expression smooth and unyielding. There was no hint of mirth in the way she regarded her, only expectant sobriety... maybe even a little pride.
Not knowing what else to say, Runa lowered her head. “I will serve to the best of my ability.”
Sigrun nodded as if she expected nothing less. “A more formal announcement will be issued to the Temple in the coming days—as soon as this business with the Clan Lord's son is finished. I expect the rest of the Aesir will be more amenable once the battleborn have been settled. As much as the brutes can be settled, anyway.”
Frostworld: Ice & Blood: A LitRPG/GameLit Viking Adventure Page 9
