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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  She let the thought hang for a moment and Freya frowned. "Forgive me, High Aesir, but I'm not sure what you mean."

  Sigrun gave her a suffering look. "Like the grain, we must be subjected to pressure and fire to become useful. We must be broken down by the challenges of life and be reborn, shaped into instruments the gods can actually use. Only then can we become true wielders of the Life-giving Flame."

  Freya resisted the urge to sneer. “The only way for us to grow is to suffer, then?”

  “In part,” Sigrun answered cryptically. “If we refuse to learn from our challenges, then the pain is wasted. Suffering is key to making us humble, yes, but it’s sacrifice that truly changes us. I can tell you confidently that the ability to make sacrifices is what separates good fireborn from great ones. We must learn to give up who we are in order to become who we were born to be. That is what will ultimately earn us the favor of the gods.”

  Freya smiled and nodded as if she’d just heard the wisest lesson in the world. “I think I understand.”

  “Good,” Sigrun said, tossing the flat bread aside. Nearby, a thrall girl with a shaved head scampered over and scooped it up. She vanished without making eye contact with either of them.

  “There was one other thing I wanted to ask you,” Freya said, filling the silence that followed. This was the moment of truth, the real reason she wanted to be alone with the High Aesir. She went on, forcing herself to be bold. “It’s customary for Aesir to take wards—apprentices who’ve proven themselves worthy to learn from the feet of the masters. I was wondering if I might have the honor of being your ward, High Aesir?” The words came out in a breathless rush, and Freya quietly cursed herself for showing such weakness.

  Sigrun arched an eyebrow at her. “We don’t usually take requests for such things.”

  “I know,” Freya said, slightly abashed. “But I thought my performance on the battlefield would speak for itself. I’m sure Vanir Kelvar would be happy to provide you with a recommendation, if you prefer.”

  Sigrun hesitated before continuing. “From what I’ve seen, you’re a talented young fireborn with limitless potential.”

  Freya beamed, a surge of pride like fire rushing through her veins.

  “However,” Sigrun added, “you should know that I already have a ward. I recently began tutoring her.”

  Freya deflated, her smile faltering. “Her?”

  “Yes,” Sigrun answered with a nod. “I have chosen Runa to be my ward. She shows extraordinary promise and is quite amenable.”

  Runa. It felt like she’d just been slapped. Inside, her spirit crumbled like a pillar of dust, leaving a cold emptiness in the center of her being. Freya tried to smile, tried to maintain a confident façade, but she knew that it came off as disingenuous. Her disappointment was apparent on her face. “I see,” she managed to get out. “I must say, I’m a little... surprised by your choice.”

  Sigrun’s lips pursed, forming a tight line of disapproval. “You think I erred in choosing Runa?”

  Freya swallowed and shook her head. “No, High Aesir. I just—”

  “You’d do well to spend less time worrying about what others think, and more time improving yourself, child,” she interrupted. The rebuke was mild enough, but it still stole the breath out of Freya’s lungs. “Opinions are worth very little, especially the ones we have about ourselves. Remember what I said about sacrifice. You have talent, to be sure, but you still have much to learn before you’re ready to learn the secrets of the Aesir, Freya Beckström.”

  With that, she turned and went back to the feast, leaving Freya standing alone on the terrace, completely and utterly stricken.

  The others were deep into their revelry when Freya finally made it to the upper balconies.

  She climbed the final steps, eyes burning from the angry tears she’d shed. It had been a gamble, approaching the High Aesir directly, but she never thought that it would backfire so spectacularly. What a fool I am, she thought, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I should have known Runa would find a way to pull the rug out from under me. That skrill has made it her quest to ruin my life.

  Boisterous laughter emanated from the celebration area, and when she finally made it to the balcony, she found that a large group of fireborn had gathered. There was food and wine and even a musician plucking a lyre and singing, though the music was mostly drowned out by the noise of the crowd.

  They stood in a large circle, saying, “Drink! Drink! Drink!” in a loud, raucous chant. In the center stood a thrall, a middle-aged man with thinning gray hair and a hunched back. His rough-spun wools were dirty and stained, and his body was thin and emaciated, like he hadn’t been fed in weeks. The thrall was drinking from a flask, imbibing what Freya instantly recognized as flame spirits. He choked and gagged noisily, smoke curling past his lips and trailing wispy lines in the air.

  Freya grimaced. The man wasn’t a fireborn. She knew how this would end.

  The onlookers howled as the poor thrall forced the last of the caustic liquid down. Straightening with visible effort, he let the empty flask fall to the floor. His face was red and streaked with sweat, his eyes squeezed shut as if in great pain. After only a few seconds, he doubled over and began vomiting. Everyone groaned as he violently spilled the contents of his stomach, his entire body heaving with the force of his retches.

  “Seven seconds!” someone called triumphantly, oblivious to the man’s suffering. “I think we have a new record! All right lads, pay up.”

  Freya caught the flash of silver as several men reluctantly paid their lost bets. She gave them little heed, as her eyes were fixed upon the thrall. He was trembling, gagging even though nothing came out. “Please,” he rasped, smoke still leaking from his mouth and nose. “No more. I can’t...”

  “You’ll be done when we say so, thrall,” a fireborn named Asulf said. The others around him laughed as he nudged the thrall’s head with the toe of his boot.

  “That’s enough!” Freya snapped, drawing the attention of nearly everyone on the balcony. She cringed, cursing herself inwardly for being so impulsive. Meeting their collective gazes, she strode forward and gestured at the thrall. “You should probably let him go,” she suggested, adopting a more neutral tone. “He’ll die if he goes again, and then the Vanir will make you scrub the floors, Asulf.” She paused, then added, “Actually, I think I’d like to see that.”

  This earned a smattering of chuckles, and Asulf’s face reddened. “Fine,” he said, casting a baleful look at the quivering man. “There’s no way he’ll last another seven seconds, anyway.”

  The thrall scrambled to his feet and hastily bowed before Freya. “My thanks, fireborn,” he said before hobbling away. Two more servants came to clean up the mess he’d left behind.

  The revelry continued, the music picking back up and conversations resuming as the crowd dispersed into many different groups.

  Brimir approached, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You’re too kind to the thralls,” he remarked, jabbing a thumb in the direction the thrall had gone. “I’m not blind—I could see through your little ruse.”

  Freya raised her chin, but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Brimir grabbed her roughly and pulled her close. “That tender heart is going to get you hurt one day,” he said, his warm breath making the skin on her neck tingle.

  “And who’s going to hurt me,” she asked teasingly, “you?”

  Brimir smirked. “Perhaps I will.” He kissed her, lips locking tenderly as the crowd buzzed around them. Time seemed slow, and for a long moment, Freya allowed herself to get lost in him—his scent, his warmth, his taste. When he pulled back, he was wearing his usual winsome grin. “Follow me.”

  He led her to a plush couch next to the terrace’s balustrade. It was low to the ground and laden with pillows, its cushions made from silk and stuffed with expensive snow cotton. They sat and immediately resumed kissing, ignoring the party aroun
d them. The Temple was less traditional than the rest of the clanhold. Fireborn were unable to have children of their own, and as a result, promiscuity was rampant. Other couples were similarly entangled on couches nearby, so Freya didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed by their affectionate display.

  It gave her a chance to forget what had happened earlier.

  Even so, it only took a few minutes for her mind to wander. Not even the charismatic charm of Brimir was enough to take her mind off the conversation she’d had with the High Aesir. I’ll need to find another wardship, she thought, turning her head as Brimir began kissing her neck. There are other Aesir—Fjurin or Helga, perhaps—who are in need of a ward. They can still teach me what I need to know, even if they aren’t as powerful as Sigrun.

  It was a hollow thought. The High Aesir was the one she wanted. Anyone else would seem like a lesser prize.

  She was still musing when she spotted something strange beyond the clusters of people. In the hallway beyond the balcony, keeping mostly to the shadows, Freya saw a lone individual watching the festivities from afar. She was a slight figure in plain fireborn robes, with hair the color of dull gold and a scar puckering one side of her face. Freya perked up, recognizing the newcomer as Runa.

  Brimir grunted in annoyance as she pulled away from him. “What?” he asked, frowning.

  “Look,” she whispered, pointing at the periphery. “Runa.”

  “So?”

  She gave him a meaningful look, then stood. “Follow my lead.” Without any more explanation, she left his side and began making her way over to the hall.

  Runa stiffened upon seeing Freya and made as if to escape, but Freya quickly cut her off, giving her a friendly smile. “Thinking of joining us?”

  Runa glanced around, appearing like a captured animal. Her violet eyes met Freya’s, then flicked away, gazing at the reveling fireborn and then back down the hall. “I was just... on my way to my rooms,” she said meekly. “I didn’t mean to bother you—”

  “Nonsense,” Freya said with a wave of her hand. “You’re no bother. We’re just having our own private feast up here—away from the elders and the youngbloods. It’s important to enjoy oneself on feast day, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Behind them, Brimir appeared, looking perplexed and crossing his arms.

  Runa clasped her hands in front of her uncomfortably. It was as if she wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I suppose so,” she offered timidly.

  Freya glanced at Brimir, then back at Runa, her face splitting in a wide grin. “Care to join us?”

  Persuasion Check

  9 + Charisma Modifier (1).

  Successful.

  For an instant, Runa looked hopeful. Then her brows pinched together in suspicion. “Me? Join you?”

  “Of course!” Freya laughed, putting an arm around the girl’s shoulders and forcibly guiding her toward the balcony. “We’re fire sisters, after all. This is what we do!”

  They went to where Oster and Solveig were laughing with a group of about a half dozen people. All of them looked up, eyebrows raising as they saw Freya, Runa, and Brimir together. “Friends, you know Runa, right? She’s the one who’s been impressing all the Vanir.”

  Several grunted their acknowledgement, but Oster leaned in and whispered, “The frosts are you doing, Freya?”

  She gave him a subtle wink and went on. “I thought we should include her in our feast day activities, seeing how she’s one of the more skilled fireborn here at the Temple. It might be beneficial for us to have Runa as a friend.”

  Runa glanced around like a scared snow rabbit, offering a weak smile and an awkward wave to the group. Solveig met Freya’s eyes, her eyebrow cocked in confusion. Freya gave her a look that told her to play along.

  She moved from person to person, acting as a social bridge between Runa and the other fireborn. After introductions were made, Freya glanced down at Runa’s empty hands and feigned surprise. “Runa, let me get you a drink! It’s bad luck to be empty-handed on feast day.” She stepped back and motioned for Solveig to follow.

  “Freya, what are you doing?” she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot. “That skrill will suck all the fun out of the room!”

  Freya made a placating gesture and pointed to a pair of pitchers on a table. The ceramic jugs were practically overflowing with fiery red wine. She picked one of them up and motioned for Solveig to do the same. “Runa looked awfully thirsty, didn’t she?” Solvieg frowned, but then her eyes widened in sudden understanding. A mischievous smile blossomed on her face.

  They returned to the group, each carrying a full wine pitcher in both hands. For the first time since Freya had known her, Runa actually seemed to be fitting in. She laughed with the others and appeared happy, her normally sullen expression replaced with one of nervous glee.

  Freya grinned wickedly. This will teach her not to take what’s rightfully mine.

  Together, Freya and Solveig moved up behind Runa and dumped the wine on her head. Crimson liquid soaked her from head to foot, drenching her, and she let out a shocked scream. All went quiet as every eye on the balcony turned to regard her. She whirled around, gaping, eyes blinking furiously.

  Freya met her gaze with a look of smug satisfaction. “Sorry, my hand must have slipped. How clumsy of me.”

  Giggles rippled through the crowd, which soon turned into outright laughter. The scorn was almost palpable.

  Runa stared at Freya for a moment, her eyes brimming with tears. Then she ran away without another word, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her.

  Several people clapped, praising Freya and Solveig for the prank they’d pulled. Oster hooted and slapped his thigh, and Brimir looked at her with a new air of respect.

  Freya eyed the wine trail Runa had left behind, disappointed that she didn’t feel any better. A part of her even pitied the girl, loathing the fact that she’d just publicly shamed her. Brimir’s right, she thought, setting her jaw. You need to harden your heart. She needed to be taught a lesson, and now she has. Maybe next time she’ll think twice about trying to steal glory from me.

  The feast continued unabated, but Freya didn’t much feel like celebrating. Even while chatting with the others and participating in different conversations, her mind kept going back to the look Runa had given her—complete and utter betrayal. It gnawed at her, and despite her best efforts, there was little she could do to squelch it.

  As the evening wore on, a thrall approached Freya and bowed her head, avoiding eye contact. “Excuse me, fireborn,” the demure girl said. “But somebody is asking for you beyond the walls of the Temple.”

  “Tell them I’m busy,” Freya replied tersely.

  “Forgive me,” the thrall said, “but I tried. He insisted that he needed to speak with you at once about your brother.”

  Those around her eyed each other, bemused expressions playing on their features.

  Gods above, she thought in frustration, balling her hands into fists. Can’t my idiot brother just leave me alone?

  Freya made haste to the Temple’s entrance, walking quickly enough to make good time but not so quickly as to appear out of place. When she arrived at the gates, she strode past the battleborn guards and slipped outside without a word.

  A wiry young man with greasy yellow hair stood anxiously on the bridge, his eyes growing wide as they fell upon her. He wore plain homespun clothes that were spattered with dried mud, and his britches were rolled up to mid-calf, revealing a pair of filthy, shoeless feet. She recognized him as one of Jarl’s friends. However, she couldn’t recall his name.

  Crossing her arms, she fixed him with a withering glare. “Well? What do you want?”

  He dropped his gaze and meekly stammered a response. “F-Forgive me, Freya, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

  She stared, waiting for him to continue. When it became apparent that he wouldn’t, she snapped, “Out with it!”

  He jumped. “I-It’s about Jarl. He didn’t come out to the fields
today.”

  Inwardly, Freya groaned. Frosts, what has he gotten himself into this time? She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “Gods willing, he drank too much at a mjöl hall last night. He’s probably passed out in a pool of his own urine.”

  The mud farmer frowned. “You don’t know your brother very well, do you?” Freya’s face darkened and he blanched, holding up his hands defensively. “Beggin’ your pardon, fireborn, but that’s just not Jarl’s way. He spends most of his free time practicing and fighting, not carousing the mjöl halls with the rest of us!”

  She sighed. The hour was growing late, and she was exhausted from the events of the day. She didn’t have the patience for dealing with halfwits. “Listen,” she snarled, taking a step forward and stabbing a finger into his chest. “I don’t have time to stand here and chat with you. Get to the point, or I’ll set you on fire and throw you over this bridge.”

  It was an empty threat, but the words seemed to have the desired effect. His face paled visibly and his eyes appeared to bulge out of his skull. When the words came, they came in a rambling rush, and Freya had to concentrate to decipher his meaning. The mud farmer told her about how he and his friends had eavesdropped on the recent audience given by the Clan Lord, and about how Jarl had acted stranger than usual after they left. He mentioned how Jarl didn’t return to work afterward, and that they had to labor late into the evening to pick up his slack. He apologized profusely for their disobedience and begged for her forgiveness.

  Finally, she’d heard enough. “Where is he now?” she asked sharply, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  He sputtered. “I think he left to follow Halvard’s warband onto the tundra. It’s the only thing I can think of.”

  “Frosts,” she cursed, tugging on her braid. He’ll see our family ruined. I’ll not let my fool brother jeopardize my chance to become an Aesir!