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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  Without a word of thanks, she spun and returned to the Temple, her mind racing to come up with a plan. She needed to ensure that her brother was returned to the clanhold without incident. That, or he needed to be stopped from returning at all.

  Chapter 9

  Into the Cold

  “Strength is the only virtue my people know. Most of the time, it’s the difference between life and death.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 3

  Downy flakes of snow fell from a cloud-filled sky, dancing with the gusting wind that blew across the tundra. It was a light snowfall, an intermittent dusting rather than a blizzard, but it still covered everything in a fine white blanket. The wind stung Jarl’s face, but he didn’t mind. His heart pounded with excitement as he marched away from the rift of Norvaask and the only home he’d ever known.

  There’s so much sky out here! he thought, marveling at the desolate landscape around him. It felt like if he jumped, he might float away and disappear forever. It was a strange thought, but it made him smile all the same. I could get used to a view like this.

  It had taken a full day to prepare himself for the journey, which already put him several hours behind Halvard’s warband. Even now, their tracks were becoming obscured by the falling snow. Still, he counted himself fortunate. No guard had stopped him as he crested the Frozen Terrace and set out into the wide world beyond. The battleborn who watched him go snickered but didn’t bar his way. Their duty was to keep enemies from coming in, not to keep foolish lowborn from going out.

  He shouldered his pack and continued on as the blue-gray watchtowers of his clanhold faded into the distance behind him. The hide satchel slung over his back was filled with salted bacon, dried flatbread, and bulging waterskins he’d pilfered from one of the storehouses in the Dregs. The axe he’d taken from the Jotungard raider bounced on his hip with every step, and his thick, fur-lined clothing served to stave off the chill—if only a little.

  His boots crunched as he followed the trail, the wind ruffling his hair and beard. The cold was more intense out here than in the ravine, but it was also bracing. It invigorated his blood and made him want to move, to stretch his muscles and swing his axe.

  Jarl had never felt more alive.

  Far to the north, the Howling Peaks jutted from the horizon like broken teeth, and everywhere else he looked there was only sprawling tundra. It stretched in all directions, flat and barren and devoid of any plant or animal life. He’d never strayed far from the comforting walls of Norvaask, but knew from maps and conversations he had overheard what to expect. His clanhold rested on the rim of the Ice Barrens, a frozen, rocky wasteland. The farther one traveled from the Barrens, the more varied the landscape became. The flat tundra would eventually give way to rolling hills where dire wolves prowled and enormous caribou grazed in banks of snow grass.

  As he trudged along, his mind wandered, going over his plan and what he would say when he finally caught up with the warband.

  I’ll offer them my axe and pledge my life for Norvaask, he thought. All I need is one chance to prove that I’m now a battleborn, just one. If they accept me, I’ll fight alongside them and aid them in recovering the Clan Lord’s heir. That will surely earn me a place among their ranks. If not... He let the thought hang, not wanting to dwell on what might happen if Halvard refused his help. A swift axe blow to the neck might be the best he could hope for.

  Stats, classes, and levels were only known by the individual. No one had insight into the numbers that governed the world or a single person’s actions. Jarl knew that he’d levelled up, could feel the difference in his stats, but nobody else could tell.

  A class was usually something that you were born into. It determined not only your social hierarchy, but also your abilities. The societal classes of highborn, middleborn, and lowborn did nothing except separate the masses into groups and give them minor buffs. Battleborn and fireborn could gain levels, increase their ability scores, and learn new combat-based talents. It meant they could become immensely powerful, given time, and accomplish great things both on and off the battlefield.

  Lowborn were never taught the finer points of levelling up, but from what Jarl had gleaned there were two ways for him to gain Experience Points: one, by killing enemies in combat, and two, by completing quests. Quests could be personal goals or tasks assigned by other, usually higher-level individuals. They required the person completing the quests to fulfill some sort of obligation before being rewarded. No one knew how Experience Points were allocated, just that the gods doled them out based on a situation’s difficulty.

  Jarl had trained for most of his adult life, but now he could actually progress into higher levels. If the other battleborn could see that, then they’d have to accept him. Right?

  Hours passed and the cloudy sky began to grow dark. The cold, which had felt so crisp earlier, had begun to seep into his core, making his toes and fingers numb. His feet began to ache, and he realized that he needed to find shelter soon if he was going to survive the coming night.

  Squinting through the falling darkness, Jarl searched the tundra for protection against the ever-present wind. The snow had stopped falling, but the temperature was getting dangerously low. His teeth chattered in his skull and his footfalls became less sure, tripping over every bump on the uneven terrain.

  He stumbled into a small cleft in the tundra that was just wide enough for him to burrow inside. It blocked the worst of the wind but did little to protect him from any more snowfalls.

  Unfortunately, it was probably the best he could do.

  As he searched for a place to lie down, something growled, causing him to freeze mid-step. The hair on the back of his neck rose when he saw a shape emerge from the shadows in front of him. It was the size of a large dog, sleek, with a bushy tail and a long, narrow snout. Even in the waning light, he could see that its ears were laid back and its fangs were bared.

  This creature was too small to be a wolf. That meant it could only be one thing: a dire fox. And Jarl had just crashed into its home.

  Frosts, he thought, hand darting to his axe as the beast took a step forward, growling again.

  He drew his weapon, keenly aware that the fox had every advantage here and that he could barely see.

  Careful, now. Maybe if you back away slowly, it’ll leave you alone.

  The fox leapt, jaws snapping as it went for Jarl’s throat.

  He staggered back, tripping on the steep incline of the depression and landing hard on his side. The fox’s teeth missed him by a wide margin, but its paws raked his chest and tore his coat open. No damage, luckily. Grunting, he rolled over, staggered to his feet, and brought his axe up between them.

  The fox scampered out of the cleft and onto the tundra, circling Jarl like the fearsome predator it was.

  He yelled and lunged in an attempt to scare the thing away.

  Intimidation Check: 3 + Charisma Modifier (1).

  Unsuccessful.

  The fox didn’t relent, its black eyes glinting like chips of obsidian in the night.

  Jarl took a step back and reevaluated his next move. If I slip up, this thing will rip me to shreds. I can’t afford to take a wound, not now. He pivoted, readjusting his grip on his axe as he prepared himself and waited for his enemy to make the first move.

  The fox snarled, its tail swishing soundlessly as it attacked again, this time biting at Jarl’s legs.

  It missed, and Jarl followed up with a counterattack, swinging his axe in a sideways chop.

  4 Damage.

  The blade carved a wide gash through fur and muscle, eliciting a high-pitched yelp of pain. The fox recoiled, bloodstained, as its hind legs skittered on the frozen ground. This gave Jarl an opportunity to strike. He took his axe in both hands and attacked again, driving the wedge into the middle of its back.

  8 Damage.

  Bones broke and warm blood spattered, dropping the fox to its belly. It was still alive, but mortally wounded, its breath steaming in haggard gasps
. It gnawed pitifully at Jarl’s boot, trying to do something—anything—to delay its inevitable demise. Jarl actually felt a pang of guilt. It only attacked him because he’d invaded its home.

  But on the tundra, it was either kill or be killed. There was nothing else he could do.

  He brought his axe down in a final chop, aiming for the creature’s exposed neck.

  7 Damage.

  It spasmed, and then went still.

  Encounter Summary

  1 Enemy Defeated.

  -0 Health Points.

  -2 Stamina Points.

  +25 Experience Points.

  Expelling a deep breath, he wiped his blade on a clean patch of fur and returned to the cleft, suddenly feeling very tired. He wasn’t as cold as he was before, but he knew that was only because his adrenaline was up. Once his nerves settled, the icy chill would return with a vengeance, and he would be in danger of freezing to death.

  He nestled inside the little burrow, sluggishly opening his pack and pulling out a flint and a handful of dried hvet fibers. The husks would burn for hours and keep him warm until morning. Yanking off one of his gloves, he made a pyre and scratched out a few sparks. The fibers caught almost immediately, and soon he had a small blaze crackling beside him, sending wisps of smoke curling into the black sky.

  After setting some rocks next to the fire, he curled up beneath a hide blanket and began chewing a strip of salted bacon. The meat was tough but tasty, and the act of chewing made him feel a little better. Above him, the wind continued to howl, but it didn’t reach him in the cleft.

  That was a small mercy, at least.

  It wasn’t until he rested that he began to doubt the wisdom of his plan. He’d always been hard-headed and brash; that was partly why he considered himself like the battleborn. But this new ploy seemed to border on pure insanity.

  “What have you gotten yourself into, Jarl?” he asked himself quietly. “They’re probably going to kill you when you catch up to them, and then you’ll be dead—a headless fool who nobody will remember.” For a moment, it felt like he was going to lose himself to despair. Then, he thought of everyone who had ever mocked him. He thought of Freya shaking her head in disappointment and mouthing the words, “I told you so.” The image was enough to fill him with rage, and soon, he forgot all about his melancholy.

  He would prove them wrong, even if it meant he had to march to the end of Njordrassil itself.

  Brooding, he finished his meal and turned back to the rocks clustered around the fire. They’d grown hot, so he tucked them under his blanket where they could keep him warm as he tried to sleep.

  It didn’t take him long. He soon fell into a fitful slumber, his mind plagued by nightmares of beasts on the tundra and being hacked apart by axes, his blood staining the snow a dark red.

  When the sun finally crested the eastern horizon, it offered little warmth. The clouds had broken in the night to reveal wide swathes of crystal-blue sky, the bright rays of dawn now painting the tundra with a color like molten gold.

  Jarl was already awake when the world brightened. He reached over and stamped out the last of his embers with a gloved hand. Grunting, he extricated himself from his shelter, such as it was. His joints felt like they were frozen and his appendages felt numb and clumsy, but he managed to put away his supplies and step back out onto the wide, icy plain. Steam poured from his mouth as he yawned, smoking like he’d just drank flame spirits as he shouldered his pack and resumed his journey.

  Need to move, he thought groggily, forcing one foot in front of the other. It’s the only way I’m going to get warm.

  Jarl had never been so cold in his entire life. He found himself missing the heat of the Fjondar and the humid air of Norvaask. He even missed the hearth of his family’s longhouse in the Dregs. Out here, his lips were chapped and his skin burned with every gust of the wind. However, the fire smoldering within him was enough to keep him going. His ambition was like a bed of coals, hot and glowing beneath a fine layer of ash.

  Gods willing, he would reach Halvard’s warband before it burned out.

  Tracks still remained from yesterday, but they were faint. Windblown snow had obscured most of them, but when examined closely, the way was clear—the battleborn were heading northeast. They would be combing the wilderness, searching for signs of Raynar and his hunting party until they reached Jotungard.

  It would no doubt come to fighting with the rival clanhold after that.

  As the day wore on, the sun disappeared behind another curtain of heavy gray clouds. No snow fell from the sky and the wind died down to a faint breeze. The brisk pace of his walk drove away most of the chill, and before long, he was even sweating beneath his hides, his undershirt clinging to his skin even as his face froze.

  It was a grim, colorless day, the sort that soured a man’s mood. It dampened the sense of adventure he’d felt the previous day, replacing it with a dourness he was unaccustomed to.

  Whenever doubts creeped into his mind, Jarl willed them away, focusing instead on more productive things, like what he would say when he finally reached the Shieldbreaker. After a while, his mind drifted to thoughts of the great wyrms that were said to live in tunnels beneath the Ice Barrens. Dread and wonder filled him with equal parts. Perhaps one day he would even get to see the terrifying beasts.

  He pushed himself hard in an effort to catch up to the battleborn, trekking across boreal fields and hard-packed snowbanks. He didn’t rest and only stopped to relieve himself, eating his meager rations on the go. Hours passed and he eventually fell into a steady rhythm. His footfalls beat a steady tempo in his ears.

  By the time evening came, the wind began to howl once more. The dark clouds grew darker with the setting sun and the cold seeped back into Jarl’s core. He was exhausted from the march and had half a mind to quit for the day when he saw something strange on the flat horizon.

  A low rise thrust up from the tundra like an earthen shelf, a stony plateau covered in gnarled brush. It wasn’t very tall, but it stood out from the plains like a giant’s dinner table, flat and solid. The tracks led directly to it, and Jarl could see tendrils of smoke curling into the air from the other side.

  His face split into a weary grin. He’d finally reached it—Halvard’s encampment.

  Slowing his pace, Jarl took a deep breath to steady his nerves. If he made any wrong moves, the sentries would take him for an enemy and promptly cut him down. Steeling himself, he approached the rise with his hands outstretched, showing he wasn’t a threat.

  As he drew close, he could smell the campfires, the heady scent of charcoal and cooking meat making his mouth water. He ignored the hunger and kept his wits about him, eyes scanning everywhere for signs of an ambush.

  They were on him before he could even blink.

  Eight battleborn emerged from a hollow dug at the base of the hill. It was so deftly concealed that Jarl didn’t realize until he was practically on top of it. The men levelled spears, iron tips glinting in the waning light. They surrounded him within seconds and made as if to close in.

  Jarl waved his empty hands and raised his voice to fend them off. “I come peacefully!” he called, holding his head high to show that he wasn’t afraid. “I’m one of you... from Norvaask! I’ve come to speak with Halvard Bloodhammer!”

  The eight hesitated, their hard eyes narrowing in unison.

  One of them spoke up, a battleborn with drooping mustaches that he didn’t recognize. “Who are you, and why shouldn’t we kill you where you stand?”

  “I’m a friend,” he answered evenly, meeting the man’s hard gaze. “I come offering my axe in service to the war leader, and I would speak to him in person.”

  The others, noting his humble garb, muttered doubtfully. A thick-necked man with a scarred face turned to the first and spat in derision. “Let’s gut this skrill and be done with it. No point in trading words with a madman.”

  The mustached man frowned. “He could be Jotungard,” he mused. “Could be that he
knows something about the Clan Lord’s son.”

  “We should interrogate him!” another man offered behind him. Jarl didn’t see his face.

  “I’m not Jotungard,” Jarl replied with a confidence he didn’t feel. “I’m of Norvaask, and I only wish to serve the clanhold. Allow me to speak with your war leader, and let him judge.”

  The warriors all eyed each other, every one of them looking uncertain in their own way. For a time, no one spoke, but neither did they lower their weapons. They seemed content to let Jarl stand there, anxious about whether they were going to let him live or die.

  Finally, the mustached man grunted and gestured at the axe on Jarl’s belt. “Hand over that axe, stranger, and we’ll take you to see the Shieldbreaker.”

  Slowly, Jarl pulled out the weapon and tossed it at his feet.

  The leader nodded, then turned to regard his men. “Bind his hands and keep your spears on him. If he makes one wrong move, poke him full of holes.”

  Rough hands grabbed him from behind and forced him to his knees while the others descended, spear points mere inches from his face. A pair of men searched him for any additional weapons, then bound his wrists with a strong cord. By the time they hauled him to his feet, his pack had been removed, its contents dumped on the ground, and his provisions divided up among the battleborn. He didn’t protest, however, and held himself with dignity as they escorted him into camp.

  Chapter 10

  Mudborn

  “Norvaask was among the strongest of the clanholds. It was always our biggest source of pride and contention. I am honored to have come from such an ancient and storied place.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 3