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

by Blake Arthur Peel

Throngs of battleborn watched as Jarl was half-marched, half-dragged through the camp.

  Fires burned in the gulley behind the plateau, filling it with a pungent haze that did little to drive away the cold of the coming night. Tents were everywhere, poking up like spikes from trenches dug into the uneven ground, their occupants coming out in droves to see the source of the commotion. Everywhere Jarl looked there were unfriendly eyes and bristling spear points following him, waiting like hawks circling a lone field mouse.

  They don’t seem pleased to see me, he observed as he followed his escorts through the camp. He did his best to ignore the hostile looks and set his jaw, training his gaze on the path ahead.

  He was of a height with most of the warriors he saw, but was skinny by comparison. Battleborn ate better than their lowborn counterparts, and they also engaged in selective breeding to create stronger offspring. Jarl didn’t put much stock in his lack of girth, though. He knew it wasn’t the size of the man that mattered, but how he fought. He’d trained his whole life for this moment, and he was prepared to do what he had to in order to earn their respect.

  A group of men to his right chuckled as he marched past.

  “Mudborn!” one of them called, recognizing him from before. “You going to fight for us, or clean out our latrines?”

  The resulting laughter was harsh and mocking.

  “You can’t fight with farm tools,” another commented. “We don’t need you to till the battlefield, mudborn!”

  You can fight with farm tools, Jarl thought to himself, ignoring their laughing voices. I should know. That’s how I won my axe.

  A large tent dominated the middle of the camp, a cross-section of mammoth tusks holding up walls of leather and fur. A blazing fire roared just outside the entrance, flanked by a dozen heavily armed guards. They eyed Jarl warily as he was brought before them, many reaching calloused hands for their weapons.

  The man with the mustaches shoved him roughly to the ground. “We found this one approaching from the south,” he explained. “Says he wants to speak with the war leader.”

  The guards eyed each other. One of them, the burliest by far, shrugged and strode into the tent, his cloak trailing behind him.

  Jarl pushed himself to his knees and looked around, realizing the entire warband was now staring at him. Their eyes pressed from all directions, more than a few spouting taunts or mean-spirited jests.

  You’ve suffered worse insults before, he reminded himself sternly. Stay strong. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re a coward.

  Eventually, the guard returned, only now he was accompanied by a man who Jarl had only ever seen from afar. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with white-gray hair and a patch covering his left eye socket. Even without his enormous war hammer, Jarl knew that this was the man he’d risked his life to find.

  “Is this the lad?” the newcomer rumbled, turning his single eye toward him expectantly.

  “Yes, War Leader,” the guard replied.

  The mustached man hunched his shoulders in something resembling a bow. “We captured him south of the ridge—says he’s from Norvaask. Yielded himself to us and said he wanted to speak with you, War Leader.”

  Halvard Bloodhammer stared at Jarl for a long moment, weighing him. When he responded, it came out like a low growl. “Let him speak.”

  Still on his knees, Jarl defiantly met the man’s one-eyed stare. “My name is Jarl Beckström. I’ve come to pledge my axe to your service, War Leader. I wish to help find Raynar Haig and fight those who threaten the clanhold. My honor and iron are yours.”

  Many of the surrounding battleborn scoffed at his proposal, but Halvard didn’t so much as blink. When the clamor faded, he replied, “And what honor and iron does a lowborn have to offer me?”

  Jarl held the big man’s gaze. “I’m a fighter, War Leader, as much as any man here. My birth is of no consequence. Let me prove myself to you, and you’ll see.”

  Halvard’s brow furrowed deeply, his face looking like it might have been carved from stone.

  One of the guards beside him weighed in. He was slender compared to most of the other battleborn, with a lithe strength and short-cropped brown hair. “This man shames us all, War Leader.” He rested a hand on his belt knife. “He’s a slanderer and a liar. Let me cut out his tongue.”

  Halvard waved him back, dismissive. “Your birth is of some consequence, lad,” he said. “Lowborn aren’t permitted to fight in battle, as you well know. It is the will of the gods.”

  Jarl straightened. “I don’t presume to know the will of the gods, War Leader. But I’m not just a lowborn. I’m a battleborn, level 1, and I can prove it to you.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd and Halvard’s frown deepened.

  The same guard barked a laugh. “What is this, a joke? Everybody knows a lowborn can’t become a battleborn.”

  “They can,” Jarl insisted. “And I did.”

  Halvard raised a fist, prompting the murmuring buzz to fall silent. “I can see that you believe this, so you’re not a liar. A madman, maybe, but I can’t be sure. How is this possible?”

  Jarl told him about what happened the night of the Jotungard raid. He explained how he’d managed to kill the raider and win his axe, and how the achievement had given him the experience to level up, to actually change his class. He laid the facts in simple terms, no embellishment, and he didn’t take his eyes off the Shieldbreaker for one second.

  More muttering from the crowd. Halvard stroked his chin. “That’s... quite a tale. Incredible, but impossible to verify. How do I know you’re not a madman after all?”

  “Do I speak like a madman?” Jarl asked, heat rising in his voice. “Do I look addled, crazy? Perhaps my tale is hard to believe, but that doesn’t make me a madman, that makes you a skeptic.”

  “Careful, lad. I’ve killed men for such insolence.”

  Jarl shrugged as if the prospect of death didn’t frighten him, even though his heart thundered within his chest. “Then I would die being true to who I really am. I’m at your mercy, War Leader. Do with me what you will.”

  For a moment, Halvard looked as if he were considering executing Jarl himself. Then, abruptly, his face softened, becoming more curious than angry. “Jarl, was it? Assuming your story is true, how would you prove yourself worthy of my warband?”

  “Allow me to fight,” Jarl answered quickly, nodding to the axe held by the mustached man. “I’ll prove my iron against any man that you choose, and then you’ll know that I’m truly a battleborn.”

  Hooting filled the air as many in the camp enthusiastically offered to spill his blood. Halvard shouted for them to shut their mouths and several of his guards took up the call as well.

  When the taunting settled down, the Shieldbreaker turned his attention back to Jarl, his sour expression displaying his annoyance. “So be it,” he declared, brushing his hands together as if washing them. “Brynjar, fight the lad and be done with it. We still have preparations to make.”

  The guard with the knife stepped forward eagerly, his dark green eyes reflecting the light of the fire. “Gladly, War Leader.”

  The surrounding battleborn chattered excitedly, their bloodlust apparent in the way their voices filled the gulley. Someone behind Jarl slit his bindings, releasing his arms and allowing him to get to his feet. Grim-faced, the mustached man approached him.

  “Here,” he said gruffly, pulling out the raider’s axe and returning it to him. “I hope for your sake that you fight as well as you talk. They don’t call Brynjar ‘Fastblade’ for nothing.”

  “Thank you,” Jarl replied, feeling the weight of the weapon rest easily in his hands.

  “Don’t thank me,” the man grunted. “Thank the gods. They’re the ones who gave you this chance, even if it is folly. I’d have just chopped off your head.” With that, he stomped off, joining the throngs of raucous battleborn that were forming a circle around them.

  Halvard stood beside the bonfire with his guards, watching
grimly as Brynjar jested with his friends and stretched his limbs.

  Taking a breath and exhaling slowly, Jarl limbered up as well, checking his stats as he shook each arm in turn.

  Jarl Beckström

  Class: Battleborn — Level 1

  Strength: 15

  Agility: 12

  Fortitude: 14

  Intellect: 8

  Perception: 10

  Charisma: 13

  Health Points: 16 out of 16

  Stamina Points: 5 out of 14

  Defense: 13

  Rage Points: 2

  Feats: None

  Special Abilities: Determined

  Resistances: Cold (racial bonus)

  Afflictions: Tired. -1 to attack rolls. -1 to Strength and Fortitude saving throws.

  Experience Points: 75 out of 300

  The trek across the tundra hadn’t done him any favors. If he ran out of Stamina Points, he would become fatigued. That meant he would be slower and clumsier than the fully rested warrior who wanted to kill him.

  He couldn't help but remember the fistfight he’d had with Asger Ironfists, the way the crowd had mocked him while he was being beaten to a pulp. Frosts take them all, he thought bitterly, allowing his anger to burn away his anxiety. They’ll all choke on their laughter soon enough.

  “Get on with it,” Halvard yelled over the boisterous din. He crossed his arms and fixed them both with a firm, disapproving scowl.

  Brynjar spat and began making his way toward Jarl, a twin-bladed axe resting casually on his shoulder.

  Jarl went to meet him, holding the leather-bound handle of his own axe in a loose grip. Fight defensively. See how he moves. Wait until he presents a weakness, then exploit it. You can do this, Jarl. Your whole life has led you to this moment.

  Brynjar led with a horizontal swipe, a savage blow that could have easily opened his belly and spilled his guts. Jarl leapt back at the last second, avoiding the cruel blade and prompting the onlookers to begin booing.

  Ignore them, he thought, focusing all his attention on the man before him. Don’t let them distract you.

  His foe righted himself almost immediately and brought his axe back up, his face a mask of cool confidence. Gripping the weapon with both hands, he proceeded to push again, attacking with a series of wide, sweeping blows that forced Jarl back on his heels. Every time the blade passed it cut the air with a swish. Jarl barely managed to get out of the way, retreating to the very edge of the circle.

  The battleborn parted as they moved, jostling one another but leaving the two combatants alone.

  Brynjar abruptly relented, breathing heavily as his mouth split into a wicked grin. “You move quickly, mudborn. You’re more rabbit than warrior.”

  As soon as the words passed his lips, Jarl jumped into action hoping to take him off-guard. He swung his axe to test the man’s defenses, striking hard at his flank. Brynjar cursed and managed to turn the blow aside, obviously surprised by the sudden move.

  The crowd bellowed their disapproval, shouting curses at Jarl to harass him. He paid them no heed; he was too intent on the movements of his opponent. Come on, he thought, prodding with another attack. Show me a weakness.

  This time, Brynjar managed to get the hook of his axe blade around Jarl’s haft, locking the weapons together and preventing either of them from breaking apart. The man’s fist came next, hurtling from out of nowhere and connecting with Jarl’s jaw.

  -6 Health Points.

  The resulting crack sent bursts of light flickering across Jarl’s vision, but somehow, he managed to not let go of his axe. Growling, he wrenched free and staggered back, shaking his head to clear away the dizziness. Around him, the other men laughed.

  “Can’t even take a hit,” one remarked loudly. “Stand and take your punishment like a man!”

  Another strike nearly opened Jarl’s throat, and he had to back away to avoid decapitation.

  This is getting out of hand. His Stamina was already low, and if the fight dragged on for too long, his disadvantage would only be increased. Brynjar was clearly a higher level than him, so his attacks would do more damage. One misstep, and he would be mortally wounded. His life would come to an ignominious end.

  Jarl felt something, a tremor of power deep within that he’d never noticed before. It was like a tangible fury, an ember just waiting to be kindled. Without thinking, he tapped into this power, the result filling his veins with an added strength beyond what should have been possible. It felt like freedom. It felt like salvation. It felt like Rage.

  Advantage to all Strength rolls

  Advantage to Attack.

  +2 to Damage.

  Resistance to bludgeoning, slashing, and piercing damage.

  A guttural roar escaped his lips and he charged, swinging his axe with wild abandon. The ferocity of his attack took Brynjar off-guard and he wavered, eyes widening in shock.

  Jarl struck him on the shoulder. His blade bit into ring mail and drew a fair amount of blood.

  8 Damage.

  The onlookers bellowed their surprise but Jarl barely heard them. His vision was red. A storm filled his ears. There was only the man in front of him, his target, the focus of his wrath.

  Brynjar took the hit and immediately retaliated, pushing Jarl away, axe blade first. It sliced into his chest, but his mind didn’t register the pain. Another side effect of his Rage.

  -3 Health Points.

  Jarl grunted and pushed back, knocking the bloody axe aside. Still, Brynjar’s free hand held onto Jarl’s collar. Jarl tried to pull away, but the man was stronger than he was. He held on like a barnacle clinging to a rock.

  A memory flashed and Jarl recalled his fight with the raider, the way he’d been immobilized and nearly killed. Somehow, his cloudy thoughts took hold of this like a lifeline, spurring his body into action.

  Instead of attempting to get away from the grapple, Jarl took another approach. He headbutted Brynjar as hard as he could, driving his forehead directly into the bridge of the other man’s nose.

  5 Damage.

  -2 Health Points.

  Cartilage crunched and blood fountained, spilling all down the front of Jarl’s chest.

  Brynjar disengaged and stumbled backward, momentarily blinded by tears and the agony of having his nose shattered. A wave of dizziness overtook Jarl, but he shook it off, blinking away the black spots suddenly filling his vision. He needed to press his advantage now, while he still could. This would be his only chance.

  Lowering his head and shoulder, Jarl tackled the dazed battleborn.

  Strength Check: 12 + Ability Modifier (2).

  Successful.

  They went down in a heap, Jarl on top, Brynjar gasping and spitting blood, both losing their weapons. Brynjar tried to shove him off, but he was still stunned. For the moment, he was completely immobilized.

  Jarl growled and began pummeling the larger man, punching furiously wherever he could land a hit.

  3 Damage.

  5 Damage.

  4 Damage.

  6 Damage.

  3 Damage.

  He rained blow after blow on Brynjar, hitting his cheek, his forehead, his already-broken nose. Sweat and bloody spittle sprayed his face with every attack, but Jarl didn’t care. Only one thing mattered: winning... crushing... killing.

  Wait. The thought pierced the crimson fog of his mind. This isn’t right. This isn’t you, Jarl. Look at him. He’s already beaten.

  Sure enough, Brynjar had stopped struggling some time ago. His face was a swollen mess, his mouth missing a prominent tooth in the front. Somehow, in the heat of the fight, he’d reduced his opponent’s Health Points to zero.

  Encounter Summary

  1 Enemy Defeated.

  -11 Health Points.

  -2 Stamina Points.

  -1 Rage Point.

  Affliction: Fatigued.

  +75 Experience Points.

  As his vision cleared, Jarl noticed that the crowd had fallen silent. He looked up and saw that shock
painted nearly every face. The men who’d laughed and called for his death now stared at him coldly, disappointed that one of their own had been bested by a mudborn. Jarl glanced down at his hands, cracked and bleeding, then at the bloody ruin of Brynjar’s face. His stomach convulsed and he pushed himself off. The battleborn let out a soft groan, his head lolling to the side. Good... not dead, then.

  “I’ll be damned. You did it. Well fought, lad. Now... end it.” The voice came from Halvard Bloodhammer.

  Jarl spun, giving the war leader a confused look. “What?”

  The one-eyed man grunted. “Brynjar lost. Kill him and be done with it. Then we can talk about what happens next.”

  Numbly, Jarl picked up his axe. It suddenly felt heavy, like he could barely even carry the weight. The Rage faded and his mind became clear again. Could he do this? Could he murder an unconscious man—a brother from his clanhold?

  Everyone regarded him expectantly. They all seemed to accept what he was about to do.

  This was the way things were, the way things had to be.

  This was what it meant to be a battleborn.

  Jarl loomed over the beaten man, fingers twitching. His thoughts were conflicted, but in his heart, he knew what had to be done. Shaking his head, he tossed the weapon aside, prompting bewildered whispers from the crowd. “I won’t do it,” he said, raising his voice to be heard by all. “I won’t kill a man in cold blood.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” the mustached man said from the side. “You won. Brynjar knew the risks when he agreed to fight. We’d all do the same to you.”

  “That doesn’t make it right,” he said stubbornly.

  The buzz of the crowd took on a dark tone. Words like “blasphemy” and “shame” abounded.

  Halvard stroked his plaited beard thoughtfully. “So... you barge into my camp, demand to be accepted as a battleborn, request to fight one of my warriors, then refuse to deliver the killing blow? You’re a strange one, Jarl Beckström. Strange... but determined.” He turned to his guards, then gestured at Brynjar’s lifeless form. They rushed to his side, quickly hauling him away.