Jarl watched him go, briefly wondering what would become of the man. He’d been given another chance at life. Would their paths ever cross again?
Halvard stared at him for a long moment before going on. “You can fight, I give you that. But lad, you should know that it’s not in my power to name you battleborn. That ability lies with the Clan Lord alone. But I can stay my hand from delivering judgment. Follow my warband, if you will. My warriors won’t stop you. But if you get in our way or raise your axe against any of us, I’ll personally see you flayed alive. Am I understood?”
Jarl nodded, dumbfounded. “Yes, War Leader.”
Personal Quest Complete
Earn a place among the battleborn.
+200 Experience Points.
Golden light encircled Jarl, easing his wounds and adding strength to his limbs. As before, he heard the rushing winds and breathed sharply as his stats suddenly increased.
Jarl Beckström
Class: Battleborn — Level 2
Strength: 15
Agility: 12
Fortitude: 14
Intellect: 8
Perception: 10
Charisma: 13
Health Points: 5 out of 26
Stamina Points: 3 out of 20
Defense: 13
Rage Points: 1 out of 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: 350 out of 900
He blinked repeatedly, breathless. Freeze me, but I did it! They’re actually letting me stay... and I’ve reached level 2! He looked around, wondering if anyone had seen what just occurred, only to find that the crowd had already dispersed. Now that the fight was over, the battleborn were returning to their tents. Many were shaking their heads in disgust.
“Gorm, find somewhere for this one to sleep,” Halvard said, interrupting his reverie. “And get him a healing salve for his wounds. He’s earned that much at least.” With that, the war leader went back to his tent, his guards returning stoically to their posts.
“Follow me,” the man with the mustaches—Gorm—said gruffly. “Try not to keel over on the way there. I don’t feel like carrying you.”
Jarl shouldered his axe, too stunned and too weary to ask any questions. He made as if to follow, but stopped to spare one final glance at the Shieldbreaker’s tent.
Night had fallen by the time Jarl found where he’d be sleeping. It was a flat spot on the very edge of camp, a good dozen paces from the nearest fire. The cut on his chest had been smeared with some kind of ointment which had been given to him by a withered old apothecary, and thankfully, he could already feel its healing effects.
“We don’t have any spare tents,” Gorm said, gesturing at the lonely patch of ground. “You can sleep here, but don’t stir up any trouble.”
“I won’t,” Jarl replied wearily. The last thing he wanted right now was another fight.
The dark walk through the encampment had felt like a bad dream. Every battleborn they passed watched him with a mixture of mild curiosity and disdain. Some even carried outright hatred in their eyes. He saw a few familiar faces, including those of Asger and Bjorn, the red-haired giant Asger had been fighting before Jarl challenged him.
“Isn’t that the skrill who broke your tooth, Ironfists?” Bjorn asked, chuckling.
Asger didn’t reply. He merely watched Jarl walk past, his face a detached mask.
What are the chances I wake up with a knife at my throat? Jarl thought, lowering his gaze as he continued on his way. What are the chances I don’t wake up at all?
At least there wasn’t much wind in the gulley. He may not have a tent to sleep in, but at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. Probably.
He tossed his pack on the ground but kept his axe close at hand.
Gorm turned to leave, then hesitated, his implacable features looking conflicted. “I’ve known Brynjar a long time,” he said, voice low. “I doubt very much that a simple lowborn could have beaten him. Is it true what you said before? Did you really find a way to change your class?”
Jarl nodded. “Yes... it’s true.”
“Hmph.” Gorm grunted, resting a hand on the hatchet on his belt. “These are strange times. Strange times, indeed.” He began walking away, then said over his shoulder. “We break camp tomorrow. I’d get all the rest you can tonight if you expect to keep up with us.”
“I will,” Jarl said. “Thanks.”
Gorm didn’t reply. After a few seconds, he disappeared into the night.
Chapter 11
On the Trail
“Even so, each of the Nine Clanholds was structured in essentially the same way, our culture harking back to the First Ones of old.”
—Memoir, Rune Plate 3
Freeze that brother of mine! He’ll get himself killed out here, and I’ll probably get killed looking for him. When I get my hands on him, I’ll kill him myself!
Freya ranted inwardly as she hiked across the windswept tundra, her feet crunching on snow with every persistent step. The cold of the Ice Barrens was bitter, the wind an unrelenting gale, but her fury kept her plenty warm, driving her onward as she followed the path the warband had most likely taken.
Gods, I’m as a big a fool as he is, she thought, and not for the first time. He’s not a battleborn—he can’t survive out here. If he does get killed, that’ll be an end to my problems. I can continue with my training and never have to worry about him embarrassing me again!
Of course, there was the off chance he did survive the dangers of the Barrens, and that was what kept her moving. She couldn’t risk him reaching Halvard’s warband and making a fool of himself. It would undermine everything she worked for and damage any chance she had of one day becoming an Aesir.
More than I’ve already done myself, that is, she thought miserably, lowering her head against the wind.
She reviewed her encounter with the High Aesir for the thousandth time, trying to figure out where she’d gone wrong. She wanted to blame Jarl’s antics for Sigrun not choosing her, but she knew that wasn’t the whole reason. She had somehow fallen short, and as a result, Runa had been given the position she had coveted for so long.
Runa.
Even thinking of that skrill darkened her already-black mood. She wanted to scream, to curse her name before all the nameless gods, but she knew that would only serve to draw the attention of the many predators roaming the tundra. Better to bury her anger—to save it for another day.
She’d already spent one frigid night away from the clanhold, curled up in a cave like some kind of beast. It was far from comfortable, but it kept her from freezing. This wasn’t the first time she’d been away from the amenities of the Temple. The fireborn were often recruited by the warbands, paid to accompany them on raids of other clanholds. The conditions were usually different, more comfortable, but she still knew how to survive.
Freya only hoped that she wouldn’t be forced to defend herself out here. She only had so many vials of flame spirits. Every draft she used would bring her one step closer to a cold and lonesome death.
Ahead, she spotted a small rise jutting up from the floor of the tundra. It wasn’t very tall, more of a large snowbank than a hill, but it would still give her a view of the surrounding plains. From up there, she’d be able to see her path more clearly, and hopefully catch a glimpse of her fool brother, who she hoped wasn’t too far ahead of her.
Frostbitten fool, she thought, trekking through ankle-deep snow toward the rise. I swear, I’ll never forgive him for this.
The way was deceptively treacherous, with tangles of snow grass and loose stones buried from view. By the time she reached the base of the rise, her breaths were heavy, beads of sweat forming on her forehead beneath her cowl. Wiping her nose with the back of her glove, she continued on, determined to reach the top.
The slope was e
ven more difficult to climb, but she made it without slipping and falling on her rear end. Gasping, she squinted against the brightness and looked around, taking in the view as she gained control of her breathing.
Flat, unbroken tundra spread out before her in all directions, splotches of brown and gray broken up by half-melted ice patches and fields of snow. Hills dotted the land, but they were few and far between, and in the distance, she could see the jagged outlines of the Howling Peaks, their white-capped summits reminding Freya of a giant’s spinal column. Directly below the rise was a ravine, which rent the land like a scar, deep and irregular. It stretched far to the east and disappeared from sight.
“A trough,” she whispered uneasily, leaning forward to stare into the shadowy depths. “Gods... I’ve never seen one this close before.”
Troughs were chasms that could be found all over the Ice Barrens. Unlike Norvaask, they were not naturally occurring. They were created by ice wyrms, and served as highways for the enormous apex predators, allowing them to traverse the Barrens in search of prey.
Her pulse quickened as she peered down at the crevasse. Although ice wyrms were rarely seen, their reputation loomed large in her mind. They were monstrous beings, capable of swallowing an entire mammoth whole. If one was nearby, there was little chance Freya could defeat it by herself.
Suddenly, something cracked. The ground shifted beneath her feet.
Agility Saving Throw: 4 + Ability Modifier (0).
Unsuccessful.
The ground crumbled, sending Freya tumbling headfirst into the trough. She yelped, arms flailing as she tried to stop her descent, but the ice was too slick, her fingers unable to find purchase as she rolled end over end down the slope. She crashed into a snowbank at the bottom, coming to rest on a relatively soft mound that completely enveloped her.
Sputtering and cursing, she struggled to extricate herself. Blasted frostbitten ledge, she thought, brushing a hand to clear away the snow clinging to her face. Gods thrice curse this wretched tundra. And gods thrice curse Jarl for forcing me to be here.
She looked up to where she’d fallen from, the top of the ridge several paces above. The slope blocked her view of the surrounding Ice Barrens, and she could see a clear path marking where she’d tumbled, cutting an uneven track through the snow. Huffing indignantly, she turned to examine the trench. Its sheer sides, bare rock spiderwebbed with crystalline veins of ice, rose up all around her. It looked like there were few places she could climb out, the inclines spaced between round tunnels bored into Njordrassil’s bedrock.
A massive pair of jaws gaped at her from one of the tunnels, its serrated teeth poised to devour her.
Freya screamed and fell backward, pulse pounding as she braced to be eaten. She squeezed her eyes shut, uttering a silent prayer, but after a few terrifying moments, nothing happened.
The trough remained as quiet as a tomb.
Opening one eye, she peeked at the supposed monster. The jaws loomed over her, but they were frozen, unmoving in the cold, stale air.
Standing, she realized that she was looking at a husk, an exoskeleton, nothing more. She’d heard that snakes often shed their skin, leaving the flaky debris behind as they continued to grow. Ice wyrms, apparently, were the same. The carapace appeared brittle, the open mouth revealing a hollow middle that extended deep into the earth. Its great size, however, stole her breath. She could walk upright into its mouth, jump, and still not be able to touch the top. The thought that another larger version of this creature was roaming the wilderness turned her blood to ice.
She shivered and looked away. “I need to get out of this place,” she muttered, turning her gaze up the way she’d fallen. It was too steep for her to attempt to climb out. She’d need to find another way.
Avoiding the exoskeleton’s gaping maw, she began making her way east, pulling her robes more tightly around her as she searched for an escape.
The trail was relatively smooth, which was a minor relief after hours of marching across the tundra. Unfortunately, it was also much colder down in the chasms, despite the lack of wind. The sun’s light didn’t extend to the bottom, and the resulting darkness felt suffocating. In Norvaask, there were always fires burning. Here, everything felt dead.
She resisted the urge to cast a fireball. Its warmth and light would be comforting, but she needed to conserve her flame spirits. Unlike the legends, modern fireborn couldn’t draft without the help of potions. It made them hopelessly dependent on the Temple’s Aesir, who alone understood how to create the corrosive solution.
Not a bad way to ensure you’ll always remain in power, she mused. Control the magic, and you’ll control the clanhold.
That was part of the reason why she wanted to become an Aesir. Not only were they respected among their peers, but they were among the most powerful magic users in the world. Their word was law, and only the Clan Lord himself had any authority over them.
Freya had always known that she was special. Even from a young age, she could draft more than the other initiates. She had high Intellect, and her ambition was like a fire itself, unquenchable, impossible to contain. She was only level 5, and yet she knew that one day, she could reach level 20—a feat that few fireborn ever achieved. Her idiot brother shared her tenacity, but he lacked the basic finesse required to make his dreams become a reality. He was too impulsive, too brash.
Not that you’re much better, she thought glumly. You rushed out to this wasteland without a second thought. I doubt Sigrun would have done something like that.
Ahead, the trough curved to the southeast, branching in many different directions. All would take her away from where she needed to go, and so she paused, chewing her lower lip in frustration. She spotted a potential way up to the tundra, but it lay beyond a cluster of stones that looked difficult to climb.
Freya cursed. She wasn’t meant for this sort of thing. She was a fireborn, not an explorer. Already, her legs were starting to ache from all the walking she’d done.
“Best to just try,” she said aloud. “The longer I stay down here, the more likely I am to be eaten.”
Steeling herself, she made her way to the stones, resolving not to slip and break an ankle. She touched the first one with her boot, surprised by how easily it slipped on the smooth surface. The stones were a deep cobalt, oval in shape, and covered in a glossy film that stuck to the leather of her soles.
Not stones, she realized, eyes widening in horror. These are eggs!
A creature emerged from the nest, with eyes like glowing sapphires and a large, bulbous body. Its spindly legs were translucent, almost like glass, and each one ended in a blade that looked like it could slice through bones.
Gods above... an ice spider!
The monster chittered, its mandibles clacking hungrily as it approached its unexpected prey.
Freya pulled out a flask and frantically downed its contents, the flame spirits burning to life within her.
Magic Points: 60 out of 60
Vigor Points: 2
Backing away, she prepared to cast a spell.
The spider lunged, stabbing with two of its forelegs in an effort to impale her. Both attacks missed, though one came perilously close to piercing her chest.
She stepped back a few paces, then expended 10 Magic Points to cast Flaming Grasp. Her hands shimmered with heat as fire erupted from her fingertips, spraying the frozen arachnid directly in the face.
12 Damage (+4 Vulnerability Damage).
The monster shrieked. Its entire front turned the color of char.
Ice spiders, like many of the tundra’s creatures, were particularly vulnerable to fire damage. It was one of the reasons that fireborn were so respected, the First Ones relying on their powers to keep them safe. Freya had always known this, but seeing it firsthand was something else entirely. She pressed her advantage, spending 5 more Magic Points to summon a fireball.
The spider skittered to the side, lashing out with one of its blade-like appendages and clipping h
er on the shoulder.
-6 Health Points.
The wound stung terribly, but it wasn’t fatal. She still had 12 Health Points left. However, she didn’t want to press her luck. She’d only brought a couple of health potions with her from the Temple, and like the flame spirits, she needed to use them sparingly.
Yelling wordlessly, she hurled the fireball, striking the spider’s thorax.
8 Damage (+2 Vulnerability Damage).
It shuddered, but didn’t die. Its exterior smoldered, oozing greasy black smoke. Weakly, it attacked again, but Freya evaded.
Dodge: 11 + Agility Modifier (0).
Successful.
She cast Burning Darts, peppering the hideous thing with three fiery projectiles.
3 Damage + 3 Vulnerability Damage.
4 Damage + 2 Vulnerability Damage.
2 Damage + 3 Vulnerability Damage.
-5 Magic Points.
This seemed to do the trick. The ice spider writhed as the fires consumed it, eventually curling up its eight legs in death. Bluish ichor bubbled from the spaces where its chitinous armor had burned away and emitted a powerful smell similar to spoiled meat.
Encounter Summary
1 Enemy Defeated.
-6 Health Points.
-20 Magic Points.
+50 Experience Points.
Freya resisted the urge to gag, then looked to the wound on her shoulder. It wasn’t deep, but it still hurt considerably. Grimacing, she uncorked a healing potion with her teeth and drank.
Frostworld: Ice & Blood: A LitRPG/GameLit Viking Adventure Page 14
