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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  Within seconds, her Health Points regenerated, her skin knitting together good as new.

  “That was exciting,” she muttered sardonically. She pointedly avoided looking in the direction of the dead ice spider.

  The fires still burned, devouring the dead arachnid like kindling and even spreading to some of the eggs. A narrow path remained to the slope, but it would soon be closed as the other eggs caught fire.

  Sighing, Freya began the arduous hike out of the trough.

  The way was treacherous, and soon she was on her hands and knees, scrambling up the ice-slick incline and slogging through melting snow.

  Something split behind her and she shot a look over her shoulder. One of the eggs had cracked open, and dozens of hand-sized spiderlings poured out onto the slope. They scuttled toward her, several passing through the flames and catching fire. More eggs cracked, and soon, there were hundreds of the little creatures moving fast toward her position, threatening with dagger legs to climb all over her body and into her hair.

  “Frosts!” she cursed, redoubling her efforts to escape the trough. Her pulse raced as high-pitched, chittering sounds came closer.

  She successfully passed another agility saving throw and managed not to slip as she crested the top.

  Gasping, terrified, she turned on the encroaching flood of spiders. They were almost upon her. She cast Fire Blast, which sent flames hurtling down the way she’d come.

  4d6 Damage to all creatures in Area of Effect.

  -15 Magic Points.

  The spiderlings squealed as they died. The rolling heat of her spell sent all of them crashing back into the trough, blackened and trailing lines of smoke.

  The wind embraced her like an old friend and she dropped to her knees, panting and shivering. A sob threatened to escape her lips, but she forced it down, willing herself to remain calm. She’d survived. She’d used her training, and now she was safe. But, frosts... spiders! She’d always hated spiders.

  “That does it,” she muttered, pushing herself to her feet. “I’m definitely going to kill Jarl when I find him!”

  She expelled the last of her flame spirits, draining her remaining Magic Points with a burst of power. Flame spirits could cause major damage or even kill if left too long in the stomach. That wasn’t something she wanted to risk, not after everything that had happened.

  Turning north, she shook herself and resumed her journey, more determined than ever to find her missing brother.

  Chapter 12

  First Day

  “For those unfamiliar with our ways, we must seem strange. But further study should make clear how we lived, and why we did the things we did.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 4

  “On yer feet, mudborn. It’s time to go.”

  Jarl opened bleary eyes, his gaze meeting the dark outline of a man standing above him. The sky was a deep purple, indicating that dawn hadn’t yet broken, and all around him the camp was alive with activity, warriors moving about and softly readying their equipment.

  Groggily, he got up, muscles stiff from sleep and cold.

  Above him, the battleborn sneered. “Lazy lowborn sleep in. Battleborn don’t.” With that, he stomped away, boots crunching over the icy ground.

  Jarl tugged off his gloves and blew into his hands, trying to coax the blood back into them as he watched the camp break down around him. The coals from the fires were left to smolder as the tents were dismantled, supplies being rolled up and tucked away on sleds to be pulled by the thrall.

  Everyone had a purpose and everything had a place, the whole warband functioning with efficiency and discipline. Despite the less-than-warm reception he’d received, Jarl liked the way the warriors lived. It made him feel like he was part of something greater, even if the men regarded him with nothing but contempt. He checked his Reputation, and was pleased to see that Halvard’s acceptance had bumped him up an entire point—if only just barely.

  Norvaask

  Battleborn: 4

  Overall: 4 (Tolerated)

  He still bore the Reputation Modifier “Laughingstock.” Hopefully, with time, that would go away.

  They see me as an outsider, Jarl thought as a group of passing battleborn scowled at him. They don’t like that I aspire to be one of them. The thought made him glum, but it also strengthened his resolve to prove himself in their eyes. When they see me in battle, they’ll come around. I’ll give them no choice but to accept me.

  He reached into his pack and pulled out a strip of bacon, chewing thoughtfully as he picked his way toward Halvard’s tent. He didn’t dare ask to eat from the warband’s stock. That would only earn him more of their ire.

  The Shieldbreaker was already up with his captains, discussing plans over the smoking remnants of the bonfire. His shoulders were covered by a black dire wolf pelt, and beneath he wore a simple hauberk of ring mail and boiled leather. His white hair stood out even in the pre-dawn light, and he had his trusty war hammer strapped to his back. The weapon was so large, Jarl doubted he could even lift it.

  The men all turned to stare at him as he approached, several muttering dark words under their breath.

  “Beckström,” Halvard barked irritably. “What do you want?”

  Jarl cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Shieldbreaker, but I understand that the warband is moving out. I’d like to know where you would have me serve.”

  “Mudborn thinks too highly of himself,” one of the guards remarked. “Thinks he can approach the war leader whenever he pleases.”

  Several of the other battleborn rumbled their assent.

  Halvard ignored them. “Serve? And when did I accept you into my service?” His deep voice wasn’t harsh, but rather curious, if not slightly bemused.

  Jarl opened his mouth to try to persuade the grizzled man.

  Persuasion Check: 4 + Charisma Modifier (1) - Laughingstock (1).

  Unsuccessful.

  “The lowborn were ordained to serve the clanhold,” he answered quickly. “By allowing me to follow your warband, you accepted me as a servant of your cause, and are obliged to tell me where I should go to fulfill my duty.”

  “Insolent swine,” the guard snarled, levelling a spear at him. “You presume to give the war leader orders?”

  For a heartbeat, Jarl thought he may have gone too far. But Halvard merely chuckled and waved a dismissive hand at the angry warrior. “Put down the spear, Rolvar. The lad wasn’t giving me orders, he was just using his sly tongue to gain a position among our ranks.” He paused for a minute as if considering, then asked, “Where would you serve, mud farmer?”

  “It isn’t my place to make demands.”

  “But it’s your place to incapacitate one of my men and follow my warband like a lost dog?” The man’s tone was dubious.

  Jarl didn’t know how to respond. He simply stood in place and tried to appear humble.

  Halvard heaved a great, weary sigh. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you now. We’ll be telling everyone soon enough. We’re splitting the warband into three parties to comb the tundra,” he explained, hooking a thumb into his belt beside his hatchet. “Knut will go east, Grennik will go west, and I will take my men north to prod into Jotungard lands. A small force will be left here to protect our base camp. If nothing is found in three days’ time, we’ll regroup and discuss what our next move should be.”

  Knut Baardsen, a flat-faced man with a reddish-brown beard woven into an intricate braid, nodded at Jarl. “And what’re we supposed to do with this one, War Leader? He could haul supplies with the thrall.”

  Jarl bowed his head in deference before Halvard. “If you’d have me, I would go north with you and your battleborn.” Perhaps there I can prove my worth, he added silently to himself.

  Halvard shook his head. “Marching into another clanhold’s territory is dangerous. If we’re discovered, they’ll take us for a raiding party and send their own battleborn to attack. It will mean fighting.” He turned his hard, single-eyed gaze on Jarl and s
oftened his tone. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that, but I’ll need men I can trust out there—warriors hardened by battle. If you’re so set on following us, I won’t stop you. I gave you my word. You may follow Grennik’s party to the west, if you wish, but know that if you give them any trouble, or if you can’t keep up, they’ll leave your body for the wolves. Am I understood?”

  Disheartened by the news, Jarl bowed his head again and replied, “Yes, War Leader. Thank you.”

  Halvard grunted. “Good. Now, be gone. There are things I want to discuss with my captains... alone.”

  Grennik Half-beard didn’t look pleased by the declaration either, though he never looked pleased about anything. Half of his chin was covered with a nasty burn scar, and hair would no longer grow on the puckered skin. The other half of his face was covered in bushy black curls, thus giving him the nickname of “half-beard.” He frowned at Jarl, then turned back to mutely regard Halvard, his pale eyes as bleak and cold as the Ice Barrens themselves.

  Jarl left them and made his way over to where Grennik’s warriors were forming ranks. The men avoided him like a leper and mostly left him alone, their contempt plain on their unshaven faces, so he hung around near the baggage train.

  His own thoughts were his only company.

  When the orders came, they were accompanied by the tuneless blaring of war horns.

  One thousand warriors marched from the gulley, the warband breaking into three large groups that moved in separate directions. Close to three hundred stayed with Grennik Half-beard, the lean, wiry man leading the battleborn west in a wide column of rattling mail and iron spear tips. It was a sight to behold, a movement that made Jarl’s chest swell. He’d never witnessed the mobilization of an entire warband before. They moved so quickly. Within the hour, the other two groups were completely out of sight.

  Dawn’s light welcomed them onto the tundra, rising from the hilly east and glistening off the frost still clinging to the ground. Despite the sun, temperatures were low. Skirling wind blew across the frozen expanse and constantly tugged at their clothes. Clouds lurked on the horizon, promising snowstorms later in the day, and skittish groups of caribou watched from a distance, their antlered heads poking up from sparse patches of grass.

  At the behest of the Half-beard, Jarl trudged near the back of the column beside the handful of thrall who were tasked with pulling their supply sleds. They were the men and boys who’d been taken in raids, dressed in stinking rags and looking as if they hadn’t had a bath in months. Their faces were gaunt and their eyes were downcast, their very demeanors bent and broken.

  Part of him hated that the battleborn viewed him as nothing more than an ordinary thrall. He felt insulted, and that in turn made him feel ashamed. He’d always pitied the thrall, ever since he was a child, and detested the way they were often abused by the highborn. They’re people just like the rest of us. If the gods were kind, they’d never allow one man to own another.

  Such was the way of the world. He would fight injustice where he could and do his part to show kindness to the thrall.

  For now, that was all he could do for them.

  They marched for the better part of the day, following game trails through the untamed wilderness in search of the Clan Lord’s son. It was a long, grueling journey, and Grennik pushed his men mercilessly, hardly giving them time to rest or eat or even relieve themselves.

  Even so, Jarl managed to hold his own and not utter a word of complaint. He refused to show any weakness in front of these warriors so they wouldn’t see him as a hindrance. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re a weakling, he thought as he doggedly placed one foot in front of the other. You’ll earn their respect, bit by bit if you have to.

  As the day wore long, even the battleborn began to grow weary. They griped and cursed at every opportunity, using harsh language to describe their leader, the rival clans, Jarl, and just about everything else on Njordrassil. They also joked, poking fun at each other in ways that reminded Jarl of his own friends. It caused him to miss them, and wish that he could share that same bond of brotherhood with these warriors—men who fought and bled together.

  It was near dusk when horns blared, the long, mournful notes coming from scouts as they made their way across the plains.

  Grennik called for them to stop in the middle of a half-frozen mud field. Squinting against the setting sun, Jarl watched as a runner raced toward them, carrying his message with a profound sense of urgency. Before long, word spread to the rear of the column, passing ominously from person to person.

  They’d come upon a battlefield. There were dead men ahead.

  Grennik raised his voice to be heard by all. “Ready your weapons and keep quiet. There might be an ambush waiting for us. Remain alert.”

  The warband continued forward, silent except for the sound of many tromping feet.

  The terrain grew rough as hills began to sprout like mushrooms around them, breaking up the planar tundra. Clouds gathered thickly in the sky and darkened the undulating landscape, and snow fell in light, powdery flurries that danced above and around their wary band.

  Eventually, they came to a stony rise that stood taller than the surrounding hills. It loomed above a wide depression, a gently sloping valley that reminded Jarl of a giant bowl. It was filled with bodies. Spears and other weapons lay strewn beside hundreds of corpses that looked to have been killed weeks ago. Strangely, there were no carrion eaters. The battlefield was quiet and still, devoid of any life whatsoever.

  It was a massacre unlike anything Jarl had ever seen.

  Grennik commanded them to halt at the top of the depression. “Fan out and search for Raynar Haig,” he said. “Nothing else matters here.” He said a few more things that Jarl couldn’t hear, then led the way onto the battlefield, descending the slope with his axe in hand.

  Jarl followed cautiously, resting a hand on his axe as well. Something about this place felt wrong to him, and he was uneasy despite being surrounded by warriors from his clanhold.

  The corpses leered at him from the ground, their old wounds black and crusty with decay. Many were bent oddly in death, their limbs twisted in unnatural ways that made Jarl’s stomach churn. As he walked, he noticed that many of the bodies had strange, pulsing tendrils that licked at their wounds like tongues. At first, he thought that they were caused by some sort of fungus, a parasite that came from the earth. But when he looked closer, he saw that they were living things, like worms infesting rotting meat.

  The other battleborn noticed the growths too, and they muttered nervously amongst themselves, offering quiet prayers and signs against evil. One man even retched, spilling the contents of his stomach on the legs of one of the desiccated corpses.

  “What in the frozen Hel? What sort of devilry is this?” The question came from a pale-faced battleborn.

  Jarl wondered the same thing.

  Their presence seemed to awaken the black tendrils. The whole basin writhed as they spread out, a horrific morass of putrid flesh and wriggling appendages. Soon, the tendrils began slithering in and out of their grisly holes as if excited by the presence of warm blood.

  I don’t see Jotungard runes anywhere, Jarl observed, gazing down at a young man with a tentacle poking out of his empty eye socket. These all look like Norvaask men.

  “Half-beard!” one of the men called urgently from the other side of the battlefield. “Over here! I think I’ve found him!”

  This caught everyone’s attention.

  Stepping gingerly over the stinking corpses, the battleborn converged on the shouting man’s position. Grennik, wearing his customary sour expression, pushed his way to the front. “Where is he?”

  “Here!” the man replied, pointing to a still form on the ground.

  From his position, Jarl could make out thick blonde hair and gold-encrusted armor. The man was lying flat on his back with the broken haft of a spear rammed through his chest, a dark stain on the ground indicating where he’d bled out. Unlike the oth
ers, he didn’t seem to be infested by the black worms.

  Grennik knelt beside Raynar’s corpse and cursed softly, shaking his shaggy head in dismay. “This’ll mean war,” he grumbled, stroking the bearded half of his chin. “Gods grant us strength.”

  Silence settled over the gathered warriors, everyone staring somberly at the slain highborn. Jarl didn’t know Raynar Haig, but he’d heard that the young man was honorable. By all accounts, he treated those that served his father’s house with respect. That was more than could be said of most of the highborn he had seen.

  After a moment, Grennik pushed himself up and motioned stiffly for the thrall to bring a sled. “Take him up there,” he said gruffly, pointing at the stony rise above them. “That’ll have to serve as a cairn. Recite his death rites, then get him back to camp. He needs to be returned to the clanhold for a proper burial.” They nodded and raced off to do his bidding. “The rest of you,” he continued, “put away your weapons. We need to gather the dead and burn them. I don’t know what’s taken hold of these men, but it’s nothing a little fire won’t fix. That, at least, should give them some peace.”

  Raynar’s body was loaded onto a sled and borne away, pulled by thrall and guarded by a contingent of warriors. Jarl watched them go, saluting the dead lord with the rest of the battleborn as they ascended the hill and vanished from sight.

  Once they were gone, everyone else set to the wretched task of gathering the corpses into an enormous pyre. The tendrils seemed to protest the movement. They squirmed and twisted about as their hosts were lifted and thrown unceremoniously on top of one another.

  Jarl helped wherever he could, working quietly with the others and trying his best not to let his disgust show. He wanted to feel numb, to blot out all emotion, but inside he felt nothing but revulsion... revulsion and a suffocating feeling of dread.