Returning from the pyre, he noticed something twitching out of the corner of his eye. Gods! Did that body’s hand just move? No... I must be imagining things.
He bent to examine the corpse, frowning as he stared at the bluish hand. It was frozen, claw-like and still. Maybe he was going crazy. His mind was playing tricks on him. One thing, however, was certain: this terrible scene was going to give him nightmares for a long time to come.
His gaze flicked up to the body’s face, noticing that it looked to be about his age. The youthful visage looked oddly serene, only a thin trickle of dried blood staining its parted lips. He felt a kinship with the fallen warrior, the dead eyes staring sightlessly and filling him with a detached feeling of calm.
That is, until they began to glow with an alien purple light.
Jarl gasped and jumped backward, horror twisting his features. The body shuddered, then slowly got to its feet, jerking awkwardly as its icebound limbs came to life—or something resembling it. All around him, the bodies rose, lurching from the ground in silent resurrection as if pulled by invisible strings, purple eyes shining, tentacles waving.
“Draugr!” someone shouted nearby. Panic and fear erupted in the basin, and the battleborn scrambled for their weapons.
Jarl reached for his axe as the draugr surrounded him. His instincts took over and he assumed a fighting stance.
The dead fell upon the living with cold efficiency, using the element of surprise to hack and kill. Men screamed as they died, adding warm blood and new bodies to the battlefield. Nearby, Grennik Half-beard tried to rally his warriors, screaming to be heard over the confusion, only to take a spear to the neck and drop. The killing blow had come from his side, unseen.
Jarl swung at the nearest draugr and chopped off its arm.
10 Damage.
He knocked it to the side then moved on to the next enemy, aiming right for its chest.
7 Damage.
Glowing eyes surrounded him, black tendrils reaching as axe strokes fell. There wasn’t time to form a shield wall, no way for the battleborn to unite their formidable strength. There were too many of them, the dead rising in great numbers by some malignant force. It was everything Jarl could do not to be overwhelmed. He fought with everything he had, expending Stamina and Rage Points in an attempt to survive.
He roared in defiance, swinging with reckless abandon, but it wasn’t enough. He took hits from every side. It wouldn’t be long until his Health Points were drained and he was killed, left to join the shambling corpses.
Something cracked him on the back of the head and all went black.
Chapter 13
Second Son
“The warbands were the backbone of the clanhold's might, led by great warriors who pledged their loyalty to the Clan Lord. The greatest of these warriors was undoubtedly Halvard Bloodhammer, referred to by some as the 'Shieldbreaker.’”
—Memoir, Rune Plate 4
Cheers erupted when the body struck the ground.
Dozens of battleborn surrounded the fighting circle, their bulky frames jostling each other as the winner hammered his chest in victory. Both of his eyes were nearly swollen shut, and he bore numerous purple welts on his arms and chest, but his split lips were twisted into a bloody grin, his sparring club resting on his shoulder as he brazenly took in the cheers. The loser, whose head was split open like an overripe hvet pod, was dragged away by his comrades, leaving a bloody trail in his wake.
Sten doubted the man would ever rise again.
The Clan Lord’s brother stood off to the side, surrounded by his own personal battleborn attendants as he watched the proceedings beside a crackling brazier. The sparring cavern was heavy with the stench of sweating men, but it was a comforting smell to Sten Haig. It reminded him of times long past, when life was more about fighting and less about politics.
How he yearned for those days to return.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the years I’ve spent serving your family, it’s that your battleborn never tire of beating each other to death.” Huskarl Vig wiped his forehead with a pudgy hand, his forked beard quivering with each syllable. “Truthfully, I’ve grown to despise these stinking caves.”
“Leave, then,” Sten grunted, watching the victor stagger out of the ring to accept a horn of mjöl from one of his friends.
Vig huffed. “It’s my duty to observe these bouts, as you well know. A highborn is required to stand as a witness in public displays of strength.”
“Then observe,” Sten said, glancing over at the fat man, “and shut your mouth.”
The huskarl bristled, grumbling something under his breath but ultimately falling silent. He was accustomed to being spoken to this way, but he obviously didn’t enjoy it. Although he was technically a highborn, Vig was still a servant to Clan Haig. He didn’t have any reason to complain. His relationship with the rulers of Norvaask had made him rich beyond his wildest dreams, and his place as a trusted advisor made him an invaluable asset to the Clan Lord.
Still, thought Sten, turning back to regard the fighting ring, I could do with a little less advising. Especially from a man who’s never swung an axe in his life.
Already, men were calling for the next fight to begin. Insults were hurled like stones throughout the sparring chamber as battleborn from rival warbands attempted to goad each other into the ring. It was a common enough practice, one that usually resulted in a violent duel.
“And what of Sten Haig, standing like an old man in the back?” someone called. “Does he no longer fight for honor and iron?”
The rabble died down, and Sten turned to regard a young battleborn standing near the edge of the ring. His name was Alfgar, he believed, and he belonged to one of the warbands—though he couldn’t remember which one.
More than a few eyebrows raised among the crowd, whispered curses and low chuckles rippling the air. This didn’t seem to sway the youngblood. It only seemed to embolden him.
“It’s said that the Haigs are great warriors, but I see no evidence of that here,” he declared. “If Sten still has stones, let him fight me, here and now. I welcome the challenge.”
A few of Sten’s attendants stepped forward threateningly, but he held up a hand to stop them. He regarded the younger man with a look of amusement. “If you’re looking for a thrashing, youngblood, I suggest going to the Dregs and wrestling a pig. At least then you’d be fighting a kinsman. He’d probably go easy on you.”
This prompted many to laugh at the challenger.
Alfgar, a well-muscled ginger with the sides of his head shaved, turned almost as red as his hair. He clenched his fists and took a step toward Sten, his eyes blazing with hatred. “I’m not scared of you, old man. Only cowards have reason to fear the likes of Clan Haig.”
Some still chuckled, but others looked at him expectantly. Insults like that usually resulted in someone’s death.
Sten chewed the inside of his cheek as he regarded the upstart. His blood started to simmer within him, filling his veins with the familiar lust for battle. “Careful, boy,” he said. “You’re treading on dangerous ground. Even with blunted weapons, I could break you in two.”
“I don’t care about blunted weapons,” the youngblood scoffed. He drew himself to his full height, which rivaled the tallest of the gathered men. “Even with real iron, I wouldn’t be afraid to face you. Old skrills don’t scare me.”
His friends thumped him on the back and hooted, offering words of encouragement. Everyone else remained conspicuously silent, wondering how Sten would react to such a challenge.
Sten glowered at the man. Even if he was a second son, he didn’t have to put up with such dreck. Alfgar had insulted his family’s honor, a transgression that couldn’t be overlooked. If he backed down in front of all these battleborn, he’d be admitting his clan’s weakness, damaging their Reputation in the clanhold. He couldn’t afford to let that happen. Not with his nephew, the only heir, missing. “Pick your weapon, drittsekk. Today, we spar wit
h real iron.”
Alfgar grinned. “You’re braver than I thought, old man. I’ll try not to stain that pretty tunic with your blood.”
Sten watched the younger battleborn with an appraising eye, and what he saw was disappointing. An unblooded warrior, not much older than a boy, with an arrogant spirit and a face incapable of growing a full beard. He probably wasn’t more than level 5. Yet, he had the gall to challenge him to a fight? I must look older than I feel, Sten thought. He wants to make a name for himself, to be known as the one who defeated the Clan Lord’s brother. Idiot. Sometimes, young wolves need to be put down.
Alfgar strode confidently up to the weapon rack and selected a pair of thick-bladed swords called skæra, one of which he casually tossed to Sten. The blades weren’t blunted for sparring, but rather as sharp as carving knives, with a wicked double-edge that gleamed in the light of the braziers.
Skæra
Damage: 1d8 slashing
Weight: 3 lb.
Durability: 200 out of 200
Properties: Finesse
The spectators, sworn warriors of Clan Haig, whooped and hollered at the prospect of a true fight.
“Boy’s known to have a short temper,” Vig remarked, stroking his beard with thick, beringed fingers. “Not unlike someone else I know.”
“Shut up,” Sten muttered, giving the skæra a few practice swings. “I’m not in the mood for your jibes today, Huskarl.”
“Just trying to be helpful, my lord,” Vig said with a shrug. “A potential blind spot can be easily exploited. I wouldn’t want to see you gutted by some upstart—especially when the succession of your brother’s seat is so... precarious.”
Sten shot a look at the soft man. “Mind your tongue,” he snapped. “This isn’t the place.”
Vig nodded subserviently, though Sten caught a mirthful glint in his eye. “Of course. My apologies.”
“Are you going to fight me, or are you going to stand there all day talking like a damn woman?” Alfgar said.
Sten ignored the jeer, giving him a cool nod. “So eager to prove yourself, aren’t you? The only thing you’ll prove today is that you’re a frostbitten fool.”
He entered the fighting circle where Alfgar waited for him, blade in hand. The haughty warrior grinned as the older man cautiously approached, his relaxed stance indicating the utmost confidence. He popped the joints in his neck and rolled his shoulders, swallowing the encouragement of his fellows like a drunkard might swallow a flagon of mjöl.
Poor idiot, Sten thought as he closed in. I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
He began the deadly dance by unleashing a flurry of attacks, putting the youngblood back on his heels as the metal sang. The clash of the skæra accompanied the scuff of booted feet on stone.
Alfgar defended the attacks expertly, his own weapon a blur as he turned away each and every stroke.
Must have a proficiency bonus, Sten thought. Crafty. That’s why he wanted to use these weapons.
Sten dodged as a counterattack came hissing by, the swing barely missing his unarmored belly. Grunting, he strafed to the side, brought his sword up, and fell into a more defensive stance. He’s good. With a few years, perhaps he’d give even Ivar a run for his money.
Eyes gleaming, Alfgar jumped to the offense, pressing an attack of carefully measured slashes and thrusts. These Sten deflected with ease, though he was sure not to make a show of it. He wanted the youngblood to think he was winning, to grow lax in his approach and provide him with an opening.
The skæra clanged again and again. Both men breathed heavily from exertion, Stamina Points dropping.
Sten leapt back to avoid being stabbed, then blocked a second attack meant to lay open his thigh.
Agility Check: 13 + Ability Modifier (3) + Feat: Duelist (2).
Successful.
Alfgar’s face grew red with frustration as each attempt to kill the Clan Lord’s brother was turned away. Growling, the younger man raised his blade to deliver a powerful overhand attack, but in so doing exposed his torso.
Like lightning, Sten struck with his skæra, piercing Alfgar deep in the abdomen.
Critical Hit: 19 Damage.
Opponent afflicted with Bleeding.
Alfgar gasped and dropped his sword, staggering backward and clutching at the growing red stain on his belly.
Several of the onlookers whistled and murmured amongst themselves.
Sten regarded him coldly, his brows a hard line across his forehead. Then he gave Alfgar a hard shove, sending him crashing back on his rump.
“Frosts,” his opponent cursed, grimacing in pain. He lifted a bloodstained hand as if to ward the older man away. “I give up! I yield!”
Sten stood over him, his skæra still held firmly in his grasp. Half of the blade was smeared with blood, its edge marked from the many times it had clashed against Alfgar’s sword. “You’re new here, so I don’t expect you understand how things work,” he snarled, leaning in. “Let me enlighten you. True battleborn prove themselves in war, not by challenging men 10 levels above them. You want glory? Find it up there, not down in these caves.”
He looked up and eyed the group of youngbloods standing abashed on the other side of the ring. “Clan Haig rules in Norvaask because we’ve proven our honor and our iron on the battlefield. We’re the battleborn of all battleborn, the chosen of the gods. If you challenge our authority, you’ll all meet with the same fate.” He gestured at the now-whimpering Alfgar, whose face was considerably paler than it had been before.
“Please,” the man said, hand still outstretched. “Please, have mercy—”
Sten slashed viciously with his skæra, cutting his hand off at the forearm and sending it falling to the ground with a spurt of blood.
8 Damage.
Opponent Crippled.
The youngblood screamed in agony and brought the appendage to his chest, cradling it pitifully as more murmuring bubbled up from the crowd.
“No self-respecting battleborn would beg for mercy,” Sten spat. “And none would be willing to grant it.”
Alfgar hunched forward, blubbering now that his main hand had been cut off.
Outraged by the shameful display of weakness, Sten took the hilt in both hands and brought the weapon above his head like Alfgar had done just moments before. Without hesitation, he brought it down in a smooth, decisive motion, slicing through the youngblood’s exposed neck.
11 Damage.
The severed head rolled on the red-slick stones like a ball before finally coming to rest, staring at its former body with a shocked, open-mouthed expression.
Sten wiped the blade on his sleeve and shook his own head derisively. “Mercy,” he scoffed. “Where on this frost-covered world is there a shred of mercy?”
The older battleborn nodded approvingly while the younger ones blanched. They broke off from the main group and departed from the chamber, pointedly avoiding the body of their slain comrade.
Huskarl Vig came to stand next to Sten. “A good bout. Well-fought.”
“A pointless one, you mean,” Sten replied with disgust, tossing his weapon aside.
“It’s good to show the battleborn why your family’s in power,” Vig said. “That way, we avoid any unnecessary conflict. A clanhold needs strong leadership. If only your brother would step foot in the ring every once in a while. I think it would be good for the men to see the old Ivar come out and fight.”
“Hah,” Sten chuckled humorlessly, turning away from the miserable sod’s corpse and striding toward the exit. “You’d have better luck teaching a dire wolf to be a lapdog.”
Together, they made their way out of the sparring chamber, traversing the wide tunnels of the rift’s south side. The warriors they passed kept a respectful distance, their heads lowered in newfound deference.
This area was primarily used by the personal warriors of Clan Haig and their attendants, though occasionally youngbloods from other warbands would wander through, looking for some
action. It was a place for training, as well as a place to prove one’s valor outside of combat. Only the brave, and the very foolish, tried to fight against the greatest of Norvaask’s battleborn.
Vig may be an eel, but he’s right, Sten thought. It is important for our clan to show its strength now and again. Otherwise, there’ll be mutiny. That’s how our family rose to power, after all.
Sten was several hands taller than the huskarl, and so his long strides made it difficult for Vig to keep up. He didn’t slow his pace, however, as he enjoyed making the fat, fork-bearded man sweat.
Huffing after only a few minutes, Vig broke the silence. “Some things have been weighing on my mind lately, my lord. Matters of the clanhold, you see. If I may, I’d like to speak to you... about your brother.”
Sten responded without looking back. “Out with it, then.”
Vig hesitated as if searching for the right words. “He... hasn’t been well lately. He’s taken to shutting himself in his chambers most days. Rarely eats. You can see there’s something there... haunting him in his eyes.”
“He has a lot on his mind,” Sten remarked gruffly. “When Raynar returns, he’ll go back to normal.”
“That’s just it,” Vig said. “Ivar’s become obsessed with finding his son. The affairs of running the clanhold, including keeping the warbands from each other’s throats, falls to others—yourself included.”
“It’s just a phase. He’ll come out of it.”
“And if Raynar doesn’t return?” Vig let the thought hang in the air.
Sten frowned, coming to a stop. His nephew Raynar was Ivar’s only living son, a proud warrior in his own right and the heir to their clanhold. He’d been missing for some time now, and every passing day did seem to send his brother deeper into his depression. It was true that in recent years, Ivar had grown complacent, even reserved, but this new wave of melancholy was something else entirely. It made him practically useless in matters of politics, holing up like a hermit and leaving the governance of his clanhold to men like Sten and Vig.
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