In front of the cave, ten massive dogs laid in the snow. Their mottled fur was covered in powder and their panting breaths came out in bursts of steam. They somewhat resembled dire wolves, with thick coats and heavily muscled bodies, but Jarl could tell that these were pack hounds, bred for pulling loads across long stretches of tundra. Sure enough, they were all chained to an iron spike driven into the ground, and a wood-and-whale bone sled rested in a drift nearby.
All twelve of the dogs looked up at them, their keen, dark eyes focusing on Jarl as they picked up his scent. One of them emitted a low growl and bared its teeth bared menacingly as he approached. He stopped, not wanting to test the strength of its chain.
"Easy, Frostfang," Hjalmar said, petting the dog behind its raised, pointed ears. "He's a friend."
Jarl hesitated, resisting the urge to raise his axe in defense. The remains of a caribou carcass sat among the beasts, its bones having been picked clean by the ravenous pack. He found himself wondering if they would do the same to him if Hjalmar wasn’t there to stop them.
"It's all right," the Old Man said. "Come here and let Frostfang smell your hand. He's the alpha. Once you get his approval, the rest will accept you."
Jarl watched the white-and-gray dog warily. "And what if he doesn't approve?"
Hjalmar barked a laugh. "Then I suspect he'd rip your throat out. But don't worry about that. He usually doesn't do that sort of thing."
Beast let out a mirthful squeak and scurried up to perch on the Old Man’s shoulder.
Swallowing, Jarl dropped his axe and approached with slow, careful footfalls. He kept his eyes trained on Frostfang like he would an enemy, watching for any signs that the creature might attack. The dog made no moves but continued to growl with hackles raised, white teeth sharp and dripping with saliva. Jarl stopped just short of the animal’s reach and tugged off his glove, the cold morning air biting his sweating palms. He raised his hand a few inches from Frostfang’s muzzle and paused, waiting tensely and praying he wouldn’t be bitten.
A long minute passed as Frostfang seemed to consider him. His eyes darted back and forth between Jarl and his hand, as if unsure whether he could be trusted. Finally, he leaned forward and took a few sniffs, his warm, scratchy tongue darting out and licking Jarl's knuckles.
"There, you see? He likes you!" Hjalmar sounded like a proud parent.
Jarl gave him a nervous smile. "It looks that way." He stroked the top of the dog's head, causing its ears to go down and its tail to thump against the ground.
The rest of the pack seemed to respond to the alpha, their demeanor changing from suspicious to cheerful as their tails began to wag eagerly.
"These aren’t ordinary dogs," Hjalmar explained, walking among the animals. One of them rolled onto its back and he patted its belly affectionately. "They’re boreal hounds, my faithful companions. They protect me from the monsters of the tundra and help me to travel quickly. I, in turn, make sure they remain groomed and fed."
Jarl marveled at the boreal hounds, entranced by their lupine beauty. He’d only seen dogs like this once before when a tradesman from Skaarvald came bearing a load of eel and salmon. Like these, his dogs had been massive, wolfish in their appearance and fiercely protective of their master. One had even bitten a thrall who ventured too close to his sled, nearly severing the poor man's arm. For the rest of his stay, the tradesmen had been forced to keep the beasts chained up on the Frozen Terrace, under the watchful eyes of the battleborn guards.
This sled was amazing in its own right. Polished wood from the northern highlands, pale ivory tusks crisscrossed with thick bones etched with runes. There was a well-worn seat at the front and a flat bed at the rear, which Jarl surmised was used for carrying the old man's provisions.
"I've never ridden on a sled before," Jarl said, running his hand along its dusky wooden frame.
"It's quite exhilarating," Hjalmar replied. "It's the closest you’ll ever come to running like a wolf. Plus, it comes in handy when you need to outrun an ice wyrm." He winked, then motioned for Jarl to climb aboard. "Hop on back. We can leave now."
Jarl retrieved his axe from where he’d left it and made his way back over to the sled, clambering on the back but keeping his eyes on the dogs.
Hjalmar pulled the spike anchoring the chain and brought it over to the sled, where he attached it to the frame near the front. The pack hounds got to their feet and followed, tails wagging in anticipation. They seemed anxious to start running, even whining and pawing at the frozen ground. As if on cue, they lined up with the alpha in front, forming two lines of six dogs each before the sled.
Nodding, the Old Man climbed onto the seat where a handlebar stuck up from the floorboards. He took hold of the leather reins, then looked over his shoulder at Jarl. “Hold on tight.”
With a flick of the reins and a shout, the dogs started moving, pulling the sled forward and jolting Jarl. They gradually picked up speed until they were flying through the ice fields, leaving their cave far behind.
The wind stung Jarl’s face, burning his cheeks and pulling tears from his eyes. Even so, he couldn’t keep from smiling as the hounds raced over the tundra, their paws bounding in a steady, padding rhythm. Jarl had never gone so fast in all his life—he didn’t know it was possible for a person to travel at such speed. The world sped by, a blur at the edge of his vision, and for a time he forgot his struggles and the dangers he faced, lost in the wonder of the moment. He continued to grin long after his face grew numb.
Hjalmar guided the dogs with both the reins and his voice. He barked orders over the howl of the wind, commanding them with firm confidence. The Old Man seemed to know the tundra intimately, instinctively guiding the sled past landmarks only he could recognize. To Jarl, everything looked the same. Every mile they traveled seemed to take them past nondescript stretches of wasteland, broken up by the occasional hill.
Eventually, after what felt like hours, they arrived at the site of the battle. The stony rise broke the monotony of the tundra, thrusting up from the plains and looming over the gently sloping basin below.
Hjalmar called to the hounds and pulled them to a halt, parking his sled on the lip of the large depression.
Gaps in the slate-gray clouds revealed a brilliant blue sky, and shafts of golden light beamed down, illuminating the scene below. The basin was like an enormous bowl lined with rocks and snow. In many places, ruts were gouged into the ground, dredging up a morass of freshly frozen mud. It was exactly how Jarl remembered it, only with one glaring difference: the corpses were all gone.
Dismounting, Jarl took a few steps toward the empty battlefield. "Where did they go? The bodies are missing!"
Hjalmar grunted, stabbing the tethered spike into the ground and stomping it with his boot. "Remember what I told you last night? Siryyx is gathering his forces. It’s against that creature's nature to let good meat go to waste. Somewhere in the wilderness, an army of the dead is gaining strength."
Jarl stared at the basin for several minutes while the wind ruffled his hair. Gone... every single one of them. The thought made his heart sink. He’d not been friendly with any of the battleborn in Grennik Half-beard's war party, but they were still men of his clanhold. Now, they were walking corpses, a mockery of what they’d once been. Had their souls gone to the Immortal Halls, or were they now trapped on this world, encased in a rotting prison?
He remembered that when Raynar’s body had been discovered, they’d taken it up to the rise above the battlefield. Grennik had ordered his men to recite the heir’s death rites before bringing him back to the clanhold for burial. Perhaps he’s still there, Jarl thought. His body wasn’t infested... not like the others.
He began making his way toward the rise, his feet trudging a path through the snow.
"Where are you going?" Hjalmar called after him.
Jarl pointed at the rocky outcropping. "That's where they took his body. I'm going to see if it's still there.”
Hjalmar cursed. "Frosts, la
d, wait for me! Draugr could still be about!"
Together, they hiked up the opposite side of the basin, leaving the dogs tethered near the sled. The animals seemed content to stay and rest, panting as they stretched and lounging on the ground. The path was steep and treacherous, but they managed it well enough. By the time they made it to the top, Hjalmar was red-faced and huffing, and Jarl wasn’t much better.
They beheld a breathtaking view of the surrounding landscape, white plains stretching out into eternity and broken only by gentle, rolling hills. To the east, Jarl spotted a herd of caribou grazing in some flatlands. To the north, he saw the mountainous hinterlands, steep ridges spotted with stands of ironwood trees.
The top of the rise was only a few paces across, desolate except for a solitary figure lying on the ground. Half-buried in a foot of snow was the body of Raynar Haig, the Clan Lord's son. He had turned a bluish gray from the cold, his flesh dull and waxy, long-frozen blood iced at the corners of his mouth. His golden hair was unmistakable, as was the rich gilded armor encasing his still form.
Jarl crouched down beside the body to get a closer look. Despite the circumstances, Raynar appeared peaceful, almost like he was sleeping. The battleborn who had brought him here had taken the time to arrange him in a dignified pose—arms clutching his axe on his chest—before rushing back down the slope to fight the draugr. From what Jarl could tell, the corpse was frozen solid and did not appear to have been invaded by those black tentacles. That meant he could safely take it back to Norvaask.
"I never knew him," Jarl said after a moment of silence, "but from what I've heard, Raynar was an honorable man. Nearly every battleborn in our clanhold looked up to him as their next leader. He will be missed."
Hjalmar bowed his head as if in prayer and offered a respectful, "Honor and iron."
"Honor and iron," Jarl returned.
They stood for a time, the persistent wind gusting around them as each man was lost in his own thoughts. Perhaps the gods are favoring me after all, Jarl considered. Of all the battleborn who died searching for this man, I’m the one who will actually get to bring him home.
It should have made him happy, but for some reason, he could only feel discouragement.
He’d inherited the quest given to Halvard Bloodhammer and his warband. That meant he would gain Experience Points when he brought Raynar home. Jarl felt guilty thinking about his own progression while standing over the body of a decent man—the hope of his clanhold. That shouldn’t have been why he was doing this, and yet, the whole reason he’d come here was to gain Reputation, to earn the acceptance of the other battleborn and the praise of the Clan Lord.
You’re not honorable for doing this, Jarl thought. You’ve just been acting in your own self-interest. Just like the Aesir and the highborn and everyone else you despise.
The thought sickened him.
After a few minutes, he got to his feet and shouldered his axe, glancing back at Hjalmar with resignation. "We need to dig him out and get him to the sled."
The Old Man nodded, his gray beard bending in the wind.
Together, they dug away the snow that was covering more than half of Raynar's body, at times even using Jarl's axe as a pick to chip away at ice that had formed. Beast observed from a rock nearby, his black eyes inquisitive as he watched them toil away. It was tiring, grisly work, but eventually they managed to pry the corpse loose and drag it to the edge of the rise.
Straightening, Jarl surveyed the scene below and contemplated how they should get the body down to the sled. He noticed movement on the tundra below, dozens of people making their way across the windswept plains, marching in a column that looked like a battleborn formation. They were still a good distance away, but their path was unmistakable—they were heading right for Hjalmar's dog sled.
"Looks like we're going to have some company," Jarl said, pointing with his axe. "They could be Jotungard, this far north."
Hjalmar grunted and brushed the snow off his gloves. "Jotungard, Norvaask, it’s all the same. I’m friendly with all the clanholds."
"You might be," Jarl conceded, "but I'm not. They'll kill or enslave me if they discover that I'm from another clanhold."
Hjalmar smiled and patted him hard on the back. "Not if I have anything to say about it."
Leaving Raynar behind, they traveled back down to the basin, carefully picking their way along the trail. When they arrived at the sled, the newcomers were almost upon them, and Jarl could see spear points and bits of iron glinting in the light.
Gods, favor me still, he prayed, gripping the handle of his axe tighter. I haven’t come this far just to be made a thrall.
The two took up positions standing at the head of the hounds, Beast perched upon Hjalmar’s shoulder and Frostfang sitting loyally by his side. Having the alpha close gave Jarl comfort, but even still, he could feel his heartbeat racing.
The battleborn halted twenty paces away. Jarl thought there were fifty of them, but he couldn’t be sure. Not that it mattered. There were far too many for them to fight.
"Hail, friends," Hjalmar called, his voice a good-natured boom. "What brings you out to this cold, weary plain?"
"We're looking for our brothers," one of the warriors replied, a big brute with a helm that covered half of his face. Jarl thought that he recognized his voice. "We followed their tracks to this place. Have you seen them?"
Hjalmar scratched at his beard. "No one here but us. Tell me, from which clanhold do you come from?"
"Norvaask," the man answered proudly. He thumped his chest with a meaty fist.
Relief washed through Jarl, and he felt a wide grin splitting his face. Stepping forward, he raised his axe in salute. "Hail, brothers. I’m also from Norvaask. The gods have smiled upon us."
Someone pushed their way to the front of the battleborn—a woman, by the looks of her, with red hair. She stared at him for a long moment before shouting, "Jarl? It is you, you frostbitten fool!"
Jarl's jaw dropped when he recognized his sister's voice. "Freya?"
She quickly closed the distance between them by stomping angrily through the snow. She was wrapped in expensive furs but her face was exposed, allowing her bejeweled braid to dance wildly behind her.
Her expression was a mask of undisguised fury.
"Just when I think you can't get any stupider, you decide to pull something like this." She gestured vaguely at the tundra around them. "What were you thinking, coming out here? You've gone against custom, against all common sense, for what? Some stupid personal quest? Mother has been worried sick, and I've crossed half of Njordrassil looking for you!” She made a disgusted sound and shook her head. “I can’t believe that you would be so reckless.”
Jarl snapped his jaw shut and scowled at her. “I did what I had to do. I did what I thought was right.”
“Right?” she asked incredulously. “Don’t talk to me about what’s right, Jarl. You broke the law of our clanhold by abandoning your duties. They'll execute you for your insubordination—or at the very least, have you flogged.”
Hjalmar cleared his throat awkwardly. “Excuse me, fireborn, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Freya shot him an irritated look. “And who is this? Your accomplice?”
“My name is Hjalmar,” he replied cordially. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“He’s the Old Man of the Tundra,” Jarl put in. “He saved my life.”
“The Old Man of the Tundra?” Freya asked skeptically. She frowned and looked Hjalmar over, her lips pursing in disapproval. “He doesn’t look like much to me. Are you sure he isn’t some exile playing you for a fool?”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Hjalmar replied. Though his face was stern, there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m merely a man who was in the right place at the right time.”
“Indeed,” Freya muttered, turning her attention back to Jarl.
The large battleborn from the column stepped forward. Frostfang growled, but Hjalmar silenced him by cli
cking his tongue and scratching behind the dog’s ears. The man removed his helm, revealing a chiseled face with an eyepatch over the left eye. Halvard Bloodhammer, the Shieldbreaker. “We meet again, Jarl Beckström. This time, under much different circumstances.”
Jarl gritted his teeth. He didn’t want his sister to ruin this man’s opinion of him. “Greetings, War Leader. It’s good to see you again.”
“I met up with Halvard’s warband after I left the clanhold,” Freya explained. “Imagine my shock when I heard that my own brother had already passed through—and defeated a battleborn, no less.”
“It was an honorable fight,” Halvard responded, his face like stone. “Jarl proved himself to be a capable fighter.”
“I’m sure he did,” Freya said, rolling her eyes. “However, that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t belong out here. We’re leaving. I’m going to take my brother back home now.”
“Respectfully, fireborn, I need to ask him a few questions first.” Halvard crossed his arms and gave Jarl a hard, one-eyed stare. “Last time I saw you, you were heading this way with Grennik’s war party. What happened?”
Jarl licked his lips. To his side, Hjalmar watched expectantly, as if curious about what he might say. Will they believe the truth? he wondered. There’s no evidence to speak of, only my word. He decided that regardless of what they might think, he needed to tell them about the draugr. The threat they presented to the clanhold and all of Njordrassil was greater than his own petty ambitions.
Taking a deep breath, he told them about what happened.
The words came out haltingly at first, but it got easier the longer he spoke. He told them everything, from the discovery of the battlefield, to the black tentacles and the draugr attack, and finally, how Hjalmar had saved him. "He took me back to his cave and treated my wounds, giving me food and shelter until I recovered." He nodded at the old man appreciatively, then returned his gaze to the others. "After that, we came back here."
His sister wore an imperious expression. She arched a disbelieving eyebrow. "Draugr, brother? You expect us to believe that? I think that blow to your head was harder than you thought."
Frostworld: Ice & Blood: A LitRPG/GameLit Viking Adventure Page 19
