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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  Halvard's brow furrowed even deeper. "That's... quite a story, lad."

  "It's the truth," Jarl insisted.

  "It happened as he said," Hjalmar said. "I saw the risen dead myself."

  "And who, might I ask, are you?" Halvard looked pointedly at Hjalmar. "Judging by your accent, you're not from our clanhold. Why would you help him?"

  "I saw someone in need, and I acted," he replied with a simple shrug. "I wouldn’t leave any man to die at the hands of the draugr. They threaten every living thing on this world."

  "Jarl thinks he’s the Old Man of the Tundra," Freya said derisively.

  Jarl's cheeks reddened, but he didn’t say anything.

  Halvard eyed them both for a long minute before responding. "Regardless of who you are, you have my thanks. This man may be lowborn, but he's from Norvaask. He belongs back at our clanhold."

  Hjalmar gave him a nod and a small smile. "Of course, War Leader."

  "Well," Freya said, gazing about at the barren landscape. "I don't see any walking corpses—or any corpses of any kind. Why come back here at all?"

  Jarl answered, but looked at Halvard instead of his sister. "We found Raynar Haig's body." He pointed up at the rise. "Some of Grennik's battleborn took him up there before the fighting began. We came here to recover his body so that we could take it back to Norvaask."

  Halvard's eyebrows shot up. "You found his body?"

  "Yes," Jarl replied gravely.

  "So, he is dead, then," Halvard said, growing solemn. "Ivar will not be pleased. Raynar was his only son. With no heir to take over the clanhold...." He trailed off, letting the thought hang ominously in the frigid air.

  Freya turned her attention to the stony outcropping, her demeanor commanding. "Show us."

  Chapter 16

  Homecoming

  “The true strength of the clanhold did not reside in its battleborn, however, but in its fireborn.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 4

  Hjalmar left not long after they took Raynar's body down from the rise.

  "I'll be close by," he told Jarl as he climbed aboard his sled. "Somebody needs to keep an eye on the movements of the draugr. Don't forget what we discussed—the fate of Njordrassil hangs in the balance."

  "I won't," Jarl promised, clasping the Old Man's hand in thanks.

  "You're a good lad," Hjalmar said with a warm smile. "I have a feeling that you're going to accomplish great things." He shot a glance at Freya, then said, leaning in, "Keep an eye on that sister of yours. She's a powerful fireborn, there's no doubt about that, but she needs to learn a few hard lessons before she can become great."

  Jarl looked over his shoulder. Freya appeared to be supervising the battleborn as they constructed a litter for Raynar's corpse. She was ordering them around like she was their war leader, haughtily insisting the warriors were doing it all wrong. He looked back at Hjalmar and sighed. "I'll do my best."

  The Old Man nodded and took up the reins. Beast skittered down his arm and rested upon the wooden rail of the sled. As always, the creature regarded him with dark, untrusting eyes. “Try not to get yourself killed,” he said in that nasally, condescending voice.

  Jarl was still unnerved by how spoke for the animal. It was something a madman would do, even though Hjalmar didn’t seem crazy. Could he trust a man with even a touch of madness? I don’t seem to have much of a choice.

  "I can't say I'll miss your pet," he remarked, making a face at the furry animal.

  Hjalmar chuckled. "He's always been protective of me, but he's been a good companion. Not bad at catching snow rats, either."

  Beast licked his whiskers smugly.

  Jarl turned his attention away from the mink and offered Hjalmar a small smile. "Thanks again for saving me. Be careful out there."

  "You do the same, lad." He snapped the reins and gave the pack hounds a shout, prompting them to move. Frostfang led the way, pulling the sled out onto the windswept plains. From over his shoulder, the Old Man called back, "We'll meet again soon, I think. Farewell."

  Jarl watched him go, strangely saddened by his departure. “Farewell,” he returned quietly, feeling a weight settle over him.

  Now that Hjalmar was gone, he alone had to shoulder the burden of telling the Clan Lord about the draugr. It was a huge responsibility, one for which he felt wholly inadequate, but he resolved to see it through to the end. Siryyx and his army of draugr are among the gravest threats Njordrassil has ever known. That was what the Old Man had said. This was bigger than any one person, any one clanhold. This was bigger than Jarl’s personal quest for glory.

  Squaring his jaw, he prepared with the others to leave for home.

  Once Raynar's body was secure, the battleborn set off, heading south in a long column with Halvard at the head. Freya insisted on walking at the front too, and refused to speak with Jarl, leaving him to walk alone near the rear of the column. Many of the battleborn regarded him with looks ranging from mildly curious to outright contemptuous. Words like “mudborn” and “skrill” were muttered, but he did his best to ignore them, instead focusing on his own thoughts. Perhaps I can convince the Clan Lord to allow me to lead an expedition. If we could find evidence of draugr near the clanhold, then maybe that would be enough to convince him to rally the warbands. It was a slim hope, but it was something for him to cling to.

  He was dismayed to see that Asger Ironfists was with them, walking with a large group of battleborn including Bjorn Stonebreaker. The stoic warrior seemed to ignore him completely, keeping his eyes forward or on his companions. The rest of them followed his lead.

  Jarl wasn’t sure why he cared so much about Asger’s opinion, but a part of him thought he preferred the mockery to the cold silence.

  They camped at the base of a small hill. The few thrall who accompanied them unloaded supplies and prepared meals from the back of hand-pulled sleds. Fires were lit using husks and frozen dung, and troughs were dug in the snow, for latrines and for sleeping. Watch posts were established, with warriors fanning out at regular intervals around the camp, and groups of men congregated near the fires, passing around clay jugs of mjöl. Freya brought a small tent for herself and had somehow convinced some battleborn to set it up for her. She was already inside, keeping warm by the light of her own fire and apart from everyone else.

  To Jarl, the night was even lonelier than the march. He ate the meager meal they’d given him alone and spent most of the evening on the edge of camp, methodically sharpening his axe with a stone.

  He was surprised when the Shieldbreaker himself came and crouched down next to him, regarding him with a thoughtful expression on his grizzled face. "You know, they'll take that away from you when we get back to Norvaask." He gestured at the weapon.

  Jarl nodded, but continued dragging the stone along the edge of the blade. "Yes, War Leader."

  "And yet, you insist on carrying it with you anyway."

  "Yes, War Leader," he replied again.

  Halvard frowned, his brows forming a deep line. "You're a strange one, Jarl Beckström. Do you know that? I don't think I've ever met anybody quite like you."

  Jarl smiled faintly. "I've been told that once or twice."

  "So, why do you do it? Why do you insist on trying to become a battleborn?" There was genuine curiosity in his question. It was as if he saw Jarl as an enigma, a puzzle to be solved.

  Jarl stopped sharpening his axe and met Halvard's gaze. "Forgive me, War Leader, but I am a battleborn. It doesn’t matter if the highborn or the Aesir deny it... it doesn’t change the truth.”

  Halvard continued to stare at him, listening intently.

  "The gods made me a battleborn, even before I levelled up," Jarl went on. He held his axe in front of him, eyes focusing on its gleaming edge. "I wasn’t created for farming. I was created to be a warrior. I couldn’t deny it, even if the whole world told me I was wrong. With this axe, I feel like I’m finally complete, like a lost part of my soul has been restored." He looked back at Halvard, and hi
s resolve faltered somewhat. "Have you come to take it away from me?"

  Halvard shook his head. "I have a feeling you wouldn't let me, even if I tried."

  The corner of Jarl's mouth quirked up in a half-smile. "You're probably right.”

  Halvard straightened and let out a long sigh. He hooked his thumbs into his wide leather belt and looked over the camp, his single eye pensive as he seemed to mull things over. "I wish that my battleborn had half of your spirit, lad. We'd be the fiercest warriors in the clanhold, maybe all of Njordrassil."

  The unexpected compliment struck Jarl like a physical blow. He didn’t know how to react. Stupidly, he got to his feet and bowed before the war leader. "You honor me."

  Halvard snorted, sending a cloud of steam into the air. "Honor. Many good men get themselves killed over honor. I've been in more battles than I can count, and do you know what I've learned? There's no honor in war. There’s only heartache and bloodshed. That's not what the Aesir’ll teach you, but it's the truth. I've seen hardened battleborn crying for their mothers, their innards hanging out of their bellies like sausage links. I've seen men, women, and even children burned alive by fireborn, as well as a hundred other atrocities that would make your stomach turn. This isn't the life you want. Go home. Have a family. Live your life in peace. That's what I’d do if I were you."

  Again, Jarl didn’t know what to say. The Shieldbreaker, one of the most renowned warriors in the world, was telling him not to fight. He was speaking outright blasphemy, condemning war as evil.

  Jarl stared at him for a long moment before eventually asking, "Why are you telling me this?"

  The big man turned his single-eyed gaze back to him. "Because you're a good man, Jarl Beckström. A little cracked, maybe, but a good man all the same. This path you’re taking... I know where it leads. The highborn will despise you for trying to rise above your station, your fellow warriors will distrust you, and even if you succeed in one day being named an official battleborn, you'll be thrust unprepared into the fire and the blood of war." He paused, then added softly, "I don't want to see you get killed, lad."

  Jarl straightened. "I know how to fight."

  "I know you do," Halvard replied. "But there's a difference between facing a man in a fair fight, and facing down a shield wall when fire is raining upon your head."

  Jarl stared at him for several heartbeats before breaking away, shoulders slumping. "It doesn't matter," he muttered. "The draugr are the real threat. If I don't try to stop them, then who will?"

  Halvard grunted. "These draugr... you say they're controlled by some kind of parasite?"

  Jarl nodded.

  "What does this parasite look like, exactly?"

  "A slimy black tentacle, almost like a worm or an eel. It doesn't have a mouth or eyes or anything, but it still seems to be able to sense people. The one that almost got me was about the length of my arm." He glanced up at the war leader. "Do you believe my story?"

  Halvard hesitated. "I'm sure that you saw something out here. The wilds can be a strange place, even when you haven't suffered a head injury."

  Jarl looked back down, crestfallen.

  "I still like to be careful," he went on, stroking his chin. "Maybe it is as you say, and an army of the dead is wandering about the tundra. I'd be a fool if I didn't at least consider your story. It’s one explanation for why Grennik’s war party up and disappeared—though, a part of me still thinks Jotungard’s to blame."

  Nodding, Jarl began sharpening his axe again, dragging the stone along the edge and producing a metallic scratch. He didn’t respond.

  Halvard heaved another sigh. "We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. It's best we all get an early night. Remember what I said, lad." With that, he walked away, returning to his bodyguards and the fires at the heart of the camp.

  The next day went on much as it had before, as did the day after that. They crossed the tundra at a brisk pace, their column travelling over windswept flatlands as they gradually picked their way south. Every so often, the sun would peek out from the clouds to shed its light on them and make the snow glisten.

  With the Freeze fast approaching, the days were growing colder. Soon, the sun would disappear altogether, only showing its face for a few short hours every day. There were two seasons on Njordrassil: the Melt—when the days were long and the snowstorms infrequent—and the Freeze. The Freeze was a period of bitter cold. It lasted for several months and made everything from trade to warfare difficult.

  Jarl dreaded the coming darkness of the Freeze. It always left him feeling depressed, like there was no more joy left in the world. The draugr will only make things worse, he mused, glancing wistfully up at the shining rays.

  On the third day, they came upon a welcome sight. High towers of bluish ice rose from the Barrens, marking the location of their clanhold along with billowing clouds of steam.

  At long last, they’d finally made it back.

  A dozen battleborn carried the body of Raynar Haig upon their shoulders.

  It was a silent procession through the terraced streets of Norvaask, with onlookers gazing somberly at their fallen heir. Although he’d been a highborn, many in the clanhold viewed Raynar as their champion, a uniting force among the different factions. Now, with him gone, the people were mournful, denied of a future they had once thought secure.

  Jarl followed the procession like any other battleborn. There were those who whispered and pointed fingers at him, but he ignored them. They were small and petty, and his focus was on his ultimate destination—the Clan Lord’s Great Hall.

  The guards had confiscated his axe when he first entered the clanhold, immediately recognizing him as the famous lowborn who thought he was a warrior. Now that he was weaponless, Jarl felt vulnerable. It was like he was walking into a dire wolf's den with nothing but his wits and his bare hands, a paltry defense should it come to a fight.

  You can do this, he thought, probably for the hundredth time. Don’t let them intimidate you. Remember how much is at stake.

  When they arrived at the Great Hall, Ivar Haig was waiting for them. He stood before the entrance as he had before, his thick blonde beard hanging beneath a grim, weathered face. His shoulders, which were covered by a white-and-brown mottled pelt, slumped as if under an enormous weight. He watched with sad eyes as the warriors bore his only son home.

  The Clan Lord's brother Sten was there as well, as was Vig Heraldsen, the huskarl. They were surrounded by guards from all the clanhold's warbands, including their wives and the thrall of House Haig. None were smiling as Halvard led his warriors and a crowd of mourners onto the plateau. Many eyes were wet with tears.

  "Clan Lord," Halvard declared, taking a knee before the steps. "I regret to inform you that your son, Raynar, has been killed. We’ve brought you his body so that you can give him a proper funeral, that his soul might be sent peacefully to the Immortal Halls."

  Quest Complete

  Help find Raynar Haig and bring him back to the clanhold.

  +400 Experience Points.

  Jarl barely noticed the increase.

  Silence settled over the plateau. Ivar looked down at his son resting upon the shoulders of the battleborn, his face as pale as frost. Jarl wondered if he would speak at all, but after a few minutes, the Clan Lord cleared his throat. "You have honored me and my house, Halvard Bloodhammer. Whatever you should ask of me, I shall grant it unto you."

  "Thank you, Clan Lord," Halvard responded, getting to his feet, "but neither I nor my battleborn were the ones who discovered Raynar's body. It was a man by the name of Jarl Beckström."

  At mention of his name, Jarl walked forward, the sea of battleborn parting before him. He approached the steps to stand beside Halvard, gazing up at the most powerful man in Norvaask. Freya, who was standing nearby, actually appeared nervous. She was probably worried he would say something that might embarrass her.

  "So, this is the lowborn I’ve heard so much about," Ivar said. "Tell me... how is it that my son was
killed?"

  Jarl could feel his pulse quicken, his hands growing moist beneath his gloves. "Your son fell in battle," he said, meeting the Clan Lord's eyes. "He was surrounded by his brothers in arms when he died."

  Muttering voices filled the air. More than a few people whispered words like “treachery” and “Jotungard.”

  For a minute, Ivar said nothing. He merely stood on the platform, his complexion as pallid as a dead man's as his eyes lingered over his son's still body. However, when he looked back at Jarl, his eyes were alight with an inner fire. His cheeks became flushed, his hands tightened into fists, and his back straightened as he drew himself to his full height. "I knew it," he growled, looking every bit the battleborn he once was. "By the gods, I knew it in my bones. Those bastards will pay for ambushing my son."

  "Forgive me, Clan Lord, but Jotungard isn’t responsible." Jarl took a step forward, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Freya waving frantically for him to keep quiet.

  "Who, then?" Ivar snarled, his harsh voice echoing off the walls of the ravine. "Tell me, and I will drink their blood. I will tear down their clanhold stone by stone and sow their fields with salt."

  Jarl took a breath. This is it. The point of no return. "No clanhold killed your son. An even more dangerous enemy did." He paused, looking from Halvard, to Freya, then back to the Clan Lord. "It was an army of draugr."

  Charisma Check: 11 + Ability Modifier (1) - Laughingstock (1).

  Unsuccessful.

  Stunned silence.

  At first, Jarl thought that his statement had been received by those around him, that they were shocked or horrified by the revelation.

  Then, the laughter began.

  A swell of mockery rose from highborn, quiet at first, then growing to a dull roar. Loud guffaws mixed with bewildered giggles, creating a cruel cacophony that made Jarl’s cheeks burn.