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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  “It’s the truth!” he shouted, struggling to be heard over the noise. Many shook their heads in disgust, saying how shameful it was for him to make light of such an event.

  Reputation: -1 among the highborn.

  Ivar glowered, his rage now fully redirected at Jarl. As soon as the tumult died down, he asked, “Are you suggesting that a folk tale murdered my son?”

  “Forgive this man, Clan Lord,” Freya said, stepping before Jarl but refusing to acknowledge him as her brother. “He sustained a head wound and is now quite confused. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Freeze off, Freya,” Jarl snapped. “I know what I saw. The draugr are gathering an army somewhere on the Ice Barrens. If we don’t do something, they’ll destroy our clanhold and every other clanhold on Njordrassil!”

  “Should we watch out for faeries as well?” Huskarl Vig asked, prompting more laughter from the crowd. “Perhaps the frost giants have also returned.”

  Things were getting out of hand. Dozens of voices cried out at once, hurling insults and insisting that the real threat was Jotungard. Jarl tried to gain control, to call out over the dissonance, but it only seemed to make matters worse. He was shouted down each time.

  Finally, Ivar had had enough. “Silence!” he bellowed, the word rolling like thunder over the plateau. Every voice was stilled, an eerie quiet settling over the crowd. He turned his anger back to Jarl. “Enough of this nonsense. I’ll not dishonor my son’s memory by heeding the words of a madman. There’s only one foe who could have done this, and they lie to the north.” Raising his voice, he addressed everyone within earshot. “Before the gods and men, I vow that this affront will not go unpunished. I call upon the warbands of Norvaask, every battleborn and fireborn who lives within this clanhold, to rally together in one great host and march upon our enemies. We’ll wage a war unlike anything that’s ever been seen on this world, and when it’s over, every single person who has ever set foot in Jotungard will be killed and burned to ash.” He pulled out his axe, an elaborate weapon worked with ivory and leaf of gold, and thrust it into the air. “Honor and iron!”

  In one voice, the plateau enthusiastically returned, “Honor and iron!”

  Gods have mercy, Jarl thought, his stomach dropping. I’ve failed.

  Cheers rang off the stone walls, filling the entirety of the clanhold as feet stomped and hands clapped together. Many battleborn pulled out their own weapons and raised them, some even rapping them against their helms and armored chests. Freya disappeared, melding back into the crowd, and Halvard looked on in stoic silence, his face a scarred, stony mask.

  When the noise faded, Vig turned to regard the Clan Lord. “And what should we do with this one?” He gestured at Jarl. “Should I have him executed?”

  Ivar regarded him for a long moment before eventually shaking his head. “Whatever this man is, he still found my son and returned him to me. For that, he may live.”

  Jarl dropped his gaze to the ground. The judgment should have given him relief, but, strangely, it didn’t. He felt completely numb.

  “But, Clan Lord, if I might be so bold,” Vig insisted. “This lowborn has gone against custom and sought to make himself a battleborn. He forsook his duties and went out onto the tundra, where he infiltrated the Shieldbreaker’s warband, travelling with them. He even carried an axe. The guards had to confiscate it from him when he returned to the clanhold.” He turned a hateful eye to Jarl. “That sort of insubordination should not go unpunished.”

  Ivar seemed to consider this, then sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. Have him flogged and sent back to the Dregs. The rest of you, bring my son into the Great Hall. I would... spend some time with him before he’s laid to rest.” With that, he departed, trailed by his brother Sten and the rest of his entourage. The battleborn carrying Raynar climbed the steps and solemnly made their way through the double doors, disappearing inside the immense stone building.

  Vig looked down at Jarl sourly, his pudgy, ring-laden fingers flexing at his side. “Kavir,” he said, calling to a man behind him, “get me the biggest battleborn you can find. I want to make this man bleed.”

  Kavir nodded and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” a deep voice called. Jarl looked up and saw, to his surprise, that it was Halvard. The war leader stepped forward and faced the huskarl, his single eye as hard as iron. “I will do it.”

  Vig’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he shrugged. “As you wish.” He made a gesture, and a thrall brought forward a long whip with three tails. The knotted leather was interwoven with small bits of bone, and even from a distance, Jarl could see that it was stained dark with dried blood.

  Two men came up behind Jarl and restrained him, one pulling off his coat and tearing his shirt to expose his back. The other kicked his legs, dropping him to his knees.

  He didn’t resist.

  Halvard grimly accepted the whip and made his way to stand behind Jarl. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He actually sounded sincere, his words tinged with regret.

  Jarl said nothing. Instead, he gritted his teeth and lowered his head, bracing himself for the pain that was to come. He heard the sound of the whip before it even touched his back, a sharp whistle and a loud crack that resonated through the air.

  -5 Health Points.

  The eager crowd cheered when they saw the blood.

  Chapter 17

  To Prove One’s Worth

  “The fireborn were a unique brotherhood. They accepted people from all walks of life into their ranks, so long as they had the 'flame within.’”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 5

  Runa struggled beneath the weight of a stack of rune plates, her forehead slick with sweat as she made her way to the upper chambers of the Temple. High Aesir Sigrun had ordered her to retrieve the war histories from the record keepers, and this stack of metal sheets represented only a fraction of what was stored. Usually thrall were used for simple fetch requests, but the plates were precious, worth more than their weight in gold.

  They must be worth quite a bit, Runa thought, adjusting her grip as she ascended the last flight of stairs. Frosts... they should consider writing things down on something lighter, like pigskin.

  That would defeat the purpose, of course. The reason the histories were etched into metal was so that they’d last through the generations. The information she now carried had been painstakingly documented over the course of centuries, the culmination of many peoples’ wisdom.

  Not that that made carrying them any less burdensome. She could feel that her Stamina was quickly running out.

  Ignoring the ache in her shoulders and lower back, she pressed forward, determined to reach the top without taking a break. Time was of the essence, and she didn’t want to keep the Aesir waiting.

  With the announcement of the impending war with Jotungard, the entire Temple was in an uproar. The warbands were rallying, or so the rumors said, and every fireborn was told to ready themselves for marching and fighting. Everyone seemed to be bustling about, but no one seemed to know when or where exactly the attack was to take place.

  We’ll probably strike at the heart of their clanhold, Runa thought. A drawn-out war over miles of wasteland would only serve to weaken both sides. Norvaask would need to be decisive if it was going to prevail.

  When she finally reached the top, she stopped at the door flap, unsure if she should just barge right through. She could hear voices on the other side, arguing about something she couldn’t quite make out. After several moments of indecision, she finally resolved to enter quietly. If she waited any longer, she would risk dropping the priceless histories on the ground.

  The large, circular room was filled with comfortable-looking furniture and stone tables laden with maps. Thrall waited with platters of food and pitchers of wine along the wall, waiting to serve the whims of their masters. The Aesir congregated in the middle, some lounging and others pacing, but all intent on discussing the logisti
cs of the coming war.

  Not wanting to interrupt, Runa made her way to one of the tables and deposited the rune plates, grateful for the reprieve. No one seemed to notice her entering the room.

  “We need casks of flame spirits brought up from storage,” Aesir Nriv said with a rasp, scratching a few notes on his ledger slate. The withered old man’s skeletal fingers held the stylus in a shaky grip, and his hunched figure reminded Runa of an old, dry root. “Should we be subjected to a prolonged siege, we may find our stores running dangerously low.”

  “Then have the alchemists brew more,” Aesir Gullveig snapped. The brown-haired woman was the epitome of highborn beauty, with full lips, dark eyes, and a curving figure beneath form-fitting robes. Her temper, however, was anything but beautiful. “We’re wasting precious time blathering about trifles. It isn’t very complicated, old man.”

  Nriv harrumphed but continued scratching on his slate, shaking his head and muttering softly to himself.

  “What we need to decide is how our fireborn are going to be allocated among the warbands,” remarked Aesir Drizan, a strong, middle-aged man with short gray hair. “An imbalance could cause infighting among the battleborn. Should we have the war leaders draw lots, or have the Vanir make assignments?”

  Nriv answered, “Lots,” at the same time Gullveig said, “Make assignments, of course.” Both of them looked at each other, annoyance written plainly on their faces.

  The High Aesir watched the discussion with an air of stoicism. There was no emotion on her face as she seemed to take everything in all at once. Her eyes flicked to Runa momentarily, a slight nod indicating her acknowledgement.

  Runa straightened under her gaze.

  The arguing continued for some time, the leaders of the clanhold’s fireborn resolving issues both large and small. There were twelve of them in total, and Runa had only recently learned all of their names. Most of her time as Sigrun’s ward had been spent doing chores for the High Aesir, cleaning her personal chambers, running errands all over the Temple, and, of course, studying. Every once in a while, she would be tutored by Sigrun herself, and she was already close to levelling up—outpacing the others her age.

  It was both nerve-wracking and exhilarating to learn from such a woman. Runa was still amazed that fate had intervened, placing her in such an enviable position.

  The conversation lulled, and a handful of small conversations broke out among the group. The most important items seemed to have been dealt with. The smaller, more menial decisions would be left to the Vanir.

  The High Aesir remained silent as the others chattered, shifting to topics of gossip and what might happen in the near future. Sigrun’s eyes met Runa’s again, then she stood, her posture perfectly straight, graceful.

  “Everyone out,” she said in a voice accustomed to being obeyed. “Except for you, Runa. I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

  The other Aesir did as they were commanded, although with varying levels of enthusiasm. Gullveig in particular seemed irked by having to obey Sigrun’s dismissal, but she said nothing as she left the meeting chamber with the others.

  Soon, they were alone.

  “What do you make of all this?” the High Aesir asked without preamble.

  Runa frowned, plainly confused. “What do... I think, High Aesir?”

  “Yes,” she replied curtly. “I want to know your opinion on the upcoming war.”

  She resisted the urge to wring her hands. Runa was still getting used to speaking with the most powerful fireborn in the clanhold. For most of her life, no one had seemed to value her opinion. Now, she found herself giving it more often than she ever thought prudent. Meeting the High Aesir’s gaze, she replied, “Honestly, I think the Clan Lord’s decision to go to war with Jotungard is a bit... hasty.”

  Sigrun’s face revealed nothing. “Elaborate.”

  Runa cleared her throat. “I’ve read most of the histories. The clanholds are all accustomed to raiding—in fact, our economies rely upon it—but full-scale wars are rare. Usually, they leave both sides devastated and it takes generations for them to recover. I’m not certain what the Clan Lord is trying to accomplish here.”

  “Vengeance, most likely,” Sigrun said. “His lackeys are more interested in riches and glory.” She paused, giving her ward a searching look. “You don’t think we can win this fight?”

  Runa lowered her gaze. “I’m... uncertain, High Aesir. There’s never been a war in my lifetime.”

  “And what does your heart tell you?”

  She bit her lip. Her first instinct was to lie, but something told her that the High Aesir would be able to see through such deception. She walked a razor’s edge. One misstep could mean the loss of trust—or even the loss of her position as ward. “My heart’s filled with doubt. I’m not sure this will end well for our clanhold.”

  Sigrun’s lips tightened into a small, disapproving line. “War is the way we prove ourselves to the gods, young one. Don’t ever forget that. To doubt is to invite disaster. The gods don’t smile upon such fireborn.”

  Runa hung her head. “Yes, of course. Forgive me.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “Runa, you’ve been an excellent ward—humble, obedient, talented... you embody everything this Temple strives to impart upon its fireborn.”

  Runa felt a fluttering in her chest, but she managed to keep her face neutral. “Thank you, High Aesir.”

  Sigrun nodded as if she hadn’t given her the acclaim nearly every fireborn would have killed to receive. “That being said, you still lack two things: confidence and experience. They are what set the Aesir apart from the Vanir, and the Vanir from the ordinary fireborn. Experience leads to skill gain and, ultimately, power. Power will grant you the confidence you lack.” She approached one of the maps and pointed, indicating an area just south of Jotungard’s clanhold. “To that end, I want you to help lead the attack.”

  Runa’s heart stopped. “Lead? The attack?”

  Sigrun nodded, cold and serious. “Yes. I want you at the front with the Vanir, where your flames will do the most damage. You’ll gain the most Experience Points that way, and you’ll earn the respect of your lessers, who I believe still see you as an outcast.”

  Runa couldn’t help but grimace. It was true. The others, especially those in her age group, still resented her, saw her as an outsider. The observation stung. “But... am I ready for such a responsibility? Won’t it be dangerous?”

  A small smile tugged at the edges of Sigrun’s mouth. “Life is dangerous, my young ward. The great eagles of the north push their fledglings out of their nests to see if they can fly. Some may die, but that is the way of the world. Those who survive emerge stronger than ever, learning how to soar among the clouds.” She paused, giving Runa a meaningful look. “Take this as an opportunity to prove your worth. If you survive, then your future in this clanhold will look bright indeed.”

  “Of course. Thank you, High Aesir.”

  Sigrun nodded and turned to the rune plates she’d requested, signaling an end to the conversation.

  Runa took her leave without another word, passing thrall as she made her way to the exit and the winding stairs leading down.

  Her head spun as she made her way to her rooms. Indeed, she felt like a fledgling eagle, vainly flapping her wings as she plummeted toward the earth. Is she trying to mold me into an Aesir... or is she trying to get me killed?

  One thing was certain: if she was going to help lead the attack on Jotungard, then she needed to prepare. They didn’t know exactly when they’d be leaving for battle, but time was certainly fleeting. She didn’t have long, and every hour could help make the difference between life and death out on the tundra.

  Entering through the flap, she set to studying with a renewed sense of focus burning brightly within her.

  Chapter 18

  Brothers in Blood

  “As a lowborn, your only hope for upward mobility was to find yourself in possession of such a r
are gift. Otherwise, you were forced to submit to a life of grinding poverty.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 5

  Ivar Haig, Clan Lord of Norvaask, stood on his private balcony overlooking the clanhold, his shoulders slumped, elbows resting heavily on the stone balustrade.

  Sten approached his brother quietly, still uncertain of what he was going to say. He hadn’t spoken to Ivar alone for some time, and ever since Raynar’s body had been returned, he’d taken extra care to keep his distance. Can’t be helped now, he thought, making his way through the richly decorated room. The entire clanhold’s been roused. He needs to step up and take some leadership.

  He cleared his throat loudly to announce his presence. Ivar scarcely moved at the noise.

  “I was hoping to speak with you a moment, brother. About the war with Jotungard—”

  “Have you been to see him yet, Sten?” Ivar asked, cutting him off.

  Sten frowned. “Who? Bloodhammer?”

  Ivar paused, then whispered, “My son.”

  “Yes,” he replied after a moment, taken off-guard. “I saw him interred to the crypts beneath the Temple. The fireborn will make sure he’s given a proper cremation.”

  “He always thought he was invincible. Frosts, I half-believed it myself.” Ivar shook his head, his eyes a mixture of bemusement and sadness. “He could fight better than any of them. Reached level 10 before his twenty-fifth year! Oh, what a Clan Lord he would have made.”

  Sten held his tongue. He’s just mourning, he thought, taking a deep breath and exhaling softly. Once I pull him out of this, he’ll be better. He has to get better.

  His brother continued. “When he was a boy, he would run up and down these halls. I don’t think he ever walked, not once. Too much energy. Couldn’t sit still. Gods, I can still remember the ruckus he caused... the headaches he gave the servants.” Ivar smiled faintly at the memory, his eyes glistening. “I remember thinking, that boy will be a battleborn in truth. He’ll shake Njordrassil with the strength of his arm. No longer...”