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

by Blake Arthur Peel

  Chapter 23

  Plots and Preparations

  “Even with the combined might of the battleborn and the fireborn, none of us were prepared for what was coming.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 6

  “You have to talk some sense into them,” Freya said. “We’re fireborn, for frosts’ sake! They can’t hope to wage their stupid war without us!”

  “This is our war,” Kelvar corrected sternly, “and we won’t defy the will of the Aesir. They support the Clan Lord, and by extension, this retaliation against Jotungard.”

  “Please, listen to me, Vanir,” she pleaded. “The draugr are real. They’re out there, and if we don’t do something, they’re going to kill us all!”

  “I won’t listen to this nonsense,” Kelvar replied, his drooping brows furrowing into a deep line. “The draugr are not real. You’re clearly suffering from some sort of delusion, and I refuse to let it affect our mission. Now, drop this foolishness at once!”

  Freya gaped, stunned by the vehemence in his tone. She’d never heard him speak so curtly with anyone before.

  The old Vanir took a deep breath to calm himself. “Forgive me. The looming threat of battle weighs upon my mind. Still, I can’t recall my words. Your insistence that we abandon our course is madness.” He reached out and patted her shoulder, though there was little warmth in his eyes. "You show such promise, Freya. Please, don’t throw away everything you’ve worked to achieve." With that, he disappeared inside of his tent, sparing one final disappointed glance at his student before closing the flap.

  Freya sighed and turned to regard the other fireborn who were lounging around a large cook fire. She felt totally drained, emotionally and physically exhausted. Yet, the worst part was knowing that she’d failed to get the support of her own people. She’d probably lose Reputation if she pushed any harder. As she peered at the faces of her friends, she found no comfort, only looks of thinly veiled scorn. For the first time in her life, she didn’t know where to turn.

  "It seems like insanity runs in the family," Oster remarked, leering from his place by the fire. Several nearby covered their mouths to hide their grins.

  Freya turned an icy glare on the sniveling man. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. What did you say?"

  Oster leaned back and shrugged, a smug look on his narrow face. "For the longest time, we thought your brother was the crazy one, but it turns out he just takes after you."

  Freya flushed as his comments elicited outright laughter, and for an instant she considered setting the imbecile's robes on fire.

  "He didn't mean anything by it," Solveig giggled, sliding onto Oster's lap and wrapping her arms around him. "We're all just a bit surprised by your behavior, Freya. It's so unlike you."

  "She's right, you know," Brimir said, coming to stand next to her. "What's gotten into you? Do you honestly expect us to believe in children's stories?"

  Freya held his gaze before eventually looking away. "I don't know what I was thinking coming here."

  Brimir put an arm around her shoulder and led her over to the fire. "I know it must be difficult for you with everything that’s happened. The situation with your brother certainly hasn't helped things, and with the High Aesir taking that skrill Runa as her ward, you must be worried about your place here at the Temple." He cupped his hand under her chin and peered into her eyes. "Take a deep breath and relax. We're going to take care of everything."

  Freya frowned at him. "What do you mean, ‘take care of everything?’"

  "Runa was chosen to help lead the fireborn in the main assault tonight," Solveig explained, scrunching her nose in distaste. "She’ll be right up there, getting glory with Sten Haig and the Shieldbreaker."

  "According to the battleborn, we'll strike hard and fast, then set up a staging ground to lay siege to the clanhold." Oster flashed a bloodthirsty grin. "It's going to be a slaughter. Lots of bodies to burn."

  "Tragically, Runa won’t survive the main assault," Brimir concluded with feigned sadness. "We're going to make sure she doesn’t last the night."

  "I see," Freya said, maintaining her composure. Inside, though, her stomach soured. She had no problem killing an enemy in the heat of battle. She’d done so many times herself. Murder was a different matter, though, one that made her decidedly uncomfortable.

  "Don't you see?" Brimir asked, leaning in and kissing her cheek. "You won't have to worry about Runa upstaging you anymore! You'll be the clear choice for Sigrun to choose as her next ward. And then, one day, you'll become an Aesir, too."

  "And you won't forget about us," Oster put in, giving her a meaningful look.

  "You're the best drafter of any of us," Solveig commented. "It deserves to be you."

  For a moment, Freya could only stare back at her friends in shock. The political games played by the highborn and fireborn sometimes turned deadly, but Freya had never considered resorting to such dishonorable methods. Runa was a thorn in her side to be sure, and she resented the fact that she was a better drafter than her, but what her friends were plotting was nefarious, even evil. It made her feel physically ill.

  “What do you say, Freya?” Brimir asked. “Will you help us?”

  Freya opened her mouth, then faltered, her eyes dropping to the ground. “No,” she said at length. “I can’t.”

  Her friends all looked at each other, exchanging confused glances.

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Brimir asked, dumbfounded.

  “I can’t help you do this,” she explained, looking up and forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I need to go back to Jarl. The draugr....”

  “The draugr?” Brimir repeated, his winsome grim twisting into a sneer. “You’d rather run off with your embarrassment of a brother than go with us into battle?”

  “I told you her family was touched,” Oster scoffed. “She’s gone mad, just like her brother.”

  “I think you might be right, my love,” Solveig muttered. “The Freya I know would never let an opportunity like this pass by.”

  Freya drew her lips into a tight line but didn’t respond. It felt like she’d just been slapped. Her cheeks flushed red with shame.

  “Fine then,” Brimir spat with sudden vehemence. “Go. Follow your brother into exile. I doubt you’ll be welcomed back by the Aesir. Lucky for me, there’s plenty of other women who can warm my bed.”

  Oster and Solveig snickered.

  Freya stiffened at the remark, then turned abruptly and left, ignoring the insults they hurled after her. Blinking back tears, she made her way through the camp, making for the far edge where Jarl was waiting for her in the snow.

  “Did the fireborn listen to you?” he asked, eyes hopeful.

  “No,” she replied without looking at him. She strode past and began hiking away from everything she’d ever known—the hopes and dreams that she now would never attain. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Together, the two made their way from the war camp and into the hills, watching from over their shoulders as the battleborn prepared to march. The warriors broke down their tents and travelled to the northern edge of the flatlands, the waning sunlight glinting off their iron spears. There were fireborn down there as well, Freya knew. They were being led by Runa, who she couldn’t decide whether she hated or pitied. Perhaps a little bit of both, she thought glumly, turning her back on the scene below.

  She followed Jarl back the way they’d come, walking in silence as they trudged through the untamed wilds. The air was noticeably colder, the wind more bitter as they hiked away from the warbands. It was a fitting reflection of what she felt in her own heart.

  The sun set not long after they began their return trip, dipping below the western horizon and plunging the hills into darkness. Even with the light of the stars overhead, it became too dark for them to travel safely, so they were forced to stop for the night.

  Pausing at the crest of a low hill, they chose a spot beside a large, broken stone and began to unpack their supplies. Freya wordlessly built a
fire of emberstones in the cavity of the rock, and Jarl dug a trench in the snow with his axe for them to rest in.

  They worked quietly, preparing everything they needed before eventually settling down in front of the fire. The feeling was dismal between the two, and for a time they merely sat watching the orange flames, each lost in their own gloomy thoughts.

  When Jarl finally broke the long silence, he had to grunt to clear his throat. “All right. What are we going to do now?”

  Freya looked up at him, her face dull and emotionless. She didn’t make any effort to answer his question.

  “We need a plan,” he went on, his face a mask of renewed determination. “Somehow, we need to bring allies to our cause. Perhaps we could go find Hjalmar—the battleborn might listen to him. Do you think you can get an audience with the Aesir? If anyone will believe our story, it’s them. They talk about myths and legends all the time, it’s what they do.”

  “There is no plan,” Freya said flatly before looking back at the fire. “There’s no freezing point in talking about it.”

  “No point?” Jarl asked. “How can you say that?”

  “It’s pointless,” she repeated without looking up. “No one’s going to believe us. People are going to have to die before anything changes—a lot of people, probably. We might as well just sit here and wait for Narøkkr to come.”

  Jarl was quiet for a long moment before responding. “I can’t let that happen.”

  Freya sniffed. “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

  “I’m not a fool,” he replied hotly. “I just want to save our people. I don’t want anyone else to die.”

  “And did you ever stop to think that our people might not deserve saving?” she snapped.

  His frown deepened, but he didn’t answer.

  “Perhaps this is what the gods intended,” she continued, her words dripping with venom. “Perhaps they’re punishing our arrogance. We fight and kill each other, and for what? For glory? Freeze glory, and freeze all the people who refused to listen to us. I hope they all die—painfully—and I hope that ice wyrms devour their stupid corpses!” She sat back, fuming like she’d drunk an entire flask of flame spirits. All the anger, all the fear and frustration she’d felt since all this began came rushing out of her, burning with the intensity of a furnace.

  A shadow fell over Jarl’s expression. “You may feel that way, but I don’t. If the battleborn fall, then there are a lot of lowborn in our clanhold who will be killed—people you used to know. Father would never have given up.”

  “Our father was a fool, too,” Freya said. “He actually believed that people could change.”

  “People can change,” Jarl growled. “You certainly changed when you became a fireborn, though not for better.”

  “Well, you’re still the same,” she shot back. “I don’t care that you’ve somehow levelled up. You’re an irrational mudborn farmer and you always will be. So, stop trying to change the impossible and just accept reality!” She practically shouted the last words, her voice carrying over the darkened hills.

  The wind suddenly stopped howling, an uncomfortable silence settling between them.

  Jarl glowered at his sister, but instead of yelling or cursing at her, he got up and stalked away, disappearing into the night.

  Freya watched him go, then turned back to stare blankly at the flames. Her anger began to lessen somewhat, fading to a dull apathy that made her want to sleep and forget. Part of her felt bad for what she’d said to her brother. He was the only person left in the world she could commiserate with, and yet she’d driven him away. I said what needed to be said, she thought stubbornly. He needs to hear hard truths and start living in the real world.

  As time went on, her guilt only worsened. She thought about what Jarl had said the night before. Why do we always end up fighting? she wondered. Are we so different that we can't find common ground? Or perhaps it’s because we are more alike than we thought.... She wasn’t sure what to make of that, but somehow, the thought made her feel a little better.

  Freya shivered and reached for a blanket, pulling it tightly around her shoulders. It seemed the night was growing colder, and with Jarl gone, she suddenly felt vulnerable and alone. She’d spoken out of anger. She didn’t truly wish for the people of her clanhold to die. The rejection of Halvard and Kelvar, combined with the mockery of her closest friends, had made her feel like she was without recourse, without power for the first time since becoming a fireborn. It was a terrible sensation, and it wasn’t one she would wish on her worst enemy.

  "Oh, Runa," she whispered. "I should have said something, should have warned you."

  Footsteps crunched on the snow behind her, and she turned to see a figure emerging from the shadows. "Jarl," she said, standing. "I'm sorry for what I said. It... wasn't kind. You're right, of course, we need to figure out a plan moving forward. We need to do something to stop the war with Jotungard."

  No response came as the figure continued lumbering up the hill.

  "Jarl," she repeated after a moment, annoyance creeping back into her voice. "I'm trying to apologize. The least you can do is say something."

  Still, nothing.

  She squinted, adjusting her eyes to the darkness. An eerie feeling washed over her, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up as she recognized inhuman purple eyes staring back at her.

  The draugr stepped into the firelight, its gaping mouth revealing a squirming black tentacle that seemed to reach for her hungrily. Its skin was gray and pallid, and its body carried numerous crusty wounds. It gurgled softly as it staggered through the snow, claw-like hands grasping in an attempt to grab Freya, to pull her closer to the horrible squirming tentacle.

  She screamed and fell backward, then began scrambling desperately to get away from the draugr. Reaching for her coat pocket, she tried to find her flame spirits so that she could defend herself, but the creature was too fast.

  It lunged for her, grabbing her legs even as she kicked and struggled to get away.

  Strength Check: 10 + Ability Modifier (-1).

  Unsuccessful.

  The tentacle, like a long black tongue, licked at her torso, trailing viscous slime that clung to her robes. She screamed again as the draugr climbed on top of her, pinning her down with strong, dead legs. She managed to pull out the flask, but before she could bring it to her lips to drink, the monster knocked it from her hand, spilling its smoking contents into the snow.

  "Gods above," she cried, fighting to keep the tentacle from reaching her mouth. "Jarl! Somebody! Help me!"

  Suddenly, a spray of cold blood splashed across her face, dampening her hair and stinging her eyes. The body on top of her slumped, growing still as the draugr's head rolled somewhere off to the side.

  Freya blinked and looked up, relieved to see Jarl standing above her with a bloody axe held in both hands. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  She let out a strangled sob and pushed the corpse off of her, then scrambled backward and wiped the blood from her face. Beside her, the tentacle writhed, twisting unnaturally as if trying to extricate itself from the disembodied head. Jarl kicked it down the hill, sending it tumbling to the darkness below, then moved to help Freya to her feet. "Keep quiet," he whispered in her ear. "There's more."

  Shaking uncontrollably, she nodded and hugged herself as Jarl put out the fire. She spared a glance at the headless corpse, then quickly looked away, revulsion tying her stomach in knots.

  "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked as he came to stand before her. His eyes looked over her with concern.

  She nodded, biting her lip to keep it from quivering.

  Jarl didn’t appear convinced, but he didn’t argue. He motioned north with his axe. "Follow me."

  Together, they made their way down the slope and onto another hill, following footprints presumably left by Jarl. When they reached the top, he crouched and motioned for Freya to do the same. "Down there," he whispered, pointing to a small valley beneath them.<
br />
  Freya tentatively inched forward, following her brother's gaze. Her blood froze.

  An army was on the march, hundreds, maybe thousands of figures moving steadily through the snow. They didn’t carry torches, nor did they move in any sort of formation. Freya instantly knew what she was looking at, even without seeing the faint pinpricks of glowing purple eyes. "Gods," she breathed. "An entire army of draugr!"

  "That isn’t an army," Jarl whispered grimly. "That's a damn horde."

  Chapter 24

  A Beacon of Fire

  “When the dead started to rise and entire war parties started disappearing, many believed that Narøkkr, the end of the world, was upon us.”

  —Memoir, Rune Plate 6

  Jarl crept down the side of the hill as stealthily as he could, trailing the draugr like a man hunting caribou. Behind him, Freya followed, her face shrouded and her green eyes reflecting the light of the stars. They moved slowly, clinging to the shadows as they moved parallel with the horde, always keeping a hill or a ridge between them and never straying too close. The only sounds they made came from their own footfalls and labored breathing.

  They're like ghosts, Jarl thought, warily watching the shambling corpses from afar. With so many, he thought they’d at least make some noise, but as they marched they were as silent as the grave.

  He and his sister had decided to follow the draugr to see where they were going, but after about an hour, Jarl began to doubt the wisdom of that decision. His feet grew numb from the snow and his back throbbed painfully from the exertion of hiking. They could be wandering aimlessly, for all we know, he thought, shifting his axe from his wounded hand to the other. That, or they could be on their way to attack Jotungard. At least they would be convinced that the threat was real.

  The land seemed to change as they moved farther north. The hills grew larger, the depressions deeper and more treacherous as they approached the Howling Peaks. They lost sight of the horde several times and were forced to backtrack, but each time they were able to find them. The draugr always kept to the low points and never climbed out of the winding valleys.