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

  ICE & BLOOD

  ©2021 BLAKE ARTHUR PEEL

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading Ice & Blood

  Groups

  LitRPG

  “The Living Worlds...

  The last great hope for humanity.

  The remnant of our lost civilization.

  The last solution to the Fall.

  Seven worlds were created to shelter the consciousness of our broken society; worlds based on order rather than the forces of chaos.

  It was a fresh start. A new beginning.

  A new chance for us to destroy ourselves.

  As we did on the world of our birth, so very long ago...”

  –Xavier Markham, the last Originator

  Prologue

  “Shut yer freezin’ mouths! An ice wyrm will come and kill us all!”

  The other battleborn quickly fell silent, their expressions fading from jovial to grim as they stared into the depths of their fire.

  Torbjorn shook his shaggy head in irritation as he turned back to keep watch, his hard eyes scanning the desolate, windswept tundra beyond their little hollow. “Frost-cursed fools,” he muttered quietly. “They’ll alert half the clanholds with all their yapping.” His breath steamed in front of his face as he spoke. The bitter cold of the Ice Barrens was especially brutal this night. When his vision readjusted to the gloom, he was able to get a full view of the bleak landscape, the light of the stars glistening on the freshly fallen snow.

  Fortunately, no ice wyrms appeared to devour them. The land was as still and quiet as ever—except for the incessant howl of the wind.

  Wulfgard battleborn had always protected this lonely stretch of the Ice Barrens, digging out burrows in the tundra and watching for signs of raiders. It was a favorite route for rival warbands, as it cut a straight path to the clanholds of the west. This late in the year, however, it was seldom travelled, which was ultimately why Torbjorn had chosen it for his watch post. It was dull, freezing work with little chance of any action, but it was still important. The long hours and the solitude made it the perfect outpost for new battleborn, as it taught them a valuable lesson: patience.

  War was more than just battles and bloodshed. More often than not, it simply meant standing guard.

  Would that a great wyrm did come and attack us, he thought, flexing his toes within his boots to work the blood back into them. Then at least I’d be warm.

  Behind him, the men picked their conversation back up where they’d left off—albeit a bit more quietly than before. They joked amongst themselves, boasting of their fighting prowess and number of lasses they’d bedded.

  Torbjorn grunted in annoyance. Full of piss and vinegar, these youngbloods, he thought, heavy brows furrowing. Barely level 2, and already they fancy themselves great warriors. Doubt any of them have buried their axe into another man, or been scared witless by a Vödheim raid. Still, I was like them once. Wasn’t too long ago that I was on my first watch duty, idling away the night with the other youngbloods.

  The truth was, though, that most of his fellow battleborn were dead. The blood feud with the other clanholds had existed for generations and claimed the lives of countless warriors over the years.

  A gust of wind came down from off the Howling Peaks, kicking up flurries of snow and ruffling Torbjorn’s hair and beard. He pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and suppressed a shiver. Sometimes, he wondered if the souls of those men had entered the Immortal Halls or if they still wandered this land as specters.

  He continued staring out at the wastes, musing silently while the youngbloods conversed behind him. His armor, layered with ring mail and furs, did little to stave off the chill of the night, and so he took to pacing, his boots crunching softly on the frozen ground.

  Time always passed slowly on assignments like this. If a man wasn’t careful, he could doze off and miss an enemy hiding right in front of his face.

  Cracking a yawn, he made yet another round, his eyes still trained on the vast stretch of tundra before him. In another hour he’d be able to rest and let Ugo take his place on the ridge. The wind would buffet the youngblood for the rest of the night, and he would sleep comfortably by the fire. The thought brought a smirk to his lips. He liked Ugo, but a little time in the cold would do the lad good. He was a fiery one, and nothing quenched fire quite like the Ice Barrens.

  Looking up at the stars, he grunted. Yes... not much more than an hour. Then, I’ll be able to put some food in my belly.

  Torbjorn frowned as he gazed at the night sky, noticing for the first time a star that didn’t belong in the firmament. It glowed like an ember, a pinprick among pinpricks, though it seemed an entirely different hue than the others. In fact, as he watched, the star appeared to brighten, its size doubling, then tripling in a matter of minutes.

  “Gods above,” he whispered, eyes growing wide as the light seemed to fall. “Haun, Ugo—look! Do my eyes deceive me?”

  Their muttered curses told him that they didn’t, and that the mysterious star was indeed plummeting toward Njordrassil.

  The entire tundra began to glow, the ice reflecting the odd greenish light for miles in all directions. As the star drew closer, a visceral fear gripped Torbjorn’s heart, a primal urge to run away from a threat he
could barely comprehend. He took a step backward, then another, nearly tumbling into the hollow that he and the other battleborn had dug just a few hours earlier. The brightness grew so intense it was almost blinding. Tears streamed down Torbjorn’s face as he stared. He couldn’t look away. It was a great ball of molten stone and vibrant fire, carrying with it a terrible sound like the howl of a tempest. The roaring escalated until he thought his ears might bleed.

  Is this Narøkkr? Torbjorn wondered, horrified. Is the end of the world upon us?

  He checked his stats. Full health. Max durability on his armor. Not that it would make any difference. Even if he were level 20, he couldn’t hope to survive such raw power.

  In the final moments of its descent, the star became brighter than the noonday sun. There was only noise and light, everything in existence consumed by its terrible majesty. There was nowhere to run, nowhere in all the world they could go to escape. Only an eternal roar that swelled until finally...

  Impact.

  The star struck the tundra like the fist of a god, crashing into the Ice Barrens with such force that it caused the very ground to shake. Although the collision was miles away, the earthquake knocked down every battleborn, trailed by a violent gust of wind that blew over them and extinguished their paltry fire.

  For a moment, Torbjorn thought that he might be dead. His ears rang painfully and his eyes saw nothing but searing whiteness. However, he realized that he was still breathing, and could feel the hard, frozen ground beneath his back. The noise of the crash faded to a rumble like distant thunder, and not long after his eyesight came back to him. The winking stars above welcomed him back to mortality.

  Torbjorn, along with the youngbloods, shakily got to his feet.

  He checked his stats again, and was surprised to see that he still had full health—though he now bore an affliction.

  Aftershock

  -1 to all saving throws. Attacks do half damage.

  Lasts 1 hour.

  Ears still ringing, he shook his head, causing a shower of dust-like snow to fall from his hair and beard. “Gods freeze me,” he swore, blinking away the afterimage of the falling star. “Is everyone all right?”

  “Yes, War Leader,” Ugo replied uneasily.

  The others, five in total, offered similar responses.

  Far in the distance, a pillar of smoke rose into the sky. It blotted out the stars and was accompanied by a dim, green glow that illuminated the surrounding land.

  “War leader... what the freezin’ Hel was that?” The question came from Haun, who wore a troubled expression and a hog’s hair coat crusted in a thin layer of frost.

  Torbjorn continued staring at the distant smoke and shrugged. “A bad omen. A sign from the gods, perhaps. It doesn’t matter. Whatever it was, we need to take a closer look.”

  The youngbloods muttered amongst themselves.

  “But... War Leader, is that wise?” Ugo’s words sounded uncharacteristically timid. “After all, it could be dangerous.”

  Torbjorn turned and shot him a hard look, the sort of disapproving expression that trainers were accustomed to giving novice warriors. “Dangerous? Freeze me, boy, but are you battleborn or not?”

  Ugo cast his eyes downward in shame.

  Sighing, Torbjorn rested a hand on the head of his axe and looked at each of the youngbloods in turn. “Our duty is to protect the clanhold, pure and simple. It’s the only thing that matters. Whatever that thing is”—he motioned vaguely behind him—“we need to make sure it isn’t going to hurt our people. That’s what being a battleborn is all about. Got it?”

  The men all grunted their assent.

  “Good,” he replied gruffly. “Now, prepare yourselves. If there’s danger, we’ll greet it with Wulfgard valor. Honor and iron.”

  “Honor and iron,” the youngbloods repeated before shuffling off to retrieve their spears.

  Torbjorn watched them with a stern gaze, though his thoughts were on what they might find when they actually reached the crash site. Children’s stories flitted through his mind like shadows. Tales of demons and draugr come to enslave their souls filled him with a profound sense of dread, despite his brave words.

  He tried to not let his discomfort show. Foolishness, he thought, setting his jaw. In his near-forty years of life, he’d never come across a problem he couldn’t solve with his axe.

  Once ready, the youngbloods gathered before him, grim-faced and armed to the teeth. They looked to him for guidance, their eyes betraying the same unease that he had buried deep within himself.

  “Keep your wits about you,” he admonished. “There’s no telling what we might run into out there.”

  “Yes, War Leader,” came the reply.

  Steeling himself, Torbjorn led the youngbloods out of the hollow and onto the tundra, their boots stamping a path on the icy ground. The full force of the wind crashed into them, a bitter cold sinking deep into their bones and adding a new affliction.

  Chilled

  Movement slowed.

  Disadvantage to all Fortitude and Agility saving throws.

  -3 Stamina Points.

  Travel on the Ice Barrens was slow, even in the most favorable of conditions. The lack of hills or mountains made the wind a constant nuisance, and the vast, intermittent ice sheets were slick and hampered their walking.

  More than an hour passed, the party making its way in silence. They trudged single file, doggedly putting one foot in front of the other, every man lost in his own thoughts.

  Torbjorn found himself thinking about ice wyrms again and the threat he’d made earlier. This was their domain. A wyrm could kill their entire party, he knew, devouring them all with ease. However, he quickly dismissed that fear. Although the great beasts were drawn to sound, the falling star would have scared them away.

  Everybody knew that ice wyrms were vulnerable to fire.

  As they drew closer to the crash site, Torbjorn began to feel light-headed, his thoughts growing muddled as if he’d spent the entire night drinking mjöl. He found it difficult to think straight, his movements grew slower, and he swore that he could hear a voice speaking to him on the wind, a nearly imperceptible whisper that seemed to caress his mind.

  Children… children… come to me…. The time for salvation is now...

  The murmur was soothing, almost hypnotic as he numbly pressed on.

  Do the spirits of the dead speak to me? he wondered. The men I’ve killed… have they come back from the Immortal Halls to haunt me?

  The idea made his stomach turn.

  It wasn’t long until their destination came into sight, a smoking crater blasted into the tundra itself. Steam billowed from the enormous pit and a strange energy crackled the air, making Torbjorn’s scalp itch.

  Come to me, children… your eternal destiny awaits….

  Torbjorn shook his head, clearing away the fog. He looked to his men, nodding for them to do what they’d been trained to do. They fanned out and readied their weapons, cautiously approaching the lip of the crater with their spear tips lowered. Torbjorn pulled out his axe, the iron haft a familiar weight in his hands. It was a good weapon, and it had served him well in his many years defending the clanhold.

  Gods willing, it wouldn’t fail him now.

  As they crested the rise, the light of the fallen star washed over them, a pale, ghostly glow that felt oddly inviting. A massive, smoldering rock rested in the middle of the crater, surrounded by a growing pool of melted ice. It was covered in the shimmering runes of a language Torbjorn didn’t recognize, and it appeared almost spherical, as if it had been purposefully shaped.

  For a moment, they stood transfixed by the sight, weapons held in uncertain hands as they studied the alien rock. Then, the disembodied voice spoke as if to them all, its resonance much more powerful than it had been before.

  Children of the First... I am pleased that you have come.... Please, come hither... bask in the warmth of the great old ones...

  The youngbloods looked to Torb
jorn, all pretenses of bravado gone.

  Bewildered, the war leader cleared his throat. “We are battleborn of the clanhold Wulfgard. Who goes there?”

  The voice paused, as if considering.

  I am known by many names... but to the Children of the First, I was known as Siryyx... the Devourer.

  Torbjorn furrowed his brows, his confusion deepening. “You speak curiously, stranger. Step out from behind the rock. I would speak to you face to face.”

  Again, the voice paused, and Torbjorn thought he sensed amusement coming from the star.

  Put down your weapons, foolish children... they are meaningless.... Your eternal destiny has arrived... fighting it would be futile....

  Leather creaked as Torbjorn tightened his grip on his axe, heat rising within his chest. Battleborn never surrendered their weapons. Honor forbade such cowardice.

  “Show yourself,” he growled, “and I will grant you a quick death!”

  He thought he heard laughter. It was an eerie, melodious sound. A quick death...? No... there is no such thing as a quick death.... Not when it comes to the transmutation.

  Torbjorn roared and leapt into the crater, his boots skidding on the ravaged stone. To their credit, the youngbloods followed him, their battle cries as vigorous as any he’d ever heard. They charged the fallen star, their weapons raised as they searched for signs of the stranger, but as they circled it, they saw no one. Not a single enemy engaged them.

  Panting, Torbjorn stopped before the great rock, the lust for battle still raging in his blood. He examined the runes and, for an instant, considered bringing his axe to bear against them, chopping at the star with his hearth-forged iron.