Frostworld 3 embers and.., p.1
Frostworld 3: Embers & Glory: A LitRPG/GameLit Viking Adventure, page 1
EMBERS & GLORY
©2021 BLAKE ARTHUR PEEL
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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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue I
Epilogue II
Thank you for reading Embers & Glory
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“Like the other worlds, Njordrassil was modeled after a civilization from the Old World.
We felt that it was important to capture elements of our culture that had long ago been destroyed.
Honor, courage, strength... we hoped that these virtues would transfer over into the universe that we created.
Of course, the many vices of our species transferred as well.”
—Xavier Markham, the Last Originator
PROLOGUE
Halvard Bloodhammer set down his rune plates after yet another unproductive day. Sure, he’d accomplished several pressing tasks, checking items off his never-ending list of things to do, but he still felt like he wasn’t getting anything done. The clanhold was like a sled stuck in a snowbank. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn’t manage to get it un-stuck.
He stood from his seat with a prolonged sigh. If this was lordship, he didn’t want any part of it. When’s that young Clan Lord getting back here, anyway? he thought grumpily. Beckström better not have gotten himself killed.
It was well past dusk, and once again Halvard had forgotten his supper. He glanced out at the open balcony. Norvaask was shrouded in darkness, with twinkling lights glittering along the walls of the great ravine.
His stomach rumbled, but he forced himself to check the clanhold’s stats one final time before retiring. It was a nightly ritual—something to occupy his mind before he lay down for a night of restless sleep. Numbers flashed in his mind’s eye, denoting key information regarding how the clanhold was faring. Food stores were on the rise, thank the gods, but not quickly enough, and morale was still plummeting, probably because he’d cut rations across the board. The warbands were still at “Low Strength,” and no matter how hard he pressed the war leaders to find new recruits, they simply didn’t have enough battleborn to go around. The catastrophic defeat at the hands of the draugr had made sure of that.
Halvard blinked away the stats and heaved another sigh. He wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing.
“Thrall!” he shouted, getting the attention of one of the nearby house slaves. “Have my meal prepared and sent to my room. I’ll be there shortly.”
The soft patter of feet on stone told him that his orders had been heard.
Since he didn’t have a huskarl to deal with the many administrative tasks of running a clanhold, he had to do almost everything himself. Damn that traitor Vig, he thought, and not for the first time. If I ever get my hands on him, I’ll wring his neck myself.
He donned his overcoat and turned from the cluttered desk, making for the exit. These were the Clan Lord’s personal chambers, but he wasn’t himself the Clan Lord. He slept in one of the guest rooms on the other side of the Great Hall. He didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about him. He was only a steward, and didn’t have any ambitions other than eating a quick meal and drinking himself to sleep.
The Great Hall was quiet at this time of night. A few guards made their rounds, but most of Halvard’s battleborn were out with the rest of the warband training their handful of new recruits. Nearly all the thrall had gone to bed, and those few who were working the night shift were busy with myriad tasks—including preparing his evening meal.
He strode through the darkened corridors, grateful for the peace and quiet. After a day full of useless meetings and hard decisions, it was soothing to be alone. His single eye, strained from reading countless runes, was grateful for the darkness.
The truth of the matter was that Norvaask was in trouble. The Freeze would be here any day now, and they weren’t ready to weather the most difficult time of the year. What made matters worse was the constant threat of the draugr. Hunters could hardly leave the clanhold without running into undead monsters on the tundra, and rumors were coming in every day that a huge army was amassing somewhere in the east. Halvard had done his best to hold everything together, but there was only so much a single man could do. The fall of Ivar and Sten Haig had left them in a difficult position.
He shook his head, making for the staircase that would take him to his room. There wasn’t any point dwelling on the challenges they faced. All he could do was take it a day at a time and keep pushing forward.
That was how Halvard had lived his entire life, and it had served him pretty well so far.
He reached his room at the end of the hall and wondered briefly why his honor guards weren’t present. Must be out drinking or cavorting with the serving women, he thought with a frown. Halvard had worked all night the last three nights in a row, but that wasn’t an excuse for his door guards to abandon their duties. He made a mental note to reprimand them harshly in the morning.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside, lighting several candles so that he could see. The chamber was sparsely furnished, which was the way Halvard liked it. Too many possessions only served to distract a man, and he couldn't afford to have many distractions these days.
After pushing open the window to let in some fresh air, he sat down heavily in front of the empty hearth and allowed his mind to wander. He closed his eye and took a deep, calming breath.
So much had happened in such a short amount of time. Halvard had fought his entire life to make Norvaask one of the most powerful clanholds on Njordrassil, and now he was doing everything he could just to hold it all together. He’d wanted to kill Sten Haig to avenge the death of Ivar, only to have Jarl Beckström—a former lowborn—swoop in and claim the title of Clan Lord for himself. Not that any of it was done purposely. It was almost as if the gods were playing a cruel joke on all of them. Still, honor demanded that he serve the young lordling as capably as he could, and so... he served.
“At least he’ll have the energy to take care of all this nonsense,” he muttered to himself. “Let him keep the glory of being Clan Lord. I’ll just make sure he doesn’t screw anything up too badly.”
His back ached, which was a Hel of a thing considering he hadn’t done anything physically demanding in weeks. Growing old was the cruelest joke of all to a proud warrior. It came as an affliction that no poultice or health potion could cure.
Over the Hill
You’re past your prime, and so your health is declining.
-1 to all Stamina rolls and disadvantage to Constitution saving throws.
Damn stats, he thought. Don’t need a freezing affliction to tell me what I already know.
A knock at the door shook Halvard from his reverie. He stood, his old bones creaking like ancient trees bending in the wind. “Enter,” he commanded loud enough to be heard through stone.
Timidly, a servant entered carrying a steaming tray of food. Halvard gesture
He grunted, then went to retrieve his supper. Braised pork and gravy, black bread, and a horn of mjöl—fine food under normal circumstances. But at that moment, all he could think about was scarfing it down quickly and then going to bed. It’d been a long day, and though he wasn’t eager to start another one, he knew that his exhaustion was taking a toll on him. He needed sleep if he was going to continue carrying out his duties.
Halvard sat back down and began to eat, chewing mechanically and staring at the cold, empty hearth. He tore into the meat and washed it down with a hearty gulp of mjöl. The food was salty and delicious, but he hardly took the time to savor it. After only a few minutes, he’d almost completely cleared the plate.
As he drained the last few drops from the horn, a trickle of liquid went down the wrong way and he descended into a fit of coughing.
“Frosts,” he cursed between coughs, pounding at his chest to help clear his irritated throat. He’d been too eager. This often happened whenever he ate too fast. But the itch didn’t go away, and his coughing only grew more intense with time. The minutes stretched on, and he started to get the sense that something was seriously wrong.
His plate and cutlery fell to the floor. He smacked his lips and found that his tongue was growing numb. A bitter aftertaste clung to his mouth like tar, and only then did he realize what was happening.
Poison. Gods almighty... somebody’s poisoned me!
Halvard clawed at his neck as he tried to suppress his coughing. His chest began to grow uncomfortably tight. “Help!” he tried to shout, but his voice was nothing but a choking rasp. “Somebody! Help!”
Fortunately, the door opened, and Halvard turned in his seat, gesturing wildly at his gaping mouth.
A woman stood in the doorway, willowy and beautiful, with wavy brown hair and large, round eyes. Her full lips were twisted in a small, self-satisfied smile as she regarded him, and though she looked like she hadn’t been properly groomed in weeks, her beauty was unmistakable.
Aslaug, the wife of Sten Haig, slipped confidently into his room. “Why, Shieldbreaker... you seem to be all out of sorts this evening. Was your dinner not to your liking?”
Halvard gasped something unintelligible, and the harpy chuckled low in her throat. “I think I know what the problem is.” She held up a small vial and turned it upside down to show that it was empty. “Blackroot extract. Even small doses can be quite lethal. I may have accidentally spilled some into your mjöl.”
He grimaced as knives of pain stabbed his guts.
Constitution Saving Throw: 8 + Ability Modifier (2) - Affliction (1).
Unsuccessful.
Incapacitated.
1d12 Poison Damage every 6 seconds.
Drittsekk. Halvard wished that he could throttle the spiteful wench, but as the poison worked through his body, he couldn’t even work up the strength to curse her out loud.
Aslaug casually tossed the vial aside. “I can’t take all the credit, you know. I would have never known about all the secret passages built under our feet if it wasn’t for our huskarl. His loyalty knows no bounds. I owe him my life.”
She stepped aside, revealing a rotund man in rumpled robes standing in the doorway. He had gray hair and a forked beard that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in weeks. Vig. Halvard’s face contorted in a vicious snarl. If only he had his hammer... he would bash the fat skrill’s brains in.
“He’s still alive,” Vig noted with obvious displeasure. “I thought that he’d be dead by now.”
“Patience, dear huskarl,” Aslaug chided. “I’m well versed in poisons. He’ll die in good time... after he’s exceeded his usefulness to us, of course.”
Vig frowned. “But that wasn’t the plan—”
“Plans change,” she said sharply. “Besides, the Shieldbreaker wasn’t the one who killed my husband, remember? It was his mudborn pet, Jarl Beckström. He’s the one we need to kill in order for us to take back control.”
Another wave of pain. Halvard doubled over, gasping for air as his insides burned.
The old huskarl stroked his scraggly beard. “That’s true, I suppose.”
“Of course it’s true. Halvard can’t die, not yet. It would arouse too much suspicion.” She walked over and gave the poisoned man a shove. To his eternal shame, he didn’t even fight back.
Strength Check: 1 + Ability Modifier (3).
Unsuccessful.
Halvard crashed to floor. He rolled onto his side and started coughing up foamy bile.
“Enough poison to damage him, but not so much as to kill him,” Aslaug explained. “He’ll be in a coma for some time—long enough for the new Clan Lord to hear about what happened and come home. From there, it’ll just be a matter of laying the proper trap.”
Vig fidgeted nervously. He looked over his shoulder at the empty hallway, then gestured at Halvard. “Should we be speaking so plainly in front of him?”
Aslaug laughed. “Oh, he won’t be able to stop us. He won’t be able to do much of anything at all once he loses consciousness—except maybe soil his pants. In the meantime, I’ll seduce one of his war leaders. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Even loyal dogs turn on their masters when given the right incentive. After that, we’ll take back what’s rightfully ours: the throne, the power... everything.”
Feebly, Halvard reached forward in a vain attempt to grab at Aslaug’s foot. She made a disgusted sound and kicked his hand away. “Let’s get out of here before somebody shows up. We can afford to live in exile just a little while longer.”
Vig bowed his head submissively. “As you say, my lady.”
With a swish of fabric, the two departed, but not before Huskarl Vig spared one final look for the dying war leader. His eyes almost looked regretful, but then he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
Halvard wanted to spit at him. He tried to push himself up, but to no avail. The pain in his stomach was just too much to bear. Rolling onto his belly, he turned his head sideways so that he wouldn’t drown in his own fluids. The world began to spin and his eyelids grew increasingly heavy. Beckström, he thought, fighting against the encroaching blackness. You’re going to walk into a trap...
If only he could leave some sort of message.
His eyes closed and oblivion enveloped him. The last thing the Shieldbreaker remembered was pain and a sense of regret that he should have done more.
Norvaask surely was doomed.
CHAPTER ONE
THE COMING STORM
“Keep your axe sharp, and your wits sharper.”
—Axioms of the Battleborn
Dreams of despair and death plagued Jarl’s dreams—as they had for the last three nights in a row. Frost giants roared in fury. Men were torn limb from limb. Purple eyes shone in the darkness.
Jarl started, jolting upright in bed, his naked body covered in a sheen of sweat. He blinked at the oppressive gloom and lifted a trembling hand to cover his face. Nightmares, he thought, closing his eyes and taking a few calming breaths. Just nightmares, you fool. Get a hold of yourself.
Ingrid stirred in the bed next to him. She mumbled something but didn’t get up. She was still asleep.
Carefully, Jarl untangled himself from the blankets and got up, touching his bare feet to the cold stone floor. The shock did more to calm him down than anything else. He stood, crossing the wide chamber to where his clothes were strewn about haphazardly. Moving stealthily, he got himself dressed and tried to forget about the terrifying images plaguing his mind.
