Chapter 8

The rumble of voices and scores of booted feet shook the corridors of Frorsten Citadel. Looking up from his troubled thoughts, Gunnar Frostreaver rose from his seat and walked over to the entrance of his guest quarters. Upon drawing aside the curtain of hides that divided his chambers from the hall, he was greeted by the sight of men and women hurrying out with all manner of arms.

With so many warriors called away to Thingvellir, those who could be seen were the common tribespeople of the area. Gunnar reached out to grasp the shoulder of a boy, empty-handed upon his return from the outside.

“What’s going on?” Gunnar asked him.

“I-I don’t know,” the boy shook his head. “People started coming in from the outside. The Jarl ordered us to prepare.”

Prepare…

He released the boy, slapping him over the shoulder to send him on his way. With what was being carried, what they were preparing for was abundantly clear. Gunnar threw on his mantle of Dire Bear furs and strode out into the hall with Frostreaver in hand. After several steps, he paused – where was he to go?

When the tribes had been called to Thingvellir, his father, Jarl Erik Frostreaver, had sent Gunnar to represent him. Two-thirds of the tribe’s warriors had been sent along as well. Their arrival, however, was only met with the bare minimum of the laws of hospitality.

Those of the Frostreaver Tribe had a general idea of how the other tribes viewed them: it was an undeserved reputation that only seemed to grow worse with the passing of years. In their eyes, the Frostreavers, along with the two other southern tribes who had been destroyed, failed to withstand the onslaught of the Demon Gods. Worse yet, the Frostreaver Tribe had survived with nothing to show for it.

The Demon Gods themselves showed incomprehensible behaviour, choosing to avoid the tribes further north to strike directly at the Dwarf Capital. To the others, this meant that the tribes of the south had simply been weak and failed in their charge to guard the southern approaches of the Frost Giant lands. In their devastated state, the Frostreaver Tribe could say or do nothing in response, and the gap only widened between them with every passing generation.

As a result, he and the warriors of the Frostreaver Tribe had been snubbed by Jarl Vali Stenberg, who presided over Thingvellir with his cronies. Their number had been divided into two parts: the weakest warriors had been allowed to stay at Thingvellir, while the strongest were sent north with Gunnar to ‘help defend’ the northern tribes.

Jarl Frostreaver had sent Gunnar over his cousin, Sigurd, in an effort to appeal to the other tribes’ sensibilities. He was a commander whose leadership skills could enhance the effectiveness of the many warriors gathered to wage war against the newcomers to their realm. Instead, they had ‘reasoned’ that he should go where he would be ‘needed the most’, should something befall the tribespeople in the north while the majority of their warriors were away.

Their purpose was blatantly clear, however: they were blinded by the opportunity that had appeared before them. They kept the weakest of Gunnar’s warriors at Thingvellir to make their own appear superior in the coming conflict. Sending Gunnar north would keep him out of the war and away from any chance to earn recognition for the Frostreaver tribe.

Gunnar sneered at the memory of their brazen selfishness. Like many others from his tribe, he was of the mind that the others had grown soft and weak, falling away from the true path that Frost Giants must take. Laws and customs were twisted for political convenience; honour and glory were replaced by petty greed and a lust for hollow strength.

They should have sent Sigurd instead. It was feared that his strength and charisma would cause friction with the other leaders, but taking his axe to the cancer that had grown in their midst was the far better decision, in hindsight.

When they arrived at Frorsten Citadel, their treatment was much the same. Jarl Harald Frorsten had offered them the bare minimum of hospitality. He addressed Gunnar as ‘Erikson’ rather than ‘Frostreaver’, or even ‘Gunnar’. The old Jarl clearly underscored the idea that he was not seen as someone of any importance; that he was a child who was only known by his father. An undesirable who had been shunted away to keep watch over the common folk and children who had been left behind while war was waged elsewhere.

Gunnar shook his head, clearing the haze of anger in his mind away. He would meet with the Jarl first, out of respect for his host. They could flout tradition all that they wished, but he would not debase himself. Their tarnished souls would have to answer for their conduct, and all of their ancestors would turn their backs from them in shame. Only an eternity languishing in the empty valleys of Hel awaited them.

“Erikson, what are you doing here?”

The displeased voice of Jarl Harald Frorsten rolled down from his throne to stop Gunnar at the entrance of the hall. Two Blackguards stepped forward to bar his way.

“Jarl Frorsten,” Gunnar said, “I have come to offer my assistance in the defence of your citadel.”

“I know how to defend my own citadel,” Jarl Frorsten replied with disinterest. “I do not require your assistance. Return to your people and stay out of the way.”

You cannot afford this, Frorsten…

Gunnar did not need to inquire about the severity of the threat that approached the citadel; it could be seen in the faces of the tribespeople that busied themselves inside the citadel. The air was thick with anticipation: a great battle was coming.

Was the Jarl’s dismissive attitude simply bravado? No, it was more likely the same that he had seen in Thingvellir: Harald Frorsten was somehow assured of his victory, and he was unwilling to share in the spoils and glory that he believed would surely follow. The fact that they were being driven to the safety of the citadel, however, strongly suggested otherwise.

He unclenched his fist, turning his gaze away from the Jarl before it might be taken as a challenge to his authority. His cousin was right, and Gunnar’s insistence on focusing on seeing to the leadership of the tribe and its warriors was incurring a hefty price.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

At some point, he had perhaps become embittered at the ways of the northern tribes – who leveraged their collective strength rather than the traditional ways – and sought to turn those ways against them. He was not weak by any means, but he was also not as strong as he could have been. He was certain he could improve the citadel’s situation with his skills, but he could not gain the recognition and respect of the Jarl to do so.

Gunnar left the hall without a word, his footsteps shadowed by derisive snorts from the Jarl’s hall. He walked past the people who were beginning to stream into the icy fortress. The young and the weak were being harboured in its many chambers, while those adults who were fit to do battle were stationed for defence. He reached the large hall where his warriors were housed, and they rose at his appearance.

“What is your command, Gunnar?” His second asked.

“Command…” Gunnar’s expression soured. “By the bidding of our most gracious host, we’re to ‘stay out of the way’.”

The silence that followed delivered the sentiment of the gathered warriors far more effectively than any uproar. He walked into their midst, turning his head up to stare at the cavernous ceiling above. Including himself, he had twenty-seven veterans with him. They were not the strongest in the tribe – Sigurd’s warband had most of them – but they were all proven in combat and far stronger than most of the defenders that the Frorstens had left behind. Only the Jarl and the citadel’s Blackguards could possibly compare.

“If they don’t want us here,” a huntress said, “then we shouldn’t overstay our welcome. Let’s just leave them to their stupidity.”

“And what will happen if we do, I wonder?”

“Those snakes will twist their words however they see fit,” the huntress spat, “whether we are present or not hasn’t stopped them before.”

Murmurs of agreement rose from Gunnar’s contingent, and Gunnar could only sigh. She was right, of course. After being sent away from Thingvellir, they all knew what the other tribes had become. If they stayed and listened to their host, they would be labelled as useless. If they fought the invading enemy, they would be going against the wishes of their host and seen as lawbreakers.

Leaving would make them cowards and, if the Frorsten Tribe was destroyed after that, they would be cowards that failed to uphold the charge bestowed upon them by the Thing. The disdain held by the other tribes would turn into hatred, as they would be seen as oathbreakers in addition to being cowards – finally proving to the others that the sentiment cultivated against them for generations was undeniably true.

“Leaving is worse than staying,” Gunnar told them. “It is better to die with honour than stain ourselves in the eyes of the gods and our ancestors. Well, it might not even come to that.”

He motioned to the huntress who had spoken to follow him, plus one other.

“They told us to stay out of the way, but we should at least be permitted to witness the battle that comes. Let’s see what these newcomers are like so we can make preparations of our own.”

Gunnar and the two huntresses made their way down the main corridor and out to the gate of the citadel. Tribespeople were still making their way up the long and narrow ramp leading down to the icefield a kilometre below. He could see through the storm raging around them, but his Darkvision offered nothing beyond a certain point. After standing on the ledge for several minutes, he spoke to the two huntresses.

“Well, what do you see?”

“The last of the people are about halfway up the ramp,” one replied. “There are a dozen or so defenders at the base of the ramp covering the rear. Whatever they’re facing off against is damn small.”

“Are they the lowland warriors that were reported on the Dwarven highway?” Gunnar asked.

“I don’t know,” the huntress answered. “Only Sigurd’s been there. By the looks of it, they might match the description: twice as tall as a Dwarf and covered in black armour…what the…”

The huntress frowned. Gunnar looked down, but only pitch darkness gazed back up at him from below.

“What?”

“A few villagers just smashed into Frorsten’s defenders,” the other huntress told him. “I don’t think they’re latecomers – they came right through the group of invaders unharassed and straight for the defensive line.”

Rather than continuing to look into the darkness in confusion, Gunnar turned to question the refugees streaming into the citadel.

“You there,” he addressed a young woman who was leading several children, “what’s going on?”

“The villages came under attack from below,” she replied. “They weren’t raiding or taking slaves.”

Well of course they wouldn’t. The forces on the highway were reportedly composed entirely of the Undead. He turned to one of the Frorsten Hunters looking down at the field below.

“Do you know how this all started?”

“What?” She glanced at him with an annoyed look, “How the hell should I know?”

“They didn’t declare their intent at all?”

The huntress only shrugged, turning her attention back down to the fighting. Gunnar returned to his two huntresses, who were looking on with interest.

“How’s it going?”

“They’re all dead, I think.”

“You think?”

“Uh, yeah. It looks like the newcomers won, but now the defenders are following them up the ramp.”

“Huh?”

Gunnar’s face screwed up in confusion. One of the Frorsten warriors nearby overheard them and spoke.

“Draugr…” he said, “they’re turning the dead into Draugr!”

Gunnar looked up at the warrior, wrinkling his nose at the word. It was a commonly-used term back when the tribes plied the seas to the north. Draugr were a type of Undead that might be likened to Zombies, but they possessed the corpses of those who had died at sea or near enough to it. They reeked of rotting meat pickled in brine. Seaweed, barnacles and other things that were associated with the watery depths clung to their bodies.

Due to the Undead-infested pass just to their south, the Frostreaver Tribe had long adopted the use of terms for Undead found on land. He supposed that the old vocabulary would have been more common for these northern tribes who did not have to deal with the Undead every day and lived closer to the sea.

“Are they?” Gunnar asked the huntresses.

“Probably not,” one of them answered as she continued to gaze downwards. “They look and move like powerful Zombies, but I don’t see anything that says ‘Draugr’ about ‘em. They’re probably closer to Wights and a bit weaker than a fresh Elder Lich.”

“Erikson,” a familiar voice fumed from behind them. “Didn’t I tell you to stay out of the way?”

They turned to find Jarl Frorsten, escorted by his Blackguards. His aged features were filled with irritation – as if Gunnar’s mere presence offended him.

“We were just taking a look, Jarl,” Gunnar replied. “The fighting’s still far below.”

“Get back in your room,” Jarl Frorsten snarled, “and take your wenches with you.”

Gunnar had hoped that, with the developments below, the Jarl might change his mind about enlisting their help. His attitude, however, had turned even more caustic than before. Gunnar glanced at the huntresses, hoping that they wouldn’t reach out and throw the old man off of the ramp.

“Of course, Jarl Frorsten,” he lowered his head. “We will return to our chambers. If you require any assistance, please do not hesitate to call upon us.”