“Yes, I am looking for armsmen. Have you a senior officer? Aside from the Arbiter?” Taliesin looked over the armsman appraisingly and determined that he looked both too experienced as a warrior for the village and too junior in rank to be having this conversation.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, milord, but the Arbiter ain’t no commander of ours, exceptin’ by your command a few hours ago.”

  “I see, and you were hoping I’d take you on as a… varingjar?”

  The man looked embarrassed all of a sudden, and Taliesin quickly realized the man had overstepped or made a social faux pas of some sort. “No, no, milord Archmage, I wouldn’t presume to ask such on only a passin’ conversation. Don’t mind me, I’m always stickin’ my foot in me mouth. My chief is Runolf, he’s the one good with words and all.”

  “I see. Thank you,” said Taliesin before walking away.

  Behind him, he heard a distinct thunk sound of someone in armor getting punched, and a muffled curse. “Dammit Bjorn, shut your face!”

  Viggo spotted the archmage as he approached and swiftly shooed away the various people vying for his attention.

  “Milord Archmage! That was a very impressive display of your abilities! Already the townspeople are whispering about the Stormlord destroying an army!” praised the man. Viggo was a bit portly, his clothes of quality fabric and his cloak lined out in fur with thin silver chains to clasp it. A woolen cap was clasped tightly to his head, but still his nose was bright red from the cold.

  Taliesin waved away the pleasantries. “How goes the caravan? Shall it be ready soon? This village is unsafe, and we must get these people away and to shelter.”

  Viggo’s demeanor changed at once, quick to realize that Taliesin wasn’t one to enjoy flattery. “Of course, milord, we’re loading as swiftly as we can. To our fortune, the granary was not burned, merely damaged. The food inside was secure, so we've filled most of the wagons we can find. Clothes, blankets and sundry are well in hand, since they are easily salvaged. Tools and the like as well, although we lost the smithy altogether and the fletcher and his family were slain. The blacksmith’s apprentice yet lives, and is digging in the ashes to see what he can salvage. Weapons and the like, you’ll need to speak to Runolf. All told, I expect we can set off within an hour or two, barring any major problems.”

  Taliesin was impressed. The man had dropped the inane compliments immediately, and had a sharp mind behind the mild appearance. “Tell me, Viggo, what was your role here in the village?”

  “I served Landsman Varo as one of his quartermasters, and answered to his steward. My family traded in textiles and potash, although it’s been hard times lately. This whole mess with the Gods has thrown shipping for a loop. My cousin’s friend even lost his ship to it!” Viggo looked positively offended at the thought.

  “So you’re well versed in goods management and trade then?”

  “Indeed, milord! I’d have been no use to the Landsman otherwise.”

  “Excellent. I’m new to this land and its customs. I’d like to set up a refuge, a secure stronghold against this ‘Twilight of the Gods’ and its consequences, and save as many people as possible.”

  “A most admirable goal, milord Archmage. I presume you’re in need of staff?” he eyed Taliesin shrewdly. Taliesin could almost see the man’s mind whirling and processing the new information.

  “I need men of talent, Viggo, men of steadfast will and strong character. Are you such a man?”

  “I just might be,” Viggo said slowly. Then he gave a sharp nod. “Yes, I do believe I am. Landsman Varo was a just master who kept his people safe. If you’re taking up his mantle, I’d like to help.”

  “I hope to do far better than Landsman Varo, may his soul find peace,” replied Taliesin, although he stopped himself from giving the sign of Jesu Invictus. It would mean nothing here, anyway. “Let’s start with your management of this caravan. We’ll discuss terms once we’ve brought these people to shelter.”

  Viggo nodded in agreement. “Milord, might I offer a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps you might want to consider… a martial retinue? After all, you cannot be everywhere at once, and even you must sleep sometime.”

  This seemed to be becoming a common theme, Taliesin thought. Twice in a row, people were expecting him to seek out soldiers of his own. It seemed if archmages were considered nobility in this society, then enacting his own plans might actually be a natural fit to the culture of these people. If that was the case, Taliesin certainly wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If they wanted him to be a noble, he could certainly take advantage of the situation.

  As he walked away from Viggo, Taliesin was surprised to find that he’d felt a growing pressure during the discussion. He’d never been on the ‘noble’ end of conversations like this, and found it a touch disconcerting.

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  Taliesin stopped a passing soldier and asked him to point out Runolf. The chief was a grizzled man with a heavy mace in one hand and several soldiers beside him. He was directing soldiers every bit as much as the Arbiter. With a quick thanks to his co-opted guide and a minor healing spell, he sent the soldier on his way.

  “Stormlord,” said Runolf respectfully. “Your magic was well timed. It saved me and most of my lads.”

  Taliesin nodded in acknowledgement. “I saw you and your men taking the fight to the gnolls. I’ve no doubt you’d have triumphed in the end.”

  “Thank you, milord, you’re too kind,” said Runolf gruffly. The attempt at manners felt stilted and uncomfortable coming from the rough soldier. Taliesin was familiar with the type - likely a warrior his whole life and more accustomed to a camp tent and battle than finery and polite company. That was fine, he would need many such men.

  “Let’s take a walk, Runolf,” said Taliesin.

  “Of course, milord.” Runolf waved off the two warriors at his side. Rather than walking away, however, the men feel back at a distance, out of earshot but close enough to protect their chief. Taliesin’s estimation of the man ticked up a few degrees.

  “I find that we are both in an interesting position. I’ve taken nominal lead of this village’s people, at least insofar as getting them to safety. Yet I am not a proper Landsman, nor a kinsman of poor Varo. On the other side of the coin, you, Runolf, are a chief without a lord. Landsman Varo ensured you, your men and your families were provided for in return for your soldiering.”

  “I’m seein’ what your driving at, milord. Pardon my saying this, but you’re a foreigner without no retinue of your own, correct?”

  “Yes, you’ve hit the heart of the problem.”

  Runolf looked him up and down appraisingly. “You look like a young buck, but you don’t talk like one. Young lords are cut from the same cloth, all bravado and arrogance. You ain’t as young as you look, are you?”

  Taliesin smiled broadly. “Runolf, you’re a canny one. No, I’m quite a bit older than I look. Call it a gift of Fate, if you’d like.”

  “So what, exactly, are you looking to do, milord?”

  “For now, I’m seeking to find a place of security for those who are here. The Twilight of the Gods is upon us, and I would not see all the people of this world lost simply because the gods wish to war upon each other. I look to build a proper bastion to outlast the battles to come.”

  “That’s a worthy goal, milord. I’m liking the sound of safehold, but what of the families of my lads? You’re lookin’ to take us on as varingjar, so what happens when one of the men die? What of their family?”

  Taliesin stopped and turned to Runolf. “I have already said my plans, but I’m not sure you truly understood. I’ve already seen one world destroyed by endless hordes of merciless creatures. I personally escorted the last of my people to safety and stayed behind in the ruins to prevent the danger from following them. My reward for my service was untold ages in the void between worlds, a deathless purgatory with only my own thoughts for company. I care little for the politics of this world, or the gods that war over it. I thrice denied the demands of the Norns and the gods behind them, for I shall not buckle to the whims of gods or man. You worry about your families, as is good and right. I shall care for all families in my trust. The families of your warriors will be well cared for should they fall, supported and kept safe behind what walls and armies I can assemble.”

  As his rant concluded, he mentally recoiled in surprise. Taliesin caught himself off guard with the fervency of his impromptu speech. It was true that he failed to care much about the titles and hierarchies around him. He’d only made cursory inquiries into local etiquette, if only to avoid looking completely foolish. Instead, his thoughts had geared him towards independent action, and as an archmage, he was given the chance to act on it.

  A look of incredulity was written across Runolf’s face. “Yer... yer gonna fight the gods?”

  “Only if I have to. Really, I seek to protect people so that when they fight, their power doesn’t destroy us as collateral damage.”

  The look morphed from one of incredulity to recognition. Whether Runolf was recognizing Taliesin as a madman or a visionary, Taliesin wasn’t sure. He hoped for the latter, but suspected it was the former. But Runolf nodded.

  “Good enough,” said the old soldier pragmatically. “In return for proper provisioning for us and our families, and a fair share of any loot, me and mine will be your varingjar. We’ll protect you, kith and kin, and fight at your command. Seein’ as you look confused, varingjar are your retinue, your Oathbound, or whatever term you want to call us. I’m chief of the men, but if you add more soldiers, over time many of my men will be chiefs in their own right, as they fill out their own throngs. When you go to war, you have your varingjar, you have your armsmen, and any other auxiliary or allied forces you muster. Just don’t be puttin’ that Arbiter as our commander again. We ain’t got no business with Warpriests of Freya.”

  Taliesin gave him a quick nod of understanding. It would take time to learn the nuances, but the arrangement made sense. He was building an inner circle, and this was the martial part of his retinue. It was best to have bodyguards you trusted implicitly, so he would have to prove himself many times over to be worthy of protecting. He had no blood ties to these men, and their village was destroyed. “Let’s talk about the details of those provisions…”

  Some time later, after a long and fruitful conversation, Runolf stood in front of the caravan with his entire throng of soldiers, some two dozen in all. Runolf doffed his helmet, and knelt before Taliesin. Behind him, his soldiers followed his lead. “I, Runolf Arnsson, swear fealty to Taliesin the Stormlord. By sword and spear, I will protect his interests and be the most loyal of retainers. By the gods I so swear.”

  The other soldiers followed suit, repeating the simple oath. Taliesin said simply, “I accept your fealty, and shall do my utmost to be worthy of such loyalty.”

  The growing refugee caravan had ceased all activity to watch the simple fealty ceremony. As the soldiers stood from their oaths, a young man wearing no armor at all but carrying cudgel walked over and knelt before Taliesin, and repeated the same oath. Then a woman wearing a sling and dragging a small boy followed suit. That broke the floodgates, and more than two thirds of the refugees crowded around and knelt.

  Taliesin looked over the crowd, and saw a scowling Katla standing next to a wagon, her arms crossed. Lady Solveig’s soldiers stood beside her. Gunther caught his eye and waved happily.

  It was clear that whether or not he was ready for it, Taliesin had become a noble.

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