“It is important to recognize opportunities when they present themselves. If those opportunities are stubborn and refuse to be revealed, an ambitious man must seek them out.”

  - Prince Harald Ivarsson, before his execution

  The town of Buverik was just as unimpressive as the town walls in Taliesin’s eyes. He recognized he was jaded in that regard, for he had helped Duke Arthur build up Londinium into a shining beacon before rumors of demon-led efreeti armies reached their ears. It hadn’t been perfect; in fact they’d spent long hours discussing their so-called ‘perfect city’ that Arthur had hoped to found one day. This ideal city, one they’d called Camelot, had been abandoned in the face of the overwhelming horrors that approached them and their world burned.

  Buverik was no Camelot. It was no Londinium, either. It was larger than Taliesin had expected, the walls sloping back and away from the gate at an angle that allowed more land inside the protective palisade than it looked like from the outside. The town was crowded with modest two-story houses that crowded the street but left narrow alleys between them. Behind them, Taliesin could see narrow gardens cramped with sheds, pit houses, and privies. Many of the homes had crude signs out front indicating that craftsmen lived and worked there, and that the main room on the first floor likely was a workshop or business. More than a few had regular drinking mugs hanging from a peg, indicating a tiny bar room or cramped drinking hole was available for those so inclined.

  Periodically, the crowded streets were broken up by larger longhouses. These longhouses seemed to have a much larger garden, and many more outbuildings, denoting the wealth and power of the family that owned them. They often had cooking sheds, barns, multiple smaller houses - both pit-style and above ground - and workshops for a variety of trades.

  What was most significant about the town was how overcrowded it was. There were far more wagons crammed against houses, far too many makeshift tents strung up in tiny gardens between outhouses and wood sheds. The longhouse gardens were mostly empty of these issues - the prerogative of the rich - but even there, Taliesin could see extra hands being put to work and more children than you’d expect from a wealthy family. It was clear that his modest caravan was far from the first to show up from outlying villages, which wove a haunting picture of the gnolls’ terror tactics.

  Gradually, the caravan wound through the cobbled streets and through the slushy, muddy snow to a more wealthy quarter of the town. Here the houses were replaced by larger longhouse compounds. There was a qualitative difference that was the sum of many small things. The longhouses were similar in size, but had more artistic and architectural flourishes. The subsidiary servant houses were all two stories with their roofs freshly thatched. The barns and workshops were tidy and well maintained, and their workshops tucked behind outbuildings to minimize noise.

  Finally, they wound up at the back of the quarter, almost to the town wall once more. This was the largest home Taliesin had seen here, and couldn’t rightly be called a longhouse. It was rather a two-winged affair, with two long sections on either side of a large receiving hall. A large set of double doors were firmly closed, all the windows tightly shuttered against the weather. A dozen House Guards stood out front with a liveried elderly man but they did not stand alone.

  Arrayed before the doors were a dozen armed city militia and two well dressed men at their head. The less opulent of the two was fat and balding, who seemed to be sweating despite the deep cold. He held a stack of papers like a shield, and seemed ready to flee at the slightest provocation. The other was tall, stocky and gave off an arrogant, dashing air, with a square, lightly stubbled jaw and black hair highlighted by silver wingtips by his ears. He was dressed in finely embroidered clothes and a double belt inlaid with silver. Several ornate necklaces looped around his neck, while a plush cloak was elegantly draped over his shoulders to ward off the snow.

  “Lady Solveig, Lord Gunther,” said Taliesin formally, “you appear to have a guest at the door.”

  “At the door? Why hasn’t Brant let them into the hall yet?” said Lord Gunther in surprise.

  “There appears to be an argument of some sort,” said Taliesin as Gunther stood as best he could in the carriage and crowded over to Taliesin’s window. He shoved the curtain wide and gawked outside.

  “Oh, that’s Sheriff Hallfred. What’s he doing out during such nasty weather?”

  “My father should have let him in already,” said Lady Solveig with a frown. “Stop the carriage, I want to get out!”

  The carriage rolled to a stop, more because they were in front of the house rather than because of Lady Solveig’s unnecessary command, but it didn’t matter. Taliesin stepped out to see everyone at the manor door had stopped arguing to gape at the caravan as it approached.

  Sheriff Hallfred stomped forward and began to scold Taliesin, only to sputter to a stop as he helped Lady Solveig step out of the carriage. “What is the… meaning… of this…”

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  “That is exactly my question, Hallfred. What is the meaning of this? Why are you seeking my father’s hospitality on such a horrible night?”

  Hallfred blanched as Gunther stepped out of the carriage behind her. “Hey, Hallfred! We made new friends! Has Archmage Taliesin introduced himself yet?”

  Taliesin gave a little finger wave, but stayed quiet. He had a sneaking suspicion that there was no good news to be had here.

  “I’m afraid not. Archmage? Oh. Um, right.” Hallfred stumbled as his brain raced to catch up, but pulled himself together swiftly. “I’m afraid I have terrible news, milady. Your father, Jarl Hofstad, passed away four nights ago. I’m so sorry.”

  Lady Solveig staggered back as if punched in the stomach, but Gunther was there instantly to help brace his mother. She clung to his arm for a moment, and Taliesin could see tears in her eyes. But unlike the death of her good friend Landsman Varo, she did not fall apart. Perhaps because it was a parent, and children expect to outlive them, or because the Jarl had been ill and it was not unexpected. But Taliesin truly suspected she was not willing to appear weak before the sheriff.

  “I see, thank you Sheriff, you may go. I will begin funerary preparations and send invitation for the ceremony. Then I will oversee the transition of the Hofstad Jarldom to Gunther.”

  “Mother, no!” protested Gunther. “You should take grandfather’s title, it is only right!”

  “Gunther, your grandfather and I discussed this,” she said gently. “I’ve neither the skill nor interest in leadership. He tried to encourage me to be his heir for years, but I was able to convince him to look one generation further. You have the right talent and temperament. You’ll make a fine Jarl.”

  “Once more, I hate to be the bearer of bad news. We’d received word that you and Lord Gunther had been slain by bandits. I’ve a proclamation from King Ivar naming me the new Hofstad Jarl, now that Jarl Arni has died,” said Hallfred apologetically.

  “No!” screeched Solveig in outrage. “Your effrontery will not be so casually accepted. What manner of bribes did you pay to trick the King’s scribes into making such a blatant attempt to steal my House and holding?”

  “I assure you, milady, it was no move on my part. It was not anticipated that the Jarl would pass on, but the King felt continuity of leadership was important in these troubled times.” Sheriff Hallfred looked properly humble as he gave his reply, his demeanor sorrowful at Solveig’s accusations.

  “Save the act for someone who believes you, Hallfred. We’ll see about this proclamation once I’ve had word from King Ivar directly. You can rest assured your proclamation is not worth the paper it is written upon. Now leave us to our grief, and prepare to swear your fealty to Jarl Gunther or so help me, your head will be on a spike before the week is out.”

  Hallfred turned red, but did not immediately back down. “Perhaps you should instead look to your own future, Lady Solveig. It may be wiser to reconsider my proposition from last summer. I’ve no issue with leaving Gunther as the heir, after all. I have no sons of my own.”

  “Get the Hells off my property,” snarled Solveig in a low voice.

  His face flushed with anger for a fraction of a second, before smoothing back into a smooth, regretful pose. Hallfred looked at Gunther’s hard face, and Taliesin’s deadpan expression. There were no allies here for him to draw support from. So instead, he gave a long sigh.

  “As you wish, Solveig. The offer is open, should circumstances force your hand. I’ve long been a friend to your family, and an ally to your father. I would hope that relationship could continue.”

  Solveig ignored him and strode boldly past Hallfred and his guards. The sheriff stared after her for a moment, then motioned for the fat man and the handful of militiamen to follow as he walked briskly away. In moments, the entire entourage was out of earshot.

  “Brant, can you send some men to assist the caravan? Is the old barn still empty?”

  “Of course, milady,” said the elderly gentleman at the door. He hobbled over with surprising speed despite relying on a cane to walk. “We had planned to tear down the old barn next week, but it is still free. It may be a bit drafty. I expect these are refugees from one of the villages?”

  “They were Varo’s,” she said sadly. “He died defending them. Archmage Taliesin has sworn to see to their safety.”

  “An Archmage, you say?” old Brant looked up at Taliesin. “It’s been awhile since we’ve seen one of those.”

  “Not since we were in court for Ivar’s crowning, before Gunther was born. The Shaper was there for the event.”

  “Hmm. What are you being called then, Archmage?”

  “Being called?” asked Taliesin. “I’ve no formal title.”

  “The men are calling him the Stormlord,” supplied Gunther.

  “Ah, well, I do hope this weather is not your fault.”

  “I’d hardly admit it if it was,” laughed Taliesin, amused by the majordomo’s boldness.

  The old servant chuckled. “I’d best see to those refugees.” His expression turned somber once more. “Milady, your father is lying in repose in his rooms. Rumor had circulated that you and your son had been slain by bandits, so we were preparing a proper bonfire.”

  “What was the Sheriff arguing with you about?” asked Taliesin.

  The servant looked to Solveig, who nodded. Brant then answered, “The Sheriff was demanding entry and claimed to be the new Jarl. He was planning to, and apologies, for these are his words, ‘burn the old man so he could get to work fixing this town’.”

  Solveig bristled once again, but Gunther put a calming arm on her shoulder. “Peace, mother. We’ll make it through. Brant, it seems we’ll need to have a long conversation about what has happened while we were gone. Now, we are all road weary and the hour is late. Let’s get everyone settled so we can sleep.”

  Gunther leaned over and whispered something in Brant’s ear, then clapped the old man on the shoulder before turning back to the caravan.

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