“He had enough fire in his belly to burn down a dozen nations.”

  - Anonymous

  The morning was somber and cold, and was well-suited to the occasion. The skies were clear and the winds were calm, as if Hel herself had decided to witness the funeral of a warlord. A quiet crowd had gathered in the open field just outside the town walls, and the elites of Buverik were huddled in groups of families, clans and factions. Elite merchants mingled with clan chiefs, wealthy craftsmen talked quietly with town elders and what appeared to be a few priests. The Sheriff showed up just a few minutes before the ceremony was to start, and immediately huddled with Captain Hrodi, the leader of the town’s militia.

  What struck Taliesin was the variety of appearances. Most of the northmen present were tall and sturdy, indicating a lifetime of physical activity even amongst the well-to-do. Hair was brown or blond, much as in his own homeland, with the odd individual with reddish hues. But this wasn’t particularly notable. What was interesting was the obvious - to his eyes - strangeness.

  The captain of the militia. Hrodi was a slight man, standing just a scant inch or two shorter than average and of thinner build, but his skin was a faded blue, just a few shades darker than the normal paleness of his fellows. There was a yellowness in his eyes as well that seemed at odds with his own pupil color. Another person on the other side of the gathered crowd that Taliesin hadn’t been introduced to yet was more like the last bandit he’d faced when he first arrived in the world. He was taller and stockier than normal, with a darker, earthy brown mottled hue to his skin that was akin to polished granite.

  In a similar vein, near the front were two women who were so thin and slight that Taliesin feared a stiff breeze would carry them off. Swirls of green and blue color splashed chaotically across their hands and faces, and presumably elsewhere. One of them, the smaller of the two, had far deeper colors and her eye color had faded so much it was almost indiscernible.

  “Viggo, the strange builds and skin tones, is this similar to Arbiter Katla’s Forging?” asked Taliesn. “I’ve not met people that look as such.”

  “Ah, you mean how the Arbiter is an Emberling?” asked the steward. To Taliesin’s nod, he continued, “I see. If your first Forging is an Elemental Forging - Sky, Flame, Earth and Sea - you become more elemental in your nature. Arbiter Katla’s First Forging was Flame, so her skin reddened, and as her understanding of her Forging deepened, her skin tone darkened and she developed horns. She’s called an ‘emberling’ which is really slang for a human with a deep elemental grasp of their Forging.”

  “So there are terms for the other Elemental Forgings?”

  “Indeed, milord. Sea Forgings lean towards blue skin and slight builds, and are called ‘Undines’. Undines are much prized for their natural seamanship and swimming abilities. Earth Forgings are larger and more solid - they take on stone colorings of gray and brown - and are called ‘Goliaths’ because of their size. The last are the Sky Forgings, and they are called ‘Sylphs’. They are in tune with weather, and are invaluable in farming towns and villages. They are small in stature, with blue and green patterns and pale eyes.”

  “Fascinating how an attunement to a philosophical construct such as arbitrary elements can lead to distinct physical changes. But the Conceptual Forgings - they leave no such marks?” asked Taliesin.

  “That’s the sum of it. Strength, Endurance, Motion and Nature do not change one’s body in a visible way. Motion makes you more naturally graceful, beyond what a normal person can do. Endurance and Strength do just as you’d expect, while Nature brings you more in tune with your environment.”

  “And of course the ‘Holy Forging’ gives holy abilities and makes someone prettier, which is what, an extra mark of approval from the gods?” asked Taliesin with a cavalier irreverence.

  “Shh!” hissed Viggo. “There are priests in the crowd, you mustn’t let them hear you speak with such disrespect towards the gods! You do not want the Temples as your enemies!”

  “Very well,” said Taliesin, chastened but unrepentant. “I’ll not deliberately step on their toes. I -”

  Whatever Taliesin had hoped to ask, the sudden hush that went over the crowd forced him to hold his tongue. Lady Solveig had made her appearance, and the crowd parted. Right behind her were other family members from House Hofstad - a myriad of cousins, aunts and uncles - which made him realize the House was larger than he’d realized. They didn’t all live in the Manor, or at least, he’d not seen them if they did.

  Behind them came the House Guard. They were Jarl Arni’s sworn armsmen, his varingjar, in life, and now they carried him to his pyre in death.

  Gunther had joined with the varingjar in the procession, although the eldest among them were the pallbearers, and he dressed in the same manner as the guards. He wore a plain, unembroidered gray cloak overtop a thick woolen tunic, brown trousers and fur-lined boots. The only nod to his status was a simple silver circlet on his brow, and that the common decorative horn trinkets were made of pearl instead.

  At last, the old Jarl was placed gently upon his pyre, wrapped tightly in an embroidered cloak. A bow and a hunting horn were placed on his chest, while his sword was laid beside him. Gunther stood to the side with Lady Solveig, and an old priest stepped forward. Taliesin’s attention wandered away from the man as he went through a series of rituals and prayers that meant nothing to him. At some point, Gunther wound up with the old Jarl’s sword, and the ceremony even managed to incorporate the sacrifice of a goat on a small wooden altar.

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  Lady Solveig’s face was tight with grief and unshed tears, while Gunther’s was impassive - they were stoic and brave as their culture demanded. Taliesin had seen similar funerals in the Danelaw duchies, but this world had its own unique touches. The Danelaw funerals had been burials in stone mounds, while here it was funeral pyres and prayers.

  The ceremony wound to a close, thankfully before anyone got frostbite, and Jarl Gunther stepped forward and accepted a lit torch from one of the House Guards. He stepped forward and touched the torch to the pyre. The pitch-soaked wood caught flame swiftly, and each of the old Jarl’s varingjar brought forward a thick bough of green pine to toss atop the blazing mound.

  Without any words, the crowd began to wander back towards town, and towards the Jarl’s manor. The only ones left behind were a few varingjar and a young acolyte to tend the pyre. His ashes would be gathered and buried once the pyre cooled, and would need to be watched over during the many long hours that would take.

  The grand hall of the Jarl’s Manor was filled with people in a way Taliesin hadn’t seen since his arrival a scant few days before. The benches behind the tables were packed with prestigious guests, and Taliesin was guided to a table near the Jarl’s own. Runolf and Viggo were allowed to join him, as was the young girl, Aina. Taliesin was a bit surprised at that, but when he raised an eyebrow at Viggo, he shrugged and mouthed ‘later’. He was not wrong. This was hardly the venue to discuss internal issues such as this.

  Behind his table, on benches that had been brought in to line the walls, sat his own varingjar and a few of the men and women from his people in the old barn. He also recognized a few young women from his villagers amongst the servants.

  Viggo leaned over. “We have our own servants for this, to watch over our food and drink, and our own people at our backs. With a snake like Sheriff Hallfred making moves, it’s best to be cautious.”

  In direct contrast to the somber ceremony from earlier, the funeral feast was already a loud, raucous event. Guests were presented with drinking horns filled with mead or beer even as they sat down, and were encouraged to drink deeply in honor of the departed Jarl. Taliesin drained his own horn that one of his own servants had presented him, and it was promptly refilled.

  Jarl Gunther came into the room with Lady Solveig and a few older House Hofstad clansmen, and they took up the main head table. Arbiter Katla sat to Lady Solveig’s side, and the steward, Brant, sat to Gunther’s left. After being presented with his own horn of mead, Gunther stood up, and the crowd quieted.

  “My grandfather was a great Jarl, but more than that, was a great man. When I was a boy, I was deathly afraid of water. So much so that I refused to learn to swim. My grandfather took me out to sea, and the waves were choppy. He set me to work and treated me as a man, despite my fears. At one point, I slipped, and fell over the edge. My grandfather raced to the edge with a rope, ready to try and save me from drowning. But in my panic, I flailed so much that I accidentally swam on the surface. He tossed me the rope between bouts of laughter, and said I looked just like a swimming chicken would! I was called the ‘swimming chicken’ for years after that!” The crowd laughed, and Gunther raised his horn. “To the Jarl!”

  Gunther drained his mead and sat down. That seemed to open the floor for stories, and each was related to the Jarl in some way. As the stories rolled out, so too did the servants. Platters of meat, bowls of stewed root vegetables slathered in gravy, hearty breads and more all made their way from the kitchens.

  One of the House Guard stood up from his bench. “I remember going with the Jarl back when he was just young Arni, before his father passed. We decided to go exploring, and Arni took the helm. At some point, he got hopelessly lost, and we all knew it, but he insisted he was still exploring and would find something great. On the morning of the third day, we came around a bend in a river to discover… the town of Buverik!” The crowd gave an appreciative laugh. “To the Jarl!”

  The tales continued as food and drink vanished. Taliesin was soon comfortably full and buzzed from the drinking. He’d taken to sipping rather than guzzling. He heard tales of the old Jarl participating in drinking contests, going on viking raids, and fighting in the last war against the Olympian worshippers in Gaul.

  As the stories wound down, Jarl Gunther spoke loudly into the crowd. “Chief Johan!”

  The crowd quieted as the oldest of the House Guard turned from his mead to the young Jarl. “Milord?”

  “You and your throng have long served House Hofstad. Together with my family, we have fought together, bled together, and died together. I honor you for your loyalty and unquestioning honor. I ask you, will you serve me as your new Jarl?”

  The old man looked proud at the public praise and recognition. He stood and walked around his table so that he could come stand before the Jarl at his. The old man knelt. “From now until we are called to serve as Odin’s einherjar in Valhalla, we shall be your varingjar. So I swear before all the gods.”

  The old man returned to his seat, and the Jarl turned to the crowd once more. “Captain Hrodi!”

  “Milord?” The pale blue man was looking flushed in the face from the ale, but sobered immediately at the attention upon him.

  “You served my grandfather for many years as the Captain of his militia. You have safeguarded your town walls with honor, and your clan, Clan Windrime, has been ever faithful and dutiful to the town and to House Hofstad. I ask you, will you serve me as your new Jarl?”

  Captain Hrodi did as the House Guard chief had done, and knelt before the young Jarl. “From now until I am called to serve as Odin’s einherjar in Valhalla, I swear my fealty. My clan shall forever remain true. So I swear before all the gods.”

  From the corner of his eye Taliesin caught Sheriff Hallfred slipping out the doors of the great hall, his magus in tow. He nudged Viggo, and pointed to the Sheriff’s empty seat. Beside him, he heard Runolf chuckle.

  “Sheriff Hallfred!” came Jarl Gunther’s call. For several long moments, the hall was quiet. Murmurs quickly took hold amongst the crowd.

  “Milord, it seems the good Sheriff had a sudden emergency,” said Brant drily.

  “Gods preserve us, some urgent call of duty, perhaps?” asked Gunther.

  “Or avoiding one!” called someone from the back.

  A roar of drunken laughter shook the hall at the quip, and Gunther gave a slight smile. Instead of responding, he called out to the next clan head in attendance.

  “It would seem the young Jarl just scored himself a victory over the Sheriff,” said Viggo.

  “Indeed,” said Taliesin. “The staged quip was brilliant. The only question is, what will the Sheriff do next?”

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