"The art of ambush is the art of the unexpected. It is the unseen dagger that cuts deepest."

  - Taliesin the Stormlord, Archmage

  Taliesin yawned as he walked through the kitchens towards the muster yard behind the manor. The temperatures had taken a dip, and a brisk wind was blasting snow drifts, sending an icy mist right at face level that was just cold enough to be miserable. Few servants and thralls were around, for anyone who had the opportunity to hide somewhere warm did so. This was the sort of day when everyone hunkered down and relaxed. Even the cooks in the kitchen were serving up stew made from leftovers and thick buttered toast from day-old bread – perfect for dipping in the gravy. It was also perfect for allowing the staff to lounge in front of the cooking hearth and play dice.

  Runolf was already there with four of his men, all of them bundled up against the cold as best as they could manage. Taliesin noticed two of them had old, thin cloaks atop their winter coats, and the others were heavily patched over. They wasted no time, and began to briskly walk into town. The town was slightly better protected than the manor, which had a fair amount of open space around it. The buildings of Buverik, however, were close enough to cut the wind. Everyone looked visibly relieved at the respite.

  “Runolf, let’s talk with Viggo about getting your men proper winter gear. It appears we’ve got a bad one on our hands, and we’ve got the bad luck of needing to be out in it.”

  Runolf gave a nod as he scratched his beard. “The boys’ll be happy. Might be hard to get good cloaks though. Prices will be high.”

  “I’m willing to add some minor warmth enchantments to boots or gloves in trade, if that helps. On that note, let’s look at the best places to add some warmth enchantments for the men, and for the villagers. We’ve got to take care of our own, after all.”

  “That’s mighty generous, milord,” said Runolf.

  There were a decent number of townspeople out and about - far more than at the manor. It seemed sometimes the cold wasn’t enough to get in the way of daily living. Many of the alleys were crowded with refugees, their shelters as tight as they could make them against the bitter cold, and thin streams of smoke rising from the minimal fires they could afford to make.

  “I need to figure out some more utilitarian magics,” mumbled Taliesin to himself. “If I could move or conjure stone, it would be much easier to shelter people.”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Taliesin?” asked Runolf.

  “Never-” Taliesin cut off mid-word. A person-shaped ball of magic dropped from the roof of the closest building and somersaulted to a stop behind a nearby wagon. The magic faded as the person rolled, to reveal Aina. She looked up at Taliesin, who was the only one who’d noticed her sudden appearance.

  Before Taliesin could speak, she began to frantically sign. “Ambush ahead! Sheriff’s men, plus militia. I counted eight, but there might be more!”

  Seeing that Aina stayed crouched behind the wagon and mostly out of sight of Runolf and his guards, Taliesin deliberately pretended he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he paused and started fiddling with his gloves, which made Runolf and his men stop walking. It made no sense for the sheriff to openly attack him in town. It would be a direct confrontation against the Jarl, and a start of open conflict.

  “Ambush ahead. At least eight men,” said Taliesin quietly.

  “Can’t be an attack in the streets. Sheriff would look bad,” said Runolf. “Might just want to talk.”

  “I hear archmages are powerful,” said Taliesin with a sly grin. “Maybe he wants to recruit me.”

  “Likely. Could kill you in his house, away from prying eyes, too.”

  “He couldn’t trap me in his house if he tried.”

  “He’s going to try,” replied Runolf grimly.

  Taliesin looked back at the wagon. Then he signed to Aina. “Get to the manor. Don’t be seen. Get ten men to the square outside the sheriff’s house.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked Runolf.

  “Spring the trap. Aina’s going for reinforcements.”

  Dolf shivered and stamped his feet from his post behind his cousin’s market stand. The smell of meat grilling made his mouth water, but his cousin had already given him a slice from the last batch, and it would be rude to ask for another. He definitely couldn’t spare an extra ha’penny for the luxury. His wife was pregnant, and her family produced a lot of twins. A trip to the bakery for some day-old bread would help him stretch that ha’penny much further than a slice of meat for himself.

  Then the Stormlord came into sight. At first glance, the man was unremarkable other than his bright white hair and aquamarine-colored eyes, especially next to the large warrior walking next to him. He wore no weapon at all aside from a small dagger at his waist that was more useful at the dinner table than in combat. His clothes were richly made - thick wool and heavy furs, with a fur collar to his coat that wrapped around his neck. The archmage also had an iron torque around his neck that looked surprisingly common.

  Yet even after noticing the large warriors that walked with and behind the Stormlord, Dolf’s eyes kept getting drawn back to the archmage. There was something magnetic about him - the confidence, perhaps, or the self-assured stride that drew all eyes his way.

  The group was only a few buildings away from where Dolf and his men would have to step out. He gripped his sword nervously. Trying to help the sheriff become jarl was one thing, but accosting an archmage was quite another. He’d heard stories. Everyone had heard stories.

  But Dolf kept counting the pennies the Sheriff had promised. Surely everything would work out…

  Then the Stormlord stopped, and Dolf froze. Had he been spotted? Had his men been seen? His orders were clear, but what if the Stormlord walked away? For a moment, Dolf fervently hoped he did just that. The archmage conferred with his men for a moment, then re-adjusted his gloves and wiggled his fingers a bit, and the group moved forward.

  Were they more alert than before? Dolf couldn’t tell. But it was time. With a sympathetic glance from his cousin, right before his cousin ran down the alley behind the stall, Dolf stepped out into the street, and his men came out of hiding to flank the archmage and his men.

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  “H-halt!” came the cry from a uniformed man in the crowd. Like magic, the few pedestrians around the street vanished, and the Sheriff’s man strode forward. On all sides, militiamen surrounded Taliesin’s small group with weapons drawn. Aina counted well. There are eight, he thought.

  “Who are ya, and how dare you block the Stormlord as he goes about the Jarl’s business?” demanded Runolf as he drew his axe from his belt.

  “As the Sheriff of Buverik’s sworn deputy, I’ve been charged with bringing the mage known as Taliesin before the Sheriff,” said the man with a bit of bravado in his voice.

  “Seems you ain’t too familiar with annoyed archmages,” said Runolf. “Ain’t ya heard the stories?”

  The deputy’s face paled, and there were audible creaks as leather hilts were gripped tighter.

  “What is it that the Sheriff wish of me?” asked Taliesin mildly.

  “The Sheriff demands you attend to him at once,” said the deputy.

  Runolf and his men laughed, and Runolf put his axe back on his belt. “He demands? He demands?!”

  The deputy looked perplexed, but Taliesin mostly looked amused. “Alright. Just this once, I’ll humor the Sheriff. He’d best beware in the future, lest he learn the cost of hubris.”

  The two groups formed up uneasily. Runolf and his men formed a circle around Taliesin, and the Sheriff’s men circled around them. The strange formation squeezed through the narrow streets and made their way to the large building that was both the Sheriff’s home and public space. A small, walled courtyard stood in front of a two-story building roughly a third the size of the Jarl’s manor. That still left it as one of the larger buildings in town, only this one was squeezed into a city block, with numerous neighboring buildings pressed tight to the narrow lot it was built on.

  The square just outside the courtyard was an intersection of three streets, with buildings lining each of the corners. Several well kept market stalls and carts were pressed against the walls, but few refugees were around. The alleys here were kept clear of vagrant villagers by the much more wealthy residents and their servants, many of whom were militia or the families of militia.

  Once the odd party crossed through the square and into the courtyard, the deputy said, “Lord Taliesin, your men may wait here. I’ll escort you to the Sheriff.”

  Taliesin turned to see that the militiamen were hustling over to a brazier in a sheltered corner by the wall where a warm blaze was burning. He nodded to Runolf, who motioned for the varingjar to go to the brazier as well. If they had to wait, at least there would be a bit of warmth.

  The Sheriff’s house was well appointed, of a more Frankish design then a northman construction. Rather than a large longhouse, this was a two story stone construction with exposed wooden beams and white-washed walls. Several windows were on the second floor overlooking the courtyard, but they were shuttered against the pervasive cold.

  Inside, Taliesin was escorted through a small parlor with a small desk and several chairs, and up a narrow staircase. At the top he was guided to a door, and the deputy knocked. Upon being summoned in, the deputy left Taliesin to enter on his own.

  Taliesin found himself in a spacious study, with thick rugs lining the walls and a new carpet on the floor. Two chairs before the fire were occupied by the Sheriff and his fat minion, who was nibbling on grapes. In the corner behind a desk stood a mountainous man with mottled gray and black skin and no shirt at all. The giant man has a square, brutish face and no hair, and an absurdly sized warhammer was propped against the wall next to him.

  “So this is the so-called archmage,” said the fat man with a full mouth.

  “No chair for your guests?” asked Taliesin, ignoring the jab.

  “Oh, do forgive my oversight. Ulfgrim, could you fetch a chair for ‘Lord’ Taliesin?”

  The giant of a man moved towards the door, but Taliesin held up his hand to interrupt his movement.

  “No need,” said Taliesin. “[Shape].”

  In a scant few seconds, Taliesin re-shaped the flagstones of the floor, drawing away the top inch of granite to form a crude stool that shoved the new carpet up awkwardly. Taliesin sat down on the rough lump of carpet-covered stone that now disfigured the floor.

  Sheriff Hallfred gaped for a moment at the display, but chose to ignore it after a long moment. “I’ve… I’ve summoned you because you are a new presence to Buverik. You’ve chosen to stay with the former Jarl’s family, which is perfectly understandable. They’re rich, and who better to attach yourself to? However, by Spring I’ll be confirmed as the new Jarl.”

  “How wonderful for you! I’ll be sure to send you a gift when you are invested in your new office. You’ll have to forgive me if I courier it over, of course, since I’ll not be available to deliver it myself.”

  “Not planning on sticking around?” sneered the fat man.

  “Now, Gundovald, be kind to your fellow magic user. After all, as an unattached mage, he must either swear fealty to a noble, or join your Enclave. Isn’t that right, Taliesin?”

  Taliesin smiled at the obvious trap, and chose to ignore it. “I find the architecture of your house to be remarkable. So sturdily built - almost as strong as Jarl Gunther’s home. I’m curious, which style is the most common in this land? I’ve only seen this town since arriving. Do stone styles like yours prevail, or is it the longhouse styles of men with actual wealth and standing more common?”

  “You dare ignore the next Jarl’s question?” asked Gundovald.

  Taliesin smiled internally. The magus was too indignant, too outraged. They were trying to throw him off-balance, with Gundovald trying to play ‘evil advisor’ to Hallfred’s ‘kind ruler’ persona. They thought they had him trapped, and the muscle in the corner was supposed to keep him cowed enough to fall for it. If he was as young as he looked, and as weak as they assumed, then it might have worked.

  “Now, now, Gundovald, calm down. He’s been fawned over by the boy, Gunther, for days. He just isn’t aware of the realities of how this town is changing. Fortunately for him, I’m a forgiving man. Taliesin, I happen to be in need of more magic support, and you are a man in need of noble support. I can pay generously for a man of talent such as yourself. In fact, in my generosity, I can even find a place for those men in the courtyard amongst my House Guard when I form it. What do you say?”

  Taliesin’s face cracked into a huge smile. “So you think you can buy my loyalty and my talents for what… a handful of coins?”

  “Oh, it’s far more than a handful,” said Gundovald. “Once Hallfred has become Jarl, there is immense wealth to be reaped from this backwater heap.”

  “Gundovald,” said Hallfred sharply, no longer in character. The fat man’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Very interesting,” said Taliesin, the smile falling from his face. “But my answer is no. Not now, not under any circumstance, would I bind myself to you. You clearly take me for some young fool, some charlatan, who has fooled Jarl Gunther with a few magic tricks and a quick rescue in the wilderness. I am none of those things, and you insult me with every word you speak. You’re lucky I am a patient man. Do not presume to call for me again, for you will not like the result.”

  An ugly expression crossed the Sheriff’s face, and the fat magus’ face paled. Then the Sheriff’s face smoothed out, and he gave a big, fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I understand, Lord Taliesin. Do forgive my hard tactics,” the Sheriff said as he stuck out his hand for a handshake. “I hope we can meet again under more positive terms?”

  Taliesin’s eyes narrowed as he saw a spark of divine aether start to gather in the other hand of the Sheriff. He gave a fake smile of his own and ignored the hand.

  “You had better hope so,” he said grimly. “[Minor Portal].”

  A portal snapped open behind him.

  “No!” shouted Hallfred. “Ulfgrim! Kill him! Kill the archmage!”

  Taliesin stepped backwards through the portal and into the courtyard outside, before allowing the portal to close. He looked around to see Runolf and his men rushing towards him as the Sheriff’s militia men began drawing their swords. It was then he realized the Sheriff’s shout had come right through the portal with him.

  “Shit. [Phantom Armor].”

  Just then, the shutters on the second floor blew open. The mountainous Ulfgrim and his giant mace rocketed down to land in the courtyard and landed so hard it sprayed broken cobblestones to ping against Taliesin and his men.

  Runolf spit and readied his axe. “I take it the talk didn’t go well?”

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