"The story has to start on the outskirts of Whiterun…"
Skyl's unhurried narration drew the children in the compartment into another fantastical world. Their thoughts drifted away, sketching in their minds the silhouette of an adventurer standing beneath the vault of the sky.
...
In the month of Midyear, Skyrim was pleasantly warm—especially in the central and southern regions, where there were clear, distinct seasons. At this time of year it could even be a little hot. Winterhold, lying close to the polar circle, was best visited in summer; wait a few months more and the snows would start again.
Skyl was utterly captivated by Skyrim's natural scenery. He kept looking all around, craning his neck this way and that. The young guardsman assumed he was worried that some beast might burst out of the roadside woods, or an arrow might come whistling from the trees, so he tried to reassure him.
"Skyl, lad, don't worry. We'll keep you safe. Anyone who wants to hurt you will have to step over my corpse first, I swear."
"Kliman, I'm just admiring the view."
They had set out from Riverwood in the morning and walked all the way to Whiterun by evening. Along the way, a wolf pack had stood watching them from the high terraces along the riverbank, their eyes cold as ice. Faendal reacted the fastest, loosing one of his homemade signal arrows, which sent the wolves scattering.
Once they left the mountain valley, they came out onto the central plains of Whiterun Hold. On that boundless stretch of open country there was only one low hill, and that hill was where Whiterun stood. All around spread vast windmill-dotted pastures, while along the banks of the White River there were water-powered mills and breweries. With such flourishing agriculture, Whiterun was without a doubt the most prosperous hold in all Skyrim.
The four of them climbed to a high point to look out over the wide world at sundown. Kliman swept his arm proudly over the land, naming the farms as if he were reciting a treasured list, then pointing out all the famous sights in Whiterun itself. He heard Skyl murmur under his breath:
"This is even more beautiful than I imagined."
Faendal shaded his eyes and stared into the distance. Suddenly he pointed northwest.
"Hey, look over there! Are my eyes playing tricks on me, or is that a bear… or a person?"
Everyone followed the direction of Faendal's finger. In the wheat fields of Pelagia Farm, down in the dusk, a black mass was slowly clambering over the fence. A few farmers who had been weeding in the field started shouting. From where they stood, the black bear was no bigger than a quail's egg, and the fleeing people looked like scattered beans.
The young guardsman didn't hesitate for a second. He jumped straight down from the rise and sprinted toward the farm.
"Wait for us!"
Glorious golden sunset light spilled over the land. In the still-blue spring wheat, the wild beast panted and roared.
By the time Skyl and the others arrived, the Nord farmers had already formed a loose circle around it, yelling and trying to drive it off.
The powerful animal stank to high heaven, its fur like black fire burning.
"Skyl! Get behind me!" Kliman barked.
"That won't be necessary. Let me handle it."
Skyl leaned out from behind Kliman's shoulder, pointed at the black bear, and said, "Beneath your feet the ground is mud, and your path is choked with snares!"
"Why are you insulting it? It can't understand you!" Sven said anxiously.
But the black bear seemed to take offense all the same. It roared twice and charged straight toward Skyl. The moment it lifted a paw, the farmland under it turned to swampy mire. Its four legs kept sinking deeper, and the flattened wheat-stalks came alive, turning into ropes that slithered like a nest of snakes and bound it tight.
With the beast pinned, Kliman borrowed a farmer's warhammer and brought it down hard on the back of the bear's skull, killing it on the spot.
"Looks like you don't actually need our protection," the young guardsman said, his expression complicated.
"Kliman, there's no need to say that. You've been excellent companions on the road."
"Ah, don't worry. I'm still your sword and shield. Magic's never as reliable as steel—I'll keep watch around you while you cast."
"Then next time don't rush in like that," Skyl said, patting the young guard on the shoulder. "We're a team. We fight together, not each on our own."
That night they ate at the farmer's house. Early the next morning, they hired a carriage bound for Windhelm.
...
"The carriage rolled on all day," Skyl went on. "That night we made camp in a sheltered hollow on the northern foothills of the Hrothgar Mountains. It was late and very quiet. The stars drifted in the summer aurora like a swarm of fireflies soaked in purple mist. The wind on the open plain was gentle, and the two great moons were pouring out milk-white light. From the silver-washed wilderness came the low calls of a stag leading his herd.
"All the passengers had already turned in. The caravan's hired guards were out on patrol. Suddenly, Faendal slipped out of his tent. He said he could hear footsteps—lots of them. Skyrim's nights are terrifying. You can encounter every danger you can think of: wolves, bears, sabre cats, bands of marauding bandits, werewolves and vampires on the hunt, necromancers out looking for fresh corpses, assassins plying their dirty trade, skooma dealers… any one of them might take your life."
The young man's voice was calm, his expression far away, as if he were once more under that foreign sky full of stars.
Harry and Ron both looked tense. Just then, someone knocked on the compartment door.
A round-faced boy stood there with tears in his eyes. He sniffled and asked, "Sorry, I just wanted to ask… have you seen my toad?"
Harry and Ron shook their heads at once. Right now they just wanted this uninvited guest to go away as quickly as possible—the young man's story was just about to reach a turning point. This was the best bit.
But the young man beckoned the boy inside. "Let me try. What's your name?"
"Neville. Neville Longbottom, sir."
"Very well then. Neville's toad, fly here."
The young man flicked his hand. There was a sudden clatter out in the corridor, and a toad came hurtling along like a pinball, bounced off something, and landed neatly in the young man's palm. He handed it back to Neville.
"There you go, your toad. Now, are you going back to your compartment, or staying here? I was in the middle of a story."
...
Those footsteps roaming in the night belonged to a sizeable band of thieves, forty or fifty strong, all of them well armed.
The man in charge of the caravan, a young Nord named Bjorlam, stepped forward bravely to face them.
"Friends, what have you come for?" he asked. "The road beneath our feet, or the money in our hands?"
The bandit leader was a burly Orc. In their people's tradition, most males ended up in dubious lines of work: in each stronghold only the chief had the right to take mates, and any other Orc who came of age without successfully challenging the chief would be driven out.
Alone, with nowhere to go but carrying a body full of strength, it was only natural to fall into that most ancient of trades that required no capital.
"Hand over some of your money and you can pass," the Orc leader said.
"How much do you want?" Bjorlam asked.
"One third of whatever each of you is carrying."
There were seventeen people in the caravan, plus three hired guards. Faced with this roving outlaw band, everyone could only chalk it up to bad luck. One by one, they handed over a third of what they owned. When it was Skyl's turn, the wizard addressed the bandit chief.
"You want one third of my wealth, is that right?"
"That's right. Everyone pays."
"So if I had three gold coins, you'd want one of them."
"Exactly. Even if you only had a single copper, you'd have to split it into thirds."
"And if I had thirty thousand gold coins, you'd want ten thousand. If I had three mountains of gold, you'd take one of them."
"Ah, you're wasting time—but yes, that's how it works."
"All right then. Come and take it. I'm ready to hand over one third of my wealth."
Skyl pointed at a boulder by the roadside, heavy as a yak. Under the light of the twin moons and the stars, it shimmered with a gorgeous golden glow.
"You're a wizard! You can make gold!" the bandits shouted.
"That's only one third of my wealth," Skyl said mildly. He pointed at a flowering berry bush; it too turned to solid gold.
The bandits went mad, flinging themselves at the gold.
Skyl kept pointing at things around them. Everything his finger touched turned to gold—bushes, pine trees, heaps of grass, the canvas of tents. Every bandit had thrown himself on some glittering treasure. Only the bandit chief stayed where he was, staring fixedly at Skyl's hand.
"That finger of yours," he growled, "I want a third of that as well."
Before he had even finished speaking, Skyl swept his hand through the air. All the gold instantly transformed into ropes, which snapped tight around the unsuspecting bandits and bound them fast.
Kliman let out a battle cry like rolling thunder and charged with his shield raised, smashing the Orc leader to the ground. Sven and Faendal leapt in after him.
Faendal pinned the bandit's arms. Kliman sat on his legs. Sven drew a dagger and drove it through a gap in the armor and into the Orc's throat. The Orc bucked like an enraged bull, flinging all three of them off, then staggered away into the darkness, clutching his neck. He managed only two steps before he fell on the glittering bank of the White River.