Skyl's account of his years as a student was full of long, flowing descriptions of the landscape and sights along the road. The scenery of Skyrim really was something special.
But what truly held everyone's attention was how he ran into danger, and how he used magic to deal with his enemies. Those were the tales that made children with no experience of the wider world listen with bated breath.
"As a wizard, you have to use your imagination to defeat your enemies. Imagination is the greatest miracle there is, and it's the most fundamental quality in a wizard's combat training."
Harry muttered under his breath, "You also said a wizard ought to duel with a greatsword."
"That's imagination too. Don't you think a close-combat mage is cool? It fits my image of what a mage should be. And when your enemies think you're frail and helpless, that's when they'll lose to your sword."
Ron frowned, thinking hard. "I've never heard of any wizard who actually uses a sword."
"In fact, there was once a powerful wizard who did use a sword as his weapon. One of the founders of Hogwarts, actually—the one Gryffindor House is named after."
The voice didn't belong to Skyl. It came from the doorway of the compartment: a girl with bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth, speaking very fast and very sharply. She turned to Neville.
"Did you find your toad?"
"Yes. This gentleman helped me."
Skyl suddenly chuckled. "Oh, kind young lady, do come in. Look, the umbrella you lent me is right here." He held up the long-handled umbrella, returning it, and with it that chance encounter back at Big Dog Square.
"You're a wizard too? You must be an upper-year student. You can keep that umbrella; I brought a spare. By the way, I'm Hermione Granger. I've been helping Neville look for his toad—someone said they saw a toad fly in this direction. Your door wasn't closed, and I happened to overhear him saying there were no sword-wielding wizards. Gryffindor's exploits are very well known; I read about them in Hogwarts: A History."
"Ron Weasley." "Harry Potter."
The two boys looked at each other; both of them found this girl so talkative it was almost scary.
"Oh, so you're Harry Potter? I know all about you! Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century—all of them mention you."
Harry was startled. He knew he was famous, but he hadn't realized he was the sort of person who'd already been written into books. The thought made him both uneasy and pleased. Right now, though, he just wanted to interrupt this girl's endless talking, because Skyl's story had him completely hooked.
Even so, Harry was a polite child. He patiently listened as Hermione explained how she had gathered all the school textbooks and related books, how she'd gone through them in advance—she had practically memorized the lot. Terrifying, honestly.
Harry realized that she was exactly the type who cared deeply about grades and was extremely ambitious. Every class, every school, every person's life as a student had someone like that.
While others were still full of confusion, shyness, or fear about the future, people like her seemed afraid of nothing, plunging enthusiastically into socializing, working toward a goal without caring whether others welcomed them or not. And students like that usually didn't have many friends.
Harry didn't dislike Hermione; he knew this kind of model student would never bully him. But he couldn't say he liked her either—she simply talked too much. Whoever became her friend in future was bound to be nagged to the brink of a nervous breakdown.
Ron spoke up first. His face went red, and he anxiously cut across Hermione's speech.
"You've said enough. Please be quiet for a bit, we're trying to listen to a story."
Hermione froze, then realized she'd overstepped. Her cheeks flared hot, but the boys were no longer looking at her; all their eyes were fixed hopefully on Skyl.
"Miss Granger, why don't you sit down?" Skyl said. "If you're not in a hurry, you're very welcome to stay and listen to me chat."
...
"There's a book called An Explorer's Guide to Skyrim," Skyl went on. "It says that in Skyrim there are ancient structures called the Stones of Fate. They're tall standing stones carved with constellations, like long, upright olives. Legend has it that if you touch one, you'll be granted mysterious power."
He picked up the thread of the story where he'd left off.
"It was the second day after we'd run into those bandits, right around noon. The caravan stopped to rest, and everyone went off in little groups to collect firewood so we could light the campfire."
The driver, Bjorlam, lit his pipe and gestured toward a low hill northeast of the road.
"See the stone arches on that hill?" he told Skyl. "Magnificent, aren't they? Follow the path up and you'll find the Ritual Stone at the top. My dad told me that stone holds the secrets of death and darkness. Creepy folk like to lurk up there."
Skyl made a thoughtful noise. The young guardsman looked at him in surprise.
"You're interested in those stones?"
"Well, to be honest, yes. Let's go and have a look. I want to see if I can activate the standing stone."
Sven laughed. "I knew it. Mysterious mages can never resist these old legends."
The four of them climbed the little hill where the Ritual Stone stood. The ancient Nord steps had been swallowed by the slope, leaving only fragments showing above the earth. The ruins on this land were as old and weathered as the land itself.
They passed through ring after ring of monoliths—tall, rough stone doorways made from three or four great slabs—and at last reached the summit, only to find that a suspicious "guest" was already there.
It was a strange-looking Breton, pale-faced and wrapped in a black-dyed linen robe. He stank of something foul. Standing at the entrance of the altar, he blocked their way.
Faendal whispered, "Look at his bedroll."
The Breton's bedroll was smeared with soil and moss stains, and it bulged as if someone were lying inside it.
"Don't come any closer," the Breton said, his tone hard and cold.
Skyl raised a hand slightly to show he held no weapon. "We're just here to look at the sights. Whatever it is you're doing has nothing to do with us."
"Can't you see this place is already taken?!"
The young guardsman sniffed, his eyes sweeping up and down the man's body before coming to rest on his hands—splattered with flecks of mud and some suspicious black grime.
"That's enough! Looks like you really do need to be taught a lesson!"
The Breton suddenly raised his hand. A jet of flame shot straight from his palm, striking at Kliman like a hunting serpent.
Faendal had already thrown a dagger the instant before the Breton attacked. The cold blade flashed like lightning, but when it hit the Breton's robes it landed with a dull thump instead of a tearing slice, as if it had struck solid wood. The man had secretly cast Oakflesh on himself in advance.
Kliman charged with his shield up. The flames seared every bit of exposed skin, leaving it blackened and blistered. With a roar, he slammed into the mage and knocked him flat.
Skyl pointed at the ground. "Prison!"
The stone altar beneath the Breton softened into muck. Waves of liquid earth surged up and over him, then hardened back into solid rock.
Just then Sven screamed. "Dead man! The dead man in the bedroll's getting up!"
An ancient Nord corpse in armor tore open the fur sleeping bag and lurched to its feet, drawing a hand axe from its belt as it staggered toward them.
"Aha, just as I thought—a tomb robber. A low-down necromancer," Kliman spat.
"Kill him quickly!" Faendal cried. He drew his bow and loosed an arrow at the reanimated draugr.
The Breton said nothing, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. His undead servant strode forward, axe swinging, driving Kliman back step by step. Faendal's arrow flew and pierced the ancient, dried-out skin of the draugr's cheek, but didn't sink deep enough into its skull. A dead thing's weak point wasn't its brain; the best way to defeat it was to kill the summoner.
Skyl spread his arms wide and shouted, "Great Wind!"
A gust like a small whirlwind slammed into the draugr, bowling its stiff-jointed body over and exposing the Breton again to their attacks. Gritting his teeth against the pain of his burns, Kliman drew his sword and hacked at the man's head. The skin, hard as wood and stone, finally split open. The Breton screamed in agony.
"I surrender!"
"Don't trust him," Skyl said curtly.
He swept his hand, and the scattered bedding on the ground warped and swelled into the shape of a great lion. The beast pounced on the Nordic draugr, pinning it under massive paws. Its enormous jaws closed on the shriveled neck and began to crunch and tear, making grisly cracking sounds.
Kliman hadn't been planning to hesitate anyway. While the Breton was still shrieking, he drove his sword straight through the man's skull.
The restless Nord draugr struggled twice more, then collapsed and crumbled into a heap of ash.
...
"Y-you killed a wizard?" Ron said. The red-haired boy looked both scared and excited. The other two listeners had gone white as sheets; they were so terrified they barely dared to breathe.
"In the wilds of Skyrim, killing is just part of the job," Skyl said with a shrug. "Once he desecrated a Nord ancestor's corpse and attacked innocent travelers, his death was already waiting in the dark, ready to harvest his wicked soul."