'I used to be an adventurer like you,' the guard said jovially, leaning against the gatehouse wall, arms akimbo 'but then I took an arrow to the-'

'Don't tell me,' Gunnard muttered, busying himself adjusting the girth of his mule's tack 'to the knee, yes?'

The guard paused, and slowly swung the face-plate of his helmet up. A weathered, smiling face, thickly moustached with greying stubble was revealed. What was also revealed was the man's right eye; milky-white with glaucoma, rough scar tissue webbed across the socket.

'Not quite.'

Gunnard paused, preparing an apology, but the guard merely took off the helmet and rubbed at some hitherto unnoticed smear on the gleaming steel.

'Don't worry about it lad. Guarding in Helgen is so easy that I could do it blind and one-armed. The Stormcloaks don't stray into the Southern Passes from the Rift often, especially not at this time of year. People in these parts are too busy with the harvest to bother keeping the old grievances going, for a little while at least. And for everything else in a guard's life, one eye serves well enough.'

Gunnard began to arrange saddlebags and panniers, filling them up with the skins and dried meats he had bought the day before from the trappers in the surrounding mountains. 'Well, in truth, I'm no adventurer. I'm a peddler – trouble and I are, I thank the Eight, not closely acquainted.'

The guard pointed to the scabbard that hung from Gunnard's belt.

'But you look like you've got a good weapon there. It's a shame to waste it, no?'

'This? This is my father's blade.'

'Ah!' the guard said reverentially 'And what did he do with that? Did he make his living cutting down bandits and footpads for bounties? Did he protect his farm from goblins and wild beasts, or defeat a challenger for your mother's hand?'

Gunnard shrugged. 'Mostly he cut down a practice dummy at the city barracks. He was a tavern keeper down south, but liked to keep his sword-arm in practice. It's useful for the odd job, and I don't know how else I would use it. I'm not much of a swordsman.'

The guard held out his hand. Reluctantly, Gunnard drew the sword and passed it to the older man, who weighed it thoughtfully, examined the blade with care and took a few practice swipes, which were accompanied by a satisfying whirring sound.

'I feel a bit of a fraud really, carrying it around,' Gunnard went on, by way of something to say 'but I suppose it's better to have it than not-'

The guard whirled around and brought the blade down on a heavy baulk of timber that lay by the guardhouse door. There was a crunch as the sword embedded itself deep in the wood. The guard braced one foot on it and tugged the sword free with a grunt of exertion. Gunnard stood still, looking wonderingly at this mad old man.

'Not even dulled,' the guard said thoughtfully 'How often do you sharpen this blade?'

'Sharpen it?' Gunnard flinched slightly as the man looked up sharply at him 'Oh, I…not for a while now. Er. Last year? Perhaps? Is that bad?'

The guard smiled again and winked, as if to say, 'you really don't know a lot about swords, do you?'

Gunnard received the sword back, feeling a little foolish. He checked the straps once last time, then gathered up the loose ends of the mule's bridle. The guard unlocked the gate and stood to one side to let him pass. As Gunnard did so, the guard beamed at him.

'Take it from me, a sword that needs no sharpening is a valuable thing indeed. Use it well, and it'll look after you. Think on that.'

Gunnard was about to reply when a shout came up from a nearby watchtower.

'They've captured Ulfric Stormcloak! The traitor of Skyrim is in Imperial hands!'

Gunnard watched, rooted to the spot, as the cart bearing Ulfric Stormcloak and a dejected group of his followers trundled past him through the gate. The guard had vanished in the commotion that greeted them. Unnoticed, Gunnard and his mule crept away from the settlement and onto the road, and soon Helgen was lost among the pine trees of the forest.

As he walked, Gunnard's confusion and embarrassment gave way to annoyance. How that old man had the gall to try to teach him a lesson about his own sword, he couldn't understand. Just because he hadn't noticed that it never needed sharpening, did that make him an imbecile? Certainly not; it just meant he had more on his mind than swords and shields and bloodlust, unlike every other Nord. By the Eight, how he missed Cyrodiil, with its cosmopolitan culture and good opportunities for trade. Even with all the problems of the last few centuries, a man could still make money there. Here, it was barely enough to keep body and soul together…

Something else occurred to him. He stopped, the mule patiently stopping with him. He drew the sword and looked at it, testing the edge with his thumb. A sword that needs no sharpening is a valuable thing eh? Well well well…

This could be a stroke of luck. If what the old guard had said was true, this sword must be worth a good deal. He could go to Whiterun, sell the wretched thing and join a caravan heading back to the Imperial City. In fact, if he were lucky enough (or if the sword was worth enough) he might be able to set himself up as a merchant there. His mind coloured with images of salutations exchanged with his fellow citizens, a town house, a prosperous business, fine clothes, plenty of food…

Well, that was decided. He'd go to Whiterun, that big smelly midden of a place (hardly to be called a city at all) and sell the sword. An excellent plan. He started forward excitedly, replaying those images in his mind.

The mule whickered softly at his back. The sweeping of a shadow across his path made him look up suddenly.