18 Last Seed, 4E 201, Southwest of Riverwood

The hunter eased out from behind his cover, slowly and silently, just enough to get a clear glimpse of his target.

One bandit. Half-drunk, from the look of him.

Arrow to the string of the cheap longbow. Pull, slow and steady, to the optimum draw. Carefully control the breath. A moment of hyper-awareness: sunlight, the scent of mountain flowers, a cool breeze wafting down from the Throat of the World.

Release.

At the last moment, the bandit fumbled the ceramic bottle of ale from which he had been swilling. It fell. The bandit made a sudden futile grab, and cursed as it spilled most of its contents on the ground.

The arrow struck the stone wall where its target had been standing moments before, and rebounded with a sharp tick.

The bandit stared stupidly . . . but only for an instant.

Talos best and most mighty, thought the hunter in disgust. Not quite drunk enough.

The bandit managed one querulous shout of alarm, and then seventeen stone of armored swordsman erupted out of the nearby brush and attacked.

Ivar Ragnarsson knew the dangers of a fair fight against another armed man. He therefore made it a rule never to fight fairly if he could possibly avoid it. An attack out of ambush constituted a very good start.

The bandit slashed with a sword, but the blow only wasted its energy with a solid thump against Ivar's shield. Then the iron shield-boss exploded into his face and shattered his jaw. All thought of defense gone for a moment, he put up no resistance to the vicious stabbing thrust that tore out his guts.

Ivar listened for a few moments, heard nothing. Then he carefully eased open the wooden doors the bandit had been guarding, and descended into the mine behind them.

He soon discovered that the bandits working the old iron mine had no concept of proper security. In the legions they would have been flogged within an inch of their lives for such laxity.

"Do you hear something?"

"Relax. There's a guard at the front door, remember? Not to mention that deadfall trap."

Ivar, who had seen the deadfall trap and bypassed its tripwire, charged out of the darkness. After a few moments of considerable violence, he stepped over two bodies and moved on.

"Hey. The bridge is down. I thought we put a guard on the front door."

"Yes. Maybe it's Hrolf and Ingvar coming in for their shift in the mine."

"I don't know. I don't see them."

Ivar, who had lowered the bridge, leaped out of ambush. More violence followed.

The mine itself ended in a large open space, with water and sunlight pouring down from above. Ivar could put away his sword, bring out the cheap longbow once again, and take plenty of time to set up his shots. A female bandit clutched helplessly at the arrow sprouting from between her breasts, and then topped off a crude catwalk into the water below. A second bandit emerged from a tunnel to see what had happened, and earned an arrow in the eye for his trouble.

After several minutes of careful listening, Ivar put away his weapons and sighed in disgust.

That evening he returned to Alvor's smithy, laden with gear.

"I see you had good luck," said the smith, as his guest laid out the day's loot. Pieces of leather armor, iron daggers and swords, a steel mace that had dented Ivar's shield and numbed his arm for several minutes.

"No luck was involved," said Ivar. "The bandits were stupid. In Cyrodiil they wouldn't have survived a week."

"Then your luck was to meet stupid bandits."

Ivar snorted in amusement. "Can you use these?"

"Sure. Cheap stuff, most of it, but I can sell it to people who pass by on the road. Or melt down the metal for nails and horseshoes. I'll give you a hundred septims for the lot."

Ivar nodded in agreement. "Plenty of good ore left in the mine, too. I brought a few pigs that the bandits had made. Mind if I use some of that to show you the quality of my work?"

"Go ahead." Alvor examined his guest with a practiced eye. "You have guild sanction?"

"I served my time as prentice to my father. Had a journeyman's license, but that got lost after he died and I had to start traveling quick."

"We aren't quite so formal in Skyrim. Satisfy me that you know which end of the hammer to hold and I'll give you a journeyman's mark. You might have to go to one of the big towns, if you want to find enough master-smiths to elevate you."

"I'm in no hurry."

"You know, there are more bandits around here. Civil war has driven a lot of masterless men and women into the hills. They might be stupid too."

"Maybe I'll go hunting," said Ivar. "Not my usual line of work, but if it brings in loot I can sell and ore for the forge . . ."

"Until you go to Whiterun." Alvor frowned at his guest. "I wish you would think about that. You could get word to the jarl. You could meet some master smiths too. Eorlund Gray-Mane has forgotten more about smith-craft than I ever learned."

"I'm in no hurry," said Ivar once more. "I'm not so sure I see the need. The dragon flew off and there's been no sign of him since."

"He'll be back soon enough. There some reason you don't want to go to Whiterun, where you were born?"

Ivar grunted. "Whiterun means too many people, and the jarl's guards sticking their noses into my business, and the civil war, and who knows what other sort of filthy politics going on. I like Riverwood. It's quiet. I could settle down here. If there's not enough smith-work for both of us, then I could find something else to do."

"Nothing wrong with that, I suppose," Alvor sighed. "For now."