Elder Scrolls IV: Once and Future Archmage

Chapter 7: An Unwelcome Distraction

The crowd gasped in unison as the warrior garbed in red lost his footing and crashed roughly on the hard dirt. Seizing the opportunity, the second warrior – clothed in similar though green armor – quickly charged in. His heavy claymore raised high, the Green Team’s Nord chopped down hard.

Quick to react, however, the Red Team’s Redguard raised his shield arm in time to deflect the blow. While the maneuver saved his life, it was clear to all that the impact none-the-less jarred the man. Eager to be clear of a second attempt the Redguard rolled to his side and put some distance between him and his off-balanced opponent.

The stands cheered with elation as he rose to his feet once more and wove his heavy mace around in an impressive display. Obviously not about to let the momentary lapse of focus deter him the Redguard charged toward the Nord, shouting the whole time. Steel rang against steel as the two weapons clashed over and over again, and with each clang of metal the crowd’s cries rose even higher. Cheers and jeers shouted forth from the group as they called their words of encouragement or discouragement. Seeming to feed off their energy, the two combatants renewed their attacks with greater vigor.

Sweat, dust, and ale were the prevailing odors which assaulted the nostrils of any who had the presence of mind to be aware of them. The hot afternoon sun blazed down in full fury and it was a wonder the Arena’s seats were filled to capacity. None of the people there seemed to mind, however, as they continued to absorb themselves in the spectacle below them. All but one.

From his seat in the stands high above the battle below, Rolan turned away and shook his head. Unlike the many other patrons in attendance, he had no taste for Kvatch’s Arena. How a people that considered themselves civilized could stomach such displays of death and depravity for their own entertainment was beyond his comprehension.

In all other respects, Kvatch was a thriving beacon of Imperial civility and progress. Poverty and despair were all but unknown in the streets of the prosperous city. Recognized as one of the richest counties in all the Empire wealth was known in some form to most of its inhabitants and their generosity to their neighbors was equally great.

Wares brought in from Anvil were often shipped and sold in Kvatch’s ample merchant’s quarter – where a citizen, with the right amount of coin, could buy just about anything. Immigrants and travelers from the Gold Coast often used the city as a gathering point before venturing into the unknown regions of Colovia, the West Weald, or Heartlands. Several of the inns were designed to cater to such groupings and many citizens made a good living by leading or supplying caravans.

For visitors there were recreational activities of all kind, ranging from simple games of chance to the ever-infamous Arena. Princes and paupers alike were granted with a multitude of choices by which to occupy their free time. Through special dispensations from the Count, several of the taverns were allowed to serve alcohol well into the morning hours and were only too happy to take their turn in sponsoring various festivals occurring throughout the year.

Rolan was impressed with the city, although he had found several of the local preferences to be past his liking. Attlan, however, was more than happy with their current circumstances.

“YES!” the Breton mage shouted with glee.

Sitting beside the enlivened initiate, Rolan sighed.

“Grab him! Bite him! Rip his arm off… and… BEAT HIM! Beat him with his own arm!” Attlan shouted his instructions to the combatants.

Rolan was curious if he was directing his comments to a particular combatant or whomever happened to listen. It didn’t much matter what his friend shouted since similar cries were constantly erupting around them and were all drowned out in a general shouting ruckus. Unwilling to sit through another deaf-inducing afternoon, Rolan tugged on Attlan’s robes and informed him of his intentions to leave.

Not surprised at his friend’s actions, Attlan looked to Rolan briefly and nodded before turning his attention back to the spectacle below.

“YES!” he shouted again. “Now BITE HIM!!”

Rolan rolled his eyes at the words and headed down the stairs and away from the crowd. When he finally made his was out the Arena doors he was amazed that he could still hear the cries of the attendees even half way through the city.

Lost to his own thoughts, Rolan waded through the afternoon crowds as he continued his path away from the Arena. He narrowly avoided a collision with a rather attractive Bosmeri woman as his focus turned inward. For the last several days he had found himself troubled with the concerns of the near future. While he had enjoyed his time in Kvatch, for the most part, he was nonetheless troubled by the idea that his and Attlan’s time there would soon be coming to an end.

In less than a week’s time they would be taking the tests for advancement and likely continuing on to Anvil soon after. While a part of him relished the idea of returning to the home he had known most of his life, another part could not help but view their next destination with a degree of trepidation. Perhaps the problem was he did not truly feel as if Anvil was home any longer?

For nearly seven years he had not called the port town nor the Gold Coast his home. In that time he had been back only once and the few hours he had spent there were riddled with discomfort and distinct uneasiness. Truth be told, had he not known of the dangers his family faced on that day, chances were he would never have returned until circumstances forced the issue. The fact that he had not been back since then only solidified his belief.

True as the situation was, however, Rolan still wondered why he felt such reluctance to return.

He missed his family, that much was certain. It had pained him greatly to see their saddened faces as he prepared to return to Chorrol nearly two years ago. At the same time, though, he had to admit to feeling a sense of relief at his departure. Perhaps he felt a sense of freedom away from their watchful eyes that he could not have while in their presence?

It seemed foolish to think so, considering his family was the one group he needed to conceal nothing from. Or was that altogether true anymore?

His attention turned outward suddenly as he heard the idle chatter of two Imperial merchants. They were discussing the rumors Rolan had also heard of travelers who had embarked upon a holy pilgrimage to the wayshrines of the Divines. After the chapel attack in Anvil rumors had surfaced of a prophet who had been preaching a return of a great evil. Not long after, talk of adventurers answering the call of the Divines had sprouted. Rolan dismissed the tales. Every few years there seemed to be some great threat to the people if one believed in rumor.

While he had inquired as to the aftermath of the Anvil attack, none of the other mages had heard any solid facts in the matter. Most suspected it was the act of a summoning experiment gone awry, but Rolan wondered who would be performing such an experiment in a chapel of all places. If anything the sanctum of a Divine would prove a hindrance to such an endeavor.

He shrugged, dismissing the line of thought and continued on through the noisy crowds.

Dodging several wagons loaded with various wares and resisting the urge to peruse the items in the scattered shops and tables he was surprised to find himself before the Chapel of Akatosh. Rolan looked around in confusion and wondered what would have brought him there. A slow smile spread on his lips as he realized why he had unconsciously chosen this destination.

Opening one of the doors he stood in the archway for a moment and relished the cool wave of air that swept past him. Grateful for the momentary relief he stepped in before his stance could be considered loitering. With slow and quiet steps he came to stand before the main altar. Taking great care to show proper respect, he knelt low and said a silent prayer to the great dragon god.

After paying his respects, the mage stood and looked around the chapel. When he did not find the person he was looking for, Rolan caught the attention of Ilav Dralgoner, the chapel Primate, and came to stand beside the man. The Primate smiled at him, recognizing Rolan almost immediately.

“Pardon my interruption, Primate, but-“ Rolan began to say but was stopped by the other man’s upraised hand.

“Our Brother is not here at the moment, young magister,” Illav informed him. “He is outside the walls gathering ingredients for his potions.”

Smiling back at the peaceful man, Rolan nodded.

Feeling rather embarrassed, the mage stepped away and left the monk to his duties. In a few minutes time he was retrieving his mount from the stables and heading down the path to the Gold Road. He steered his horse towards the east, knowing the likely places to find his quarry. After almost an hour of riding, he finally spotted the monk’s own mount.

Dismounting, Rolan tied his horse to a nearby tree and looked around. Eventually he spotted the figure of a man crouched low among the foliage. He was busy inspecting the flora and did not notice the mage’s approach.

With a sly grin, Rolan deepened his voice and spoke, “Your valuables or your life!”

“Ah, but what one man holds valuable may seem worthless to another. While some hold trinkets in high esteem, there are those who see true worth in the knowledge of the mind. Perhaps one would even hold their life as their one true possession of value,” the unperturbed monk answered. “So that is really not a choice is it? And I would dare say if you were to leave with my gold, I would still be the richer man.”

Rolan chuckled at the priest’s words.

The other man turned then, and stood up to look the mage in the eyes. Smiling, he offered his hand. Although it was covered with a thin layer of dirt, Rolan shook it nonetheless.

“Hello, Rolan,” the priest greeted him warmly. “What brings a magister into the wildlands? Looking for flax?”

“A coincidence, perhaps?” Rolan shrugged.

“Really?” the priest asked.

“Actually, Brother Martin, I was hoping to speak with you,” Rolan answered after a pause.

Martin’s brow furrowed at the admission, “Oh, what for? Does something trouble you, my friend?”

“I was surprised to hear you were gathering alchemical ingredients again,” Rolan said, clumsily avoiding the question. “After the last incident I would have thought you had lost your taste for Alchemy.”

Instead of annoyance, Martin showed only patience.

“Yes, I suppose that would be understandable,” the older man smiled again and turned back to his work. “While the skill isn’t exactly coming naturally, I am nonetheless fascinated by it.”

Rolan rubbed the back of his neck as the awkwardness descended upon him. He looked to Martin’s hands as he was about to pick another flower.

“That one will not do you any good,” he blurted.

“Oh?” Martin turned around and raised his eyebrow. “Why is that?”

“The stem is too narrow,” he informed. “That means the flower is young and has not had time to develop the proper level of oils. If you feel the one next to it, you can tell that the stem is more solid and the coloring is brighter. It will give you a much better yield when mixed.”

“Is that so?” Martin was obviously impressed with his knowledge. “Is it the same with mushrooms?”

“With mushrooms, texture, and not thickness is more essential.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Grateful for the change of subject, Rolan spent the next few hours instructing Martin on the finer points of picking flowers… for Alchemy purposes. Much later, as the sun began to set, the two of them decided it would be better to spend the night outside the walls rather than make the trip back under the cover of darkness. Rolan took the opportunity to instruct Martin on the proper use of Alchemy equipment.

“So will you ever speak of it?” Martin asked after one of Rolan’s more lengthy explanation between the differences of retorts and alembics.

“Speak of what?” Rolan asked, looking up from one of his oldest reference tomes.

Looking the mage straight in the eyes, Martin said, “What brought you out into the middle of the Imperial Reserve looking for some fool priest.”

“Oh,” Rolan replied and set down his book.

When it became obvious Rolan was not about to speak, Martin prompted the younger man.

“It was obvious that something has been bothering you of late, my friend,” he said with infinite patience. “If there is anything I can do to alleviate your concerns, I will. But it would help to know what is bothering you.”

“I only wish I knew,” the mage admitted. “I have come to value your advice, my friend, and I must admit that was the main factor in my decision to venture from the walls today.”

“Does this have anything to do with your notorious companion?”

“Attlan?” Rolan chuckled. “No, by the grace of the Nine he has been occupied with the diversions of the city far too often to involve us in any misguided activities. It is a welcome reprieve, I must admit.”

“Your studies, perhaps?”

Rolan thought on that for a moment before answering, “Perhaps.”

He considered his words before continuing.

“As you may know my service to the Kvatch guildhall will be coming to an end soon.”

Martin nodded, “Yes, I had heard you were preparing to take the examinations for your recommendation.”

“While perhaps some degree of my disconcertion has arisen from that looming event, I find my thoughts falling inevitably to what will succeed that.”

Martin crooked his head as he considered Rolan’s words.

Rubbing his forehead in frustration, and wishing his mind would simply shut up, Rolan tried to reason through his own emotions.

“Is the thought of returning to Anvil causing you distress?” the priest asked. “Often times, the thought seeing home after a long absence can give rise to feelings of discomfort.”

“I had thought on that,” Rolan nodded. “But the more I reflect, the more I feel it is my time after that is the source.”

Martin’s eyebrows perked up as he said, “The Arcane University?”

Hesitantly, Rolan nodded again.

“Why… what would worry you so at entering the University?” the Imperial man asked. “After spending nearly seven years upon your journey for admittance you are now beginning to doubt yourself?”

Rolan could hardly believe it had been so long. Though there were times he felt as if he and Attlan had spent an eternity on their journey for the most part their time together seemed so short. It was difficult for his mind to fathom, that so much time had passed since they had begun their endeavor. Furthermore, it seemed even longer since he had thought of himself as an individual and not one-half of a pair.

Once more, the disturbed mage considered his words before speaking.

“It is… a sensation which has been ever present in my mind, although, until now, not on a conscious level,” he muttered, not really understanding the words himself.

“What sort of sensation?” Martin prompted.

Even as the priest began to ask the question, Rolan was shaking his head in frustration.

“I do not know,” he admitted grudgingly, “and it irritates me. There is no reason for it, but every time I think upon entering the Arcane University… a great sadness envelops me. It is as if I am hearing a cry of warning, but over an incredible distance.”

“A foretelling?”

Rolan shook his head again, “I do not have the power of foretelling. None in my family ever has.”

“Ah, but all magisters are sensitive to such things to one degree or another. It is impossible not to be and still weave magicka to our wills. In doing so we gain a deeper understanding of both the physical and spiritual world. Often times, at moments of great crisis, even those that have yet occurred echoes are sent out through the mystical world. In rare cases, those who are especially sensitive to such vibrations are able to detect them, faint though they may be.”

“Do you possess such abilities?” Rolan asked with interest.

Martin paused a moment before nodding, “Ever since I was a child I have had… dreams. Some which have come to pass and others… perhaps in time.”

“But I have never had dreams of such a nature. My trepidation is merely an impression. Much like the sensation of the air in the hours before a storm. Vague and impressionless, but tangible nonetheless,” Rolan rubbed the back of his neck as he finished his statement.

“Perhaps at this point in your teachings that is all you are capable of sensing. In time it may become more vivid and certain, but do not discount your instincts simply because you do not understand the message. Trust in yourself. It could be that your inner senses are detecting something that your conscious mind has overlooked.”

Rolan considered the priest’s words carefully.

Could it be that his own senses were aware on a level beyond his normal comprehension? With all that he had learned of magic in the last few years Rolan knew enough to discount nothing as impossible. If it were true… then what were they trying to tell him?

Again, he felt the sense of melancholy wash over him as he thought about the future. It focused slightly as he dwelled on the University, but quickly swept away like smoke in a breeze. Then it was gone.

Something was going to happen. There was a storm on the horizon and, in time, it would rain down its fury and threaten to sweep clear all that he held close to him. He knew it. Some how, in some way, he knew.

“Attlan,” he said aloud, but did not know why.

“Yes?” a voice called out from the shadows behind him.

Turning in surprise, the Breton mage watched as his half-Altmer friend emerged into the dim light of the fire. Absently, his friend tossed a cloth-wrapped bundle into his hands. With a raised eyebrow Rolan unraveled the package to find an assortment of sweet cakes and rolls. Looking up at his companion he asked the obvious question in silence.

“Let’s just say my winnings were… generous, today,” Attlan declared with a wide grin.

“How did you find me?” Rolan asked.

“You keep asking me that,” Attlan mocked as he rolled his eyes and settled down next to him.

“And you never answer.”

“And yet you continue to ask!”

Across the fire, Martin laughed softly.

Obviously feeling generous that evening, Attlan lifted one of the rolls and offered it to the priest. Nodding in acceptance, Martin lifted his hands ready to catch the pastry.

“Wait, are priests allowed to eat sweets? I thought you were all supposed to be pious and such,” Attlan asked.

“Attlan!” Rolan shouted as he choked on a mouthful of cake.

Ever patient, however, Martin only laughed before saying, “I do not think Akatosh would mind a minor indulgence. Besides, such delicacies were a part of my personal history, and as Akatosh is a proponent of honoring our history by consuming these pastries I am, in a sense, honoring Akatosh.”

His grin wider than ever, Attlan tossed over a few of the sweet rolls before adding, “I like the way you think, good sir.”

The three of them enjoyed their dessert in silence before Attlan spoke again.

“So were you overanalyzing something again?” he asked.

“I was not overanalyzing,” Rolan grumbled.

“Sure you weren’t,” Attlan rolled his eyes. “Face it, Rolan, if it weren’t for me, you would practically live in your own head.”

“That is not true,” Rolan contended.

“Isn’t it?”

Rolan looked away for a moment and considered his friend’s words. He had to admit his life would be much different had he never met the other mage. Many of the more memorable moments of the last few years were often the result of Attlan’s suggestion or ill-inspired action. As much as Rolan groaned at the thought of one of his friend’s “adventures” it was likely due to their experiences that his magical skills had expanded as much as they had. Even their instructors had commented upon Attlan and his knowledge of combative magic. Some had come to them for advice before venturing into their own risky activities.

“You’re doing it again!” Attlan groaned.

“What?!” Rolan complained.

“You’re over-analyzing!”

Dropping his head into his hand, Rolan began to laugh as he realized the truth of Attlan’s words.

“It’s your fault!” he accused.

“Me?!” Attlan rose an eyebrow. “How is this my fault?”

“Because…” Rolan quickly fought to find some reason to blame the other mage, “because we have hardly left the city walls in the last few months! And… I have become bored.”

He couldn’t tell if Attlan was going to laugh or punch him… or do both.

“With all that griping you did after Derelict Mine? I thought you said you didn’t want to ever go adventuring again?”

“Well…” Rolan hated it when his friend used facts and logic against him. “Our escapades were a welcome distraction. Without any outward activity my natural instinct is to become introspective.”

“So you’re restless and it’s my fault?” Attlan laughed.

“Yes,” Rolan answered and joined in his mirth. “Besides the experiences themselves, we had a tendency to acquire interesting artifacts which would occupy my time afterwards.”

As Attlan chewed on another mouthful of cake he chortled, “What’s the point of finding artifacts when you’re only going to give them away?!”

It was Rolan’s turn to raise an eyebrow at the question. After only a moment’s thought, however, he realized what Attlan was referring to.

“One time!” Rolan shouted as he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yes!” his friend exclaimed as he shook his head. “Only one time!”

“Well, this sounds like an interesting story,” Martin prompted.

“Oh, it is!” Attlan cried.

Sighing heavily, Rolan grumbled, “No, it is not.”

“Yes, it is!” Attlan asserted.

Grinning ear to ear, Martin settled himself and leaned in to hear the tale.

Attlan began his recounting, “It was in an Ayleid ruin outside of Bruma. We risked life and limb fighting a den of vampires-“

“And why exactly did we have to risk life and limb?” Rolan asked in a sardonic tone.

“Don’t change the subject,” Attlan grumbled. “Anyhow, there were over twenty of them.”

“Or seven,” Rolan corrected.

“Would you like to tell this story?!” Attlan complained.

“Yes,” Rolan quickly answered. “Perhaps then it would have some degree of truth to it!”

“You have no appreciation for narrative, do you? As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted, we wade through an entire den of over thirty vampires with sharp fangs dripping with their unsavory lust for our blood-“

Tempted as Rolan was to mention that they had, in fact, fed prior to their arrival, he managed to stay his mouth. Instead, he smiled and shook his head profusely.

“Barely escaping with our lives, and with more of their coven on the way, we searched frantically for the treasure that had brought us into their lair. After finding the artifact, we also discovered a few enchanted trinkets that our vampire friends were going to have no further use of. One of which happened to be an enchanted Mithril tiara. Of course we’ll never know just what kind of enchantment it contained since after returning to Bruma with the spoils of our conquest, Mr. Charity here gives the tiara away!”

“You gave away a valuable enchanted item? To whom?” Martin asked. “A lady love, perhaps?”

“Were you in love with her, Rolan?” Attlan asked with eyes widened in horror. “Because if you were…”

“She was a street urchin,” Rolan explained, “only a child.”

“I noticed you didn’t answer my question,” Attlan accused with feigned disgust.

After gifting his friend with a vulgar hand gesture Rolan said, “Don’t be crude, Attlan.”

“Says the man with an extended finger,” his friend snorted.

Chuckling from across the fire, Martin asked, “An act of compassion?”

Rolan considered before answering, “She reminded me of my own sister when she was young. Except… she looked so sad. Her clothes were faded from being worn for so long and as she stood there shivering in the cold Bruma air I could not help but feel something. I had to do something. If even for a moment, I wanted to bring a smile to her sad face.”

“Oh she smiled, alright,” Attlan scoffed. “Probably went and bragged to her friends how her puppy eyes gained her a prize worth more than most of the merchants in the city could ever pay.”

“I don’t think so,” Rolan argued. “I never saw her again after that day, but a part of me likes to think that she has it still. And perhaps, at moments of reflection, or despair, she looks upon it and remembers the kindness of a stranger. I would like to hope that in that moment, even if just for a moment, she smiles at that day so long ago.”

They all sat silent for a moment, and Rolan found his eyes drifting up to the twin moons high in the night sky. Was she even alive? Nearly four years had passed since that day. His attempts at learning the girl’s identity had met with failure as none of the local residents ever seemed to remember her. It was easy enough for a child such as her to go unnoticed, he supposed. Rolan found his musings interrupted as Attlan embraced him in a vicious hug and began to weep openly and loudly.

“That was beautiful!” he shouted in an obviously mocking tone. “I think… I think I love you, Rolan!”

Anger rising in him, Rolan tried to fight off his annoying friend’s attentions.

“Argh, get off me, you ass!” Rolan shouted.

“Yes!” Attlan cried and continued to force a kiss upon his friend’s lips. “I am your ass, Rolan! And your ass loves you!”

Even Martin laughed at the foolish declaration.

“Now do you see why I am troubled so?” Rolan groaned.

Martin nodded, “I must admit, simply looking at you two is disturbing enough.”

Attlan only laughed.

Bothered as he was by his demented friend’s juvenile behavior, Rolan had to admit that he was feeling much better than he had earlier. Truth be told, it had always been Attlan’s foolishness and troublesome antics that pulled him from his introverted inspections. Not for the first time, he wondered just how different his life would be like without the other mage. Perhaps a bit more sane, but not nearly as interesting. For some reason, wherever Attlan went, trouble seemed to follow.

As if on cue, five figures emerged from the darkness and into the firelight. They were of varying races and wore differing types of armor, but all shared one commonality… they had their swords drawn and an ill look about them.

Immediately, Attlan ceased his actions and Martin’s face quickly sobered.

“Well, well, well,” one of the men – an Imperial from his accent – spoke, “what have we here? A few frilly merchants out for some fun with the boys?”

A Redguard, holding a finely forged Ebony sword added, “You know, it’s dangerous to go out at night. There are all sorts of unsavory folks about in the dark unknown.”

“Your money or your lives, gentlemen,” an Argonian’s raspy voice said.

Attlan’s expression was one of amusement – to which Rolan felt his heart sink. With their weapons stowed away, Rolan wondered what could be causing the confidence in his friend. Apparently Attlan had more faith in their skills than he did.

“You’ve wandered into the wrong camp tonight, good sirs,” Attlan boasted with a grim grin.

The five men shared a round of laughter.

“To disturb the dinner of the Two Fool Bretons is a grave offense,” Attlan continued, undaunted.

Two of the men stopped laughing immediately. Their companions, obviously confused, lowered their mirth as one of them – a Dunmer with steel armor – locked eyes with his Imperial companion. The pair were the only ones to take a step back as their friend’s continued to close the circle.

Even Rolan was taken aback at the men’s reactions. Had Attlan and he actually garnered a reputation?!

Seizing the moment, Attlan quickly stood up and made a show of dusting himself off. As he did so his eyes caught Rolan’s and shut tightly once before opening again. Understanding the silent message, he relayed the sentiment to Martin by rubbing his hand over his eyes after catching the priest’s attention. His friend’s skill with Illusion was impressive, and Rolan only hoped Martin understood what was coming.

“You’re right, though, good sir,” Attlan said to the Redguard. “It is rather dark.”

Rolan immediately turned away and shut his eyes as Attlan unleashed a powerful Light spell. In unison the five men cried out as their eyes were burned by the sudden flare.

Although the spell quickly dissipated it’s effects were long lasting and Rolan turned the full force of his own magic upon the group. With his own magicka reserves spent by the Light spell, Attlan fell to his knees in exhaustion. For a moment Rolan was overcome with emotion that his friend trusted him to such a degree that he had spent himself for the distraction. It was a sacrifice he would not allow to go in vain as Rolan fired off several blasts of powerful Frost magic at each of the bandits. Even Martin lent his skills in Destruction to the task once he had recovered.

Within minutes, the five men were laying flat on their backs. Two were dead, and the other three were badly injured from Martin and Rolan’s attacks. After regaining some of his composure, Attlan rose up and stumbled over to the fallen Argonian.

“Now,” he heard Attlan say between gasps, “I believe… the wager was… your money… or your lives?”

Rolan watched aghast as the sentient reptile inched his fingers toward a small bundle at his belt. With a few clumsy tugs, he managed to pull the pouch free before slowly offering it up to the mage. As Attlan collected similar remunerations from the other fallen thieves Martin caught Rolan’s attention by pointing to the south.

He looked up to see two men bearing torches on horseback charging towards them. When they neared he realized that they wore the armor of the Imperial Legion. The two soldiers pulled up and dismounted, their weapons drawn.

“Brother Martin,” one of the men called out, “we saw the light from the road to the south. What has happened here?”

“These men tried to rob two mages of the Guild and a servant of Akatosh,” Attlan proclaimed. “But they knew not with whom they stood.”

Looking Rolan straight in the eye, Martin asked, “Is this what you call a welcome distraction?”

Scratching his head, Rolan grinned and shrugged.