Chapter Four

Gort peeped around the tree trunk, scanning the road and sky before he cautiously stepped out from beneath the protective cover of the forest canopy. It had taken over an hour to find the road again and by that time the heat of the noon sun was beginning to dissipate. Gort had run further than he thought in his mindless terror. Now there was no sign of the dragon, no sign that any violence had occurred. To his astonishment Gort noticed a figure on the Northern horizon. He waited for a moment, squinting. Was it the old man? It was- as he neared Gort could make out a stick in his hand, which he was using as a cane to tap the ground in front of and beside him. He moved with stilted, shuffling steps. Dark stains smeared his robe at the knees, chest, and on his sleeves. Flakes of dirt were caught in his long beard.

He's blind, Gort realized. The revelation was shocking, but fortuitous. The man would not know who Gort was. He waited for the Breton to come nearer, anxiously glancing up at the sky every few moments. What he really wanted to do was run without stopping until he reached Leyawiin, but it was his fault that this man had lost his horses and gear. Gort couldn't just leave him. He sat down at the edge of the road to wait, rehearsing in his mind what he would say. Unfortunately, he never got the chance.

"Good afternoon, stranger," the man said as he was still several feet off, tilting his head and looking in Gort's general direction. He had stopped walking and rested his weight against the stick he carried, a sheen of perspiration coating his face. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and licked his lips, then exhaled laboriously. He seemed to be exhausted.

"Uh, hello Mister," Gort blurted, scrambling to his feet. He wondered how the man knew he was there. "I saw you coming, and... what happened? You got blood all over you..." Gort's voice trembled. What a bastard I am, playing dumb to the man I tried to rob..

The man's face hardened, thin lips pulled into a taut line. For a second Gort doubted his blindness. The Breton appeared to be looking straight at him, examining him with a critical eye. Then he exhaled and his face fell slack, as if suddenly too weary to care about anything.

"I was attacked by bandits, my companion murdered. Horses and luggage lost. I don't suppose you have water?" he asked, voice totally devoid of emotion. He leaned against the branch he carried. Gort fumbled for the canteen tied to his belt and clanked a few steps toward the man. He stupidly held the water out for a moment before he remembered.

"Right here," he said, touching the canteen to one of the man's hands. Wordlessly the Breton shifted his weight away from his stick so that he could uncork the leather flask. He drank greedily, wincing at the pain caused by his hurried gulps. It was nearly empty when he handed the canteen back for Gort to take.

"Thank you," The Breton said, and then crinkled his nose. "You stink like an Orc, son. What in the name of the Divines are you doing out here?"

The casual insult sent a jolt up Gort's spine.

"I am an Orc, Mister," was all he could say, completely baffled by the bluntness. He was not really offended, though. Gort knew his kind were reviled by humans and elves alike. He hadn't been able to find work in any of the towns because of it. A part of him completely understood their aversion, as he was not fond of his own people himself.

"Oh!" the man said, the shock on his face mirroring Gort's. He was clearly embarrassed by his own comment. "I didn't mean- it's just an expression. I meant that you seem like you've been.. living outside.. for a long time." A politer way of saying you smell filthy. He extended a hand toward Gort, probably in an attempt to assure the Orc that he couldn't possibly be racist if he deigned to touch him. "My name is Jasbir Travere and I sincerely beg your pardon. You are?"

Gort stared at the proffered hand for a moment before finally accepting, the warmth of the Breton's hand obscured by the leather palm and fingers of Gort's gauntlet. He gripped the hand hard before releasing and found himself blinking in confusion at the weakness of the other's grasp. Gort had never seen a person so old and frail before.. an Orc would never allow themselves to survive to such a pitiable state. The old man was disgusting in a way, but intriguing as well.

"Gort," he said. He was not at all inclined to share his full or family name.

"If you don't mind, Gort, I'd like to continue our conversation while we walk," Jasbir said, turning back to the South and resuming his stiff gait. Gort kept pace with him easily.

"Where're you headed?" Gort asked. He continued to glance behind from time to time, fearing the dragon might reappear at any moment. He couldn't believe Jasbir had not mentioned the dragon attack, and Gort couldn't bring it up himself without revealing he had belonged to the bandit party. Maybe Jasbir assumed Gort would just think him senile.

"A little town called Stonecross. I have a very important meeting there, which the loss of my horse has terribly delayed. Listen, Gort.. it is not my business to pry, but I am at a disadvantage here." He smiled wryly, as if making a joke of his blindness. "You did not answer when I asked what you're doing out here."

Gort shrugged uncomfortably, looking down at his own feet as he walked.

"It's a long story," he said. That, at least, was no lie. "I got no home. I'm traveling and making ends meet where I can." Even though the other could not see him, he found it impossible to look Jasbir in the face as he said this.

"I see," Jasbir responded after a pause, the creases of his wrinkled forehead deepening as he pulled inward to think. A decision suddenly reached, Jasbir stopped abruptly and turned to face Gort, frowning seriously. "I'm going to be blunt now, Gort. I was no match against the four of you together, but if you so much as raise a finger against me you'll be dead before you know what hit you. The blind can still use magicka." He spoke with such conviction that Gort did not doubt him. The Orc's hands balled into fists at his side and he lowered his gaze to the ground, ashamed and shocked that he'd been recognized after all.

"But the fact of the matter is, I am still helpless in many ways. There is a very good chance I will either miss the fork leading to Stonecross or take the wrong path. Even if I found my destination safely I wouldn't be able to find the right person by myself. So I have no choice but to ask for your help. If earning honest pay appeals to you, I offer you employment as my aide. As you already know I have no coin on my person, but you will be paid handsomely after my work is finished."

Shame washed over Gort in waves. It took several seconds to finally squeeze out the words he knew he had to say, but at least he was able to force his chin up to look the blind man in the eye as he said it.

"Mister Travere, I'll help you for free. I didn't shoot your man, I swear it, but I can't deny my role in his death. I'm yours until you say my debt is paid."

Jasbir's face showed only the slightest hint of surprise. He did not smile or seem appreciative. Gort understood; he was still a bandit thug with blood on his hands, and Jasbir's friend was still dead. He didn't expect this man to trust him just because he spoke a few pretty words.

"Well," Jasbir began slowly. "We'll see if you keep your word. Come along, Gort, we have a long walk ahead of us."

It wasn't the answer he expected. Jasbir turned and continued on his way, as if everything were perfectly settled between them. Gort stared stupidly after him for a moment before he realized his offer had been accepted. Given the old man's painfully slow and labored movement, it only took the young Orc a few steps to catch up with him, but it took several minutes of enduring an awkward silence before Gort finally worked up the courage to speak again.

"Seems as you're my boss now, I got a lot of questions to ask... What's in Stonecross? I never heard of the place to be honest."

Jasbir hesitated.

"Well.. I suppose if I'm trusting you this far, I ought to trust you with the rest of it," he said slowly. "Are you familiar with the Order of the Ancestor Moth?"

Gort thought for a moment and his eyes widened as recognition suddenly dawned.

"Are you one of those priests that reads the Elder Scrolls and gets blinded by it?"

"Yes. I have been blind for the past thirteen years, following my final and most powerful vision." Jasbir recited the contents of his vision then as he had done so many times before, every word completely memorized and automatic. Not a single detail had been forgotten. Flying through the sky, the dragon that blotted out the sun, the dead woman with the short brown hair, the slaying of a man thought to be a king of Skyrim, the tavern by the river, and finally, the sword in the wall. He never stopped walking while he spoke, and he began to huff between words as he finished the tale. His face glistened with sweat.

"You saw the dragon! You knew that would happen!? If you knew dragons would return to Tamriel, why didn't I hear it before? The girl, who is she? Who killed her? What's the-" In his excitement the words spilled out of Gort in a quick, nearly incomprehensible babble. Jasbir held up a hand to silence him.

"One thing at a time," he said wearily. "I did not know when or where these things would occur. The only fixed locations were the arena in Solitude and the tavern in Stonecross. There's no use getting the population riled up about the coming of dragons when it might not even happen for another two hundred years." He sighed. It was like explaining everything to Vinnus all over again. He winced at a sudden cramp that shot waves of pain up his leg and Gort quickly looked away so as not to bear witness to his weakness.

"Do you mind if we stop a moment, Mister Travere? I have to fill my canteen," Gort said cautiously.

"Yes, go on." Jasbir waved him off, the corner of his lip lifting in a tiny smile that quickly disappeared in another wince. He rested his full weight against the stick as he listened to Gort tromping off into the long grass that separated road from river. The soft susurration of water gliding over stone had slowly filtered into his consciousness several minutes ago as they came upon the first bend of the Panther River. The turn off toward Stonecross would come soon.

Gort crouched on the sandy bank, looking over his shoulder at the figure half-obscured by brush and tall grass on the road while he waited with his hand and canteen submerged in the river. It was difficult to watch Jasbir hobble along. Weakling runt that he was, at least Gort had his dignity.

Or do you? Gort asked the distorted green face in the water. He forces others to accommodate his frailty. You take what isn't yours to have. He drank his fill of water, refilled the canteen, and took his time returning to Jasbir's side.

"Here," he said, touching the water to the man's hand again. Jasbir drank, this time without urgency, and handed the canteen back to the Orc.

"Thank you. And where were we? Ah, yes. My vision by itself did not contain enough information to tell us anything important. It merely provided several pieces to a larger puzzle. One of these pieces is an ancient prophecy of purported Akaviri origin. The earliest record of this prophecy dates back to the last century of the First Era. Who recorded it and from what source has been lost. I'm sure that, being of such obscure and uncertain origin, no one took it seriously until it began to come true thousands of years later. It is known as the Dragonborn Prophecy:

"When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world
When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped
When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles
When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls
When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding
The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."

They had continued walking as Jasbir spoke, and now Gort stared at the Breton with one eyebrow arched.

"I don't know what any of that means," he said. Jasbir frowned.

"You've never heard of Jagar Tharn? Tiber Septim? The Tribunal?" Jasbir's tone clearly spoke that he was skeptical anyone could be so ignorant.

"Mister, I grew up in an Orc village. We have our own heroes of legend and they ain't yours. I know who Tiber Septim is, and the last Dragonborn- that's Martin Septim, right? I don't think there's a man alive in Tamriel who don't know that name. But as to the rest you might as well be speaking lizard-tongue."

"Hmm. Well, it's not important that you know. Trust me when I say that all these things have come to pass as the prophecy says, with one exception- the last line. The 'last Dragonborn' referred to here is not Martin Septim. When the Snow Tower lies sundered and kingless, we believe that to be the death of High King Torygg, the King of Skyrim. That happens after Martin died, so it can't refer to him."

"I see. Yeah, the name Torygg does ring a bell... I'm from Skyrim, although we never paid much mind to mannish affairs. He's the guy you saw die at the arena in Solitude, then? And when he dies, the final part of this prophecy will be filled next?"

Jasbir smiled.

"Torygg was slain three days ago. It will probably take a day or two more for word to travel through the general populace."

"Wait a minute-" Gort stopped in his tracks, his yellow eyes widening at a sudden terrible realization. "The World-Eater is from that stupid legend of the Nords- Alduin, the dragon. Dragon! Mister, why didn't you say so earlier?! That dragon is Alduin and it's here to eat the world! I never thought those inbred lugs could be right about anything..."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," Jasbir said. "Do you know anything about the Amulet of Kings? This amulet bore a stone called the Red Diamond, rumored to have been crafted from the blood of Akatosh Himself. It was destroyed over a hundred years ago, of course. Perhaps it is merely coincidence that the sword I saw in my vision had been adorned with some red stone... But the dragon motif and the tear, or rather blood drop shape of the gem is very telling. Much like the Amulet of Kings, I believe this weapon is destined for the hands of the last Dragonborn. Furthermore, I think I know who she is."