Chapter 6
[Author's Note: It's off to High Hrothgar, with a stop along the way. Marcus learns more about Skyrim and its people, as well as a new Shout, and in the process, learns more about the Greybeards than even he might be comfortable knowing.]
"Are there really seven thousand steps, Lydia?" Marcus grunted as they rounded a hairpin turn to see more of the stone stairs crawling up the side of the mountain.
"I've never actually counted them, my Thane," she huffed, shouldering her pack. "Would you like me to go back down and confirm their number?"
He chuckled at her tone. "No, not really," he relented. "I'd like to get there sometime in this century."
So far it hadn't been that bad. It turned out that Lydia had had the foresight to bring a map along, and as they went along, she pointed out landmarks to Marcus that he might not recognize otherwise. Closer to the city were the farms and the meadery, and beyond the crossroads by the White River, Lydia pointed out a cave just barely visible from the road.
"White River Watch," she told him. "A notorious bandit hide-out. The Jarl kept sending us up there every now and then to clear them out, so they didn't threaten travelers on the road, but with the war going on, he hasn't had anyone to spare."
"I thought he hadn't taken a side yet," Marcus said.
"He hasn't," Lydia admitted. "But he has a large Hold to patrol, to make sure neither Imperials or Stormcloaks get too possessive of the territory. And now we have dragons to worry about."
Marcus nodded before asking, "What happened to whatever loot the bandits gathered?"
"It would go into the Jarl's coffers, of course," Lydia replied, surprised he would ask.
"And now that he can't send anyone there?"
Lydia's eyes widened before a sly look of conspiracy took over. "Well, I'm sure that would belong to whoever could take it from the bandits, my Thane," she grinned. "The Jarl would never object. There might even be a bounty reward in it for some clever, enterprising person or persons."
"A good way to make money quickly, eh?" her Thane quipped. "Let's look into that on the way back."
Feeling satisfied with himself, Marcus took the road that headed south toward Riverwood: the same road he had traveled to get to Whiterun just a few days before. He really hoped to make some serious coin quickly, if he hoped to get the house in Whiterun and have a permanent place to live. The business trips he'd been forced to take in the past confirmed his own belief that he was never meant to live out of a suitcase – or in his current situation, a backpack.
They had left Whiterun just as the sun had come up and had passed Helgen by mid-morning. The sight of the scorched stones and smashed timbers of the buildings beyond the wall made him shudder, and he hurried past it as quickly as he could. The found a Stormcloak encampment on the way, and Lydia persuaded the lookouts that her Thane was not an Imperial spy.
"I met one of your soldiers," Marcus insisted. "He helped me. His name is Ralof of Riverwood."
"Ralof?" the lookout repeated. "I heard he died in Helgen!"
"No," Marcus said, repressing another shudder. "He and I escaped together. He said he was going to re-join Ulfric Stormcloak, who was also there."
The look on the man's face was almost comical in its reverence. "You've met the Stormcloak, then?" he breathed. "Is he as tall as they say? Did he use the Voice? I'll bet he took out twenty Imperials all by himself!"
Marcus had to bite his own tongue to keep from blurting that the last time he'd seen the Jarl of Windhelm, he was cowering in a tower while the dragon raged overhead.
"He's tall," Marcus admitted. "Maybe a bit taller than me. I never heard him Shout, though."
"You're a lucky bastard," the man grinned. "Look, we don't have much here, but if you're in need of anything, go talk to the Quartermaster. I'm sure she'll fix you up."
She? Well, good to see the Stormcloaks at least didn't discriminate rank based on gender.
"And if you know any true sons and daughters of Skyrim," the lookout continued, "tell them to head to Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloak can use all the good fighting men and women he can get."
I'll just bet he does, Marcus thought, but again, he kept that to himself. Not needed any supplies, and reluctant to take what little the encampment had, Marcus set off down the road again with Lydia close behind.
They passed Haemar's Shame, which Lydia told him was the last refuge of a fallen hero of long ago. Haemar had been a great general in his day, but became infected with the disease sanguinare vampiris, and had become a terrible vampire lord. At first he attempted to hide his condition from all who knew him, but eventually was found out. Despite his brilliant military career, the people of his town turned on him and tracked him to the cave where a bloody battle ensued. Eventually, Haemar was killed, along with thirty or so of his own soldiers whom he had turned, and the place was abandoned and shunned ever since.
By the time they reached Ivarstead it was already mid-afternoon. Marcus had no desire to tackle climbing the mountain in the middle of the night, and he and Lydia had stayed at the Vilemyr Inn for the night, intending to get a fresh start in the morning.
But the morning brought with it a torrential downpour, which Marcus also had no intention of "schlepping through", as he put it, raising Lydia's eyebrows over the odd phrase. The proprietor, Wilhelm, advised them to stay out of the barrow on the eastern edge of town, due to its being "haunted". Pressing the man for details only served to strengthen his warning.
"I've seen one of the ghosts myself!" he shuddered. "I swear when it looked at me, it burned right through to my soul!"
Marcus glanced at Lydia, who lifted her shoulders in what could have been a shrug of disbelief, or an attempt to ease a kink in her muscles.
"What if I looked into it for you?" Marcus offered. At least it would give them something to do. He didn't believe in ghosts. It was far more likely someone was running some kind of scam, but for what purpose remained to be seen. It could be bandits, or perhaps someone running a contraband operation. In any case, since he couldn't climb High Hrothgar today he might as well check it out.
"If you think there's anything you can do, be my guest," Wilhelm said. "Fortunately, the spirits seem to be keeping to the Barrow. I think they're guarding it. Certainly isn't helping my business any, I can tell you that. Who would want to rent a room anywhere near a haunted barrow?"
"I can understand your point," Marcus commiserated. "Anything else you can tell me about the place?"
"Let me think," Wilhelm considered. "About a year or two ago, some fella named Wyndelius came through. He claimed to be some kind of treasure hunter. I warned him not to go in there, just like I warned you." Here he turned a stern eye on Marcus and Lydia. "The very next night we heard screams from the barrow, and that was it." Wilhelm's voice dropped to a hushed murmur. "We never saw him again!"
Marcus looked once more at Lydia, who had paled a bit, but kept her face expressionless.
"We'll be back," Marcus told the innkeeper. "And here's another ten gold for tonight." He pushed the coins at the man, who pocketed them quickly enough.
Of course he would, Marcus thought with some amusement. If he and Lydia checked out the barrow and found it empty, they'd be back to use the room tonight, and they could put Wilhelm's fears to rest. If they didn't come back, Wilhelm was ahead by a handful of coins. If it turned out they found bandits or something else in the barrow, they'd deal with it. He'd faced down draugrs and dragons. It couldn't be worse.
He really needed to keep those kinds of thoughts under lock and key, Marcus thought as he and Lydia fought their way through Shroud Hearth Barrow.
The initial investigation of the upper level of the barrow determined that Wyndelius Gatharian, the "treasure hunter" Wilhelm met, had initiated an elaborate hoax on the people of Ivarstead. The journal Marcus found after he and Lydia killed the crazed madman indicated that he had been looking for one of the claw keys needed to delve deeper into the barrow. An accomplished alchemist, he had created a potion that gave him the appearance of an incorporeal spectre to frighten away the locals while he searched.
What Wyndelius never knew, however, was that the claw was never in the barrow at all. It was tucked safely under the counter at the Vilemyr Inn. When Marcus and Lydia returned a couple of hours later with the journal in hand, an embarrassed and grateful Wilhelm gifted them with the golden claw tipped with sapphire points.
Once more, Marcus shot a look at his Housecarl, who grinned at him. "Lead on, my Thane," she chirped.
Traps. Of course there were traps. Lydia remarked sourly that it wouldn't be an ancient Nordic barrow if it didn't have traps. The swinging battleaxes were the worst. Timing a jump between the rocking blades of doom were hedgy at best, deadly at worst. Lydia went down and Marcus had to dive under the blades and wriggle his way out of the corridor, dragging her with him. It took several healing potions before either of them felt ready to continue.
The final chamber was by far the worst. Skeletons and draugr emerged sporadically from the coffins. Lydia kept peppering them with arrows until they got too close, then used her sword. Taking his cue from her, Marcus did the same. But the largest draugr knew the same fus Shout he did, and more than once Marcus found himself being blown against the back wall or off into the water below.
When it was finally over, he and Lydia had found another Word Wall, and one of the inscriptions glowed and streamed out toward him. Kaan. He didn't know what it meant, but it lingered there in his mind, waiting patiently for him to understand its meaning.
When they emerged from Shroud Hearth Barrow, Marcus was surprised to see how late it was. Night had fallen, the rain had stopped and the skies were clear. The two moons were high in the sky. He'd only seen something like it in a science fiction movie. To see it in reality – his new reality – took his breath away.
"That's Masser," Lydia said, pointing at the large red moon. "And that's his little sister Secunda over there." She gazed shrewdly at her Thane. "You look like you've never seen them before."
"I haven't," Marcus breathed. "I mean, since Helgen, yes. But not before."
"Who are you, Thane?" Lydia whispered, momentarily taken aback.
"I used to know that," he answered absently. Then he seemed to shake off whatever was on his mind and said in a firm voice, "Let's get back to the Inn and get some rest. It looks like we should be able to climb the mountain tomorrow."
So here they were, now, halfway up the Throat of the World. The wolves and spiders that attacked them on the way up were merely an annoyance by now. The ice wraiths were another matter entirely, but Lydia found they succumbed quickly to the flames that shot from the staff they'd found in Shroud Hearth Barrow.
"We'll have to invest in some soul gems to keep it charged," she advised her Thane.
Marcus nodded and peered ahead. The day had started out clearly enough, but they were moving into the lower reaches of the clouds that seemed to collect around the Throat. Too much to ask if they'd just go around, I suppose, Marcus thought wryly. The dampness chilled him to the bone, but Lydia didn't seem that affected by it.
"It's my Nord heritage, my Thane," she answered when he asked. "As a race, my people are hardy and resilient. The cold just doesn't seem to bother us as much as it does the other races."
This led to a tutorial on how many other races there were in Tamriel, as he learned this land was called. Skyrim, Lydia told him, was home to the Nords, which Marcus had already labeled "Vikings" in his mind. The Imperials came from Cyrodiil to the south. They were the military presence in Skyrim that was currently at war with the faction known as Stormcloaks. Marcus immediately thought of the Roman Empire, and their successful dominion over most of Europe in the pre-Christian era and the early centuries of the Common Era. Apparently, the body he was in now was an Imperial. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
Redguards, the darker-skinned humans, hailed from Hammerfell, to the west and southwest of Skyrim. Bretons were natives of High Rock, far to the west. While the Redguards seemed to have an Arab-like society, the Bretons were more like the people of Great Britain. Breton. Britain. It made sense.
"Where do the Thalmor fit in there?" he asked. "And the other elves I've seen?"
"There are four distinct races of Mer, my Thane," Lydia told him. "The Altmer are from the Summerset Isles, which are far away off the coast of Hammerfell. They call themselves 'High Elves', and pretty much lord it over the others. The Thalmor are a faction within the Aldmeri Dominion, sort of an elite corps."
So they're like the S.S. were in Nazi Germany, Marcus thought. Got it.
Lydia went on to explain about the Dunmer, the gray-skinned 'Dark Elves' from Morrowind to the east, and the Bosmer who were also known as 'Wood Elves' and who hailed from Valenwood, which was situated south of Cyrodiil, to the west of Elsweyr.
"Then there's the Orcs," she said as they took a break next to the sixth Wayshrine he'd seen since they started.
"Are they from Elsweyr?" Marcus asked. His own mental image of Orcs was based on the Lord of the Rings movies he and Lynne had enjoyed.
"Oh no!" Lydia shook her head. "They're from Orsinium. It's a tiny little plot of land in the mountains between High Rock and Hammerfell. It's really not much more than a walled, fortified city, but the Orcs have claimed it as their own, and the Empire hasn't done anything to stop them."
"Then who lives in Elsweyr?" her Thane asked.
"The Khajiit come from there," Lydia said. "It's part jungle, part desert, and they've adapted very well to its harsh climate."
"The Khajiit are….?" Marcus prompted.
"I'm sorry, Thane," Lydia blushed. "I'm surprised you don't know that either. They're the race of felines that inhabit Tamriel."
"Cats?" Marcus chuckled. "You mean there's an entire country set aside for kitty-cats?"
Lydia chuckled, too. "Don't let any of them hear you say that," she warned, good-naturedly. "The Khajiit are a proud, but strange race, and not everyone trusts them. Most of them in Skyrim are caravaneers, and they've been known to deal in contraband. Many of them aren't even allowed within city walls, because of their reputation as thieves and smugglers."
"Is such a reputation warranted?" Marcus asked as they got to their feet and proceeded on their way.
"Sadly, yes," Lydia nodded. "There are some who are honest, but not many. As for the caravan that comes by Whiterun, it's lead by Ri'saad, and he seems trustworthy enough. I've even bought things from him myself. He does tend to be able to supply things from across Tamriel that other merchants find hard to get."
"Hot items?" Marcus asked with a quirk of his eyebrow. At Lydia's puzzled look he amended, "Stolen goods."
"Honestly, I don't know, my Thane." She looked concerned. "I hope not, anyway!"
Besides the Khajiit, Marcus learned, there was another "beast" race of lizard-folk known as Argonians, who came from Black Marsh. Like the Khajiit, they were mistrusted, perhaps because of their strange, alien forms. Lydia told him that most of the Argonians she had heard about worked for the East Empire Shipping Company, which plied the waters around Tamriel, and had headquarters in Solitude and Windhelm. "They're dock workers, mainly," she told him, "because they can breathe underwater. But even the Argonians aren't really tolerated in the cities."
That's not right, he thought grimly. It was just another form of racism he'd fought against in his previous life. Not knowing what, if anything, he could do about it here left him feeling a bit frustrated. First things first, Marcus, he told himself. Talk to the Greybeards, then save the world.
"What in the name of all that is holy is that?" Marcus exclaimed.
"Frost troll, Thane!" Lydia shouted back. "They hate fire!"
"Use the staff, then!" he called back. "Just don't hit me with it!"
"I promise nothing!"
The troll lumbered forward, and even from the distance of twenty feet away, Marcus could tell he did not want to close with the beast. Those massive paws and spring-loaded muscles would finish him faster than you could say 'Skyrim'.
Marcus scrambled to a higher vantage point and aimed his bow. Two of the steel arrows hit, but the third missed. After being punctured and burned, the creature backed away around a bend of the mountain, and Marcus could no longer see where he was.
"Damnation!" he muttered. Leaping down he crouched and darted across the path to the other side. He saw the troll lingering under an overhang. It didn't look the least bit hurt, for all that Lydia had nearly exhausted the Flames staff on it.
"Can you hit it again, Lydia?" he called out.
"The staff is almost empty, my Thane," she shot back. "Are there any filled soul gems in your pack? We picked some up in the barrow, but I couldn't tell if they were filled."
"And you think I would know one if I saw it?" he demanded crossly. The troll was headed back their way, and he shot three more arrows, hitting all three times, before he had to scramble up the rocks out of its way.
"I'll kill you!" Lydia shrieked, and Marcus' stomach lurched when he saw her charge the troll.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he yelled at her, but she was oblivious to him, concentrating all her efforts on slaying the troll.
The creature swung at her with its huge, clawed hand, but Lydia nimbly ducked beneath it and slashed across its stomach with her sword. The tough fur and skin barely broke, and Marcus saw the slice seal up before his eyes.
"That bastard's regenerating!" he exclaimed in horror.
"It's a troll!" Lydia grunted, barely audible over the beast's roaring. "It's what they do. I could use a little help, Thane!"
Quickly realizing they needed to keep up a steady barrage of injury to overcome the troll's inherent ability to heal itself, Marcus put the bow away and unsheathed the battleaxe. Jumping off the rocky outcrop, he came up behind the troll and swung as hard as he could.
The troll jerked so hard it nearly pulled the axe out of Marcus' hands, but he grimly held on while the magic of the blade sucked away some of the abomination's strength. Flailing out with both clawed hands, it caught Lydia on the side of her head and she spun around, sinking to her knees, shaking the blood out of her eyes.
Enraged, it whirled around and slammed its shoulder into Marcus' side. Its fetid breath was bad enough, but the stabbing pain told him he'd probably cracked a rib or two. Breathing became labored.
"Not my Thane you don't!" Lydia screeched, bringing her shield up and slamming it into the troll's head. Staggering back, Lydia followed up by slicing with her shield and stabbing with her sword. The frost troll sank to its knees, blood pouring from its mouth and nose, and from the gaping wound on its chest which was already beginning to close.
"Oh, no," Marcus gritted through teeth clenched in pain. "You don't get off that easy!"
With great difficulty, ignoring the screaming of his cracked ribcage, Marcus brought the battleaxe up and then down again as hard as he could. The troll's head rolled away from its body, which jerked for several minutes until it finally lay still, blood soaking into the white snow around them.
"You did it, my Thane!" Lydia cried, eyes dancing.
"We did it, Lydia," he corrected her. "We did it together. I couldn't have done it without you." He winced again, taking a ragged breath and clutched his side.
They spent several minutes resting and healing up with some of the last of his precious potions. Marcus sincerely hoped there wouldn't be anything else to hinder them reaching High Hrothgar before the sun set. It was already late in the day.
As it turned out, nothing else bothered them as they made their way up the last of the Seven Thousand Steps, passing by a few more of the Wayshrines on the path. Marcus dutifully stopped at each one to read the inscription, and learned the story of the First Tongues, the Dragon War and the founder of the monastery, Jurgen Windcaller. A strange sense of peace filled him after reading the last one, and his mind felt more at rest than it had since he'd woken up in the cart on the way to Helgen.
When they finally mounted the last flight of steps leading to High Hrothgar, Marcus stopped to drop off a pack full of supplies given to him by a man in Ivarstead named Klimmek. The poor fellow wasn't looking forward to climbing the mountain to make the delivery, but didn't want to disappoint the Greybeards. Marcus had offered to take it up for him.
The huge iron doors on either side of the front façade were shut, and Marcus didn't see any kind of doorbell or knocker to alert anyone within. He put his hand on the handle to test and see if it was locked, but the door swung open easily, though he'd barely touched it.
I guess they must be expecting me, he grinned to himself as he entered, Lydia close behind.
Four men with long gray beards – ironic indeed, Marcus thought – approached him.
"Welcome to High Hrothgar," the one with the knotted beard greeted him. Marcus noted immediately that the old man seemed to ignore Lydia completely, who was standing right behind him. "I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. Who are you, and why have you come here?"
Marcus squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "My name is Marcus," he announced. "I'm answering your summons."
"We will see if what you say is true," the old man replied blandly. "Let us taste of your Voice, and we will see if you are truly the one whom we have called."
Taste of his Voice? Just the way Arngeir said it made it sound capitalized. Did he really want Marcus to Shout at him? He'd seen what it could do to draugr and bandits, and this was just a frail old man. He didn't want to hurt him.
"I sense your hesitation, traveler," Arngeir said. "Do not be concerned for us. We have studied the Way of the Voice since long before you were born, and we are prepared to accept your Thu'um. Speak now."
In point of fact, he really only knew the one word. Shrugging, he summoned everything within him and Shouted.
"FUS!"
To their credit, while Arngeir and the Greybeard behind him staggered slightly, they didn't fall to their knees as the draugr had. The pots behind them, however, went flying.
Recovering quickly, Arngeir looked more impressed than he had moments before.
"Dragonborn," he said respectfully. "It is you!"
Marcus felt his 'inner dragon', as he had taken to calling it, revel in smugness. Be nice, he told it.
"Who are you?" Marcus asked, as politely as he could, still squelching the dragon inside. "What is this place?"
"We are the Greybeards," Arngeir replied, eyebrows raised as if it was self-evident. "We are followers of the Way of the Voice."
The Way of the Voice. He'd read about that on the tablets at the shrines on the way up.
"You stand in High Hrothgar, on the sloped of Kynareth's sacred mountain," Arngeir continued. "Here we commune with the voice of the sky, and strive to achieve balance between our inner and outer selves."
Much like the Buddhist monks of his old world, Marcus thought privately.
"Tell me again, Dragonborn, why are you here?"
Because you summoned me like a puppy, Marcus thought sourly, but felt that might not sound very gracious. Instead he replied, "I want to find out what it means to be Dragonborn." Tamsyn had hinted – rather broadly – about what he had to do, but there hadn't been time for her to tell him what was expected of him.
Arngeir seemed satisfied with that answer. "We are here to guide you in that pursuit, Dragonborn," he beamed, "just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before you."
Wait. There were others like him here in Skyrim? Perhaps even others who had come from his old world? Maybe he might find a way to return after all!
Not too likely, his inner dragon reproached him. You died, remember?
Silently telling his dragon to stuff it, he asked Master Arngeir hopefully, "You mean I'm not the only Dragonborn?"
"You are not the first," Arngeir admitted. "There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed that gift upon mortalkind. Whether you are the only Dragonborn of this age….well, that is not ours to know. You are the only one that has been revealed to us thus far. That is all we can say."
Marcus felt his hopes dashed against the rocks of reality again. Breathing out a sigh of resignation, he bowed slightly from the waist and replied, "I am answering your summons, Master."
The words seemed formal, even to his ears, but they also seemed right. Arngeir and the other Greybeards smiled their approval, even as the old man responded, "We are honored to welcome a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny."
"What is my destiny?" Marcus asked, though the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he already knew. Tamsyn had revealed that much to him.
But Arngeir shrugged. "That is for you to discover, Dragonborn. We can show you the Way, but not your destination."
Marcus thought about everything he had learned so far. It seemed a pitiful small amount of knowledge to pit against defeating the lord of all the dragons. Anything he could learn here would help him find a way to do that. With another inward sigh of acceptance, Marcus bowed once more and said, "I'm ready to learn."
In the end, due to the lateness of the hour, Master Arngeir told his new pupil that the lessons would be put off until the following day. He led Marcus to a stone bed in what appeared to be a dormitory-type wing of the monastery, but looked confused about what to do with Lydia.
"I'll sleep on the floor," she said. "I'm getting used to it."
"We really have no place here for followers," Arngeir said, without a shred of apology. "The path of the Dragonborn is often a solitary one."
"I won't leave him unless he tells me to go," Lydia said firmly. "He is my Thane, and I will protect him with my life, if necessary."
"That is commendable," Arngeir said, with just the faintest trace of exasperation in his voice, "but entirely unnecessary, I assure you, young lady. The Dragonborn is in no danger here in our monastery."
Lydia set her chin in what Marcus was fast recognizing as her most stubborn look.
"Maybe it would be best if you return to Ivarstead and wait for me there," he suggested. "It will be far more comfortable for you at the Vilemyr." He had no idea how long he would need to train here, but surely, with the septims they'd picked up in Shroud Hearth Barrow, they could afford for Lydia to wait for him there for at least a couple of weeks, if not longer.
Lydia looked as though she wanted to argue the point, but duty to her Thane won out over her personal feelings and she nodded shortly. "As you wish, my Thane," she said grudgingly. "I will wait for you at the Vilemyr."
"But—" Marcus forestalled her as she turned to leave, shooting a hard stare at Master Arngeir, "not until morning. I'm not having you fall off the mountain in the middle of the night."
Arngeir bowed graciously. "If the young lady does not mind sleeping in a bedroll for one night, we will be happy to provide food and shelter for her."
That night Marcus' dreams were conflicted. He saw Tamsyn being roasted alive by the huge black dragon while his feet were encased in stone. Then the dream morphed, and it was Lucia who was being eaten by a frost troll while Lydia pulled him away. Finally, another dragon entered his dream; a large, gray dragon who breathed fire at him that did not burn, who spoke to him and asked him, "What do you seek, Dovahkiin?"
The question still echoed in his mind when he awoke. He said nothing of his dreams to the others, but broke his fast with the Greybeards and his Housecarl before giving Lydia a pouch of coin to see to her comfort at the Inn while she waited for him.
"I don't know how long this will take," he said by way of apology. "If I don't come back in a couple of weeks, return to Dragonsreach. I'll look for you there."
Lydia's mouth was set in an unhappy frown, but she nodded and said only, "As you wish, my Thane," before departing.
Then the training began.
One of the first things Marcus learned was that only Master Arngeir spoke to him. The other three, Masters Borri, Wulfgar and Einarth, had voices much too powerful for ordinary, everyday conversation, Master Arngeir told him. Indeed, even their softly muttered, "Dovahkiin", when greeting him was enough to rattle the crockery and make the ground rumble.
That didn't mean they didn't have other ways to communicate. Between the four of them, there seemed to be some sort of telepathy going. That was the only explanation Marcus could think of when one of them would look at another, and that one would go off and do something as if fulfilling a request. There seemed to be a sort of close relationship between the four old men, rather like brothers who had known each other all their lives, though it would be impossible to say how old they truly were, or if they were indeed related at all. What was clear was that they managed, without words, to communicate their needs to each other. Marcus noticed a curious form of hand gestures they used between them, which Master Arngeir admitted they sometimes used for more "commonplace" conversation, but he would never confirm any kind of mental connection. He didn't deny it either, however.
The Greybeards taught him a second word which paired with the first one he'd already learned. When he combined ro, which meant 'balance', with fus, which meant 'force', the Shout became much more powerful. He practiced pinpoint hitting an illusion the Greybeards summoned with his Unrelenting Force Shout, as they called it. He also set up large pots in the courtyard and practiced running, leaping from cover, tumbling and weaving between other obstacles as he picked off the pots with his Shout.
Master Einarth gave him a large wooden sword and together they practice-fought in the courtyard for hours each day. Marcus learned to withstand the Unrelenting Force as much as he gave it.
"I didn't think you guys knew how to fight," he admitted, after Master Einarth had sent him sprawling with a resounding crack to the skull and a fus ro dah.
The old man's hand fluttered in a series of gestures to which Marcus was quickly picking up the meaning.
"No, Master, I didn't mean to criticize," he bowed and apologized. "It just surprised me, that's all."
We were all of us warriors before we became Greybeards, Master Einarth said with his hands. But we left the Way of the Sword to pursue the Way of the Voice. We do not regret this.
Master Arngeir was astonished at how quickly he learned the new Shout. "You learn quickly, Dragonborn," he acknowledged. "For many who come here, learning the Thu'um is difficult, and takes many years of practice to master even a single word. But your Dragon Blood makes it easier for you to comprehend the subtle complexities of each part of the Shout."
"Others have come here?" Marcus asked. "Did Ulfric Stormcloak come here?"
Arngeir frowned. "The Jarl of Windhelm did study here, when he was a young man," the Master admitted. "But he was always impatient, wanting immediate results." The old man sighed. "He was such a promising student. I had hoped he might prove to be the Dragonborn, but he never understood the Way of the Voice, never accepted that the Thu'um was intended to honor the gods, not be used as a weapon against his enemies."
Marcus was stricken. Wasn't that was he was trying to do?
"But, Master Arngeir," he began slowly. "I've used the Thu'um against my enemies…"
"Only in defense of your own life, Dragonborn, or in defense of others," Arngeir assured him. "Ulfric…changed, somehow."
"What do you mean?"
"We taught him Unrelenting Force, as we are teaching you now. But we also taught him zun haal viik, which is a Shout that can rip your enemy's weapon from his hand." Arngeir's shoulders slumped, and he suddenly looked much older. "We have heard the stories, of course. Ulfric has used his mastery of his Shouts to give him the advantage in battle. He sought out opponents to defeat, to crush beneath his feet. He seeks the Jagged Crown, to justify his misuse of the Thu'um and legitimize his claim to the throne of Skyrim. Oh yes, we have heard how he struck down the High King with his Shout. Even here, we have heard of it."
"I thought the Greybeards didn't involve themselves in politics," Marcus commented.
Arngeir looked at him steadily. "We do not," he said firmly. "But politics has a habit of wanting to involve itself with us, and if we do not stay informed, we could easily be led astray from the path of true enlightenment."
It was a fair answer, Marcus had to admit. Still, the more he learned of Ulfric Stormcloak, the less he liked the man. Those who exploited the power given them to further their own agenda were the most dangerous, he knew. He would have to be careful in his dealings with any Stormcloaks he met. The last thing he wanted was to call Ulfric's attention to him.
When Arngeir was satisfied that Marcus had a firm grasp on Unrelenting Force, the Greybeards led him into the courtyard one sunny afternoon to teach him a new word, wuld. Arngeir told him it meant 'whirlwind'. Using the Thu'um lent speed to his limbs, and Marcus soon found he could sprint much faster than before, if only for a short time.
Whirlwind Sprint allows you to get away quickly, if need be, Master Borri signed to him, as Marcus practiced the Shout. But after tripping over his own feet for the umpteenth time, Marcus wasn't sure he wouldn't end up dragon-bait after all.
You anticipate it before you do it, Borri smiled as he gestured. It puts you off balance. Don't expect it. Just do it.
Marcus nodded and took a deep breath, closing his eyes to relax his mind. "WULD!" he Shouted upon opening them, and allowed his body to carry itself forward. This time he didn't end up in a snowdrift.
Grinning, he walked back to Master Borri and sat down next to the youngest of the Greybeards, and it had taken him some time to figure that out, since they all looked the same age to him.
"Thank you, Master Borri," Marcus acknowledged. "That was the problem, I think."
Borri nodded and gestured. You have come far, Dragonborn. Already you have learned what it has taken all of us years to master. If it makes you feel any better, Whirlwind Sprint was always difficult for me, before I realized what I was doing wrong.
Marcus smiled. It was amazing how quickly he was picking up the sign language they used. Most of it was inferred, of course, but with just a few movements of their hands, they were able to express quite voluble thoughts.
"Master Einarth told me you were all warriors once," Marcus hesitated.
Master Einarth is correct. It was a long time ago, but I was once one of the best warriors in Jarl Hrolfdir's army.
"Who was Jarl Hrolfdir?" Marcus asked.
He was the Jarl of the Reach, long ago. His son, Igmund, is Jarl now.
"Why did you leave, if you don't mind my asking?"
Borri sighed and looked out across the snowy courtyard, toward the Wind Gate. He seemed to grow sadder.
My wife and children died in a Forsworn attack.
"I'm so sorry," Marcus murmured. "So you came here to try and make sense of it all?"
Borri nodded. I found a peace here I haven't felt anywhere else, so I stayed.
"It must get boring, though, doesn't it sometimes?" the younger man asked. "What do you do for fun up here?"
Watch and learn. Borri nodded towards the Wind Gate. Master Wulfgar was returning to the monastery after meditating at the shrine there. Just as he reached the middle of the courtyard, Marcus heard Master Borri draw breath.
"FUS!"
Master Wulfgar went sprawling, face-planting into a nearby snowbank. He got up quickly, however, spluttering and red-faced, glaring angrily around to see who was responsible for such an undignified assault on his person.
He saw Borri sitting on the eastern steps, shoulders shaking in repressed mirth, while a very shocked-looking Dovahkiin sat next to him. Eyes narrowed, it looked for a moment as if Wulfgar would retaliate, but apparently he had decided to take the high road. Chin set resolutely, he sniffed as if they weren't worth bothering about and practically nanced his way back into the monastery.
"You play practical jokes?" Marcus gaped, unsure whether to be amused or appalled. Amusement won out, however, as a grin split his face.
It helps pass the time, Master Borri shrugged, eyes twinkling merrily.
In all, Marcus spent nearly three weeks training with the Greybeards, honing his Thu'um until Master Arngeir was satisfied he was ready for his final trial.
"You must retrieve the Horn of our founder, Jurgen Windcaller, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav," he instructed Marcus. "Stay focused, keep true to the Way of the Voice, and you will prevail."
It didn't seem like too much to ask for all he had been given. Master Wulfgar had implied there were other Words of Power scattered across Skyrim, and that many of them were buried on Word Walls within the ancient tombs. When he asked about the word he'd already learned, kaan, he was informed it was a part of a Shout known as Kyne's Peace, which would calm animals and keep them from attacking him.
"Why can't I use it?" he asked. "I've tried Shouting it, but nothing happens."
Look around, Wulfgar signed. High Hrothgar isn't exactly teeming with wildlife. And you must unlock its meaning with the soul of a slain dragon. If you do not have one, you will not be able to use the Shout until you do.
"What if I learn several words before I get another dragon soul?" Marcus queried.
Wulfgar patted him on the shoulder. You will always have the choice, Dovahkiin, of which meaning you wish to unlock first.
That seemed fair enough. He'd seen Master Wulfgar practice with a Shout that shot out a flume of fire from his mouth, which left him untouched.
No wonder they don't speak aloud, Marcus chuckled to himself. That has to be rough on the old vocal chords. Still, if he had a choice of learning a Fire Breath Shout before Kyne's Peace, that would be fine by him.
The day before he left High Hrothgar to return to the world below, Marcus happened to eavesdrop – completely unintentionally at first – on a rather heated conversation between the Greybeards. From his vantage point in an alcove, where he was ready Brief History of the Empire, v.1, Marcus could see Master Arngeir clearly, but the two standing before him had their backs to Marcus, and he could not see them signing anything, if indeed they were signing at all. The Greybeards only seemed to do that for his benefit; among themselves, they seemed not to need it.
"You did what?" Master Arngeir demanded incredulously, glaring at one of them.
Silence for several moments.
"Stop talking at the same time, both of you!" Arngeir scolded. "I can only hear one of you at a time. Master Borri did what to you, Master Wulfgar?"
More silence.
"And so you decided Slow Time in the privy would be an adequate punishment for a face full of snow?" Arngeir shook his head. "Just how old are you two? Honestly, it's like living with a bunch of teen-agers, and I can assure you I'm too old to do that again!"
Again, more silence.
"Don't give me that 'he started it' nonsense!" Arngeir snapped. "Now both of you, go off and do your meditations – at separate ends of the monastery, if you please! We'll have no more such talk. And no more practical jokes! That means you, Borri!"
Marcus shrank back into the shadows until the Greybeards had gone.
No one, he promised himself, no one is ever going to hear about this from me. They'd never believe him.
[Author's Note: I had originally finished this chapter completely differently, but unfortunately the file was on a jump drive that suddenly, unexpectedly decided not to work anymore. I had to recreate this, and I think I like it better this way. Who knew the Greybeards had a sense of humor? Especially that Borri!]