14: Dragonborn

In Ivarstead, they told Thorald there were seven thousand steps up the winding path to High Hrothgar. That hadn't sounded like much when he started. How bad could it be? Had anyone actually counted them? He lost count around three hundred when a startled mountain goat barreled past him, close enough to brush his hip. Unbalanced by the huge pack of donated supplies on his back, he slipped, frantically seesawed back and forth before crashing hard on his rear. He thought he'd never get back on his feet. The generosity of the villagers will be the death of me. Seven thousand steps, were there? Seventeen thousand steps seemed more like it. Or maybe seventy thousand...

With the threatening weather, he didn't see any pilgrims but he did see the little shrines along the path. He read the plaques on the shrines and thought about the thu'um. What a strange gift to be given him—magic. His da always said magic should be left to the elves but this was different. Nord magic. Old Nord magic. Ulfric had implied that anyone could learn the thu'um but why did no one do so? It was certainly useful. Yet until he'd heard Ulfric at Helgen, he thought Shouting was nothing but a legend, just as he'd thought the Greybeards were a legend.

Just as he thought the Dragonborn a legend. On his way out of Whiterun, he'd stopped by the temple for Kyne's blessing. He was afraid Danica would be too busy but the moment she saw him, she pulled him to her inner chamber. At first she said nothing, only gazed upon him. Her stare made him uneasy. He'd been catching those looks since his return from the Western Watchtower but to see bemused wonderment on Danica's face—

"Tell me about souls," he blurted.

"I can tell you what I know. Ask."

Ask. Was it so simple? "I thought souls were immortal." Her eyes upon him were kind. Wise. "But they say I ate that dragon's soul. Is that possible?"

"Souls are immortal," she said.

"So it's a lie."

"I don't know but I will tell you what I believe," she said. "Are you familiar with how enchanting works?" At his blank look, she continued. "A soul is bound in a gem. That soul can then be used to add power to a weapon or to armor."

"An animal's soul, you mean."

"Human and mer souls can also be bound, although only to special soul gems. The soul is bound but it is not destroyed. Eventually it is released. A soul may be bound, used, reborn—but destroyed? No, I don't believe a soul can be destroyed. Our souls ascend to Aetherius or are trapped in Oblivion but they are immortal."

"Not destroyed. Not—eaten."

"I cannot believe a soul is destroyed. Transformed, perhaps."

Transformed. This wasn't the answer he wanted. He thought about the dragon they'd killed and how it felt when its soul—if that was truly its soul—entered him. Not power exactly, but knowledge—an alien knowledge that still shivered through his bones. Transformed? He was a warrior. How was he supposed to understand these things?

Ulfric thought the black dragon's appearance meant something. And maybe it did. And maybe the dragon and the thu'um were connected. The fight at the Western Watchtower showed that. Maybe. But what did it mean? One dragon might be a symbol or portent but two dragons? Two dragons were an invasion.

He remembered the dragon's seeking head, its mouth opened as if to speak, right before he killed it. What would it have said? Would he have understood it? Did he need to understand it? Should he have shown it mercy? And yet, what mercy had it shown the guards at the Western Watchtower? What mercy had the black dragon shown at Helgen?

Where was the black dragon?

He climbed. After awhile the words stopped running around in his head. The path was wide in places, narrow in others but the wind was constant. Cold air flowed down from the peak. Thank Kyne he'd let that fisherman in Ivarstead press him into accepting his repulsive fur cap. Without it his ears would have already frozen. His steady exertion kept him warm but he realized he would need to find a sheltered spot when he wanted to rest. It didn't look like there was much in the way of shelter to be had. He was fit and strong but as the path continued to climb, steeper and steeper, his calves began a long and steady protest.

Then it started to snow.

This was not the gentle snow that dropped a white blanket on the lowlands surrounding Whiterun. This was a fierce, icy, stinging snow, a snow that attacked any exposed skin and caked his beard. He kept climbing.

And then there was the troll.

The townsfolk had cautioned him about wolves but the weather had driven the wolves to their lairs. Not so the troll. Without warning, it erupted from the snow almost under his feet. It had long arms and long teeth and an unreasonable number of eyes on its misshapen head. To reach his sword, Thorald had to wrestle his way out of the pack straps. Before he was free of the pack, the monster was on top of him. Its breath almost gagged him. In unthinking reflex, he Shouted.

FUS RO DAH!

Completely airborne, the troll flew straight off the edge of the path, arms and legs pinwheeling for a nonexistent balance. Thanks to the driving snow, Thorald lost sight of it in seconds. The wind almost drowned out the troll's terrified roar while the echo of Thorald's Shout bounced off the stones around him and started a minor avalanche on the path below. Divines, what a mess! His heart pounded. He peered down the trail but the troll was gone as if it had never existed. After a moment he shrugged the pack back on. If the monster survived that fall it had a long climb to get its revenge. With any luck, he'd hear it coming.

After that he was much more alert.

Yet as he climbed he felt his calmness return despite the way the wind cried and muttered like a living creature. Did the Greybeards understand the secret language of the wind? Wind was sacred to Kyne. Is that why they lived in such an inconvenient spot? He thought about that long ago pilgrimage, the three jarls' sons, Ulfric, Balgruuf and Istlod. Had they laughed and joked as they climbed this icy path? Or had the wind scoured the words from them as it did from him?

When the snow stopped, the view of the valley below was breathtaking. It was a long way down. Thorald looked up. It was also a long way up.

If the monastery had been at the very top of the mountain, he doubted he could have reached it before nightfall. Luckily the builder had retained some tiny shred of sanity and erected the monastery on a shoulder of the mountain some distance below the summit. As it was, the sun was behind the mountainside and long cold shadows fell across the path when he finally reached the last little shrine and saw the great stone building loom above him.

There were more steps up. Thorald's calves were sobbing lumps of pain. There were huge iron doors that looked like they could withstand any siege. Even a dragon would have a hard time breaking them down.

One door was slightly ajar.

There was no door knocker or bell pull. The heavy door soaked up the sound of his pounding fist.

"Hello?" Thorald called. He pushed the door wider and stepped inside. Stone floor, stone walls, with but a few lonely lamps to cast a bit of light in the great hall. What the dim light exposed was more cheerless and grim than the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm. Silence assaulted his ears as the wind had assaulted them outside. His next call echoed off the stone. He dropped the heavy pack. His back's complaints were drowned out by his calves.

He heard scuffling footsteps.

He wouldn't have been shocked to see a skeletal mage or a draugr. He supposed he should have expected the old man in the tatty gray robe.

"You have arrived," the man said. Three other men came in silently behind him. So these were the Greybeards of legend. One of their whispers could kill, the legend said, and so the Greybeards always wore gags. But these men wore no gags. Thorald didn't know whether to be fearful or relieved. Was there no threat, or was there no protection from that threat?

"You were expecting me?"

"Of course."

Of course. What in Oblivion did that mean? "You know who I am?" Thorald asked.

"We don't know who you are. We know what you are. I am Arngeir. This is Master Wulfgar, Master Borri and Master Einarth. You know us as the Greybeards." He paused to look at the others. "We welcome you to High Hrothgar."

"But how did you know I was coming?"

"Kynareth speaks in the whispers of the wind. The dragons have returned, She tells us. And so, too, has one of the Dragon Blood returned." He exchanged a look with Master Einarth. "Also, we heard your Shout on the path just now."

Master Einarth gave him a gentle nod of encouragement. Thorald had absolutely no idea what to say.

"The winds of change have brought you here," Master Arngeir said. "It is Kynareth's will that you be taught. Will you learn?"

"If you will teach me, I will try to learn."

"Then we begin." Again Master Arngeir looked at the others. Some unspoken communication flowed between them.

"Right now?" Thorald was tired, sore, freezing and hungry.

"Yes. Before you can be taught, you must be tested." There was another exchange of looks between the old men. "But perhaps we should go outside to the courtyard. We'll try to keep the damage to a minimum."

Damage? What kind of test was this? Thorald shook his head and dropped his sword next to his pack. Oh boy.

Ancano coded his message to Elenwen with careful concentration.

I assume your sources in Whiterun have informed you of the dragon Thorald Gray-Mane has allegedly slain. There are rumors of yet more dragon sightings across Skyrim. Please confirm. As of yet, we have seen no dragons. I have tracked our target to Ivarstead. He has apparently gone on a pilgrimage to an obscure monastery known as High Hrothgar. The monks are linguistic scholars of some ancient Nord language. I cannot imagine what brings him here. It is said the monks discourage visitors and only rarely accept students. This may be a trick to elude pursuit but he has left his horse and gear at the inn and climbed the mountain on foot. There is only one path up the mountain and it is arduous. We have him pinned down. My squad attracts too much attention in this tiny village, so we have relocated to an abandoned barrow nearby, which the locals believe is haunted. We have informants watching all roads in the vicinity. When he leaves the monastery, we will take him.

She isn't going to like this, Ancano thought. I don't like it myself. Am I to believe this dragon-slayer, this man who almost single-handedly saved Jarl Ulfric's life has traipsed to the middle of nowhere to study some dead language? Ha. Is he fool enough to think a handful of feeble old scholars can shield him from the Thalmor?

Haelga enjoyed her mornings in Riften's market square. Cooking for her guests at the Bunkhouse was a never ending chore. She had a limited repertoire of filling but inexpensive meals and sometimes it seemed she spent half her life chopping meat and vegetables to fill some layabout's ravenous belly. But the actual shopping was pleasant. There was always something new in the market, fresh from the farm or fresh from the hunt. And there was always the possibility of somebody new.

Or somebody familiar, seen in a new way. Take Balimund over there, reaching under a bench for a tool. Look at the muscles on that man. She'd never noticed how big his arms were. A woman would surely feel held and safe with arms like that wrapped around her.

"Ah, Haelga, I was hoping to find you here," a voice said in her ear. Haelga gave a guilty jump.

"Lady Maven!"

Maven looked at her basket, already half filled with vegetables. "How industrious," she said, in the tones of a woman who had never prepared a meal in her life. "I like to see a hard worker. So often hard work is its own reward, is it not?"

Haelga had no idea what she meant but she gave a dutiful nod and smile. What did she want? What did she want?

"I'm sure your duties keep you quite busy," Maven continued. Her jaw tightened. "Much too busy to practice your Dibellan arts with my son."

"Hemming is a man," Haelga said. "He can make his own decisions."

"He is a man and I think we both know which part of him makes certain decisions. Not a part known for discrimination nor intelligence. I like you, Haelga. I would hate to see anything—unfortunate—happen to you."

Haelga kept her eyes steady but she could feel her hands begin to tremble. "We're not doing anything wrong."

"If you wish to worship Dibella, that's your own business. But what you do with my son is my business. Let me make my meaning plain. Sleep with my son again and you will find yourself with a face only an orc could find beautiful. Scars do give character, they say. Does Dibella agree?" She lowered her voice. "If I ordered it, Hemming would use the knife himself. I'm sure he would be very sorry to see such loveliness spoiled." Maven stared up into her eyes. I'm taller than her, an inane part of Haelga's gibbering mind noted. Why does she make me feel so small?

Haelga hadn't said a word but Maven nodded in satisfaction. "Good. We understand each other." She looked around the market square. "A new face in the market? Who is that, I wonder?"

Haelga followed her gaze. She forced stiff lips to move.

"That's Grelka. A smith from Whiterun. She's supposed to be very good. They say she's an artist with armor."

"Indeed. An artist with armor? What a pretentious idea. Yet it is good to see more craftsmen here, good to see the town become more prosperous. Perhaps I'll order new armor for Hemming."

Thorald's time with the Greybeards was short but intense. Very intense. From time to time he felt his ears to make sure his brain wasn't leaking out. Master Arngeir, who controlled his own Voice with exquisite precision, was the only Greybeard that would speak to him. The others, he said, might hurt him by mistake.

Thorald had questions, many questions. Sometimes Master Arngeir would try to answer them, but all too often, his response was, "You must seek your answers within." Within himself, presumably. Thorald grew restless and frustrated. If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be asking! Some of what the Greybeards taught him was practical—how to breathe to better support his Voice, how to time his Shout to build maximum power. But Master Arngeir's main focus was philosophical—the Way of the Voice.

Once he asked about Ulfric. Arngeir compressed his lips. "We taught him for years," Arngeir said. He was still bitter after all this time, Thorald realized. "And he abandoned the Way at the earliest opportunity." The other Greybeards nodded their heads but Thorald caught a hurt look in Master Einarth's eyes that made him sorry he'd brought the subject up.

"I might as well tell you now that I don't think I'll be able to follow the Way either," Thorald said. "I want to use the Voice to fight dragons. Not for the glory of the Divines. I'm sorry."

"You are a special case," Master Arngeir said. "Kyne has given you a gift. By using Her gift, Her will is served." Master Borri bowed his head to Arngeir. He raised a cupped hand to his lips and mimed blowing. "Ah," Arngeir said. "Thank you, Borri. At this point in your training, we wish to send you on a pilgrimage. Retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller."

Ustengrav, now a ruin, was the burial place of the founder of the Greybeards, Jurgen Windcaller. Thorald suspected they came up with this task because they needed a break. Divines knew he did. At this point, a traipse through a draugr-infested old tomb sounded like a holiday.

Ustengrav was northeast of Morthal. Thorald resisted the temptation of stopping in Whiterun on the way.

He'd been through plenty of old tombs with his uncle or others of the Companions. Although in general it was felt best to let sleeping draugr lay and not disturb their resting places, it was astonishing how many times they were asked to do so. Nords respected their dead. They also respected their treasure.

He'd never before gone into a place like this alone—one had Shield Siblings to avoid such foolish risks—but he found that a judicious use of the thu'um tilted odds to his favor. The words he'd learned from Ulfric were called Unrelenting Force. The Greybeards taught him another Shout, Whirlwind Sprint. By the time he'd worked his way through the barrow, both Shouts came to his throat with effortless ease. Perhaps that was the Greybeard's purpose in sending him here. So he was relatively unscathed when he finally made his way to the horn's final resting place. Before him stood Jurgen Windcaller's tomb. Before him stood the statue with the outstretched hand, just as described. The empty outstretched hand. Where was the horn?

"Looking for this?" Delphine stepped from the shadows. She held the horn in her hand.

Thorald's jaw dropped. "Gah!" was all he could choke out.

"No, no. You're supposed to ask what I'm doing here. And I'm supposed to say I'm waiting for the one true Dragonborn. That's how this goes."

"How did you know to wait here?" he asked.

"Because the Greybeards are predictable." He gave her a look. "And because I followed you."

"You followed me. But you beat me here."

"I'm guessing the Greybeards didn't tell you about the shortcut into the main chamber. Because it wouldn't be a trial if you didn't do everything the hard way." She shook her head. "And here is your horn." She gave it a look. "It's not magical, you know. It's just old. It doesn't do anything." She put it to her lips. "See?" She blew.

The blast of sound about burst Thorald's eardrums. A large rock carving fell from near the ceiling and hit the ground with a crash Thorald could feel through his boots. The seemingly nerveless Delphine jumped about a foot.

"Talos help us! Give that to me!" he said.

"Take it." She tossed the horn to him.

He lunged. With slower reflexes, the horn would no doubt have shattered on the stone floor. He imagined Master Arngeir's face if he'd brought back their precious relic in pieces. Worse, he imagined Master Einarth's sad puppy dog eyes. He glared. "What's the matter with you? That's the very horn used by Jurgen Windcaller at the Battle of Red Mountain. It may not be magic but it's old and priceless and means a great deal to the Greybeards."

"The Greybeards. Ha. If it meant so much to them, why have they left it moldering here all these years? These tests and pilgrimages, they're meaningless. The Greybeards themselves are relics from a lost age. If you are truly the Dragonborn, you are the only one who can stop the dragons from destroying Skyrim. And what do they have you do? Fetch some worthless old horn."

"Do you know what you're talking about?" he said uneasily. "Because I sure don't."

"Oh, I think you have a clue. That dragon in Whiterun—they say you took its soul when you killed it. Is that true?"

"Something happened," he admitted.

"That's what the Dragonborn is. A man with the soul of a dragon, they say. A man who can take power from a dragon. Haven't the Greybeards taught you anything important?"

"How do you know this?"

"There's a lot I know. There's a lot I don't know. I'm one of the last of the Blades. Do you know what that means? From your face, I'd say not. Like the Greybeards, we're another bunch of relics from a lost age but we haven't been sitting on our pious arses all this time. We served the last Dragonborn—Tiber Septim. For many, many years, the Blades guarded the Septim line. But before we were the protectors of kings, we were dragon slayers. I know how to kill dragons, theoretically."

"Theoretically."

"Aye." Her look was as sarcastic as his. "But I don't know how to make them stay dead. That's where you come in."

"I don't understand."

"These dragons—there are more of them. A lot more of them. You do understand that, don't you? They're not coming from somewhere. They're coming from nowhere. They're being raised from the dead."

"Is that possible?"

"I've seen the empty burial cairns. I've seen where these monsters have clawed themselves out of the earth. And I have a suspicion of who is doing the raising."

"Who?"

"Who profits from the destruction of Skyrim? Who profits from this civil war? Who fears the might of a combined and stable Skyrim? The Thalmor, of course. When Skyrim is united, she will strike at the Aldmeri Dominion. The Thalmor cannot allow that to happen. They are spread too thinly as it is, while they rebuild the forces they lost against the Empire. The Empire and Skyrim should be rebuilding too, not wasting forces fighting a civil war. The timing says it all. Just at the moment when Ulfric faced execution, just at the moment that the war was sure to end, the dragon struck. It must be the Thalmor. Who else would have access to the magic required?"

Divines, could it be true? But why would the Thalmor hire him to rescue Ulfric if they had a dragon in their back pocket?

Delphine gave him a hard look. "The dragons must be stopped. The Thalmor must be stopped. And you better be careful, Thorald. They have spies out everywhere and they are looking for you. I spoiled one ambush on the way here but there will be more. I've done what I can but I have to be careful. They're looking for me as well. You can't go back to High Hrothgar. The Thalmor have elves in place waiting for you."

"And you suggest?"

"I suggest we do what you're born to do. Kill dragons. I have a map of the old dragon burial cairns. I've been trying to make a pattern of which ones have been opened. If my pattern is right, we should go check the cairn at Kynesgrove. Maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe there will be a dragon. Then you can kill it and prove you're the Dragonborn."

"It would prove something all right. It would prove I'm as crazy as you! Have you ever seen a dragon? I have. Have you ever killed a dragon? I have! The two of us, go alone to kill one? It's going to take a team, Delphine."

"Then assemble your team. But the more of us there are, the easier it will be for the Thalmor to find us."

Thorald knew Kynesgrove. Kynesgrove was little more than a wide spot in the road, smaller than Ivarstead, totally relying on Windhelm for its protection. If there was truly a dragon in Kynesgrove, the Thalmor were going to be the least of their problems.