Chapter 21
"Dragon mound just on the other side of that Dwemer ruin, over the rise of the land there," said the legate in charge of the Legion camp. The legate was on foot, but being a tall Altmer and physically fit, his long legs easily kept pace with Cairo's trotting. Four legionnaires jogged yards behind.
"A dragon mound," Tariq repeated.
"Aye. Since a dragon razed Helgen, we've been searching for these things. I've plenty of Nords in my command that have recalled tales from their families and villages of ancient battles between dragons, dragon cultists, and Tongues. I've had my fill of the tales of Alduin, that black dragon that burned Helgen."
Tariq merely grunted. He was more interested in the Altmer than the dragons. Thanks to Rodina's skills in getting people to talk about themselves, he'd learned that Legate Fasendil had over a hundred years of experience in the Legion and had survived many battles with the Dominion forces, their soldiers in the frontline, their spies and assassins behind lines.
And the mer hated the Dominion. He hated the religious fanaticism that had overcome the Summerset Isles and slaughtered and purged anyone who protested, who thought differently. The Thalmor's madness of conformity to insane ideals of purity and divine destiny repulsed him. It made life hell for nonconformists in the Isles. And those living outside became targets of blame and victims of misplaced vengeance. As an Altmer in the Legion, he'd had to watch his back from other legionnaires, above and below. And so here he was, posted in Skyrim inside Stormcloak territory, set up like a target dummy in a practice yard.
"Akatosh, protect us. That's just great," snarled the legate as the burial mound came in sight and they saw piles of overturned dirt. The black dragon was nowhere in sight. "Autumnwatch," said Fasendil, pointing southwest. "An ancient word wall of the Dragon Cult. The Nord tales say those old walls have dragon magic sealed in them. I've been there, and there is a strange power in the word wall."
The legionnaires caught up. The legate pointed to one dressed as a hunter. "You, Calum, scout Autumnwatch. Martin, go check on the hunter near the Talos shrine. Ask if he's willing to help us keep track of this dragon and his price. Artur, Lief, go over to Arcwind point. See if the dragon in that damned burial mound has also been resurrected."
"What are you planning?" asked Tariq. The legate frowned at him.
"Just information gathering. I'm not an idiot to start anything with a monster like that. I don't have the manpower or the proper weapons. But they're going to get hungry. Ivarstead is under Riften's rule, but Law-Giver will not send troops to protect the town. The Legion put her family up as rulers because they didn't like trouble. Law-Giver doesn't like to make trouble, doesn't like to deal with trouble. She depends on her steward and that Black-Briar woman to handle all the unpleasant affairs. And since Black-Briar has no financial interests in Ivarstead, they'll just tell Law-Giver there's nothing here to worry about."
"And if Ivarstead is attacked?" asked Tariq.
Legate Fasendil didn't answer but turned away to jog back to his camp.
Tariq wondered how many spies the legate had in the Riften court to be so well acquainted with the jarl's mindset.
He didn't like that what the legate said of Riften aligned too well with what Lydia had been telling him about Riften and the Hold.
They came in sight of the camp. Rodina jogged out to meet them. "Well? Was it gone?"
"Aye," the legate answered sourly. "And it may be worse if the dragon at Arcwind has also been resurrected. I don't suppose you have any ballads about fighting a dragon?"
"All of them involve Tongues. Sorry," she said with genuine regret.
Fasendil looked over to Tariq. Tariq didn't like the contemplation he saw there. The mer was planning something, and Tariq instinctively bristled.
"So, you're supposed to be the legendary hope of Skyrim," said the Altmer without any humor in his voice. "It's icy going up. I have men who are experienced in climbing and fighting under winter conditions. I can provide equipment, supplies, and guides."
Tariq smiled wryly. "I admit to having warmed up to the idea of fighting dragons. I came to Skyrim to look for challenges, and these dragons may be it. Even so, I am not yet ready to take my sword to them."
"Maybe not. Charging blindly into battle without information, without a battle plan, is for hopeless fools. By all accounts, you're not a fool." Fasendil turned away and started toward the camp. "I don't expect you to fight these two dragons right away. If we're lucky, they won't immediately try to reconquer Skyrim. We might be able to bargain and satisfy them with steady sacrifices of cattle for now."
"You don't see them as animals?" asked Tariq.
"They have a language if Skyrim's legends are true about their shouts. And they have a written language, as evidenced by those ancient walls. That speaks of intelligence to me. Also, animals don't build an empire or have temples and priests dedicated to them."
"You have amazing insight for a soldier, legate," declared Rodina with a bright smile. He smiled briefly back at her.
"As my parents taught me, never buy the bag without checking the contents. Also, be honest with the contents of your bags and crates, so inspectors and gate thieves never notice the false bottom on the wagon."
"Were your parents smugglers?"
"No. Just a wandering pair of footloose traders. I'd have been one, too, if I wasn't so embarrassingly bad at the game. Joining the Legion was just my way to see the world."
Tariq dismounted and walked behind the two while Cairo followed him. It was useful, if disconcerting, how well the bard got along with the Altmer legate. He was used to seeing her so casually flirting. He was less used to seeing an Altmer so relaxed and willing to drop their racial arrogance to flirt back. And Fasendil was the physical ideal that Dominion purity fanatics valued. He expected the mer to put down the Nords and Imperials in his command, but the troops thoughweret him a competent commander and decent for a High Elf.
Lydia returned to report that she'd purchased all they needed for the climb, and the shopkeeper was holding them for pickup. Argis came back with two buckets of fish.
"I may have found another word wall, my thane," said Argis during supper. "I met some fellows during fishing. One of them told a story he swears is true. He says before the barrow became haunted, his grandfather, when he was young, dared explore some of the deeper sections. Behind the doors to the deeper, older sections was the hall of stories. At the other end of the hall was a wall like that dragon claw door of Bleakfalls Barrow."
"Wonderful, if it's true!" exclaimed Rodina. "A hall of stories."
"Pray, enlighten me. Why do you call it a 'hall of stories?'" asked Tariq.
"Simply that. A long hall carved with story symbols instead of words. Rather than written scriptures, long, complicated stories were made easier for priests to memorize by associating certain lessons or arguments with images. So, carve some sacred images, and a priest can tailor his sermon by referencing a certain image."
"Ah, I see, I see. And is the existence of a hall of stories proof of a dragon word wall?"
"Well, to be quite honest, the practice was encouraged by the dragons because it was easier than trying to teach the Atmorans to read dragon script and the dragon tongue. Knowledge like that was for ones the dragons were certain were loyal, like the dragon priests; for everybody else, pictures. And it's easier to change the narrative by changing the pictures rather than words. But to answer your question, yes, if you find a hall of stories, there's something significant nearby. It might be a wall or the tomb of someone important. And there's always a door at one end."
"A door needing a claw key," interrupted Tariq. "Bleakfalls Barrow, yes. We were lucky with the Valerius brother and sister bringing back the golden claw key from Bruma after buying it from a Falkreath descendant. If we're lucky again, there will be another claw key with another descendant nearby. But what is this story of a ghost?"
"It's said some scholars came a year ago to explore the tomb. They claimed to be following some ancient manuscript that said a secret of the dragons was buried there," said Argis. "It seems possible, my thane. The tomb was there even before High Hrothgar was built. But tragedies happened, and the scholars died. Locals say the ghosts of those scholars haunt the tomb, lost and unable to leave. The village has asked the priests of Talos in Windhelm for aid to lay the ghosts, but no one has come."
His followers looked at him and Tariq shrugged. "All right, I'm curious. We'll go tomorrow and see if there's anything I can do."
…
A false scholar and fake ghost. He'd murdered his colleagues and went mad searching for the treasure he knew was there. Ironic justice upon a Dunmer who failed to recognize the vengeance of angry ancestor ghosts just because they were Nord ancestor ghosts.
They took the evidence, the madman's journal and exploration notes, back to Wilhelm, owner of the Vilemyr Inn and headman of the village. Wilhelm wasn't pleased at being fooled by the dark elf's magics mischief in the ancestral tomb. He brought the group to his private room on the other side of the kitchen supplies and had them tell him the story. Tariq explained the strangely decorated wall at the end of the hall of stories was actually a door because he'd already found this in Bleakfalls Barrow. Wilhelm had smiled at that.
"It would be a pity if the story was never finished," he said.
"Maybe some stories should never be told or finished, Wilhelm," said Lynly, the inn's bard. Tariq had heard her sing. She was a lovely maid, and her voice was a beautiful as her face. But he could hear sadness in her music. She was obviously making reference to something in her own past.
"Yes. But the barrow is the tale of our past. It is as old as Bleakfalls Barrow, and the dragons are part of it. The dragons are back, so maybe some of their secrets should come to light." He stared sternly at Tariq.
"Are you interested in finding what that deceiving Dunmer could not find? And if you find it, will you come back here and tell us the end of the stories?" he demanded of Tariq.
"It seems I am destined to look into the past of you dragon-cursed Nords on my journey to enlightenment," answered Tariq, shrugging. "Yes, if you know a way past that door, I'll delve further and bring you back a tale to entertain all the pilgrims for the next year or so."
"I'll go with him to make sure he doesn't leave out any details," said Rodina. "So, do you know of a way to get past that door?"
"Aye. I've the key that's been passed down in my mother's family."
He climbed atop the table and reached to the ceiling, pushing a board aside. He brought down a dragon paw with sapphire talons.
"I've never gone past the hall behind the door because of the sheer number of draugr," said Wilhelm. "I didn't want to risk waking them. The ancestors there are undoubtedly guarding something. The door closes on its own in ten days, and that's ten days of potential trouble escaping. I'm trusting you not to let them loose in our village."
They went back the next day to the barrow. Shroud Hearth Barrow, it was called. Rodina pointed to some pictures in the hall of stories and gave sample ideas associated with certain symbols. Then, using her skills as a storyteller, she put together an uplifting sermon about a trash-eating town pigeon that longed to soar in the sky like an eagle. Through great effort that earned it the favor of the Goddess Kyne, it eventually did. Higher than an eagle, never to touch the world again. It did not die, though it was dead as far as the rest of its raucous flock were concerned. Instead, it had become the goddess's littlest warrior and flew her winds to other skies.
Now, had she chosen another symbol from the walls, the tale would have become a tragedy and warning of hubris and failure to appreciate the blessings one already had.
Mindful of his promise not to endanger the village, Tariq made sure any draugr were left unable to walk out of their rooms.
The word at the end was Kaan, the ancient Atmoran pronunciation of the the Goddess Kyne.
"Here lies Hela, friend to all beasts, the servant of Kyne. May she find eternal rest in the Forest of Dreams," said Rodina after spending an hour with her two reference books to translate. "Which is the word that stuck in your ears, Tariq?"
"Kaan," he answered.
"Oh. So, something to do with the goddess. Something to invoke her power, then. But without a dragon soul, we don't know what aspect of her power is being invoked."
"I would think the Greybeards know," said Tariq.
"Yes. But no soul, no power. And you've mentioned you've also come across other words since coming to Skyrim." She flipped through her notes. "Tiid, which means time; toor, force; su, air; and the phrase zul mey gut, or voice fool far."
"Bah. I'd have to kill six dragons to learn all those words."
They all looked southwest.
"Ah, well," mourned Rodina. "The legate's orders are merely to gather information, not engage in battle unless forced."
Argis began laughing. "Climbing up an icy mountain sure looks easier than killing two dragons," he said, answering their stares. "Although, ice wraiths, trolls, and bears… According to Klimmek — I met him while fishing — he says the trick for ensuring a safe journey down after you're too tired to think or fight is to read all the shrine stones as you climb. The stones have some enchantments on them because the monsters don't seem to notice pilgrims who rest quietly at them. He says there are ten in all. All ten shrines have Kyne's blessings. Reading them all as you go, those blessings pile up so that by the time you read the tenth shrine, it sets her fullest protection that lasts a day. Animals won't flee at your approach, which might alert monsters. But don't kill any for food; that breaks the blessing."
"Useful knowledge."
"Yeah. I hope you don't mind, my thane, but I figured I'd thank him for that tip by running his monthly errand since his knees were feeling stiff. It's just bringing up some dried food supplies to the Greybeards."
Now that two dragons had been seen flying overhead, the trailhead was crowded with people wanting to speak or demand answers from the Greybeards.
With this many people, it should scare off the trolls and bears that warded the path.
1. Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus. Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs. For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land.
2. Men were born and spread over the face of Mundus. The Dragons presided over the crawling masses. Men were weak then and had no Voice.
3. The fledgling spirits of Men were strong in Old Times. Unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voices. But the Dragons only shouted them down and broke their hearts.
4. Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied Man. Together they taught Men to use the Voice. Then the Dragon War raged. Dragon against Tongue.
5. Men prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world. Proving for all that their Voice, too, was strong. Although their sacrifices were many-fold.
6. With roaring Tongues, the Sky Children conquer, founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice whilst the Dragons withdrew from this world.
7. The Tongues at Red Mountain went away humbled. Jurgen Windcaller began His Seven-Year Meditation.
8. Jurgen Windcaller chose silence and returned. The 17 disputants could not shout Him down. Jurgen the Calm built His home on the Throat of the World.
9. For years, all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name — Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar. They blessed and named him Dohvakiin.
10. The Voice is worship. Follow the Inner path. Speak only in True Need.
Halfway up the trail, and after contemplating the lesson point at each shrine, Tariq had a good idea what species the mysterious Paarthurnax is. Although not explicitly stated, it was a dragon. A traitor.
Yet, if that was so, the black dragon they'd seen flying down from the mountain's crown, had it gone there to kill the traitor? Or had the black dragon failed, and so it revived two dragons to watch the traitor and keep it confined to its mountain?
Rodina explained Tablets 6 and 7, saying that the Tongue and kings of the time had been using their power to aid the Alessians against the Ayleids, and then they went to conquer Morrowind. They subdued the initial resistance, breaking the remains of the declining Resdaynia kingdom. Those still defying the Nords were the savage, warring tribes of the wilderness and the Dwemer. But the fractured savages united under Warlord Nerevar of the Chimer, who then performed a second miracle and made an alliance with King Dumac of the Dwemer. Thus, the two enemies put aside their own war to repel the invasion of Man.
And for the rest, this Jurgen Windcaller had taken the defeat to mean the Voice's purpose was not self-glorification. It was not meant for Man to conquer the world with the weapon of the dragons. So they took another path of ego and mastery, those who developed all that power just because they could and hoarded it.
At the end of the First Era and throughout the Second Era, the world became embroiled in constant warfare with too many factions to name trying to conquer the world. The demand for action beat on the doors of Hrothgar, and, finally, the Greybeards answered. The world wanted peace? Unity? There was only one path known for a world so out of balance, the other extreme, the path of the tyrant.
That was the Dragonborn. Now that one hadn't been shy about using the dragon's power and the golden monstrosity of a Dwemer god machine, the Numidium, to conquer the world.
Tariq recalled from his studies of another book, the Arcturian Heresy, inferred an older spirit had overtaken and possessed the young, Breton-born Nord. It was one of the kings defeated at Red Mountain. The Ash King, who was ultimately rejected by the Greybeards. What was his name? Lydia had name it as one of Jarl Ulfric's forebears. Tariq would have to reread his books later. But it would explain the contempt the Septims treated Morrowind with if it had been the Ash King influencing the young Dragonborn in spite of the Greybeards.
Well, it was a long climb up. He asked Rodina to explain the legend of the Ash King. But she only glared at him.
"Are you *pant* crazy? *pant* *shiver* I *pant* can barely *pant* talk *pant* much less *pant* [mumble] heroic edda… [more mumbling]."
He would have let her ride Nimak, but he'd left his horses back in Ivarstead. Skyrim's ice and snow were hard on them. They were fine as long as they kept to the warm lowlands. He would have to start looking at a northern horse. Those beasts were not as tall or as graceful. He was reluctant, though. The horse trainers of Whiterun were acclaimed masters in this land, but he didn't think they were as good as those back home. Skyrim's horses, strong and bred for winter conditions, were stubborn beasts. Minds as thick as their bodies.
"How are you fairing, Argis?" he asked, looking back at his housecarl. Argis was carrying Klimmek's supplies for the Graybeards and a large basket of freezing fish that he'd wanted to contribute as a token of his respect to the Greybeards.
"Great, my thane. This weather is invigorating."
The camping supplies for their party were being carried by two porters. With so many pilgrims going up to High Hrothgar, the locals made extra coins by hiring themselves out as guards and porters. The porters Tariq had hired were Nords. They were not natives of Ivarstead and came here for work because Falkreath had too many restrictions and taxes. That was the story, and as long as they kept their Legion-issued weapons hidden, Tariq was willing to let them go with that.
With so many pilgrims, about 30, not including the hired locals, they encountered no trolls or bears. The garbage along the way, however, was disgusting. This was supposed to be a sacred mountain, yet previous pilgrims didn't bother to clean up after themselves. The lumbering for campsites had also been clumsily done and without regard for the health of the forest.
Seeing someone's dumped excrement behind the small shrine finally set Tariq's temper off. He grabbed Nords left and right and bellowed lectures about cleanliness and holiness and showing some damned respect to this mountain. Half attempted to walk away, demonstrating their contempt and blatant blasphemy. However, their local porters looked at each other and set down their burdens. So, pilgrims not wanting to help could either take their baggage and leave or sit somewhere out of the way until their porters were ready to move on. Those remaining took Tariq's orders to dig a pit and gather garbage to fill it. At the end of the day, the garbage pit was set alight. It was a fine fire as long as one stayed upwind of it.
And so, along the way up, garbage was collected. They burned the accumulated filth just before reaching Hrothgar.
Four monks stood in front of the great doors of High Hrothgar. They ignored the pilgrims already there who shouted over each other to be heard.
Four old men. And the monastery was a big place meant to house at least a hundred at least.
"Kaan drem ov." A whispered shout, such a thing was possible. The command cut through the babble, causing silence and a strange feeling of peace.
"There is nothing we have to say to you. Leave."
Grumbles of disappointment. Still, it was to be expected that there would be one or two belligerent or entitled enough to break the imposed peace to loudly demand to be heard.
The Greybeard's reply? A barely audible whisper, "Fus."
And with that, the troublemakers were knocked to the ground.
"You heard the man!" Rodina yelled, boldly striding to the front and standing between the crowd and the Greybeards. "Stop making a fuss! You've said your piece, now go. Don't force them to shout. No! Stop! Stop! Wait! You lot, pick up that garbage! You expecting the monks to clean up your filth? Masters, you go back inside. We'll see to this mess getting cleaned up."
That surprised small smiles out of the four monks, who retreated back into the monastery.
Little tyrant. Tariq, Argis, and Lydia organized the cleanup. Rodina sang ballads and recited stories of the Tongues and the 500 Companions.
She told them they were fortunate to be entertained by the court bard of Whiterun, who was only here to document the adventures of the Dragonborn who saved Whiterun.
"I heard that tale," said someone. "But I also heard it was a Redguard. I don't see any Redguards in your party."
"That's a Redguard," she declared, pointing to Tariq.
"Bull shite! Redguards don't have white skin and green eyes like that."
"Fus! Tariq spat, knocking the ignorant objectioner over and everyone behind.
The monastery doors opened.
"One does not use such power unless there is true need."
"Is that so? Well, masters, I am here to learn what it means to be Dragonborn. It is not a title I sought, nor is it a destiny I thought to have, but the power has been given me. I acknowledge I am a danger to myself and others if I do not learn. I have been challenged to kill dragons, and it is an idea I grow increasingly fond of as I consider what skills I will learn as I do so."
The monk's expression of irritation smoothed to coldness. "Then let me taste of your voice. If you indeed have the power, we are obliged to teach you."
Tariq bowed. As he straightened, he drew in a deep breath.
"FUS!"
The old monk staggered back into the monastery.
"So. Dragonborn. Enter High Hrothgar."
His party would be allowed rooms inside the monastery, but rooms at the farthest point from where the four monks lived. It was for their own safety. Master Arngeir, the senior, explained that the other three had not yet mastered their voice to the point they could speak safely among people. Their whispering speech shook the walls. Gods forbid any normal person be near should one of the Greybeards laugh or get lost in thought and speak aloud.
A few determined pilgrims camped outside. Argis went out to lead them on garbage duty, cleaning up the trail. They were willing to help and listen to his boasting of Tariq's heroic deeds since becoming Thane of Markarth and Falkreath. The Dragonborn was also a Companion and would be Thane of Whiterun if he chose. When Rodina wasn't singing to the pilgrims at suppertime, she was rooting through the dusty library of the Greybeards. There were a lot of diaries there. She found these more fascinating than the rare historical tomes that told of the world before the Great Peace, also known as the Warp in the West. There were other tomes of the other time-altering events that, somehow, High Hrothgar stood immune to.
Tariq was there a week and learned the basic philosophy of the Greybeards, though he told them honestly that he could not conform to them. The Greybeards accepted this, saying the Dragonborn was the exception. They would teach him anyway because it was the will of Kyne and the gods.
And as they taught him, they also showed him they could gift him with the power to understand words. A gift of part of their souls and life force. Dragons could do that too, but it was not their nature to give away a part of themselves like that. Love for another was not normal, and so they would not give a piece of their heart or soul to anyone. And sacrificing part of their life force was only understood in battles to gain advantage. Greed and self-promotion were virtues to dragons.
Paarthurnax was a cunning old worm to have built his own priesthood in this manner. The Tongues may have been reduced by time to four old men, but they'd outlasted all the other dragonpriests and temples, and they still had the respect of the Nords.
Master Arngeir wouldn't confirm that Paarthurnax was a dragon, putting Tariq off with, "When your Voice can calm the winds, you may go to the peak to see for yourself." The deadly winds crowning the mountain's peak had been set by Paarthurnax to ensure his privacy and prevent any but the Greybeards and dragons from approaching.
Fine. For now. He would have to grow stronger by killing the lesser dragons before he could think of confronting the Greybeards' master.
… … … … …
First and most obvious, the average height of an Altmer was a third more than the average of Man, so their reach was longer. However, Tariq was taller than the average Man and could match Legate Fasendil's reach. The Legate also chose to fight using the standard Legion gladius instead of a longsword, and he used a tower shield. Tariq was using a long, two-handed Carthus sword. Their respective armor, heavy Legion officer and Dwemer.
The legate's combat style reflected his years in the Legion, and he'd gone beyond the rote sword-and-shield play taught in the Legion. He'd acquired a brutal mix of Nord, Orc, and Cyrodiil styles that boiled down to an up-close smash-and-stab. And armor, Tariq noticed that right away. The Legion's heavy armor class was made for body ramming, and the crest of his helmet was perfect for head-butting. Tariq's more advanced sword skills were being countered by this brawl-style of combat. He used his shield to block Tariq's sword as he would block spears or any pole-arms.
Dwemer armor was suited to this kind of battle. Its metal was better, and its coverage was better, but he hadn't trained enough for this. The Book of Circles did not teach the use of armor and shield. He'd learned a lot on his own, but his lack of experience showed. His lack of a proper helmet was also a disadvantage the legate took advantage of, ruthlessly directing many feints with sword and shield and helmet to Tariq's head.
Tariq was forced to admit he was getting his ass handed back to him because the legate had efficiently taken sword skills out of consideration in this battle. Force over skill. If Tariq had wanted a competition of sword skills, he should not have consented to full-armor battle conditions.
That was obvious in the legate's amused smirk after he had successfully knocked Tariq on his back.
Tariq accepted his hand to get up. "You don't fight like most of the mer I've encountered," he said.
"If you mean I didn't use magic, I suppose not. If this were battle as I've done during the war, I would have first prepared spells to enhance my speed, endurance, and recovery before engaging. And I would have opened with some elemental attack to your head since you aren't wearing a helmet. A kufiya is fine against sand, but not much protection against anything."
A soldier brought them both drinks.
"All right, we've both rested. Another round? Do you want to try using your shield and one-hand sword? We can also loan you a helmet. Or shall we make this a fencing match so you can humiliate me with your superior sword skills?"
"Bastard. Where's that helmet you can loan me?"
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