Chapter Seven

The cold mountain pass gave way to the golden aspens of the Rift. Having camped in the entrance to Haemar’s Shame, Gaeolin and Inigo had been nearly frozen when they woke that morning. The sunlight, though weak with cloud cover, was a welcome change from the snow shrouded crags of the mountains. Inigo ran forward, using his claws to clamber to the topmost branches of a nearby tree.

“Thank the Gods!” He cried, breathing deeply of the woodland aroma. “I thought I’d die in that miserable cave.”

Gaeolin rolled his eyes. “You’re so extreme. But yes, I’m glad we’ve made it out of the pass. We didn’t exactly dress for the weather up there.” The road curved gently southward. The peeling bark of the trunks held the chattering of the early risers. Squirrels, Killdeer, and even the flash of a Cardinal’s plumage heralded the temperate nature of the hold. “Since you love it so much around here, you want to take the lead?”

The khajiit grinned wildly, dashing to the front with his tail twitching. Gaeolin shook his head as he followed. He watched the leaves fall to the ground, skittering over the uneven stones of the road. He had to agree with his companion. It was lovely here. Golden leaves, ruby bushes, flowers peeking up all along the roadside. Lost in introspection, he hardly noticed that they were already upon the village.

The face of the mountain bore down on them with a strange, passive malice. The winds whipped around the cliffs, carrying what must have been giant snow drifts on their breath. The mighty pines that dared to take root on the slopes swayed like saplings. Inigo stared up with him, face uncomfortable. “My legs are not looking forward to this…”

“Would you feel better if we stopped and rested a bit at the inn first?” Gaeolin offered. He turned to face the khajiit. “In all honesty, I don’t feel like tackling that hike yet either. We should wait and see if the winds die down first.” The river cast an almost surreal tone with it’s sound. As they made their way to the door, Gaeolin thought to himself that he liked this little town.

The tavern was busier than they expected. Four or five people were milling about, with a young barmaid playing the lute by the fire. The Barkeep waved them in, shouting across the room.

“Welcome to the Vilemyr Inn. If there’s anything you need, just let me know.” Inigo made a beeline for him, eyes set on a plate of seared slaughterfish and leeks. Gaeolin wandered over more slowly, nodding a greeting to a few of the patrons. One man sat in his chair, eyeing him with suspicion.

“You don’t look like a pilgrim…” he remarked, “why bother visiting Ivarstead?”

The wood elf let his offense show. “Do you often make rude inquiries to well armed travelers?”

“Bassianus…” The barkeeper glared at him. “Don’t get yourself into something you can’t talk yourself out of.”

The nord inspected the newcomer’s weapons, almost hiding the intimidation he felt behind a parting remark. “What a boring conversation…” Gaeolin scowled at him until he exited. Sitting at the bar, he turned to his host.

“Friendly place…”

“Sorry for him,” the old man set out a mug, “always has been a snide fellow. He’s not all that bad once you get to know him. The name’s Wilhelm. What can I get you?”

“I’ll take an ale.” Gaeolin looked around the room. “You seem to get a lot of travelers through here.”

The man shrugged. “Not as many as we used to. We’ve seen a definite drop in rentals over the past two years.”

“With that fellow as a welcome mat, I can see why.” Inigo chuckled. Wilhelm did not.

“So, where are you two headed? Bassianus was right. You don’t seem like religious people to me. Heading to Riften?”

Gaeolin shook his head. “Actually, we’re making our way up to High Hrothgar. Apparently, I’ve been summoned.”

The bartender’s eyes grew wide. “So you’re the one they called! I thought my roof was going to come down that day.” He watched his guest with interest. “Dragonborn, eh?”

Gaeolin shrugged. “Jarl Balgruuf called me that too… I wasn’t quite sure how to take it.”

“As an honor, would be my suggestion. You’ll have to allow me some skepticism though. It’s been centuries since there’s been a Dragonborn in Tamriel.” He offered a grin. “But, if you’re headed up to the monastery, watch your step. It’s a long way down…” Gaeolin thanked him for the advice, now slightly more nervous for the impending climb.

“So, what’s on your mind?” The elf asked his host. “I couldn’t help but notice your discomfort when you talked of your waning business.”

Wilhelm shifted. “Well… It’s the barrow on the edge of town.” Inigo paused in his eating, staring at the man with rapt attention. “It’s haunted.”

Gaeolin kept to himself that this seemed standard for the ancient nordic burial grounds. Bleak Falls, and Ansilvuund had been crawling with the undead. “Tell me more.”

“Ain’t much more to tell, they’re haunted and you should stay away.”

“I’m leaning to his viewpoint on this one…” Inigo offered. Grinning meekly, almost in a pleading way.

“Surely, someone has offered to look into this for you. Have you talked to the Vigilants?”

Wilhelm laughed. “They just passed me off as a superstitious fool. The last fellow who delved into those crypts was named Wyndelius. Treasure hunter, or the like. I told him just the same as you. He didn’t listen. We never saw him again…”

“Well, that’s really terrible.” Inigo stood to go. “Sorry we can’t hel-”

“We’ll look into it as soon as we return from the temple.” Gaeolin responded. He dropped a few coins on the counter. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Inigo looked at him as one betrayed. “But…”

“Come on, Inigo.” Gaeolin looked to his companion. “If these people are being terrorized, could you really refuse to help them?” The cat looked uneasy. “Can they count on Inigo the Brave?” 

The wood elf actually smirked at this point, knowing his friend wouldn’t refuse a chance to prove his quality.

“If you think there is anything you can do, be my guest.” Wilhelm replied, gathering the payment.

As they left the inn, Inigo stomped sulkily alongside his friend. 

“You are cruel…”

The wind had died down, the slopes of the mountain clearing somewhat. As the pair approached the bridge across the river, they caught a conversation between a nord and wood elf who waited there.

“On your way up the seven thousand steps today, Klimmek?” The elf asked.

“Not today, Gwilin. I just can’t make the trip. The path up the mountain isn’t safe.”

“Aren’t the Greybeards expecting some supplies?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Klimmek replied, “I’ve yet to be allowed into the monastery.” They noticed Gaeolin and Inigo, greeting them.

“Pleasant day to you!” Gwilin offered a bow to Gaeolin, performing an intricate gesture to his fellow Bosmer. Gaeolin returned it, remembering the ritual of their people despite the scarcity of its performance.

“Good morning.” He turned to Klimmek. “You said the path isn’t safe? What should I look out for?”

The nord shrugged. “There are wolves on the steps, but on my last journey, there were more threatening tracks in the drifts. I’m supposed to be making a delivery to the temple, but my legs aren’t what they used to be. I don’t think I’d make it today.”

Gaeolin glanced up at the crags. “We’re heading up anyway, we could take the supplies for you.”

“Really? That would be kind of you.” Klimmek handed him a knapsack. From the smell, it was mainly salted fish and meat. “Once you reach the top, just leave the bag in the offering chest.”

“It’s nice to see someone willing to help come through here for a change.” Gwilin smiled. “Good luck on your hike.”

The lake stretched out to the north of the village, the barrow entrance snug between them. An ocean of gold and green splayed at Gaeolin’s feet as he looked down into the valley. Inigo stood with him, breathing in the crisp air. The pine needles rang like a natural wind chime with the breeze. Clearing from his reverie, the wood elf turned back to the path up the mountain.

They had, in truth, made very little progress in their upward trek. The weather was still mild, there was no snow on the ground. Apart from one lone goat, the steps seemed devoid of habitation. “Have you seen any tracks?” Gaeolin hated to dismiss Klimmek’s warnings out of hand.

“Nothing at the moment.” Inigo crouched, inspecting the earth. “There are boots, probably a few hours old. We may meet another traveler farther up. As for beasts, I can’t say.”

Gaeolin chanced a look up. Not far above, the trees wore a light shawl of powdery snow. He couldn’t explain, but the sight filled him with discomfort. “In that case, keep your weapons ready. Something doesn’t feel right…”

Higher they wound along the uneven stone steps. Despite his own caution, Gaeolin noticed that, though they seemed at first to be individual slabs, the steps were in reality part of the mountain. A master stone worker had chiseled the very face. It was hard to tell now though. Centuries of weather had battered and broken the path. Soil now filled the crevasses. The bosmer’s fingers rested on the hilt of his new sword.

The sound of falling rocks made him jump. Inigo too, came to be more alert. They looked ahead, seeing nothing. “What was that?”

The answer came with a series of grunts. Snow scattered from above as a troll leaped from the cliffs. Gaeolin drew the sword, the midday’s light glinting off of the steel. The brightness dazzled the beast, causing it to back off for a moment.

In that instant, Inigo loosed an arrow past his friend. The troll howled in pain as the ebony projectile tore through its chest. Gaeolin cried out, rushing forward with a slash. He caught the monster in the neck, blood spilling forth as the khajiit’s second shot landed. With another roar, the frost troll tried to flee. Inigo threw his bow on his back, drawing his swords to make chase. He jumped, coming down on the beast’s back. His blades sank into the thick hide, the monster letting out a mournful groan as it fell.

Gaeolin wiped the blood from his blade, coming to stand beside the corpse. “Nice work, old friend.”

Inigo’s tail twitched. “I wasn’t going to let it escape so easily.” He put the weapons away, light snow beginning to swirl down from above. “Let us continue. We need to get higher before the weather shuts us out.”

Despite staying clear, the weather did indeed seem to be against them. They soon began trudging through ever deepening drifts. Inigo wore a thick fur cloak, making his elven friend only a little jealous. The monuments of stacked stones along the path revealed their purpose in the form of marking the edge of the hidden path.

Gaeolin shivered as they climbed down into a slight dip in the steps. He mused at the paradoxical situation, going down on their way up, when they finally saw their fellow traveler. It was a woman, sitting in silent contemplation. She nodded to them in greeting. “Keep an eye out for wolves, if you’re heading up the path.” She spoke. “I’ve heard howling the past few days up here.”

“We just took care of a frost troll. The way behind us is clear whenever you head back to the village.” Gaeolin turned to the monument that held her focus. “What is this?”

“Another of the emblems strewn along the steps. Most pilgrims who climb, do so to meditate on their messages. You didn’t see the others on your way up?”

Inigo shook his head. “To be honest, I think we were too busy worrying about being attacked.”

“Such strange writing.” Gaeolin inspected the stone. The markings were jagged, reminiscent of claws or teeth. “I’ve seen this language before… In Bleak Falls Barrow, and in Sunderstone Gorge.”

“It is the dragon script,” she explained, “few these days know the translations. Here take this.” 

She produced a worn book. “If you truly want to gain the most from your journey up the slopes, study the shrines.”

“What is your name?”

She smiled. “I’d prefer not to say. Let’s just say I’m a pilgrim and leave it at that.”

The elf nodded, looking to Inigo. “Let’s keep moving.”

Inigo sighed. “Legs, stop complaining! Only another three and a half thousand steps to go…”

They climbed higher and higher. The path narrowed, and snow deepened, wind howling against them all the while. Inigo began to stagger a bit. His eyes began to water as the tiny particles of ice bombarded them. Gaeolin struggled as well, his skin burning with how frigged the air was. The pair rounded a bend, the path only six feet wide at this point. Gaeolin hugged the face of the cliff, not daring to look. Inigo however, took the time to gaze out across the expansive landscape.

“The air is so clear up here!” He pointed down. “Look, there’s Whiterun!” A sudden gust of wind tore along their perch. It unbalanced the khajiit, causing him to lose his footing. Gaeolin lunged forward, grabbing his friend by the arm just in time. “Pull me up! Pull me up!”

Gaeolin strained, feet sliding slowly in the snow as he tugged. Inigo found a foothold and scrambled back onto the ledge. They collapsed there, panting and freezing as their hearts slammed in the wake of the adrenal rush. “So…” The wood elf turned to his friend, somewhat irritated. “What have we learned?”

Inigo laughed. “Leave the sight seeing for level ground?”

Gaeolin shook his head. “No, you do not, under any circumstances…” He leaned closer. “Need to eat more sweet rolls…”

Their mirth echoed off of the stone, carrying on the wind to places unknown. Setting off again, the adventurers were glad of an expansion of the path. The roughly piled stone markers gave way to carved pillars. They appeared every twelve to twenty meters, signaling their approach to the temple. Another shrine appeared, inspiring Gaeolin to stop and read.

Even with the book open, inspecting as much as he could, he was lost. It was apparent that if he wanted to know their story, it would require a separate journey all on it’s own. As he closed the book, he looked to the west. The entirety of Whiterun hold splayed before them. He could see Bleak Falls Barrow, Dragons Reach, and the Borgas Cliffs. It all seemed so small up here. Perhaps in some way, his Lord was correct. It would be easy to lose sight of what troubles the holds when all you see of them are landscapes.

At last, they could see the walls of the monastery looming ahead. Just as Klimmek had described it. The chest for the offerings stood between the stairs. Gaeolin opened it, swinging the bag into the void of the container. Behind him he heard his companion celebrating.

“Congratulations, legs! You did it! You too feet, you performed well.”

“You’re penchant for talking to your own body never ceases to amuse.” Gaeolin grinned. “Shall we?” Inigo nodded, following him up the final steps. The khajiit turned briefly, thinking he heard another fight. A goat rushed along the path, but nothing more.

The door was imposing. A large carving stood above it, almost inspiring thoughts of the ancient Akavir architecture. The doors themselves were plated with aged bronze. For a moment Gaeolin couldn’t make sense of the etching on the surface. Standing closer, he realized that the lines wove into a bearded figure. He wore a judging expression. Perhaps an omen of the scrutiny to come? Swallowing his anxiety, he pushed the door open.

The hall was dark, save for the burning of a few candles, braizers, and a sky light in the center. Gaeolin moved forward, hearing the shuffling of feet and cloth. From the shadows came four men. Their robes were worn, dull gray. Silver beards hung down from their jaws. The faces, while mainly shrouded by hoods, were lined nearly as coarsely as the mountain on which they lived. One of them approached, looking him in the eye.

“So,” the voice cracked as if long unused, “a Dragonborn appears at this moment, in the turning of the age.”

Gaeolin bowed. “I am answering your summons.”

The man held up a hand. “First, let us see if you truly are Dragonborn. Let us taste of your voice.”

“Um… Won’t that, you know? Hurt you?” Gaeolin thought of all of the times (though accidental) he had tapped into the strange powers. Destruction seemed unavoidable when dealing with them.

“We are not so feeble as we appear.”

Hearing the certainty in the elder’s words, Gaeolin prepared himself. The word was there, the energy, the force of it flashed to his mind. “FUS!” A wave of energy sprung from his lips, crashing into the sage, ringing from the stone with a shudder. The robed monk staggered, but recovered quickly. The others nodded as they observed. Inigo watched from the wall, careful not to interrupt.

“Dragonborn, it is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar.”