9
Seven Thousand Steps
Y’ever climbed the seven thousand steps to the Throat a the World? Or seven thousand steps to anywhere else, fer that matter? D’you know yer heart stops after three hundred steps, yer lungs explode after eight hundred, yer bones dissolve after twelve hundred, you become a blubberin wreck at fourteen hundred, and, at four thousand, there’s a troll.
If Ivarstead hadn’t been behind me, I dun reckon I woulda made it at all.
As we’re lettin our partly-detached souls haul our limp carcasses over steps 3997, 3998 and 3999, a bit of life refluxes into Lydia n she squints up at the white mountain face. We could see mosta Skyrim from here if either’a us was game to look over the path’s edge.
“Aw, look!” Lydia sings, staggerin onto step four thousand, “An ickle baby goat!”
She points. Squintin, sun spinnin in my eyes, I oblige. I see the goat, n all I’m thinkin of is dinner. Would you believe I useta look up at this bloody mountain as a kid and solemnly thank the Gods I’d never have reason to climb it? Just goes to show you how dumb kids are.
Ickle bebbie goat bleats twice n hops down the ridge. Lydia crawls onto the snowy half-landing celebratin four thousand of the greatest agonies ever known to man. There may or may not be a shrine there as well, but at this stage, who cares? The goat meets Lydia by the pillar. It’s bleatin, seemin pleased t’see her.
Wait a minute. How many eyes do goats have? Three? Lydia draws the thing into her arms. “Oh you’re so cute! Sir Thane of Cuteness, that’s your name, oh yes, my ickle Thane. Who’s a cutie ickle goaticums, hm?”
“Um, housecarl-”
Lydia has the goat on its hind legs in semblance of dance. The goat bleats once more. Then it smiles.
Oh shi-
“Troll!” screams Lydia as the ickle goaticums sheds its soft fleece to expose a fully grown fiercely salivatin frost troll. Bellowin from its belly, its three wet giblet eyes limply affixed to us, it lumbers forward one huge crude foot after another.
Both’a us screamin, Lydia throws herself into my arms then pushes me around ahead of her.
“Go, my Thane! Purge this blight from the land!”
Me? Was she talkin to me?
“You’re the housecarl! What was that nonsense about bein my sword and my shield, huh? Huh?”
Tears are streamin down Lydia’s face. “Forgive me my Thane. I’m terrified of anything that could kill me. Oh please, my Thane!”
Ensuing is a brief, dirty scuffle in which I manage to get Lydia tween me n the troll. Troll might’a kilt us both by now if it weren’t so dumbstruck at how dumb we was.
“Oh, no-!”
That’s as far as Lydia gets afore the troll swings its immense arm into her face.
Someone hit the gong. One-hit K.O.! Lydia pivots once on her own axis and thuds to the landing. My sword is caught under me belt.
“Hold on,” I tell the troll, pacin backwards as it advances growlin n slobberin. “I’ve just gotta get this thing unstuck.”
The troll steps over the crumpled form of Lydia. She’s groanin, she’s alive. Troll takes a swing at me n I knock its hand away with both’a mine. It hollers n swings again. I finally manage to rip the sword free’a my belt and slap it into the troll’s face. It dun so much as blink. Its vast arm pile-drives me into the landing. I’m thinkin of dying when the troll’s other, equally massive arm picks me up n slams me into the pavers.
Biiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnngggggggg goes my hearin. I’m on the ground, I think, ears filled with ice. Taste blood in my mouth. The troll is loomin over me. Lydia is shoutin, shoutin, shoutin, but my ringin ears dun wanna hear it and it only gradually becomes clear.
“-not the chin! Go for the heart, that’s its weak spot!”
Oh. Got it. Thanks. I stagger up, wonderin vaguely what living creature’s heart isn’t its weak spot, when the troll plucks me up in one hand n tosses me over its shoulder.
I hit the stairs leadin up and slide quite unwillingly back onto the landing. The troll picks up a trot as its comes t’wards me. This is pathetic. Two hardened warriors (okay, one, and that was me n Lydia put together) and we can’t even land a hit on this troll. Where’s my sword? It ain’t in my hand. I spy it across the landing, partly obscured by the troll’s shaggy form and Lydia’s lazy ass.
Oh, what the heck. I stagger up, giddily dodgin the troll’s next swing, take a deep breath, n with my battered lungs utter the traditional Stone battle cry.
Troll’s small wet eyes pop. Literally, they explode into black goo n blood. Dark reddish mush slushes from its ears. Pink froth bubbles from its mouth, spillin onto its formidable chin. It staggers back one, two paces, gropes at its face. I remember trolls regenerate fast and gesture madly at Lydia who’s watchin, stunned.
“Get me sword and let’s haul ass!”
“Uh,” Lydia looks behind her. She grabs the sword and climbs dizzily up. Her nose is oozing blood, appearin quite broken. Already both her eyes are blacking. As she runs across the landing she trips and hits the troll. Troll bangs into a pillar, which lets out an ominous rumble as its foundations crumble. Troll spills off it onto the snowy landing. I grab Lydia and drag her onto the stairs. With a groan of failin stone, the pillar breaks, crumplin slowly to the landing, its huge loosed column flattenin the troll beneath it.
“Would ya look at that. Housecarl, you took out a troll!”
Lydia only mumbles n lets me drag her up the stairs.
Much later, as the sun is sinkin (considerably later’n it does at less altitudous climes), about sixty-three hundred steps are below us and Lydia n me’re little more’n withered husks of our former selves. We find the next flat bit’a land and collapse atop it.
I dun take my sword off and I dun take me boots off; I just lie on the stone and go asleep.
Lydia, similarly exhausted beside me, finds my aching ribs with her elbow. “We ought to get off this path, case anyone else comes along wants to get through.”
Yeah because the Throat a the World is a regular tourist destination.
“No.”
“Then we should make a fire to keep warm.”
I pull Lydia a little closer. “No.”
Waiting for the next issue on the list, I’m pleased to hear a snore. Tonight, not even the roar’a dragons would keep me awake.
“My Thane!”
This can’t be – eleven boobies – twelve deer – hnnnngrraaall.
“Skole, wake up!”
Lydia’s frightened cry is punctuated by the screech of a dragon’s fire.
I sit bolt upright and almost bust Lydia’s nose again. She gestures into the night. She’s lit a torch and set it at the end of our camp. I can’t see a damn thing. But then, my vision starts to clear, and I see it’s no torch but a fire, a fire a long, long way away on Whiterun Plain.
Lydia passes me a fearful glance. “That’s Rorikstead, my Thane. It would appear it’s under attack.” She pauses. Then, “This is my first time seeing a dragon.”
Aside from the odd burst’a flame from the creature’s mouth, it’s both too far and too dark to see any part of the dragon. The silence between Lydia n me is heady with tension. Awkward, I say, “There ain’t much we can do.”
“We should be down there, helping.”
If the dragon intended to hang about in Rorikstead another two days, then she was exactly right.
“There’s no point. It’ll be gone long afore we ever get on the Plain. If you wanna be useful, get yerself up and let’s get onto High Hrothgar.” From the look on Lydia’s bruised face, she resents more’n a little my cold application of logic. “If it makes yer feel any better, we can go back to sleep,” I offer.
She regards me foully. “No.” Takes to her feet. Headed for the higher stairs. She knows I’s right, then. Dragons dun tend to hang around fer long once they’ve burnt down everythin and kilt everyone.
That dun make her any less mad. We rise the final seven billion and fifty-three steps in panting, breathless silence. At last, as yellow dawn flows around the eastern lands, the rabbit road becomes dotted with structures, with blessed signs of habitation. We come to a steep rise in the already harshly inclined path, where black stairs wrap around a tall central bollard. There are baskets at the foot of the bollard, baskets filled with tomatoes n cooked goat n cheese n wine n bread. We help ourselves. Figure we can apologise later.
It’s only on her third bottle a wine Lydia breaks her silence. “My Thane, I’ve been thinking.”
“Yuh?”
“Although it is true I am both your sword and your shield,” Lies, all of it. “I think it may be for the best if I return now to Dragonsreach.” Her blacked eyes slide to me. “Your business is with the Greybeards, here. But mine is to serve Whiterun. I should go, meet you there.”
I tip my head to the eroded fortress peering over the stairs. “You dun want to climb just these last ten stairs?”
“No. Oh. Well.” Lydia glances up at the final steep steps. “I guess so.”
We climb like a couple’a rocking horses with broken legs. Black fortress spreads out before us. There is a small fire lit close to the tower; otherwise the monastery could be deserted. We crunch across the frozen flagstones.
“Hello?” I call at the partly-open door. Lydia looks worried. So am I. A bunch’a old guys like these Greybeards are bound t’be could catch their deather the cold with such a draft. No one replies, so with a hand on my sword I let Lydia n meself in, and close the door behind us.
The monastery is wonner those older-style, open plan designs the my ancient cousins are famous for. Tiles cut in patterns on the floor, not much in the way’a lighting. It occurs to me if a draft did get in, then the place is likely fuller draugrs.
“Halt.”
A softly spoken word, a shadow detaches itself from the floor. I start; four blokes are sittin on the tiles, a fifth approaches us. He stops well short with his hands crossed in the sleeves of his long black robe.
“You trespass on the territory of the Greybeards: state your business.”
“Um,” I point at Lydia, “His Jarlness of Whiterun asked us to run up and see if you needed anythin.”
Standy replies. The other four are content to stare into the far wall and assimilate themselves into the pattern on the floor. “Our needs are attended by Ivarstead of the Rift. We have no need for Whiterun’s assistance.”
Lydia n me exchange a glance and a shrug.
“Yes, okay,” she says, “No harm done. We can only offer.”
We turn and walk t’wards the door. A massively deep, rumbling, and above all LOUD voice rolls over us. “I said HALT. Did I perchance to stutter?”
Lydia legs it up the hallway. I’m sorely tempted to follow. Just the thing is – the real bitch of a thing is – there’s somethin about the way the old man shouted that makes me want to stop.
I turn to him. His face is not the mask a fury I’s expected. He smiles tween his knotted beard. “Ah, Dovahkiin. We have waited too long to meet you.” He bows. “You may call me Arngeir.”
The other Greybeards are suddenly on their feet. Each nods to me as they are introduced. “Borri, Einarth, Wulfgar, Happy.”
Happy bobs n winks at me. I return a baffled shadow of his grin. Only Arngeir speaks. He ushers me deeper into the monastery. “Come along, Dovahkiin. Let Borri fix you a strong cup of tea whilst you and I discuss the return of the dragons.”
“Right,” I say, caught tween runnin after Lydia n lyin to an old man. I open my mouth n realise I’m about to tell the truth. Worse luck. “The thing is, there’s been a terrible mistake. They all think I am down in Whiterun, but I’m not. I’m not the Doh- the Dovahkiin.” There. I said it. Feel free to rewind time to the point this was not my problem.
The Greybeards are starin at me, oh boy are they starin. No one offers to comfort me. My face on fire, I says, “I’m just a bloke who kilt some dragons. I din take their souls, I din sign up to the Anti-Dragon Campaign. I was just in the right place at the wrong time.”
I expect the Greybeards, as monks, to take this well in their stride. They do not.
Arngeir throws his hands to the ceiling. “What! Eighty years of waiting and they send us the wrong man?”
Borri, Wulfgar and company are shrugging and shakin their heads, silently wrathful.
I fall back towards the door. “I – I’m sorry. I-”
“SILENCE!” Arngeir roars. What a voice! Wind slams against me, dust trickles from the ceiling, the whole monastery trembles as if struck. The other Greybeards fall deathly still as Arngeir rounds on me. “You, you! You dare defile the peace of this place with no excuse bar ‘sorry’? What-”
Happy holds up a hand.
Arngeir ignores him. “-in Nirn good did you think that would do you? I’ve every mind to strike you down where you stand. Imbecile!”
Happy starts jumpin like the smartest kid in class.
In his extreme ire, Arngeir wheels on the other monk. “Oh what is it, Happy? You know you cannot speak without crushing this one’s mortal soul!”
Happy’s lips wrap around a mouthful of square white teeth. Words seems to pour through him from the very belly of Nirn. “HE IS NOT THE DRAGONBORN. HE IS SOMETHING MORE.”
I eyeball him, too frightened to move.
Arngeir roars, “NOW YOU’VE GONE AND DONE IT, SLAYING THE BLOODY MESSENGER!”
Taking advantage of the noise while they can, the other Greybeards begin to shout.
“I WISH I’D BEEN A DUCK,” Borri remarks.
“THIS HALL IS TERRIBLY DRAFTY,” Wulfgar whines, “AND EINARTH’S SNORES KEEP ME AWAKE ALL NIGHT.”
“IT ISN’T MY FAULT, I SUFFER SLEEP APNOEA.”
“WELL YOU BRING DOWN THE MONASTERY EVERY TIME YOU HAVE A SNOOZE.”
Borri taps me on the shoulder. “WOULD YOU CARE FOR THAT CUP OF TEA NOW?”
No. No. “Shut up!” I roar, or rather, “SHUT UP!”
The Greybeards promptly shut up. Seconds pass in total stillness. Then Arngeir’s eyes slither to Happy, who nods, and he glances to me.
“Er,” he ventures, “Was that – did you just Shout?”
“I TOLD YOU HE COULD,” said Happy happily. He winks at me. “TRY SAYING THIS: FUS.”
As softly as he speaks, an unseen force rolls over me, draggin me t’wards the door.
“Fuss,” I say.
“NO, NO, LIKE THIS,” Happy draws me aside. He faces the wall. “FUS. SHOUT.”
Fus. Force. FORCE. FUS.
“FUS!”
No sooner have the words rolled off my tongue than Happy explodes into red confetti, the wall ahead blows apart into the snow as easy as straw in a storm, mortar rains from the ceiling on every rebound of the echo. When at last the noise dies I look around to see the Greybeards crouched in terror on the floor, but at least that’s better than Brother Happy, who is now a long red blowback streak on the tiles.
Arngeir climbs slowly to his feet. I dun dare speak.
“BROTHER HAPPY,” Arngeir clears his throat, “I mean, Brother Happy was right. You are not the Dragonborn. You are something else again.”
Like under arrest for the cold-blooded murder of a monk?
Arngeir drops to one knee a short distance from me. His old eyes are shining as he looks up. “Not the Dragonborn,” he says, “But the Dragon King.”
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A/N: Pumped? Psyched? Stunned or shaking your head?
No, no, no, no! Get pumped! It's gunna be a hellova ride!
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