Chapter 2

Machinations

Salazar opened the tent flap and walked outside. Campfires roared as soldiers ate and drank in celebration of their victory. His legion was mostly Imperials and Nords, as could be expected, but there was a smattering of other races. Orcs intermixed with the rest of the infantry, a company of Breton battlemages drank heavily amongst themselves, a few Dunmeri mages that acted as artillery shared Sujamma and chuckled to one another, and the ever effective Bosmeri Archers Corps was engaged in a contest of skill with the bow. People rotated between the different groups, which resulted in a very amusing moment when an incredibly drunk Orc walked up to the Bosmer archers and demanded a chance at the game.

As he passed, the Orc, who had bet half a week's wages on his success, actually won. Where other men would've scowled and grumbled at losing their money, the Bosmer laughed and payed the Orc well. Gambling was technically forbidden while they were in the army, but Salazar didn't really care what his soldiers did on their off-time. That was, of course, until their shenanigans affected their performance on the battlefield. Then it became an issue.

Once he reached the edge of the camp, he saw a stockily built Imperial Message Runner holding a scroll with the seal of the royal family on it. He saluted as Salazar approached. Top priority indeed. "Sir, message from Emperor Titus Mede III, protector of the realm..."

Salazar put up a hand, silencing the messenger. He had a very low tolerance for long title readings, "Spare the titles. Hand me the scroll."

The messenger did as he was told, saluted again and stood, waiting for other orders. Salazar looked around. Everyone seemed distracted at the moment. He broke the seal and opened the scroll.

Esteemed Dragonborn,

I would like to congratulate you on your progress quelling the Stormcloak Rebellion in Skyrim. I must say it is most unorthodox for an Auxiliary such as yourself to rise so far and so fast in the ranks, but I suppose an exception can be made because of your unique abilities. I would like to see you myself. I've heard much of your exploits, but I must admit that some of the stories seem a bit exaggerated. We will have a Triumph in your honor, of course. After that, we have much to discuss in person.

May the Gods bring you to me unscathed,

Emperor Titus Mede III

A summons. Of course. He had no doubt that the Emperor wanted to put "As soon as possible" in there somewhere. He knew from personal experience that the Elder Council were the most venomous pit of vipers on Tamriel. Someone associated with them had contracted Salazar to kill the last Emperor.

Titus Mede III was a seventeen year-old boy who had been sickly for the majority of his life. He was described as pale and thin by all those who'd seen him. He'd become Emperor at the age of thirteen and until very recently had been under regency. Gossip from the court had been grim since then. His decrees had been erratic and odd in the first months of his true rule; the characteristic mark of a scared boy who'd been used as a pawn for so long he didn't know how to actually lead. Now, the Emperor was looking for allies in the military. He was growing more shrewd, it seemed. Salazar couldn't help but sympathize with the boy. It was a shame he would have to kill him too.

Salazar closed the scroll and commanded the messenger to follow him to his tent. The Orc that won the archery contest had passed out on the ground. Salazar grimaced. He did not want to be that man when he woke up. Although, he was certain the large pouch of coins on his belt would soften the blow quite effectively. He entered the tent and saw Rikke still sitting there, nursing a bottle of mead. "Rikke," Salazar said, "We're getting a Triumph,"

Rikke started, "Really, sir?" There hadn't been a Triumph in the Imperial City since the end of the Oblivion Crisis over two-hundred years ago.

Salazar rummaged his drawer for his good parchment and ink. "Yes, Legate. Ah!" He removed the ink and parchment from the drawer and placed them on the table. He pulled his feather pen from a pouch on his belt (As a general, it was good to keep one on you in case you needed to write orders) and dipped it in the ink. He'd been taught to write by assassins, so his handwriting was very... utilitarian. It was curt, and contained an explanation that the Stormcloaks had been completely wiped out. Give him something to ponder. He tried to make his response as formal and polite as possible. Once he was done, he rolled the parchment up and melted wax onto the seam. He then removed his personal seal and stamped the wax. The seal was a gift from General Tullius upon his retirement. It was his official badge of office.

He handed the letter to the messenger along with a few septims to warm his pocket as he ran. "Sir?" Rikke said as Salazar slumped back into his chair. Everything was proceeding so quickly. "We're officially war heroes," Salazar said, "The Emperor wants to meet me personally and discuss the campaign."

Rikke gaped, "General, that is a tremendous honor." Salazar snorted and opened the decanter of whiskey to pour another small glass. Poor, sweet, naïve Rikke. She had a good political mind when it came to Skyrim, but she never really read most of the reports on her desk concerning other provinces. One of her few flaws as a commander. "It only means I'll owe the Emperor a favor. He's desperate to curry favor in his own court," Salazar felt his expression darken as he thought of the Aldmeri Dominion, "We might have more war in our future, Legate."

Rikke sighed, "It's our duty, General." They'd had this conversation a thousand times. Salazar even had a preliminary war plan in his desk at home. He hoped it would never come to that, but reports from Valenwood and Elsweyr were troubling. According to Dark Brotherhood contacts in those provinces, the Dominion was consolidating power at an alarming rate. They had been killing decenters, replacing governors, and deporting foreigners; the moves of a nation growling at its neighbor like a starved wolf ready to pounce. What's more, there were rumblings among mages that odd magics were being experimented upon by the high-ranking wizards of the Dominion. Boras would probably know more bout it.

"I know it's our duty, Rikke. I'm just..." Salazar paused, "I'm worried." Worried that I picked the wrong side. Rikke looked outside the tent flap. Salazar still heard a low hum of conversation outside, but obviously the heartier festivities had died down. She sat back down, seeming troubled as well. "Salazar, the things you told me last time we talked about this... eventuality. Are they true?"

"Of course. I teleported to the Summerset Isle myself to vet them." Having an Arch-Mage as a co-conspirator was very useful. "They are going to do something very drastic soon. Maybe stage an attack or skip the pleasantries and just declare war outright, but war is coming, Rikke." He tried to wash the sour taste from his mouth with the whiskey. It didn't work. "By the Nine, what a mess you left us, Dagon."

"Let's focus on what we can prevent," Rikke said, "We can and must prevent the Empire from falling apart more than it already has. When those Elves eventually come into Cyrodiil, we will need all the help we can get. We must make allies, and quick." She seemed to have lost all taste for her mead. No, not a political mind but, by oblivion, she had a military one.

Salazar drummed his fingers on the table, "I've got some ideas on how we can do that. I'll sleep on it for now."

Rikke nodded. "When will we leave for Cyrodiil?"

"Two weeks. Have the men make the necessary preparations. I've got some loose ends to tie up here before we head off." Old friends who needed their throats slit.

Rikke gave a short salute and left the tent, taking her bottle with her. He didn't blame her. These coming months were going to be some of the most difficult of both of their lives. She had no idea what his true plans were. If she were to ever find out, he would have to kill her. Well, if that were to happen, everything else would have gone to complete shit anyway. He would have to kill a lot of people if his worst contingency had come to pass. He dared not think of it too much, but he understood that it had to be done. You tended to plan that far ahead as an assassin. You had to, if you wanted to survive for any length of time.

He emptied the decanter that night before finally going to bed. His nerves had been shot ever since he shoved General Tullius' sword into Ulfric Stormcloak's chest all those years ago. Through the drunken haze, Salazar tried to banish all thoughts and sleep. He didn't succeed. Salazar's first employer still plagued his mind. Alduin, the World-Eater still plagued his mind. Titus Mede II. Vittoria Vici. Lord Harkon. The beggar Narfi. A boy who joined the Stormcloaks at 16 because he believed all that Nord drivel about Sovengarde. All of their faces ran through his mind like a kaleidoscope of pain. People he'd killed. People whose bodies he'd broken for one reason or another. Money. Power. Some sense of right and wrong. All excuses. Truth was he was just a killer. It was what he was good at.

An old thought crept into his head again. Had you been born a month earlier, you would've been a farmer. You would've escaped this pain and death. You wouldn't have been beaten and used as a blunt instrument by those who use you. An old thought, indeed. A traitorous thought. He'd moved past this long ago. He was a Shadowscale. Pain and death was his business. Might as well do some good with those talents. Gods help him he would do good. Even if it meant a war that would kill hundreds of thousands of people. Even if it meant bringing the very Empire to its knees.