A Gamble, and A Fresh Start
Tullius sighed in desperation as he looked at the map of Skyrim. The daily reports that he has been receiving from his scouts near Markarth told him dire news. Imperius destroyed the Forsworn camp in the region, and is now moving on the city itself. The hold itself is important to his operations in the region. The Silverbloods, despite their less than desirable methods, supply him with a stable flow of septims, and along with the standard shipments of food, they also supply him with small shipments of weapons and armor, their forges being bought by the family to produce arms and armor for the Empire. The Imperial situation is desperate in Skyrim. His forces hold Morthal and Dawnstar, though the latter is tenuous at best, with only a light garrison backing the Imperial Jarl. Any sizable force could besiege the city, and it would fall within hours. A skeleton garrison resides within Markarth, an assurance to himself more than anything that the Jarl, backed by the Silverbloods, is loyal to the Empire. He regards the other half of the map.
Windhelm and Riften are in Stormcloak control. The city of thieves and that snow blasted hell hole are necessary for complete control of the province, as much as he disliked the notion of occupying either place with his soldiers. He has heard reports of Stormcloak activity in Dawnstar, though no definitive proof has been presented. If there were any, it would require him to divert some of his legion to reinforce and occupy the area, sapping the already weakened strength of the forces stationed in the province. The Stormcloaks themselves haven't made any moves against him officially since the failed Jagged Crown expedition, which was odd. Despite the holdouts that his forces culled in short order when taking control of the regions, no forces of rebels have attacked any of his outposts, no forts being assaulted by masses of infantry, no supply lines being disrupted. It made him uneasy, although he should feel wonderful that nothing of the sort has happened, it doesn't sit right with him that Ulfric hasn't sent his men against him.
He now regards the center of the map, the area that has caused him the most trouble. Falkreath and Whiterun have been taken by Imperius' forces, legions of armored soldiers and beast like cavalry that he had no answer for. No matter how many tactics he tried to come up with, the strategies he and Legate Rikke spent hours debating, creating and refining, combing through Imperial records of previous battles and campaigns he had on hand, he had no response to the heavy infantry and deadly effective heavy cavalry tactics that Imperius fielded regularly. At best, his forces were regular infantry, footsloggers and grunts that are not heavily armored, though not under armored quite like the mass of light infantry the Stormcloaks made use of. They were trained soldiers, perfect for fighting rebels and forces of equal or lower standing, but were quick to crumble if met with superior forces.
His cavalry, if he could even call it that, were proven to be extremely ineffective. The force of three hundred mounted men at arms he sent in support of the combined assault of two entire Holds showed him the inferiority of his cavalry to the traitors' own forces. It didn't help that he sent an overconfident commander, skilled as he was, to fight on their behalf. They were, at their best, regular cavalry soldiers, though for the most part, classification as light cavalry was the most accurate term, the former being reserved for the most veteran and skilled of the cavalry soldiers in the Legion. And he definitely had no counter whatsoever to the wildcard that were Imperius' dragons. He hadn't believed the rumors one bit. Just some superstition that the natives always talked about. Myths made more fantastical as time had progressed. All of those beliefs shattered like glass when he witnessed Imperius riding such a beast. If the legends were true, and he had ample proof in the form of living dragons, then their cause was truly lost.
"General Tullius, a word if you will have me."
He looked up from the table to look at his second. Legate Rikke, a liaison of sorts between him and the native nords, teaching him their ways and culture, even if he hasn't asked to learn, was a bother at first, but has proven herself to be a vital bridge between the Imperial edicts and laws, and the citizens being governed by said laws. A trusted and reliable officer, and a close confidant at times of great need.
"What is it Legate?"
"We are pressed to retain our holdings in Skyrim. The Stormcloak rebellion, and now the traitor legion, are sapping us of strength at every turn," she began.
"This I already know all too well, Legate. Get to the point," he ordered.
"Yes General. I may have found a way to remove one of these threats to the stability of Imperial rule in Skyrim," she said, moving towards the map and pointing to where Rorikstead was. "This area is vital to Imperius and the traitors. His supply lines move throughout the region to supply his men with food, weapons and armor. And as he moves further west, towards Markarth, those supply lines will be stretched. Any disruption of those supplies will be costly to him. In addition to this, our scouts have noted no notable traitor presence guarding the supply trains. In short, he is vulnerable, his supply lines are vulnerable, and if we cut him off, especially when he besieges the city, we can corner him at Markarth, hopefully forcing a surrender and abdication of all holdings by the traitors to the Empire," she finished with a cautiously confident nod.
As she was explaining her plan, Tullius could feel the flutter of hope grow within his breast. This was a good plan, an effective, strategic maneuver that could possibly cut off the traitor legion from reinforcements or supply, cornering them into the trap that Markarth was slowly becoming in his mind. If the traitors didn't surrender, it would become their tomb.
"Legate, see to it that local Legion elements are drawn from whatever non-essential outposts and postings that are nearby. They are to meet at the town of Dragonsbridge with the main contingent of the Legion. It is time to put an end to this."
"Yes General," Legate Rikke said enthusiastically, moving quickly to find the messengers to spread the word to the various elements of the Legion in various stations and outposts.
Tullius again regarded the map in front of him, but with a difference. A spark of hope, a chance of victory, lifted the veil of inevitable defeat from his sight. Once the traitors are dealt with, he can focus on the rebels, and finally put an end to this seemingly ceaseless conflict that has already taken so much from his Empire, and then they can focus on the real enemy. He rubbed the back of his neck.
Once this was all over, he needed a vacation. A trip to the Capitol sounded nice. He hadn't seen a shred of true civilization for some time, despite his efforts to acclimate the natives to the Imperial way of life. He would spend some time in his villa in the countryside after visiting the Capitol, then return to his duties.
Dragonsbridge
After weeks of gathering forces from any and all extant postings that did not warrant any long term consideration for security, the total numbers of soldiers gathered at Dragonsbridge were numbered to be around five thousand soldiers, cavalry, and support cadre. Tullius finished going over the numbers on a piece of parchment, painstakingly gathered from counting the incoming units of soldiers. It didn't help that the disparate units came piecemeal, sometimes one at a time!
He groaned. He really needed to streamline and standardize how things were done in the Legion, this was just ridiculous.
"General, the men are ready," Legate Rikke reported.
"Good, good ...about time. Give the order, we march for Markarth."
A horn sounded off, and the march began. As the army marched, with Tullius and Rikke at the vanguard, Tullius pondered on how to make his former legate surrender. The man in question was strong willed, utterly committed to his goal, and had successes, men, and more at his back. Perhaps if he was led to believe that he was utterly cut off, and no hope of escape, rescue, or victory in sight, then he may be willing to talk. He turned in the saddle to look at the men marching behind him, a combination of mail, leather and plate met his gaze. Many of the men marching with him were experienced in battle, but he had doubts when the battle hardened and elite infantry of Imperius came to mind. He would only put his men against those of this so called "Imperium" when the odds were extremely in favor of his forces. If not, he would withdraw to choose a battlefield that benefited him the most.
"I am getting too old for these shenanigans that these youngsters are pulling. I hope that this will end with no blood being spilt in any capacity," he muttered to himself aloud.
"General, you think the Silverbloods will remain loyal when the siege begins?" Legate Rikke probed gently.
The Silverbloods, oh how he hated that name. Their loyalty was one of silver and gold, changing hands to whomever possesses the most of either. He was able to secure their loyalty, but by less than desirable methods. He promised to let their operations go unhindered by whatever Imperial garrison he would leave behind, and to administer their own form of justice as they see fit, having his soldiers turn a blind eye to extortion and outright banditry. It was the only way to get them to agree to fight for the empire if the occasion came to pass, which would hopefully not happen. However, being the realist that he was, he was under no illusion that their promises of fealty and pledges of armed support were always subject to change at any given time if an offer that greatly outclasses his own were to be presented.
"They are mercenaries, Legate. I have no doubts that the traitors may present an offer that will pique their interest and test their loyalty. We must be prepared for treachery from our wayward allies at any given time."
"Of course, General. I will inform the officer cadre and have them carry the message to the rest of the legion," she replied promptly.
General Tullius nodded, and returned his gaze to the road that lay ahead. What Imperius said had him thinking, as much as he shouldn't be, he couldn't help himself. Imperius' soldiers were of a quality matched by those of Tiber Septim's time, those conquerors that created the world spanning empire that he now served. He saw many similarities, and yet so many differences. His thoughts turned to his service, and whom he served. Though the empire he served was a shadow of its former power, it was still the same entity that brought order and stability, from its inception up until now. Yet, in the back of his mind lingered darker thoughts about the empire he served.
He often wondered what would happen after the Emperor died. He had no known heirs, and a successor has yet to be chosen in the stead of a blood relative. Tullius very much doubted that one would be chosen before the Emperor died, and he was very much aware of more than a few of his equals that coveted the Imperial purple that had the resources and backing of the legions to make a substantial claim. He would abstain from the power struggle, but that wouldn't help the situation.
It would be chaos. Legion against Legion, brother against brother. Imperial blood spilt to elevate a man to the purple. Resources wasted against those who are allies, which would be better used against the real threats to the empire. The Thalmor.
The elves had the Empire on the ropes the last war, and to save itself, signed a treaty with them, The White Gold Concordat. He personally couldn't care less who or what the nords worshipped. Since that treaty, he's had to allow squads of justicars and inquisitors, death squads in essence, into Skyrim to hunt down and round up worshippers of Talos, which has earned him no love from the natives. It made things harder than it had to be for him to do his job. They thought themselves superior in all aspects. Their attitude can go shove it for all he cares.
He has no love for the Thalmor. If he could, he would kick them out of the Empire for good. But for now, he had to put up with their haughty arrogance until the Empire regained the strength to fight another war, which he predicts will happen soon, regardless if his Empire was ready or not. He only hopes that he can finish business here before that happens.
A two front war would destroy the Empire for good, and the world would bow to the Thalmor for generations to come. He couldn't let that happen. Something needed to unify the Empire and rally it against those that would see it destroyed for good. Unfortunately, there was no figure in the Empire strong enough to lead them to victory.
Perhaps Imperius was the best choice. He is an extremely successful commander. The men under his command are loyal, and, according to nordic myth and legend, is this so called 'dragonborn', with the blood of dragons running through his veins. Tiber Septim had that same trait….
He stops at that, shutting down the train of thought immediately. It would create questions that would have uncomfortable answers, and he wasn't willing to ask or answer them, for his own sake. Right now, all he needed to focus on is getting this snow blasted hell hole of a province under control, then he would feel things out from there.
Windhelm
The Captain of the Guard moved throughout the castle, placing guards in strategic positions so as to maximize the coverage each guard had over the area, the area in question being the main dining hall, the long table in the center, with the throne at the back of the room on a raised dais. Each guard was positioned around the entrances and exits, armed with the best equipment available in the Hold. The Jarl gave them a task, and he would complete it. His safety was in jeopardy. He would make the Jarl of Windhelm safe from all usurpers and traitors.
He had spoken to each of the members of the Guard, and had chosen men who are utterly loyal to the Jarl, and were willing to do whatever is necessary to ensure his safety. Even if it means killing supposed innocent men that served the cause for years. If the Jarl brands them traitors, they are traitors, regardless of his personal feelings.
He stops by a guard near the dining table.
"Everyone in position?"
"Yes Captain, they are ready. I've ensured that there will be no hesitation among my men."
He nodded in satisfaction.
"Good, good. Make sure that the men guarding the exits have their nerve steeled against what is about to happen. It will not be pretty."
"Yes Captain. I will ensure that they will perform their duty without failure."
He patted the guard's shoulder in appreciation and made his way to the war room, where his Jarl resided with Galmar Stonefist, Ralof and two others that he didn't recognize right away. Ralof and Galmar were discussing something on the map with his Jarl, the other two were looking over supply charts and manpower listings, arguing over deployment of new soldiers to which battlefront.
The man on the left was distinct due to his right eye being blinded, a scar running from his eyebrow, across his eye, and ending right on the cheek bone, jagged and rough. His grieves were characterized by the spikes jutting from the armor plating, ceremonial carvings giving the underlying steel a near breathtaking visage. A bear pelt covered both his shoulders, the paws being tied together at the warrior's front. He was imposing, physically strong, bulging muscles flexing and relaxing as he gestured to charts and listings. He didn't recognize him, and became wary of him, unsure of his loyalty.
The man on the right was Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced. He was a regular sight in the castle, and he talked to him every now and then. He was dressed in a similar manner to whoever was on his left, his ever present axe on his hip. He was loyal, and the Captain didn't pay him much mind.
His Jarl looked up from the war map at his approach, and the Captain nodded, Ulfric nodding in return. The Captain moved to return to the main hall, but was stopped when a messenger rammed into his chest, falling down while the soldier stood tall.
"Watch where you're going!"
"Sorry Captain, but I have important news! The guests have arrived!"
Immediately after that was said, Jarl Ulfric, Galmar, Ralof, Yrsarald and the unknown man stopped what they were doing, the others looking to their Jarl.
"My fellow countrymen, it is time to remove the filth and traitors from our ranks. To ensure our victory against those Imperial milk drinkers and bastard elves, we must offload any unnecessary weight, for it will only slow us down when we march upon our foes. Only the strong, and the just, will prevail against the evils of this world. Skyrim will be free!" he said, raising a fist in triumph.
The men around him cheered with patriotism and fervor, their loyalty near absolute to the Stormcloak cause. The Captain raised his voice in agreement. His Jarl was such a charismatic figure. He couldn't help but be swayed by the nordic Jarl. His cause was just, noble, and was honorable, and he would follow him till the end. No deed in the name of Skyrim's independence is too great, or dishonorable, would not be done in the name of Skyrim and his Jarl.
He moved back into the main hall, followed by the group of loyalists, and positioned himself near the raised throne. The others moved to their seats, the Jarl himself sitting on the throne, and waited for the guests of honor to arrive.
Arrive they did. Dozens of Stormcloak officers, Generals, and their support cadre filled the dining hall, each one kneeling before the throne and offering oaths of loyalty and wishes of wellness, promising to their leader that the Stormcloaks will drive out the foreign invaders. The Jarl's impassive expression and stoic replies made them nervous, but they continued about their business, confident that they were still in their Jarl's favor.
The Captain watched each and every person come stand before the throne and kneel, silently furious at their blatant falsehoods and pretty lies. The fact that they had the gall to stand before his lord and lie to his face, when they know that in their hearts that they are traitors, vipers in the crib waiting to strike the hand of the one who had cared for them, parasites feeding on the blood of trueborn sons of Skyrim. These turncoats will soon be purged from the Stormcloak ranks, and then, finally, Skyrim will be free of the false Emperor and the Imperial yoke, free to determine its own destiny. It will be glorious, and Ulfric will lead them to victory.
After every person in the dining hall, save for the guards and those of Ulfric's inner circle, had greeted their Jarl and had sat themselves down at the long table, Ulfric stood from his throne.
The Captain called for quiet, as his lord was about to speak, and soon turned to look at him, waiting in anticipation for the order to be given.
"Friends, fellow Stormcloaks and countrymen, I bid you welcome in my hall. It is good to see so many patriots in my company; men who would give their lives if Skyrim's freedom demanded it," he began, his voice one of kindness.
The men at the table all nodded and made noises of approval, liking what they were hearing. They were patriots, all of them, through and through, and were pleased to have that recognized by their Jarl.
"I have invited you here to partake in a feast, to raise the spirit and to hearten the soul against the assaults of our foes. We have lost many sons and daughters of Skyrim to the foe, but our cause is just and honorable, and with the untamable spirit of the nordic people, we will prevail!"
The men in attendance uttered a thunderous cheer at the speech, emboldened and jubilant with their Jarl's words.
"Now, enjoy yourselves!"
The guests wasted no time, tearing into the spread with relish. It was not a regular occurrence to dine upon such delectable, high quality meals and foods. The average Stormcloak had their rations of vegetables and dried meats, some salted, tasteless and bland, but filling nonetheless. The officer class fared little better, their rations tasted better than their subordinates, but not by much. However, this was near divine. A spread of this caliber was more often than not for celebrations such as weddings between Jarls, or for the Jarl chosen to be High King after the votes had been casted. Platters of roasted boar, deer, even bear and mammoth were arrayed out on the dining table, no expense was spared in preparation. Stews of beef and chicken, accompanying plates of vegetables, bread, and fish, were spread throughout the table, usually beside the platters of roasted meat and game that were quickly disappearing into the gullets of the guests.
Tankards of mead dotted the table, refilled by wenches carrying pitchers of the drink. The feasting was fierce and hearty, conversation among the officers filled the hall, sometimes an officer would raise his voice in song, and the others would follow suit.
The Captain looked on, thinking that if he were just a random stranger that walked in here, this would look more akin to Sovngarde. He almost lost himself in the revelry, in the camaraderie between soldiers, almost wishing to forget the troubles plaguing him and all Stormcloaks who saw the truth. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to think that all was well. But alas, that illusion was shattered like glass when he caught the gaze of his Jarl.
It was one of anger, of well concealed rage and fury behind a veneer of happiness and revelry. It reminded him of the reality of the situation, and he steeled himself. Now was not the time to lose himself. He needed to be focused.
He was slightly startled when his lord sharply turned to look his way. He tensed, waiting for the sign. A simple nod was all it took, and he would unleash his blade against these two faced traitors.
Ulfric nodded.
It was time.
His heart pounded in his ears, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He turned to look at each guard, who in turn had their eyes on him the entire night, waiting for his signal. He nodded at each one, and together, they slowly made their way to the table, taking care to not rouse suspicion from those in attendance. Those of the inner circle had long since excused themselves from the table, ensuring that they did not end up in the slaughter to come.
"Countrymen, hear my words! I feel that I have been remiss in my duties as your lord and host."
The voice of Ulfric ceased all conversation, and the guests turned their eyes to him, he had their full attention, making the approach of the guards all but invisible. The Captain was silently grateful to his lord, and hastened his approach, the rest of the guards following his lead.
"I have provided you bountiful food, mead, but I have failed to provide the most important thing."
The Captain had closed the distance between him and the table, standing beside the chair of an officer, the armor less ornate than the others, but of the officer class. The rest of the guards also made it to the table, unnoticed by their targets. He drew his blade, the rasp of the blade against the scabbard overshadowed by the reverberant voice of his lord, the guards did the same.
Ulfric's affectation dropped, and shocked the guests in attendance. A look of anger greeted them, and the words that came from his mouth were laced with venom of the most foul.
"Entertainment."
Only now did the guests see the guards surrounding them, and the blades in their hands. The first few deaths sparked a powder keg of pandemonium. The guests, in a mad panic, fled from the table to escape, leaving the bodies of their fallen comrades where they sat, overturning chairs in their flight. Individuals that were slow of foot were grabbed and brutally killed by the guard closest to them as they fled, reducing their number minute by minute. Only when they saw that all entrances and exits were blocked by sword wielding guards did they realize the hopelessness of their situation and what was happening. Treachery of the most horrendous, perpetrated upon them by one they called lord and friend, with no hope of escape. They would die here. The next few minutes were unabashed slaughter, each person who attended was killed, dragged from their hiding places and murdered by the guards, the howls of pain and anguish echoing throughout the palace as they died, mercy all but lost to the guards, their bodies dragged to a pile next to the dining table.
The inner circle returned to the hall, a look of discomfort at the sight quickly erased upon greeting their lord. He was full of ardor and jubilation, as if he had already conquered Skyrim and took the throne of High King.
"My friends, we have done it. We have wiped clean the slate, and can now start anew, and drive out the foreign forces that lay claim to our homeland. Galmar, Ralof, come join me in the war room. We have preparations to make."
As Ulfric and those he summoned left the hall, the rest of the inner circle retired to their chambers, leaving the Captain and his guards the duty of disposing of the traitors' corpses. A task that he will dutifully perform, because after all, no task was too big, or dishonorable enough, to obstruct his duty to Skyrim's freedom.