Chapter 8
Triumph
The Triumph, as Salazar had expected, was mostly an excuse for the populous of Cyrodiil to get drunk. Salazar rode around the Imperial City with his legion to the cheers of children and rowdy adults who didn't feel it was necessary to start drinking after the parade. Children threw garlands of wildflowers as the legionaries marched in perfect parade step, their armor gleaming in the noon sun. Rikke held the standard of the Eleventh Legion, riding in her horse-hair plumed helmet, looking more imposing than Salazar had ever seen her. Salazar rode at the head of his legion, the customary laurel adorning his horned head. As the crowds cheered, he felt some of the tension he'd been carrying since he joined the Legion all those years ago slip away. His work wasn't over, but he had accomplished something. Something he planned to make nothing more than a footnote next to his true goals, but something.
The city was still being rebuilt after the Dominion had destroyed most of it. Scaffolding and ruined townhouses rose above him, corpses that stand as testament to a lost age. The legion turned, marching through a massive arch into Green Emperor Way. At least, what was left of it. During the occupation, the Dominion's forces had all but destroyed the White-Gold Tower. The top half of the tower was gone, leaving a jagged edge of marble at what was now the top. Wooden scaffolding crawled its way up the tower like ivy to the top, where they attempted to rebuild what the Aylieds had created so many millenia ago.
A massive crowd of cheering citizens filled the lawn of the Imperial Palace and the Emperor himself stood on a balcony in his full royal regalia. Salazar had never seen the new Emperor of Cyrodiil before, but he'd heard descriptions of him. He was tall but it seemed as though he hadn't filled into his height yet. The fine cloak and silk clothes fit loosely around his adolescent frame. Salazar stopped his legion in front of the Emperor's balcony. "About face!" He shouted, his soldiers turning at once, the snap of thousands of boots hitting the stone pavement at once reverberating over the din of the crowd. Salazar saluted.
The Emperor put up a hand to silence the crowd. He stepped forward. "People of Cyrodiil! Today, we celebrate the courage, heroism, and cunning of the General Salazar-jiin and his Eleventh Legion!" The crowd roared with applause. "Today, we stand to acknowledge the might of the Empire and her Legion! The Aldmeri Dominion wants a divided Empire, a broken Empire! Today, we show them that we are united! That we are strong! We welcome our Nord brothers and sisters back with open arms. I hope to mend the frayed ties that once bound us together so strongly. For now, however, let us congratulate our Eleventh Legion on quashing the Stormcloak rebels!"
"Nice job, kid." Salazar muttered as the crowd applauded around him. "Nice job."
...
That evening, the majordomo of the palace showed him to the guest room reserved for him. "If there is anything you need, General, there will be a rope that you can pull and a servant will attend to you."
"Thank you, my good man. I will call for you when I am ready for dinner." Salazar said. The majordomo bowed and turned to go before Salazar shut the door.
As soon as the short Imperial man left, Salazar's mask of the competent commander fell and he felt the exhaustion hit him again. Without removing his ceremonial armor, he collapsed onto the well-stuffed down mattress and let himself relax and take in the room. There was a massive bear hide on the wall and a wardrobe made of mangrove wood from Black Marsh sat on the opposite side. The servant rope and an ornately carved nightstand with a golden candelabrum, candles lit, sat near where Salazar had lain his arm.
Something was wrong. The wardrobe door was slightly ajar, revealing the blackness inside. Someone had been in here before him. Whether it was just a clumsy maid who forgot to make everything absolutely pristine or something more sinister, he didn't know. He cursed at himself. He should've checked the room before laying down. "Laas Yah Nir," he whispered, searching for the red outlines that indicated the presence of life. As he suspected, there were outlines in the room with him. One lay in wait in the wardrobe, crouching behind the clothes while the other hid behind the bear hide. Clever, he thought, but not clever enough.
He closed his eyes, still able to sense the auras of the creatures. He slowed his breathing as though he were going to sleep. Then he waited for them to take the bait. Slowly, they both emerged, their auras betraying their combat stances. The taller one favored a bad leg. Old injury probably. The shorter one was skinny and crouched behind the taller one. A coward, perhaps? The taller one approached the bed, making almost no sound as he did so. Whoever they were, they were professionals. Salazar wrapped a hand around the candelabrum as the tall one raised his arm to strike. He snapped his eyes open and smashed the candelabrum against the tall one's bad leg, earning a curse as the hot wax burned through his trouser leg.
Salazar leapt to his feet, finally seeing his assailants. They were both clad in chitinous armor, beady red eyes peaking through the glass goggles on their masks. Dunmer. Morag Tong more specifically. They both held wicked-looking steel daggers in a backwards grip. The short one leapt backwards, drawing another dagger from a scabbard in her belt. The tall one still stood close to Salazar, his stance ensuring his back leg wasn't in danger of getting hit again. Salazar drew his enchanted ebony axes, the smells of ozone and brimstone filling the large bedchamber, a growl escaping his throat. The tall one lunged with his dagger. Salazar dodged with a small move the side and swung his fire axe upward in an arc toward his opponent's rib cage.
The tall one ducked low, rolling behind Salazar as the short one pounced on him like a swamp cat, screaming like a damned soul straight out of Coldharbour. It seemed he had misjudged her. He ducked under her, grabbing her leg and using her momentum to slam her into her partner. As they lay there, stunned, Salazar moved with the cold efficiency he was taught in the practice room where his best friend died and buried his lightning ax in the short one's collar bone. She spasmed as the lighting coursed through her, blood seeping through the netch leather of her armor, the scent of burning flesh wafting up with the smoke from her wound. He tore his axe from where it rested halfway into her torso and threw her still spasming body aside to find the tall one backing up to the wall.
The animal stench of terror emanated from the assassin as plainly as Salazar could see it in his red eyes. He was a brave one, though. He began to circle Salazar like a wolf vying to be leader of the pack. Salazar circled as well, examining his opponent for less obvious weaknesses than his bad leg. After a few rounds of them inspecting one another, the assassin lunged again, fainting a stab to the neck but at the last moment dropping his dagger into his offhand and going to disembowel Salazar. He knew this trick well. An old assassin's technique to be used only when your back was against the wall. Salazar, anticipating it, stepped to the side of his bad leg and sliced the man's arm off above the elbow with his fire axe. He began to scream as blood seeped through the charred flesh of his stump, but it was cut short as Salazar, using the momentum he gained from dismembering the man to pirouette and swing his lighting axe at the man's neck. He barely felt any resistance as the razor-sharp ebony cleaved through the netch leather and the flesh beneath it to behead the man.
Just like that, it was over. He wiped the blood off of his axes with a sleeve and sheathed them. Dark Elf blood soaked the soft carpet beneath his feet, the broken bodies laying like marionettes with their strings cut. He knelt down and eventually found the blood stained writ of execution in a pocket of the woman's armor.
"Grandmaster Drenavan Freter of the Morag Tong gives this writ to his subordinates to execute the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, whose treachery knows no bounds."
Salazar's feathers rippled in contentment. The last writ had a different Grandmaster's name on it. The job he'd given Daro'shilai had been successful. The Morag Tong really was a shadow of their former selves now that Salazar's Dark Brotherhood assassins had decimated their ranks these last four years. That, on top of the eruption of Red Mountain, meant they were on their last legs. One more round of back alley killings and the Morag Tong would finally be swept from Nirn and into the dung heap of history where they belonged.
He took a candle from the now bent candelabrum, lit the writ on fire, and dropped it on the ground. As flames crept up the parchment, Salazar pulled the rope next to the bed, taking care to step over the headless corpse of the taller assassin. Within minutes, the door at the far end of the room opened, revealing a tired looking maid. Upon seeing the scene before her, the maid's face went pale, she let loose a piercing scream, and ran down the hall calling for guards. Salazar sighed and sat on the bed. This was the eighth assassination attempt he'd survived since he found out he was the Dragonborn. Some amateurish, some professional. If this was what was in store for him when he got into politics, he would never get to settle down like he always wanted. His whole life had been spent fighting against or running from some overwhelming force. He felt he was due some peace and quiet.
A squad of the Emperor's own guards ran into the room, swords drawn. An officer in a plumed helmet ordered his men to overturn everything to ensure there were no more assassins hiding anywhere. The officer came over to Salazar, giving a sidelong glance at the bodies. He took off his helmet and saluted, revealing a square faced Nord man with his red hair graying at the temples. "Sir! Fenrir Redaxe, Captain of the Guard. Are you alright?"
"At ease, Captain. I'm fine. These were Morag Tong assassins." Salazar said.
The captain's eyes widened, "Morag Tong? In Cyrodiil? By the Nine..."
"Usually they only send one. I guess that means I'm important." Salazar chuckled.
The captain did not find it very amusing. "This was a failing of both myself and my guard, sir. For that, I humbly ask your forgiveness."
Salazar waved a hand dismissively. "I'm a soldier too, captain, not some diplomat begging the Emperor to cut his taxes. The Morag Tong are some of the most skilled assassins in Tamriel. Even if your men found them during their search, they would have been killed. Just clean this up and do a search of the rest of the palace."
"Already on it, sir."
"Good." Salazar said. He would not let anyone else get killed because they were associated with him. "Good."