Prologue


Four years ago.

Salazar-Jiin, Shadowscale and personal assassin to the most powerful Argonian war chief in northern Black Marsh, was colder than he had ever been in his life. The mountain pass had snowed over just as he was in the middle of crossing. The fire he had built was downright pitiful and his toes had gone numb hours ago. The Nords probably have a god to curse at times like this, don't they? Salazar thought. He'd have to ask whenever he entered Skyrim. If he ever entered Skyrim. For now he'd curse the big man himself. Akatosh, lord of time and all that occurs during it. If you couldn't find the right god to curse or pray to, Akatosh would be a safe bet, being that he was the king of the gods and so on.

The snow had stopped an hour back, but the wind blew in a way that sliced right through his warm clothing. He wrapped his cloak around himself tightly yet again. It hadn't helped before, but it wouldn't stop him from trying now. The sky was now a yellow-orange shade to the East. He'd slept very little during the night. He'd been delinquent on sleep for days now. Getting chased does that to a man. He ate a strip of tough jerky from his pack and gnawed at it as he shakily stood and broke camp.

He kicked the newly-fallen snow over his fire and checked the south for smoke again. As expected, there was a small line rising into the cloudless sky. If there was nothing else to admire about his pursuers, it was that they were tenacious. Those bastards had chased him through half of Cyrodiil and into this pass. He looked to the North, where the land finally opened up into a larger valley. Skyrim was there. A day's ride or a day and a half's walk if he was quick about it. After that, he was that new High Queen's problem and, Mara be merciful, he would be at least somewhat free.

If he wanted to be free, he would have to walk. So he did. Pack on his shoulders, he trudged through foot tall snowdrifts and did his best not to slip on the places on the road where the wind had blown the snow away and left ice. He was absolutely miserable. His days with the chief had been some of the worst of his life, but at least with the chief, he was in a warm bed at night and occasionally had a tankard of ale. Gods above, how desperately he wanted a warm mug of ale.

In the midst of his half-trudge half-walk, he heard shouting to the North. As he kept walking, he heard the sound of steel on steel. He'd heard of the conflict up here. Some racist bastard of a Nord and his even crazier followers were trying to secede from the Empire. It must have gotten bad if there were skirmishes on the borders now. As the fighters came into view, a sound akin to thunder formed into words boomed and echoed across the mountain pass. Instinctually, Salazar crouched low and hid behind a drift. What in Oblivion was that?!

From the drift he had a decent view of the battlefield. Imperials in winter clothing fighting a gaggle of dirty, tall, and tough-looking Nords in fur armor clashed with steel. One of the ones in furs had no helmet. He was a tall Nord with long blond hair and more expensive furs than the others in his retinue. He was at least a head taller than some of the Imperials he fought and- Another thunderclap split the air. It came from that Nord without his helmet. That bastard quite literally shouted thunder! Gods, the Nords really were insane! He had to get away. Stay out of the way of these stinking men from the North. He backed away from the drift to find a bow with an arrow nocked and pointed right at his face. Shit.

"Not so fast, lizard," said the man, an Imperial scout by the looks of it, "You're coming with me."


An hour later, Salazar sat in a carriage with his hands bound and dressed in prisoner's rags. That scout had been so proud to report to his officer about this Argonian he found slinking around the battlefield. The battle had long since died down and the Imperials had won handily. Other prisoners, including the tall one that shouted thunder had joined him, a gag now tied on his mouth. It wasn't long before his carriage lurched to start moving. Only then did it hit him just how tired he was. The jostling of the wagon may have disturbed some people, but not him. He'd slept in harsher conditions than a bound carriage ride. He rested on a more comfortable plank of wood and dozed off.

He awoke later in a warmer place. He saw pines stretching of into the distance that tapered off into tall snowy peaks. He thought he could see a barrow somewhere in the distance. Skyrim. He'd arrived. How ironic it was that he would first see it in a prison wagon. As he looked around, he saw an imposing Nord eyeing him. He was also blond and his ice-blue eyes had a way of cutting into you like the cold wind of that damned mountain pass. "Hey you," he said, "You're finally awake."