Chapter 4: Jailbreak
When the creature appeared, the only thing that registered with Tristan was shock, and perhaps even fear. It had simply appeared.
Tristan had never seen anything of the like. Even he knew Daedra had to enter through Oblivion Gates, or when they were summoned by a conjurer. Both methods required a great deal of light, noise, and chaos. The light and noise had been absent here, but the chaos had definitely been present.
Tristan vaguely recalled the battle between the guard and the creature – he only watched it through half-seeing eyes, his brain clouded with surprise and shock – and how the guard had ended the creature with a luck thrust of a blade up into where the creatures' chest would have been.
The battle had been won.
But then came the explosion. It sounded like an implosion, the air rushing into where the creature was just a moment before, and an ash-like substance covered a small area.
The woman across from Tristan had reacted first. She was quick to inspect the carnage, and then kick the bars of her cell.
To Tristan's surprise, the bars snapped with a metallic ring and fell away. He watched as she slipped from her cell and frisked the now dead guard.
He saw her wrinkle her nose, and Tristan soon gathered why. The smell of rotting flesh had filled the prison, and Tristan gagged, feeling the bile rise in his throat.
Something metal clanged on the floor of his cell, and Tristan turned to meet the eyes of the woman.
"If you want to kill a Black-Briar, Breton, you're going to have to catch them outside the Keep," she said with a hint of amusement mingled with the faintest tones of cynicism.
Tristan opened his mouth to make a quip, but she had already turned and exited the prison quickly, leaving him where he was with the dead guard.
Tristan recalled all of this now as he jangled the keys around in the lock. The old key was large and mildly rusted, making it difficult to turn the lock on his cell. At least he thought he found purchase as the key began to twist. He heard as the rusted springs in the tumblers began to click, then with a sudden jolt the rusted key snapped.
Tristan fell over at the suddenness of this event. He sent a flurry of wild and creative curses into the air before going to his bed and sitting down.
He sat, the thoughts in his racing around to no end. His eyes drifted over the runes in his cell, and an idea occurred to him.
Tristan assessed the position of the runes and sighed, shrugging with indecision as he shuffled into a different position. His fingers flexed as sparks of magic began dancing under his skin. He noticed the runes begin to glow blue.
Before he could back out, he cast the Ward, feeling with acute sense the fabrics of reality bend as the mystical shield pulsed into existence.
The runes flashed and Tristan felt the intense heat as the lightning bolts shot from the walls. They collided with his position in the room, but all of them bounced off of the Ward and continued to the bars of his cell.
The magical lightning incinerated the bars, leaving a puddle of smoking metal on the floor.
Tristan let the Ward fall and the lightning stopped.
He stood up and swayed precariously. His hand shot out to clutch the wall of his cell so to prevent him from falling over. With his injury, even the simplest thing like casting a Ward was draining him.
After he stopped seeing black spots, Tristan exited the cell quickly, not stopping to examine the dead guard like his former sister-in-prison. He rushed to the door that led to the outside of the prison and crouched, listening.
Upon hearing no one on the other side, he opened it and crept through.
It was to Tristan's luck that the prison was abandoned at this time. Perhaps the Stormcloaks had an event to celebrate on this night. Tristan smirked.
Of course they do, he thought. It's called the Winking Skeever…
Tristan opened the door that separated him from the open world and stepped through. He took a deep breath, savouring the taste of Solitude air in place of the dank mustiness that made up the air in the prison.
He risked a few more seconds before resuming his crouch and sneaking through Solitude city.
As it happened, sneaking seemed unnecessary. The night was old, and the only sounds were to roaring songs of drunken Stormcloaks that came from the Winking Skeever.
Tristan slipped out of the city without an event. The lookout on the gate was (again, to Tristan's luck) asleep.
Tristan continued on his way, down to the farm below the city. There, he found the stables.
Regretting what he was about to do, Tristan led a horse from the stable. The horse didn't seem to mind too much. It trotted out with minimal noise. With his finger, Trstan wrote I O U in the dirt.
He mounted the horse and rode it slowly down to the main road, before he struck the reigns, spurring the horse on at a gallop. He didn't rest until he reached Whiterun.
When Tristan reached Whiterun he was tired and starved, and the horse he had stolen looked worse for wear. He was covered in the blood of a pack of wolves he had encountered that morning. He had managed to repair his injuries he'd sustained (and those of his steed) with some Restoration magic, but all that had done was stop the bleeding. Many scars were still seen on his arms and legs, and as he rode he felt his movements in his joints begin to stiffen, and then ache.
The ride from Solitude to Whiterun had taken two and a half days without stopping.
As Tristan rode along the road and saw Dragonsreach scraping the clouds regally, he slowed the horse down to a canter.
He reached the outskirts of Whiterun and dismounted. He walked the horse along the road, leading it to the stables. He hammered his fist on the door.
"What is it?" A burly Nord said upon answering.
"You want to buy a horse?" Tristan asked wearily.
The Nords' eyebrows arched. Tristan sensed he was bout to say no.
"She's a fine steed," Tristan said with more conviction. "Friendly with everyone, and in good condition, if not a bit tired. I'll give you a good price. Only three hundred gold."
The Nord didn't look prepared to inspect the steed, but the low price had caught his attention.
"Two hundred," the Nord said.
"Two seventy," Tristan countered.
"Two fifty."
"Done."
Tristan led the mare into the stables and then returned to the house, collecting his payment.
He stashed the coin in torn pockets and made his way to the gates with aching and stiff limbs.
"You look ill," one of the guards said as he sidled up. "Visit Arcadia at Arcadia's Cauldron. She'll fix you up."
Tristan just scowled as he forced the heavy wooden doors of the city open.
Unlike the filthy and limping figure who had just entered the city, Whiterun was beautiful in every sense of the word.
The streets were clean, the people were more or less friendly, the city layout was excellent, and the way the sun kissed Dragonsreach during the dawn and the dusk (as it was now) was a sight that would be worthy of an audience of the Nine.
Tristan limped up the cobblestone slope that connected most of Whiterun. He passed a tanned woman leaning against a post. She was covered in soot and dirt, and her hair was plastered to her head with a combination of soot and sweat. Regardless, her features were sharp, and her dark hair and eyes betrayed beauty.
"Are you alright, traveller?" She asked.
"Arcadia's Cauldron?" Tristan rasped.
She gestured with a nod of her head up the road.
"Medium-sized house up near the inn. You can't miss it."
Tristan waved his thanks and began limping again.
The woman was right. He couldn't miss Arcadia's Cauldron. Considering the sign outside the house that read Arcadia's Cauldron, one would have to be either very stupid or very drunk to miss it.
He entered the shop and the waft of several aromas assaulted his senses. The scent of mountain flowers mixed with troll fat and slaughterfish eggs would have been appealing to dogs or other hungry animals, but not humans.
Arcadia was alert immediately.
"You look ill," she said.
Tristan just nodded tiredly.
"Symptoms?"
Tristan described them.
Arcadia wasted no time coming to a diagnosis. "Rockjoint," she said. "I have something for that."
She disappeared into a side room for some moments before returning with a corked flask. A mucus-coloured liquid swished around in the glass.
"Drink this," she said in a motherly tone.
Tristan grabbed the flask and uncorked it. He didn't even have a chance to smell the liquid before he downed it.
He instantly regretted his haste.
He gagged at the horrid taste of the potion. It tasted like off-milk and raw meat mixed with stale bread and raw sugar.
Arcadia put her hand over her mouth and faked a cough. Obviously she was trying to suppress laughter.
After Tristan had finished spluttering and retching like an idiot he met Arcadia's gaze with tears in his eyes.
"How much?" He asked.
"Thirty gold pieces," Arcadia said after some hesitation.
Tristan raised an eyebrow but didn't answer. He counted out forty gold pieces for good measure and gave them, along with his thanks, to the apothecary.
She nodded her appreciation and Tristan left the shop, the stiff ache in his joints already subsiding. The sun was casting the last of its rays across the sky when Tristan exited.
The merchants were packing away their stores. Some wore looks of content happiness, obviously having had a successful day. Others wore looks of stern anger, the opposite having been their story.
Oh well, Tristan thought. There's always tomorrow.
Tristan entered the inn that was the Bannered Mare. The name of the inn reminded him of the horse he stole, and winced at the memory. Repaying that farmer was high up on his list of things to do
"Come on in," a Nord woman behind the counter said instinctively, though her tone was warm and her smile warmer. "Just stoked the fire. Sit down and I'll send someone over."
Tristan sat on a stool across from the woman, his back to the fire and ruckus of the rest of the inns frequenters.
"Or not," the woman chuckled. "What can I get you?"
"Food," Tristan said. "And ale, if you have it."
"Aye, of course," the woman said. "I'm Hulda."
"Tristan."
"Haven't seen you before, Tristan. Are you local?"
"Oh, no. I'm just up from Riften selling some wares for my contractor," Tristan lied.
"Riften, eh? That's some ways away."
Tristan shrugged. "With the Thieves Guild in the city it's sometimes hard to turn a profit. Besides, Whiterun is the centre of trade in all of Skyrim."
Hulda nodded. "Fair enough. What would you like to eat?"
"Whatever you recommend," Tristan smiled. "I'm starved."
"You look it. Did you have a run in with some bandits on your way here?"
"No. Wolves. Just this morning."
"At least you're still here."
"Indeed. I contracted some disease though. Arcadia fixed me up."
"She knows what she's doing."
"That she does."
Hulda placed a bottle of ale on the counter and Tristan removed the cork and took a deep drink.
"That's the stuff," he sighed.
Hulda just laughed.
Soon Tristan had a plate of roast potatoes with cows meat and gravy, with bread and goats cheese. He devoured the meal in what could have been seconds and was quick to order seconds, which he also practically inhaled.
As the night wore on, Tristan drank more and joined in with the social activities of the inn. People sang and laughed and fought and drank, and they did it all again. In this inn there was no evil. Just friends, drinking buddies, and joy.
It was approaching midnight when Tristan sat back down at the counter.
"Could I get a room?" He asked Hulda.
"Of course," she said.
"How much do I owe you?"
"What, with the two meals, the room and all the ale..." She did the math in her head. "A hundred gold would just about cover it."
Tristan nodded and counted and recounted one hundred and twenty gold pieces.
"There," he said, handing it over.
"This is too much," Hulda said.
"Not at all. Thank you for your hospitality."
Hulda shrugged. "Just doing my job," she smiled.
Tristan walked towards the flight of stairs that would lead him to where he would be sleeping.
Two men in fine garments sat in the corner, talking quietly over glasses of Alto Wine. Tristan still picked up on their conversation.
"Did you hear?" The first man said. "There was a jailbreak in Solitude."
"What happened?" The second man asked.
"No one knows. All they found were two empty cells, a bunch of decayed stone and iron and a dead guard."
"That's awful," the second man gasped. "Do they know who escaped?"
The first man nodded vigorously. "They do indeed. One was a would-be hero who made an attempt on the life of Maven Black-Briar, and the other was an assassin who killed the Emperor."
The second man gasped again.
Word in this province spreads quicker than the plague, Tristan thought, shaking his head. Then the words clicked into place and the image of the woman in the cell across from his flashed into his mind. An assassin? She killed the Emperor?
The men were talking again and Tristan was quick to listen.
"What are they going to do about it?" The second man asked urgently.
The first man shook his head. "I've no idea. But I'd wager the Dark Brotherhood will be involved."
Tristan had heard enough. He marched up the stairs and slumped onto his rented bed.
He sighed and stood again, shedding his filthy clothes and wrapping them in a ball. He looked in the chest at the foot of his bed and found some discarded commoners clothes, which he donned, and after transferring the gold from his old clothes to his new, he walked out onto the balcony overlooking the floor of the inn.
"Hey!" He called.
One partygoer looked up.
"Kindling for the fire," Tristan said, tossing the filthy clothes to the man.
The man roared with laughter and tossed the clothes into the fire.
Tristan returned to the bed and collapsed onto the mattress. He lay there for some time, staring at the wooded ceiling, thinking. He felt the dull tingle of his magicka racing through his body, destroying the alcohol that remained inside.
At least I won't get a hangover, Tristan thought.
He yawned and shut his eyes, reflecting on the conversation he'd heard just ten minutes before.
Dark Brotherhood or no Dark Brotherhood, Tristan thought. I'm going to sleep.
The moment he thought it, he was out.
A creak on the floorboards jolted Tristan awake.
He sat up quickly and scanned the room. His eyes fell upon the black-clad figure crouching, unmoving in the corner.
Tristan's heart rate increased, but he fought down his fear. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.
"You're getting sloppy, assassin," he said. "Creaky floorboards surely shouldn't be your undoing."
The figure, knowing they'd been discovered, slowly stood at their full height and took a tender step forward.
Tristan estimated it to be really early in the morning, possibly four o'clock. The fire on the floor level still burned, but less intensely, covering a large portion of the inn in shadow. Suffice to say, everyone had left to get some sleep before the day ahead.
Tristan got out of bed and stretched, all the while keeping a careful eye on the assassin. At last he faced his killer, his magicka dancing about his fingers in case he had the chance to leap into action and counterattack.
The assassin took a small step back. Whoever they were, they seemed surprised, though they'd tried to hide it.
The assassin seemed to regain composure, and they took another step forward.
Tristan summoned the Bound Sword, the familiar cracking sound of realities being crossed filling the room.
The assassin looked down to the blade and then back to Tristan. They took another step forward, into the light, revealing their features.
Tristan was so shocked that his sword dispelled.
"You can't be serious..." He muttered.
In front of him, wearing the signature armour of all Dark Brotherhood assassins, stood his former sister-in-prison.
Her face was steely, betraying nothing, but even though her eyes were cold Tristan could still see the glint of surprise and reluctance in them.
Tristan quickly assessed the situation, but there was nothing he could do. He spread his arms.
"Well go on, then," he said, still talking confidently despite his eminent demise. "Do what you have been paid to do."
He stood there, expecting death, when the woman said something that he definitely didn't expect.
"Run," she said quietly.
"What?" Tristan was dumbstruck. He looked at her and saw her shaking.
She clenched her jaw. "Run!" She screamed at him.
Tristan didn't wait to be told again. He leapt from the bed out to the balcony, over the railing and onto the hard wooden floor below.
He heard the scrambling of the woman taking the long route down the stairs.
He collected himself and hurled himself at the door. It burst open and the chill night air hit Tristan.
He didn't stop to enjoy it, though. He ran. Up the staircase that lead to the Gildergreen, a beautiful tree that adorned Whiteruns centre. At the Gildergreen he took a left, hoping to run a wide arc around towards the city gate. He found the stairs downwards and took them three at a time, practically leaping.
He was almost at the gate now. He risked looking behind him and saw the woman hot on his heels. She was holding a dagger, and she was gaining ground.
Tristan cursed and summoned his Bound Sword. He turned abruptly, and the conjured metal met the metal of the womans' dagger.
Their blades locked, and they stood there for some time. The woman wore an expressionless mask and Tristan snarled. She kicked out and knocked Tristan back.
Their blades collided again and again, each waging war on the other. Although Tristan was no joke with a blade, the woman seemed to be a natural born killer. She would occasionally land hits on Tristan, and those cuts would bleed. The more blood he lost, the more tired he became. Her training was far superior to his.
Their blades locked again, and Tristan thrust backwards. He used the force to leap away from the assassin.
Tristan's sword faded back into Oblivion, and his fingers instinctively grasped the threads of Restoration magic. The golden ribbons flowed up his arms, healing his cuts.
The two stood across from each other, regarding each other coolly. Tristan panting, the assassin not so much.
"Maven sent you, didn't she?" Tristan asked.
The assassin raised an eyebrow, but nodded.
"Y'know, I thought you would've been friendly," Tristan said sarcastically, anger at Maven and his killer coating his words. "I saw you in that cell and I felt bad for you. I didn't know you, but I felt the grief and the rage coming off you." He took a deep breath. "You lost someone. I know that feeling." He stood up straight and puffed out his chest. "You may have let me go earlier, but that means nothing now. Just know that when you kill me."
The woman nodded, sensing that they would be his final words. She met his gaze and stepped forward, the dagger held firmly.
But then she stopped.
And she looked to her left.
Tristan saw her pale, and he followed her gaze.
Twenty feet away a pitch black crack had appeared silently in open air.
The crack bulged, and then slowly grew. Black tendrils whipped from it and lashed themselves to nothing, making intricate pillars of darkness. The cracks spread along the ground, decaying the stone and killing the weeds that grew between them. The crack shifted until it looked like a kind of gate, waiting to be opened in the middle of Whiterun.
From the gate the creature emerged. It was identical to the one that had appeared in the prison, but this ones build was heavier, somehow more muscular.
A second creature stepped through, slightly smaller than the first.
A third followed.
They each looked around with blood-red eyes, intricately studying their surroundings with their gaze.
And then the three creatures all leaned their heads back and let out a screech that rang with pure malice.
Tristan was frozen to the spot, the fear he'd felt days before taking hold. But this wasn't like any fear he'd felt before. This was pure, untainted terror.
Like she had in their last encounter, the woman was the first to react. Suddenly Tristan's life didn't look so appealing, because she high-tailed it and ran.
Tristan watched as she deftly climbed the stone wall and vaulted over it, escaping from danger.
At this point in time, Tristan wished he could climb like that...
The creatures were pouring out of the portal by the dozens. They moved silently, their footfalls barely making a sound.
Tristan watched in horror as black blades grew from their unholy flesh, becoming but am extension of their arms. The first of them entered Warmaiden's, the blacksmiths, and the Tristan's blood curdled as he heard the slick piercing of a blade in flesh, and then two screams that he felt in his bones.
Tristan was tempted to run. Oh, he wanted to run so badly in that moment. But, like they did in that prison cell, the thought of his parents came to him.
"Dammit..." Tristan cursed. He summoned the Bound Sword in one hand and readied a Ward in the other. With all the power he could muster, he roared, "GUARDS!"
Tristan raced to the barracks and hammered on the door. Behind him, the creatures from nothingness (because they weren't from Oblivion, he was sure) poured out of the gate and were forming ranks.
"You need to get armed and come out now!" Tristan called. He hoped they could hear the urgency in his voice.
He ran again, upwards, into the city to Dragonsreach. He didn't have time to soak in the beauty of the building. Instead, he barged through the doors.
He was met with an iron sword pointed at his throat. On the end of the sword was a Dunmer woman.
"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded.
"You need to listen to me, there's no time," Tristan replied calmly but quickly. "These... creatures have appeared in the city. They will surely overrun it. Gather your guards and evacuate the townspeople. You have. To. Escape. Don't engage them. To do so would mean death."
The Dunmer woman watched him for many agonising moments before she decided he was telling the truth.
"Can you help us evacuate the city?" She asked.
Tristan nodded.
"Go." She said. "Gaurds!"
Tristan left Dragonsreach and bounded down the stairs. Outside, the chaos had spread, and it had become pandemonium.
There were easily five hundred creatures invading the city, and between them were the dead bodies of guards and civilians.
Whiterun was awake with the sounds of screaming. Tristan summoned his Bound Sword and ran to rendezvous with the guards he hoped he'd awakened.
His hopes proved true. Near the barracks a force of the City Guard were fighting against the creatures, but they slashed and bashed with their shields.
One guard, the commander, Tristan assumed, was calling orders.
"Keep them back, men! We can't kill them without killing ourselves!"
Tristan ran to the commander, dodging between creatures who were advancing. On his way, Tristan slashed some of their elbows. It seemed this only temporarily hindered them, as the elbows would click back into place moments later.
"Commander!" Tristan called.
The guard looked at him.
"I carry orders from Dragonsreach. Flee the city, evacuate the townspeople." Tristan shook his head. "This is a fight you cannot win."
The commander opened his mouth to argue, but quickly closed it. He nodded grimly, and relayed the orders to his men.
Tristan turned and took off up into the city. He found many citizens and told them with urgency what to do. Some of them were scared and confused, others were leaders, and joined in with helping.
One message spread through all of Whiterun: "We need to escape. Now."
Tristan had run for what felt like hours, but what he was sure was only a few minutes. Most of the citizens had been lead to the main gates, where the guards had set up a shield wall to prevent the creatures from attacking the public.
The creatures were relentless in the fighting. The seemed to hold an infinite amount of stamina. The guards were tiring under the constant and steady assault, whereas the creatures showed no sign of easing up.
Tristan was glad he hadn't faced one yet.
Tristan hurried some more citizens towards the main gate, and then he heard a scream.
He turned, and saw a creature bearing down on a young girl, no more than ten years of age.
Acting on adrenaline, Tristan charged. He bowled the creature backwards before it could deal the final blow to the child.
He slashed with his Bound Sword, catching the surprised creature across the chest. The creature screeched and lunged. Tristan brought the Ward up to defend himself. The creatures inhuman blade struck the Ward and dissolved into black powder. The creature screeched and took a step back, pain and fury evident in its blood-red eyes.
Tristan turned and scooped up the still screaming child. He flung her over his shoulder and sprinted for the main gate.
The commander was waving his arm, gesturing for the guards to fall back. Many lay dead on the streets; the shield wall had been reduced to a flimsy two dozen men.
"We're getting out of here! Retreat! Retreat!" The captain cried.
Tristan let the girl run from the gate and he joined ranks with he remaining City Guard. They moved back slowly, the creatures very quickly losing interest in them.
They waited for some time outside the gates, waiting for the creatures to make an offensive, but they showed no sign of wanting to leave the city. They just stood, staring with their unblinking, blood-red eyes, a stare that would haunt the dreams of all those who fell under it.
At last, the guards and Tristan broke formation and ran to catch up with the rest of the living.
The guards and the townspeople marched. The night was filled with sobbing and silence, reflection and grief over the events that had ensued. The remaining guards had formed ranks at the front and back of the civilians.
"Thank you for your help," the commander told Tristan.
"Where will we go?" Tristan asked.
"Windhelm," the commander said with finality. "It's the most secure city in Skyrim."
We all thought Whiterun was secure, Tristan thought as they walked, the civilians walking in single file ahead of them.
At last, the sun rose, and when it did, it was rising on a new age. Tristan walked with the living, leaving the blood-soaked streets of Whiterun behind.
