Chapter 8: The Crimson City

As Tristan's borrowed horse hammered along the stone road that led to Windhelm, he could already tell something was wrong.

The snow obscured his vision, but from the distance he was at he could already make out the fires and the smoke spewing from the City of Ysgramor, mingled with the sound of silent massacre that carried to him on the wind and made his blood turn icy. Tristan spurred the horse on, faster, hoping, praying that he hadn't missed the carnage, praying that he hadn't left the citizens of Windhelm and the refugees of Whiterun for dead.

As he drew closer he began to hear the screams of the people – hoarse and filled with panic - and without even having to be inside the city he knew what enemy they were facing.

Tristan leapt from his horse, the snow softening his landing, and he rolled to his feet, taking off at a sprint up and across the cobblestone bridge that led to Windhelm's main gate.

Where is everyone? Why aren't the people escaping the city?

Tristan slammed into the main gate of Windhelm, and forcing a shoulder on it, heaved the massive door open.

The smell of blood and death and ash assaulted Tristan's nostrils, but upon laying his eyes on the city he understood why no one was escaping the city.

The stubbornness of Nords.

The screams Tristan had heard before weren't screams of terror or of panic, but of war. The battle cries of the residents of Windhelm would have inspired fear in their enemies, but this enemy was like no other. Instead, these cries inspired courage in the fellow man, which explained why the Nords had chosen to fight and not to run.

Tristan was both angered and in awe at what he saw. Every man and woman had taken up arms against the devils and were fighting to defend their homes.

Tristan felt rather than saw a pitch-black body sweep up behind him, and he spun and summoned his Ward. A blade glanced off the magical shield, and the creature unleashed a guttural shriek that nothing of this world could imagine. Tristan winced and ran, weaving in and out of the fighting. He passed bodies of Nords and piles of ash, and amidst all the crying and the blood he knew that he had to find the one man that could get everyone out.

He rounded a corner and immediately stopped. Ahead of him were three of the creatures, barely anything but malice in themselves, and the source of so much of Tristan's current fear. Three pairs of red eyes met his, and the three creatures began to advance with slow, deliberate steps. Black mist formed around their arms and three blades manifested, all sharper than any blade known to mortal men.

Tristan took a shaky breath and summoned his Bound Bow. Once he raised the weapon the devils advanced quicker, and Tristan only let loose one arrow before he had to dispel the weapon and summon his Bound Sword. The arrow glanced off one of the demons bodies and slowed it down, but black mist collected where the arrow struck and Tristan knew it was repairing itself.

The three of them attacked Tristan with sweeps and strikes, and Tristan did all that was in his power to defend and parry each blow. But with each blow Tristan grew more tired, and the creatures showed no signs of fatigue. Tristan parried a strike from one of the devils and buried his sword to the hilt in the chest of the creature. The creature simply looked at him, its head cocked, and Tristan ducked as a blade from another whistled over his head. He yanked the Bound Sword from the creatures chest and put up a Ward as the second demon swung down with an overhead strike. The blade struck the Ward and the devil recoiled, seeming to scream in silence as the dark blade began to crumble. Tristan spun and blocked an attack from the third demon, and he kicked the things legs out from under it, using its own body as a platform to bounce off. He sailed through the air towards the first creature and swung his sword, catching the thing across the throat.

He collapsed to the ground in a heap, and watched as the devil crumpled in on itself. He saw a slight haze around the things dead body and – remembering the prison in Solitude and the attack on Whiterun – summoned a Ward to protect himself. The creature exploded into ash, and whatever was covered instantly began to decay and break down. Stones cracked and blackened and the moss on the walls dried up and died. Only Tristan – protected by his Ward – was spared from the deadly ash. Tristan looked at the devil that had struck his Ward, and saw that it was now nothing but a pile of smoking ash. He panted, wondering as to how that had happened, but through the fog of fatigue he couldn't think of anything.

The creature Tristan had knocked down regained its feet and began its slow walk to the Breton leaning against the wall. Tristan tried to summon a Bound Sword, but he was exhausted, his magicka depleted. He looked at the devil, who looked at him in turn.

"So this is how it ends," Tristan said. He scoffed at the irony. "Figures."

The demon raised its blade. Something whistled through the air and in an instant there was a steel arrow protruding through the creature's skill. Tristan's eyes widened in surprise, and soon there was a firm hand gripping his clothes and hauling him off the ground.

"Come on, Tristan, move!"

Tristan was pushed around the corner, and the sound of the devil exploding caught his ears. He fell back to the ground and looked up at his saviour.

"Commander," Tristan smiled weakly. "If I said I wasn't pleased to see you I'd be lying."

The Commander nodded. "Tristan, it's good to see you too. Glad you came back."

"So the demons are here now?" Tristan asked as the Commander held out a hand to help him up.

"They are," the Commander said grimly. "When the portal opened I tried to tell the High King to evacuate the city, but he didn't listen."

"Where did the portal open?"

"Inside the Palace of Kings, could you believe it. Everyone from Whiterun, as well as some citizens and children from Windhelm evacuated the city. The High King called everyone to fight, and most of the city stayed."

"But you're still here," Tristan pointed out. "I thought you would've gone with the refugees."

"The Companions and I stayed behind to talk some sense into our High King," the Commander said bitterly. "At the very least we're helping defend the city."

"Where are the survivors headed?"

"North," the Commander said. "They've started on a path to Winterhold. Should we win – which I doubt – a runner will be sent to bring them back."

Tristan thought for a while. "What do you need me to do?"

The Commander shook his head. "Nothing, Tristan. You should escape. Run."

It was Tristan's turn to shake no. "Sorry, Commander, but this is where I have to be. I assume the High King is still at the palace?"

The Commander nodded.

"Then that's where I'm headed. Try to kill as many of the demons as you can."

"We can't," the Commander said.

"I know," Tristan replied, conjuring a healing spell to lessen some of his cuts and bruises. "A few of the devils I've fought somehow don't react well to Wards. It does something to them, I just don't know what. And to be honest, it's not something I want to evaluate further."

"Why Wards?"

Tristan shrugged. "Just find whoever can cast Wards and get them to do it. I have a… theory, shall we say. If it's correct then we have a chance at winning."

"We're in the Nord capital of Skyrim, Tristan," the Commander chuckled. "The chances of finding someone who can use magic are little-to-none. But I'll try." He shook Tristan's hand. "I'll see you again, friend."

"Aye," Tristan nodded.

The Commander turned on his heel and ran off. Taking a moment to look around, Tristan saw the towers of the Palace of Kings in the sky and ran in that direction, trying to avoid as much battle as he could.

He arrived at the courtyard to the Palace of Kings without too much trouble, but when he arrived he seriously questioned why he decided to return to Windhelm.

The courtyard had been transformed into a breeding ground for death. The stones had been painted crimson by the amount of Nordic blood that had been spilled on them, and piles of ash littered the ground. There was still battles raging in the courtyard, and with each slash of a sword a new victim collapsed to the ground, dead or dying.

Tristan caught his breath, the horror of the sight before him burning itself into his mind. Everything was screaming at him to run, including the Commander, including his dead parents. But he knew in that moment that this courtyard – this relatively small space – could become the rest of Skyrim, the rest of Tamriel.

With new valour, Tristan tried to force out any magicka that may have resided within him, but whatever he had wasn't enough to summon his weapons. Tristan cursed, and began to run towards the Palace of Kings, darting between duels as he did so, eyes glancing at each and every Nord who was fighting to save their home.

He burst through the doors of the Palace of Kings and that's where he saw it. The portal had thrown out its unholy tendrils and was lashed to the walls and – quite ominously – to the throne.

Demons were walking through the portal in twos, and the soldiers in the hall were fighting them back. There were maybe thirty of the demons in the hall, and amidst them was the High King – Ulfric Stormcloak – fighting the creatures with all the animosity that was stapled to his own race.

Tristan knew he couldn't summon a Bound Sword, so instead he picked a steel blade from a body on the ground, saying a silent prayer as he did so, and – trying to get familiar with the weight of the weapon – charged into battle.

He hacked and slashed the devils as he forced a wedge of blood and steel through the fighting, trying as he might to only incapacitate the demons and not kill them so not to unleash the ash. A demon had skewered a Nord, and now had turned to Tristan with its blood-red eyes, its features devoid of every emotion but malice.

It raised the blade on its arm and swung at Tristan, who blocked the strike and went in for a stab. The demon stepped out of the way, and the weight of the steel caused Tristan to stumble. He regained his footing and swung his sword wildly in an arc that caught the demon across the belly, but the demon was undeterred, and came at Tristan again. Tristan stepped back, further and further as the demon hammered blows into him. At last, Tristan saw a gap in the creatures rhythm, and thrust the steel blade into the creatures neck. The creature shuddered and collapsed, and Tristan's eyes went wide as he realised what he'd done.

Summoning whatever magicka he'd regenerated, Tristan threw up a Ward to protect himself from the ash that erupted from the devils' corpse.

The Ward flickered and died, and Tristan took a deep breath before racing headlong into the fighting once more.

The demons were flocking around the High King, paying little attention to the men around him, but they were reluctant to attack. They stood in a circle around him, none seeming bold enough to actually go in for the kill.

Unless they don't want him dead.

Tristan slashed the legs of a devil and then used its crouching body as a platform – as he'd done not so long ago – to leap over the sea of black and red. He landed without grace, and stumbled into the circle that Ulfric stood in, the tip of his sword darting from target to target.

Ulfric eyed the creatures.

"What are you doing?" He demanded. "Challenge me! I'll take you all on!"

Tristan scrambled to his feet and took a position at Ulfric's back, covering the High King on the side he wasn't facing.

"You're a fool for having come here, Breton," Ulfric said quietly, not at all surprised that Tristan was in this position with him.

"I know," Tristan replied. "It's one of my issues."

One of the demons advanced, and Tristan swung the sword across its chest and then kicked it back into the throng. Two more followed, and both Tristan and Ulfric incapacitated them with speed and fury.

"Why have you come to the Palace?" Ulfric asked.

"I have a theory," Tristan responded, not taking his eyes off the gathered creatures. "If I'm right it can destroy the portal, or at the very least close it."

"At this point I'm open to any ideas," Ulfric said, cutting off the arm of a demon that had strayed to close. He pushed it back into the crowd. "They're coming out faster than we can kill them, and even in death they can still bring us down."

"How many mages do you have in Windhelm?"

Ulfric let out a bark of laughter. "You're in Windhelm, boy. I don't underestimate the usefulness of magic, but we're a warrior city. We have some healers, that is all."

"That's all I need," Tristan said. "Do you have some way of getting them here?"

Ulfric shook his head. "Do I look like I'm in the position to go and collect wizards right now?"

Tristan scolded himself.

I just hope the Commander thinks to come to the Palace with everyone he's collected.

And then, as if the Divines had heard his prayer, the Commander threw open the doors to the Palace of Kings, four people in tow behind him. Behind them came everyone who had been fighting outside, and they all charged in with their weapons raised.

Tristan suppressed a grin, and Ulfric bellowed his legendary Battle Cry as he charged into the wall of blackness in front of him. Filled with new courage, Tristan followed him, carving his own path through his enemies until he reached the Commander.

"You made it," Tristan panted.

"Aye," the Commander nodded. He gestured to two men in robes beside him. "Artemis and Maximus, two of the healers here at Windhelm."

The men nodded, which Tristan returned.

The Commander gestured to the people on his other side, a man and a woman.

"This is Ingrid, she's a self-taught healer and apothecary, and this is her husband Saul, who knows the basics of Restoration magics – including Wards."

Tristan clasped the Commander's hand. "Thank you."

"Whatever will send this things back to where they came from."

"Ok," Tristan yelled, clapping his hands together. "You four, with me, we're headed straight for that portal."

Tristan turned and ran, his four new soldiers running behind him silently and obediently.

"My King," Tristan called out.

Ulfric brought a demon to the ground and then looked up.

"Get your men to cover us. This won't work if we're dead."

Ulfric nodded and then gestured for some of his men to rally to Tristan.

I've only got one shot.

"Everyone, get to a different corner of the portal," Tristan said, pointing out the places he wanted the healers to go.

Ulfric's men charged in and began to eradicate the demons still appearing from the portal, in an effort to stop any of them from reaching the spell casters.

"Everyone is going to throw up the strongest Ward they know," Tristan explained. "As far as I can tell, these things don't like touching them. We summon the Wards, and on my signal we begin to walk inward."

He looked to all of the mages, and they all nodded, understanding.

"We need to pull out everything we've got," Tristan continued. "These Wards have to be the strongest we can make them." He braced his feet. "Ready?"

Everyone nodded again.

Tristan searched for the magicka in his own Breton blood.

"One… two… three!"

There was a blast of brilliant white light as the five mages all cast the strongest Wards they could muster. All the Wards connected, weaving together to create one impenetrable wall of radiant magic. Every demon who walked out of the portal touched the Ward and shrieked, quick to move back to where it came.

Tristan saw everyone straining to keep their Ward up, and he knew that he too couldn't continue with this much longer.

"And move in!" Tristan shouted.

Everyone began taking steps inward, the Ward wall getting smaller but more powerful the tighter they got. The Ward wall coated the portal, and the black tendrils anchoring it to this world snapped and lashed about. The portal grew smaller and smaller, and all Tristan could see on the other side were hundreds – no, thousands of red eyes. Filled with anger. Filled with hate.

And just like that, the portal had gone.

Saul was the first to drop his Ward, and Ingrid and Tristan followed quickly. Artemis and Maximus were sweating from the effort, but the two healers looked as if they'd been worse for wear.

"I can't believe that worked," Tristan said to himself, struggling to stay on his own two feet.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to find himself face-to-face with the Commander.

"You actually did it," he said.

Tristan nodded. "Yeah, I guess I did. With the help of everyone else, of course."

"But it was your idea," the Commander said with slight awe. "How did you know that would work?"

"I didn't." He looked around and noticed that the fighting had stopped. "Where did all the creatures go?"

The Commander looked grim. "They vanished. Disappeared when their portal collapsed."

"Do you think there's a connection?"

"As much as I'd like to think so, I don't think there is. Something tells me they could have stayed here as long as they liked…"

Tristan nodded.

The High King approached the two men and put a hand on Tristan's shoulder.

"I owe a lot to you, Breton," he said evenly. "While I can't offer you anything of monetary value, I can say that you'll always have friends in Windhelm."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Tristan said, bowing politely.

Ulfric turned to a soldier. "Send a courier to collect the refugees. Tell them to come back. We're finally safe."

Tristan cleared his throat. "With all due respect, my King, I think you are far from safe. Those… creatures, they came once, they'll surely do so again."

"And we know how to fight them off," Ulfric said. "We have you to thank for that."

"Sire, hundreds of your citizens are dead or dying. Windhelm can't survive another battle like this."

"We can and we will!" Ulfric bellowed. "You underestimate the strength of Nords."

"And you underestimate your enemy," Tristan said angrily. "We don't know what these things are, as far as we know this was just a small army, a unit. You need to call for aid."

"And who would you suggest we get aid from?" Ulfric countered. "The Empire? We've just won a war against the Empire, there is no chance in Oblivion that they would consider helping Skyrim."

"Maybe if you just negotiated –"

"We're Nords," Ulfric said with finality. "We fight. We don't talk."

With that, the High King of Skyrim turned on his heel and walked away.