The Eight Bells Options

[Foster]

Part 1

The road was long and weary. Somehow it never seemed to end, because around the bend, just when it seemed it would run into one of the mountains, off it weaved down into a dell or round into a cleft, making each stop seem further. He'd been travelling nonstop now for five days, resting only for a few hours, tending to a campfire in the hope of keeping the wolves at bay. He could hear them, all around, howling in the peripheral gloom of the mountains, and he was suprised they hadn't made their move. He had no weapons that would have put up much of a fight; a rusty old shortsword, a bow with the strings torn and feathered. It was hardly a fair fight.

Shivering in his furs, he forced he continued to ride wearily on, his skin raw and his eyes narrow. The snow had nearly made him blind at the top of the pass, but now he was at least descending into the fertile basin of Cyrodiil, and that gave him a gleam of hope that maybe, just maybe, the worst of the journey was over.

He drew in a deep breath of the cold mountain air, and breathed out slowly to watch it spiral into the atmostphere of the morning. He'd only been walking two hours, and already he felt as though he would drop. Licking his lips, now a blistering mess thanks to the wind, Tor rubbed his arms against his sides and continued to draw his horse forward.

The sad part was leaving his home behind. It was now several months distant, and although he'd been foolish enough to select the path through Skyrim rather than Hammerfell - especially considering it was now into Frost Fall - he wasn't sure the path really mattered. Had he gone the other way, he'd have been complaining about searing heat that would parch his mouth. He smiled wearily. Either road, he still wished he could be at home, sitting with his eyes closed listening to the home fire cackle, or gazing casually as the ships sailed the seas outside of his window.

All of it was gone now. The house a ruin, the fire a mess of choking ash that had long since burnt out. The only fire in that wreak now was the glowing embers of the support beams, occasionally brought to life by the wind and the heat that resonated from the stones the night they had gutted his home.

He closed his eyes, fighting back the memory. One dark night, one pale moon that did not show their approach, and his entire family had been slain. He was the only one left. Tor Beldric, a boy that had been tempered to manhood amidst the destruction. He tightened his fist in hatred, memory of the oath, and memory of the task that lay before him. He stooped and reached into his saddle for some corn.

It all came down to the eight bells. His mother had known it, which is why her death had been ordered. His father and sister had little to do with it, except perhaps their natural gifts for defence. It was all due to the eight bells. He gently altered course along the pass, watching the hooves of his steed slip near the edge to send rocks scrambling down the side before the horse righted itself and pressed prints into the soft crunch of snow. He closed his eyes and recited the verse that his mother had taught him.

"Eight keys for eight locks, each one a bell,
Seven songs of fairness, one trembling death knell,
Open the Serpent, shift the wake, push forward to Bregale,
Slide the door as dark as night, do not heed the hail,
Eight bells to lift it high, eight to riches and glory,
Eight to purge the Blue Ring Tryst and end their dreadful story."

"Cute."

His eyes opened. On either side stood two warriors. On the left a vicious, snarling Dark Elf had a bow levelled at his heart, and a smaller man with an evil glint fingered a dagger. On the right stood two Nords, twins by the look of them. Dead centre were two more figures, one with sword, one with bow. He swallowed and tried to think. He didn't like where this was going.
"Please." he said, in an almost subdued fashion.
"Pleeeease." One of the men said, walking forward and flapping his arms in a mocking, laughing gesture. The others smirked. The leader turned to the man next to him. "Shamus, you know what to do."

The other bandit at the front pointed at Tor's purse.
"Money. Gold. Mullauh. Call it what you will, we're having it."
Tor swallowed, and shrugged. For all his will desired to drive the horse off the cliff rather than to submit, that wouldn't help his situation. He reached down and threw the purse at the bandits.
"Here." he said. One green bag with his entire lifes savings. Thirty Septims. Shamus gave it a look of scorn, and pocketed it, before looking up. His keen eyes caught something around the boy's neck.
"That necklace. Ours. Hand it over, now."

Tor looked at them with his ice blue eyes, trying feverishly to decide what to do. Beg? It wouldn't work. Defiance? He'd die. No matter. He couldn't surrender it.
"No." he said, simply. The bandits laughed. Shamus grinned, and made a motion to someone behind Tor.
"Mungo, if you please." he asked.

THUD. Pain, red, blinding bright neon, then nothing but darkness. Tor collasped, his head a bloody mess as he slid off the horse. From behind him, Mungo grinned, pleased that he'd had the oppotunity to hit something. Hard. Shamus walked forward, stooped, and grabbed at the neck of the traveller, ripping away the necklace.
"Mungo do good!"
Shamus looked up. "Yeah. He's still alive, but he's going to have one hell of a headache. Come on." he said, pausing only to look at the trinkets his fist now contained.

On the necklace were a few stones of little import, and eight minature bells. Shamus pursed his lips, looked around to make sure the others were more intrested in the paltry thirty septims, and pocketed it.

Eight minature bells. Strange, but he guessed it would fetch a good price.

[Foster]

Prt 3

"Why are you helping me?" Tor asked, slipping into his battered and tarnished furs. Belwyn looked at him, his kindly face arching with the wrinkles of time.
"Why shouldn't I? You look like you need help." Belwyn replied.

Tor smiled. For the past four days he'd stayed at Belwyn's cabin, eating well on the chewy bear meat that the old man provided, drinking heartily at night to get his strength up. His host was a strange one. He never asked a single question about Tor, or elaborated on why he was out in the mountains, in a lonely cabin days from any other form of civilisation. He just fed the boy and offered him the hospitality of his home.
"Nobody gives something for nothing." Tor said, showing an already jaded view of the world. It was one of the gifts his father had passed on. As much as the man had a habit of cursing and calling his mother an old cow (usually to her face, and always with a warmth of affection), he also occasionally came out with a gem of truth. Belwyn laughed.
"Yes, I suppose that's true." he admitted, patting Tor on the back. "Well, seeing as you have nothing, and I have given you something, obviously I have to make a deal with you, don't I?" The old man rubbed his palms, clearly taking glee in his jest. Finally, he snapped his fingers, as though he had it. Tor watched, amazed that the mans arthritis didn't flare up. "How about this. What I want from you, Tor, is the most valuable thing you can give me; your friendship. Deal?"
Tor laughed. "Deal." he said, shaking the old mans hand, and smiling with mirth for the first time since his home had been destroyed.

For the first few miles he followed Belwyn, who seemed to be more agile and spritely outside than in. Although he'd lost his horse, Tor hadn't given it much thought. For one thing he seemed to be travelling at the same pace on the mountains anyway, given the footfalls and balance requirements, and secondly his mind was preoccupied with the bells. He had to get them back, and all he had was the name: Five Skulls. It wasn't much of a lead to go on.

It was probably midday before Belwyn stopped, pausing for a moment to look at the youth. "You know," he began, "I've never been one for walking too far from my home. You were lucky I was returning from business in Bruma. Here is where I found you, and so I would imagine that your bandits are, one would assume, somewhere around here. I'd try heading East. About three miles down the pass there is a track that leads off, through some rocks. Small, and hard to find unless you're looking for it. Follow that up maybe five miles and you'll find an old fort, built in the second era to keep travellers safe. Fort... ah... Keller? It's the only place around here that bandits would hole up. The Five Skulls used to be up at Maidenhole Mine, but that was cleaned out by a group of adventurers not a week ago, so if they got out - and it seems they did - they'll be looking for a new place. My guess is that they've moved to Keller and they're just setting up shop." The old man paused, a wieght on his mind. He had another, very good reason to believe that the bandits were new to the area, though he wasn't prepared to divulge it. He knew the boy would go regardless. Better to keep him ill-informed.

"Thank you." Tor said, nodding and smiling once more. For an old hermit, Belwyn seemed to know everything that went on around the area. He didn't want to ask questions. "I'd better go. Thank you."

The old man grabbed his hand.

"Here," he said, "take this." From his scabbard he pulled out a gleaming silver sword. "You know how to wield it, I trust? Use it well. Served me in the past, it has, though I've little use for it now. I hunt by bow, and no thief has tried to steal from me for twenty years, I doubt they'll start now."
"I can't..." Tor began, only to find the weapon thrust into his hand.
"Poppycock. You can, and you will. You'll need it, too. "
Tor nodded, and waved goodbye, beginning his walk up to the Fort.
"Oh! Tor!" Belwyn called out, causing him to turn.
"Yes?"
"Whatever you do, don't go any deeper than the entryway to the Fort. Get your necklace, and leave!"

Tor nodded, turning back to the road ahead of him and the task that awaited.