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 4

Tor stepped uneasily through the dark, his eyes narrowing to try and peirce through the gloom and discover what was happening. His nerves were already frayed and on edge; only ten metres inside the doors, which had sealed behind him in a creaking, heavy oak fashion, he had come across one of the worst things he'd ever seen. A body, flat on the stairs, already with the beginnings of maggots and other detritivores beginning their feast. He'd almost stepped on it, but fortunatly he'd somehow managed to stop his foot landing. Instead he'd edged past, noting the grim arrow through the neck.

The worst part of the journey down was the sounds. He could hear his heart beat, he could hear his footsteps, but beyond that there was nothing. Nothing but a slow moan every now and then, emitted by something below. His mouth was dry and his footfalls uneasy.

Back home, there was a dungeon not too far away. A Goblin hole, as the Fighters Guild had termed it. Granted, the Fighters Guild was nowhere near as popular as the Mages Guild in High Rock, but they'd still made a neat niche cleaning it out every few years, making the surrounding hillside safe from the foul little green beasts. Of course it was still full of less-than-friendly Orcs, a few loose trolls and some ogres, but otherwise it was pleasant enough for walks, as long as the walk made sure you were back home at sunset. He'd often been tempted to help clean it out. Then again, he'd been tempted to do a lot of things, yet this was the first time he'd been away from home. Or underground in a ruined Fort full of who knows what.

Suddenly the small corridor gave way to a larger expanse, and he nervously crept to the centre. There was a fire, unkindled or loved, or rather a place where a fire had been. It was surrounded by crates, candles still burning, bedrolls unused and a thin layer of crimson upon the tiles. He drew his sword and moved forward, then suddenly to the side.

There were no bodies. He didn't like it. Something made him want to turn back, forget the bells, forget everything. Pretend that his family hadn't been brutally slain, pretend that his life hadn't been spared.

Spared? Who was he kidding? It was this emotion that had saved his life, cursed him with this fate. The emotion of fear. The need to leave the house, forget that his family was in danger, fail to help fight with his father and sister and instead run, crying, fearful, to the barn. It was this emotion that made him watch as the men had ransacked the house, cut his father down in a few merciless strokes on the porch, drawn a sword through his mother, caved in his sisters body with a warhammer, tossing her broken shell casually into the house as they threw torches to ignite it all. It was fear that had made him watch. He wasn't going to let it make him retreat now.

Footsteps again resounded. Many footprints, too many to count. He paused and tried to listen in the darkness. From down below, through a door he could barely make out, he watched as the strange procession marched forth. The slowly decomposing remains of five men and women, once human, now little more than mindless zombies. Their flesh wasn't yet rotting, but their grevous wounds and lumbering movement revealed their true nature. And amongst them all, leading as a puppetmaster would, a man dressed solely in black, a keen evil in his eyes. Tor spat. A Necromancer.

He knew from the dress and the zombies. He knew from the conversations he'd overheard from Mages that he'd followed around town, hoping to gain some kind of arcane insight from their banter. He knew instinctivly from the foul evil the man emitted. The zombies were also recognisable. Five of the Five Skulls. The dead man on the step made six. Where the seventh was, he did not know. He also had no idea where the necklace was, or even if he should face them.

The choice was not his. A zombie caught his scent and came lumbering towards him. Tor closed his eyes, prayed silently, and charged.

Hack and slash, hack and slash, duck, parry and weave. He couldn't see what he was doing in the light, or know where the foul creatures came from. He saw bolts of firey blue ice shoot past him, causing a glow in the caverns, he heard screams and the sound of metal sinking into flesh and bone, he felt his sword bite deep and true. Then he felt another bolt, only this time it hit him. The cold took over his nervous system, a tangling mass of ice and pain. It felt like the time He'd jumped into the nearby lake in the middle of winter, naked as the day he was born. It felt like the pain of the icy water, multiplied by a thousand. It was as though the pain was inside him, spreading shards through his nervous system. He fell to the floor and looked up.

All but two were dead by his hand. Only one zombie, a tall, lumbering giant with a plain expression and an arrow through it's neck, and the necromancer remained. Tor swallowed and looked up.
"Fool." The necromancer said, his voice level and sickening. "Four perfectly good creations wasted. Only fitting, I think, to have your blood as a replacement."
"Urrrgh..." The zombie echoed. Tor's colour melted to pale as the mage brought up one hand to cast the final strike...

An arrow thudded into him, causing his body to collapse forward. The zombie looked at it's master for a moment, before staggering around, unsure of itself. Then another arrow struck it, though for some reason it didn't die. Nor did it attack. It just...didn't do anything.

Tor rose to his feet to see what had happened, edging warily pass the zombie. It didn't move towards him; it didn't move at all. It just looked blankly, as though it wasn't really sure what it was supposed to do. He edged across to find his saviour. In the corner, huddled up in a bloody mess, everywhere blood-soaked cotton binding wounds, a sole bowman looked back. Tor bent down to look at him. The bowman dropped his bow, half from fatigue, half from relief.
"Dead?"
"I think so."
"Good. Don't worry about the last zombie, he won't hurt you."
"How do you know?" Tor asked. The bowman managed a thin smile.
"He's too stupid. Too stupid in real life, too stupid in death. Probably has no idea what to do."
"Thank you for..." Tor began, only to pause. It was one of the bandits. It was one of the bandits that had robbed him! Why was he thanking him? What was going through his mind?
"Screw it, kid. That man made my friends into monsters. Monsters you...urgh...dispatched with a certain flair, innit?"
Tor recoiled back, unsure what he was supposed to say. Or do. Rightfully the man deserved to die, and yet...yet he had just saved his life. His mind was a mixture of thoughts. They flooded him with enough anger to decide. With lightning speed he had his sword in hand, at the throat of the bandit, his eyes with a keen intent.
"Where's my necklace?" He demanded. The bandit looked at him, before reaching up and swatting the sword away.
"I know you..." he muttered. "Kid on the road, a few days back. Before this. Well, you're too late." Suddenly he began to laugh, a distorted noise combined with hacks and coughs. "That...mage... might have got everyone else, but me, Jonas and Mungo? We was done by some adventurer. Probably headed into town to sell his loot before returning here to explore further. Take the Fort in stages. I doubt he ever reached the point where the others were... turned."
"What?"
The bandit laughed again. "Kid, I ain't got your necklace. My guess? It's either being worn by some bow wielding dandy, or...ahhh, jeez that hurts... it's been sold. S'what I would do."
Tor lowered his sword. He wasn't in the mood for killing. The bandit smiled. "Kid, I ain't in the mood for this. I can't move on my own, but that necromancer? I bet he's got a healing potion or something. Give me a swig and I'll help you get your necklace back. Call it compensation." he grinned, a marred, rotten smile. Tor rose to his feet, backing away from the bloody heap.
"What if I think you deserve to die?"
"Then I'd agree with you." The bandit said. "And that adventurer did for me sure. Been a few days now, and I'm through the worst, but I ain't able to get aid on my own. Barely managed to crawl to this corner before that mage found Mungo's body and turned him into...that thing over there." the bandit motioned to the tall, lumbering zombie. Again he winced. Tor was at a loss for words.
"What....makes me trust you?"
"Nothing. Except... well, you came down here, right? Seven on one you thought, and you still came. Makes me think you've got nothing to lose."

Tor sighed. As much as he hated it, he had a feeling the bandit was right.
"Fine. I'm Tor." he said, moving towards the necromancer.
"Shamus. Pleased to meet...urgh...you." the bandit replied.