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 5

It was about half a mile down the road that Tor gave in, and turned to look at it in frustration.
"ARrrgh!" he shouted, flapping his arms and gesturing madly. Shamus, wincing still despite the curative effects of the healing potion, looked on in jaded amusement, scratching his stubble and rotating his arm, trying to get some circulation back. Laid out on a floor in pain for a day or so really didn't do well for his muscles, and most of them were in spasm. Tor turned to him, exasperated. "Why doesn't it go? Why? Why is it following us?"
Shamus looked back and mused. "Dunno. Never seen one do this before. Can't say I'm an expert though. Generally I stay away from places that 'av the underdead."
"That's really helpful." Tor said, wondering about his strange situation. Shamus shrugged.
"My guess... he's following me. Wants to know what to do."
"Can you make it go away? It's beginning to rot in the sunlight!"
"I can try..." Shamus mused, stepping forward.

Turning, he walked up to the rotting, zombiefied corpse that had been lumbering after them since they'd left the fort. When they stopped, it stopped. When they started to move, it moved. All the while, the dumb expression across its face was never removed. Shamus sighed. He'd quite like to fire a few arrows into it's flesh, but it was a friend. Well, more like a minion, but it was still no reason to desecrate the remains.
"Mungo. Go home." he shouted. The zombie looked at him, twisting its neck in a sickening crunch.
"Urrgghhruuughh?"
"Mungo, you stupid lummox of an ox-born slapper! Go Home."
"Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."
"MUNGO! HOME!"
"Urbugbgubguhghrrrh?"

The bandit bowman shrugged. "Guess he wants to stay." he said.

They reached sight of Bruma at dusk, and quickly decided, mainly on Shamus' advice, to stay put for the night, less they got picked off by something on the road down. As far as Tor could tell, through the occasional mispronounced words and gruff commentary, there were two other bandit groups in the area, rivals to what had once been the Five Skulls, and there was no way he'd advocate heading down to town at night. If that was true, Tor pondered, was it really safe to light a campfire and rest? Probably, was the answer. Mungo, as the decomposing zombie seemed to be called, was on guard duty. It seemed to obey every instruction Shamus shouted at it, usually after about three or four reaffirming insults, which meant that it did have it's uses. Of course there were the negatives. Standing downwind of it was one, and somehow he wasn't confident the town guard would let it stroll into Bruma with them. Shamus and Mungo would have to wait outside, under a tree or a shady copse, and he'd have to find the necklace himself.

That wasn't the only thing that Shamus had taken, but it seemed to be the only thing he was going to get back. The question of his other possessions had come up earlier in the day.
"What about my gold?"
"What about it?" Shamus asked, non-chalantly.
"Where is it?"
"Spent it. Hard liqour."
"How? You were in the mountains!"
"Kid, you wern't the only person we tried to rob. But even we ain't going to move on ten soldiers of the Imperial Legion, off on some kind of errand. So we just pretended we was huntsmen, and traded our money - your money - for booze. Which is now in my belly."
"What about my horse?"
"That, too, is now in my belly."
"You ate my horse?"
"Yeah. Nice, too. A little...chewy...but nice enough."
"How could you..."
"Easily. Cut, chop, roast, chew. In that order, otherwise it doesn't work."
Tor remembered just...staring at Shamus in amazement.
"What?" Shamus asked. "Guess you've never had to eat what you can in the mountains, huh?"

Tor shook his head. Not that it mattered anymore. With his strange companions, he had to head into Bruma tomorrow, and there, with luck, he'd find the bells.

This post has been edited by Foster: Mar 29 2006, 01:41 PM