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 12

"And how are we this morning, sweet cheeks?" Shamus said, sidling far too close to Kiera for her comfort, sitting down with impunity between her and Wellin, and nudging up closely. She looked at him in disgust and shuffled away.
"You should not address me as much." She replied, her eyes glowing in annoyance. Wellin opened his mouth like a fish again, as if to say something, but he really didn't know what. He couldn't stop Shamus, especially because of Mungo. The last time he'd said something he'd found himself chased around a tree by a staggering lump of meat. Mungo was Shamus' secret weapon, and, despite the fact that he had begun to turn a sickly yellow pallour, he hadn't decomposed too much.

They were waiting outside of Bravil, mainly at the suggestion of Tor and Shamus. They had both come to the conclusion that drawing attention to themselves was a bad thing, and that they should keep Kiera as far from the city as possible. Kiera, although she'd protested, deep down knew this to be sensible. The Blue Ring Tryst would be watching the town for any sign of a Dorian, and you could never tell where their eyes viewed from. she remembered the story of how her father had to slay one of his own guards once, and how her mother almost died when cleaners had come to drain the septic tank, and one of them had been armed with a crossbow. For a group that was secretive and shady, they certainly seemed to have agents everywhere.

Which is why they all rested in a leafy copse, within sight of the town and its delapidated, wooden buildings. Kiera longed for a warm fire, change of clothes, bath, decent food, fine wine, good company, a minstril, a servant, her personal maid and some fine jewellery, but she understood the danger well enough. Wellin had decided to stay more to make sure that Shamus didn't try anything. Tor had no option but to go. He needed help.

Help he found. He returned to the camp at five that evening with a small, fat man with implausibly bad dental work and a strange, ruffled toupee that seemed to slip to the side as he walked. The man had the distinct smell of easy living about him; someone who had sipped a few too many at the inn on occasion, and spent his money on suckled boar at the pie shop. Tor seemed, however, to have faith in him. Shamus did not. He almost immediatly turned his attention away from Kiera.
"Who's this?" he asked, already reaching for his bow as Tor walked in. "I thought you were only going for the essentials - arrows, swords for Wellin and Queen Lime-head here, and half a ton of healing potions to stop us all, you know, dying?"
"I got those as well." Tor said, tapping a bag. "But we need something slightly more important than that."
"Fatty here?"
"I'm not fat!" The man said, blushing. "I'm just naturally expansive."
"Whatever, fatty. Why'd you bring him?"
"I know only within a few miles where Bregale is. I saw a map, once, breifly. I know it's north of a place called Turnaround Rock. I just don't know where *that* is, so I've found a local...uhm...what did you say you did?"
"Uhm...not much, really."
"I've found a... local... who can show us where it is."
"Edin, at your service." The man said, bowly humbly, allowing his belt to expand, before rising and looking at the strange group. "My lady, sirs, uhm... creatures of the undead, I am at your service."
"Urggh." Mungo said, as if able to understand that there was now someone more meanial than he in the group.
"No!" Shamus said, rising in hostility.
"What?" Wellin asked.
"No! I'm not going to split my share! At the moment I've got 20,000 Septims, I ain't going to...uhm...divide, carry, half and...uhm... lower it to...to... uh, two sixths of fifty thousand, whatever that is."
"Sixteen thousand six hundred and sixty seven Septims." Wellin said, working it out instantly, thanking his shop experience.
"What?" Edin began, rubbing his head. They may call him the Stupid, but he suddenly realised there was more at stake about the rock than just the twenty he'd been paid.
"Why exactly do you think you get two shares?" Kiera asked, picking up on it.
"By rights." Shamus defended. "Actually, it should be more than two, seeing as how it's your damn silver mine and you shouldn't get any of the money, should you!"
"But why two shares?"
"Well, Mungo needs someone to look after his, doesn't he?"
"That foul beast does not get a share!"
"URRRRGH!"
"Calm it, Mungo. She doesn't mean offense." Shamus said, waving off the zombie that had begun to move forward, annoyed that he was considered as such.
"Silver mine?" Edin asked.

The whole copse began to flood with voices and arguements. In the end, Tor closed his eyes.
"ENOUGH!" He screamed, his body shaking a little. Silence. "Thank you." He said. "Mr Edin is not coming with us, he's just showing us where Turnabout Rock is. And he's being paid twenty septims to do it."
"The hell I am!" Edin started. "If there's more to be had, I want a fair share!"
"Then I'll go and find someone else in town!"
"Oh no! No! Edin doesn't get cut out of it this time!" The fat man began to move forward, as if to try and intimidate Tor. He got within five paces, before a sudden noise snapped through the copse.

shhhhhhffff. shhhhfffff. shffff.

The five humans and one zombie watched as Edin stopped in his tracks and looked down. Potruding through his chest where three arrows, their flights coloured with blue rings.

The entire surroundings suddenly filled with cries as the assassins fell upon them.