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]

Part 13

Every single bush seemed to come alive at once with noise or motion. By the time that Edin had hit the floor the assassins were within the copse itself, charging forward with swords drawn and intent in their eyes. They were all masked, wearing a twisted metal faceplate that made their faces seem to be a shifting maze of burning hate, though they were unarmoured, instead wearing sweeping robes. Tor had Belwyn's sword drawn almost instantly, and as he swung the blade through the midriff of the closest assassin he realised why. The flowing robe made it hard to keep the motion of the blade going - it was easy to get caught up in the material. That and he couldn't actually tell where solid body began - his sweep had hit nothing but cloth and air.

Shamus had no such problem. As the first arrow hit he already had an arrow resting on his bow, and managed to loose two arrows off within the first five seconds, one in either direction, both hitting home and causing an assailant to drop in a spray of crimson that smeared their blue robes. He spun around, quickly trying to appraise the situation, trusting on his tried and honed skills to keep him safe as he made towards the centre of the copse with his feet. Instinct was that the group together would survive. He just hoped that everyone else knew it.

Mungo too was in the thick of fighting. Already he had taken four seperate blows, he even had a dagger sticking into his thigh, but the three assassins that had decided to concentrate on him were fighting a losing battle. The giant of a zombie had already grasped one of them by the neck, raising them up like a squirming ragdoll as he sunk his teeth into their bracial artery, causing their life blood to shoot from the wound. In the other hand he pulled out the dagger and began to swing it in wide circles, hoping to hit anything. The first assassin wisely ducked; the second caught it in the back of the head, crumpling to the floor.

Already the fight was looking bad for Tor. He wasn't used to fighting in armour, or against more than one opponent, and now three had surrounded him, including the one with the ripped and shredded robe. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what to do, before making an impromptu splits manouvre to avoid two thrusts coming simultaniously. The blades sailed harmlessly above as he swung his sword viciously, sinking through three legs, causing two of the assailants to go tumbling down. Then he realised his mistake. The splits, as well as being painful, was also impossible to get up from quickly normally. In armour, it wasn't possible. He could swing forward, but not back, and could hear the final assassin circle around, realising his luck. Tor swallowed hard, his body shaking as he realised it was the end.

The blow never came. When the attack began Wellin's first instinct had been to run and hide, but somehow he'd resisted the urge, and instead tried to think of what to do. The most rational plan was to go for the weapons that Tor had been carrying from Brevil, but no sooner had he made his choice, Tor had been surrounded. It was only when Tor did his unusual move that Wellin saw the final assassin's attention was lost, and, grabbing the initiative, he decided to use the nord army hammer to it's full extent. He'd had to make three hits to get the man down - one with the hammer, one with the nail file (accidentally) and one with the blade - but it had done the job. He then proceeded to pummel the man for all he was worth, caught up in the fever of battle.

In the centre, Shamus had long stopped using his bow, realising that there were just too many of them. Deftly he'd managed to turn his body to throw one over the top, causing his opponent to roll over to Mungo, who happily jumped on him with all of his might. Drawing his dagger, Shamus turned to the others. There were only three left. The first he dispatched with ease, but then he saw the third make it's way towards the helpless Kiera, who had spent the entire battle screaming for her life. His eyes flashed with worry. Kiera was prone, helpless, and afraid. Her arms were held up to sheild her from the fatal blow only moments away, and her eyes were wide with terror. Shamus charged, shoving aside the second assassin, who managed to slash his dagger down hard, causing a gaping gash to cut down Shamus' shoulder and into his side. The bandit ignored the pain. His sole thought was on Kiera, the feet that seperated them, the poised dagger of the bandit, the terror in her eyes, and his desire to protect her. He lept.

Tor was on his feet to see it. Shamus had moved faster than any man he'd seen, and somehow managed to throw his dagger in midair. It hit the assassin full in his metal face plate. With it's hilt. The assassin paused from the strike, bewildered, and watched as Shamus fell to the ground. From under the mask he smiled, as he turned back to Kiera, only to be struck down in turn. Kiera had seized the dagger when it fell, and pushed it up into the assassin's abdomen, ending the threat.

The final assassin was now standing, unsure of his position. Tor moved towards him. The assassin, as if in definace, removed the mask and walked forward, his blade still dripping with Shamus' blood. Tor swung. And missed. The assassin drove foward, laughing as he brought his blade against the armour, causing a grating sound and sparks to fly against the breastplate. Tor swung again, clipping the assailant in the arm.

The assassin scowled, turned, and ran.

The clearing was a wreak. Blood and bodies, the dying and the dead, lay strewn everywhere. Only five remained on their feet - four alive, one undead. Three alive and on their feet. Shamus sunk to the ground, his wounds aching. Two alive and on their feet. Tor collapsed from exhaustion. One alive and on their feet as Kiera bent down to look at Shamus' injury.

Only Wellin remained standing, looking at the scene of devestation and Mungo, happily chewing on an assassin's severed foot. He tried to think of something pithe to say, but words escaped him.