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 14

"He's dead." Wellin said, pretty sure. He hadn't been unlucky enough to see too many dead bodies in his time, but he did know the axim 'you're not dead until you're warm and dead', which his local healer seemed to live by. Edin wasn't warm yet, but the fact that three arrows stuck inside him, his eyes were cloudy and glazed and he wasn't breathing made it obvious.
"Great." Shamus groaned, drinking the potion gladly and sitting up in the arms of Kiera, before looking at her and flailing an arm to brush her aside. "Gerroff, I don't need a nurse."

Kiera obliged without comment, rising and walking over to where Tor remained, panting. He still hadn't fully collected his breath, and it was remarkable in his mind that he was even alive. The armour certainly had helped, but every muscle in his body ached with fatigue. He wasn't accustomed to using such equipment, even if it had saved his life.
"What do we do now?" She asked, looking to him for some leadership, before looking at her own appearance and frowning. She was covered in dirt and blood, and found the sight rather uncomely.
"Well..." Tor began, thinking for a moment. "We're safe for the moment, they don't know they failed. But we need to move out. We're close."
"Yes," Kiera agreed, "but move where? My family lands are only four miles away, we could be at the castle by nightfall, and there we could..."
"There we'd never get anything done." Shamus said, finally composing himself enough to stand, and spend his time walking about the sight, kicking bodies and retreiving his arrows, and anything else he could find of use. "We need to move out now. Your castle will have a watch on it. They'd just sweep in and ambush us again - only this time they'd do it right."
"He's right." Tor agreed, watching the distasteful sight of Shamus scooping up spare gold from the assassins. He decided to let it slide. The assassins didn't need it.
"There is still one problem." Wellin said quietly, looking at the new sword he had recieved from Tor. "We don't know where Turnabout rock is."

The others paused, their morale sunk. Tor licked his lips for a moment, parched from the combat.
"I could always go back into Brevil..."
"No good." Shamus interuppted. "How do you think they knew where to find us? Spies on the gate, no doubt."
"So..."
Wellin furrowed his brow and thought about it. Even Kiera, who seemed to hold herself in perfect composure at all times, scratched her cheek in thought. Only Shamus seemed unphased, though obviously he thought the idea could wait until he'd finished his looting. Finally he walked over, testing out a new bow he'd picked up from one of the Blue Ring assassins. It was better than his old one, and lighter, too. He looked up and smiled.
"We don't need to know where Turnabout Rock is." he said, grabbing hold of Tor's sword and lifting it up. Tor watched as the former(?) bandit wiped the blade with a cloth, before walking over to Mungo and waving it under the zombie's nose.
"Fetch." he said. Mungo looked at him, obviously content after his feast of assassin limb.
"Urggh?"
"Fetch. As in...find. Find the scent...follow the scent... in the name of Alessia, what use are you as a zombie if you can't hunt on scent?"

Mungo finally got the idea, and set off at pace. The others turned, impressed at the ingenuity of Shamus, and followed.

Three hours later they found it. Turnabout Rock was a large monument of granite, carved into an hourglass with a twisting, turning pattern around it that spiralled up to the top, before forming a gleaming, carved top of a snake head. They all stopped at stared at it.
"Impressive. I never knew this were on my lands." Kiera said, looking at it and nodding, as if contemplating the meaning. "The piece is clearly that of a master... behold the smooth strokes of the chisel, and also the meaning, no doubt an allagorical contemplation of the divinity of nature throttled by the presence of humanity."
"More like someone with a snake fetish and too many spare weekends." Shamus said. "Besides, we're not on your land."
"How would you know?" Kiera asked, turning to look at him. She was confident that she knew her own boundries far better than some bandit.
"Because we crossed the border into Elsweyr half a mile ago. Red rock markers - suprised you didn't notice 'em."
"Oh." Kiera conceeded.
"They must have moved the provincial boundries in the last two hundred years. Just a little." Wellin sumised.
"I don't think so..." Tor began, walking around slowly, looking at the ornately carved rock. "I think... this is why Bregale was never found."
"Care to explain?" Shamus asked.
"Bregale is in the Imperial province... the entrance to it is not." he said.
"Entrance? I thought this was a marker."
"I thought so too. But... 'open the serpent' would mean..." he walked forward, sliding his hands over the rock, searching. Finally he found a loose rock, so carefully put by the masterful artist that it's existance was concealed. He pushed it, and suddenly the entire rock began to twist. The companions looked astonished as a passage downwards materialised.

They looked at each other and smiled. Wellin took a step forward, only to have Tor hold a hand out.
"Wait." he said. "It might be booby trapped." They all stopped for a moment, peering into the darkness.
"One way to find out." Shamus decided, walking forward and kicking Kiera hard on her backside. Screaming, she fell headfirst into the passage. From below the scream continued, before ending with a thud, and a torrent of unrestrained anger, annoyance, and language that even the bandit would have been proud of. "Guess it's not." he decided, walking after her.

He looked at the other two, who both stared at him in amazement.
"What?" he asked. "You never heard of ladies first?"