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]

Chapter 18

"Where is he?" Wellin said, deseperatly swinging in the doorway, barely able to hold back the assasins. At the other end of the small room, equally occupied, his back forced up against a door to keep it shut, Tor looked at the smith helplessly.
"I don't know!" he screamed, trying to stay alive. For the last minute or so their world had been nothing but anguish and chaos. At first the plan had seemed to work, but then there had been no shot. Shamus had abandoned them to their fate, and now they were trapped in the left row of houses, surrounded and hopelessly outnumbered. Tor blinked as a sword crashed through the door, inches from his head. He lept up, grabbed a table, and with all his might heaved it against the oak timbers. Across from him Wellin was cut badly across the scalp, but somehow was still managing to hold the door. Tor rushed over, ignoring for a moment the other door, driving his sword into the nearest assassin. At Wellin's feet there was a pile of bodies, and yet it barely seemed to stem the rush of killers.
"Damn him!" Tor screamed, ducking as a blade flashed near his side, twisting his body to avoid being impaled. "He's set us up! He wants the gold!"
Wellin said nothing, and continued his defensive thrusts, barely knowing how to fight, and yet knowing full well that their cause was lost.

"Quiet. I think we've lost 'em." Shamus hissed, pressed hard against Kiera's body in a dark cupboard. Their run had been as frantic, if not more so, than Tor and Wellin's. At first they had been hotly pursued by six men, but Shamus' scouting had given him good enough knowledge to slip through cracks and down passages. Kiera was exhausted, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath, somehow being able to keep up with Shamus' fast footwork without being dragged against the floor. Her dress was covered in the gleam of silver dust, and she looked at the bandit with admiration.
"Do you think we're..." safe, she began to whisper, before her mouth was suddenly grabbed and sealed by Shamus' dirty hand. She looked into his eyes, and saw that he was desperatly trying to listen from their hidden position. Silently, his other hand clutched his dagger as he listened to footsteps outside. The steps grew nearer. Kiera held her breath and her eyes grew wider as she strained to listen. The steps faded. She eased a sigh of relief. Shamus, too, let out a slow exhale, before looking at Kiera, her mouth still gagged. He stuck his tongue out and wiggled it at her, before realising his hand. She kicked him, hard, in the shin.
It took all of his resolve not to yell out in pain.

"I think this might be it." Wellin said, gulping as he backed away, Tor at his side. Both of them were cut and injured, their wounds seeping their lifes blood as they slowly staggered back. Their fight was almost spent, their skin a strange mixture of sweat and gore. The doorway was lost; there was just too many of them. Slowly their hands raised their swords as the assassins approached, gradually encircling the two friends, their blades poised for the final strikes. Tor drew in a breath, unsure if it would be his final one.
"It might be." he agreed, a slow tear trickling from each eye as he thought of how he'd failed his family.
"I hope I die well." Wellin murmoured, before looking at the waiting onslaught.

The room erupted in a crashing sound, filling with a choking dust that seemed to cloud everywhere. With a groan that would scare a mountain lion, Mungo came through the ceiling, his arms swinging wildly with a deep-set groan as he set into the assassins. Tor and Wellin looked at each other, and then charged forward to join their friend.

The room was full of the sound of clashing metal, above it all was the thunderous groans of Mungo and the battle cries of Wellin and Tor. Despite the early successes of the zombie, it was clear that Mungo too was over his head. So much so, that he promptly lost it to a swinging battleaxe, severing it and causing it to fly off to the corner of a room. The headless body continued to fight on, the arms swinging with a sickening swish. From his new position, Mungo tried to bite a few ankles. Through the dust Wellin continued to swing, watching as the zombie continued to recieve blow after blow, before he felt a hand tap his back. He turned. Tor was climbing out of a window. At first Wellin wanted to continue the fight, but then he thought on it. Even with Mungo, the odds were still too great. He nodded, and followed his friend. The last glance he caught as he left the room was the lumbering hulk of Mungo, on fire with magical flame, axes and swords buried deep in his flesh, collapse to the floor, finally brought to the grave.

"Listen, they don't know about the enchantment." Shamus said, looking out of the house window at the scene across the street. The search had stopped, and now all the assassins were focused on a house across the way. He watched as Mungo lumbered across the rooftops, grappling with a few assassins, before diving through the roof. He turned back to Kiera, indicating it was alright for her to come out of the cupboard.
"What's happening?"
"Mungo's helping them, but I don't think..." Shamus' voice trailed off as he watched Tor and Wellin leap out of the window, before allowing himself a wry smile. He didn't think they'd make it. Mungo would delay things, but they needed more help. "Look, you need to get to the Temple. That's where they're heading. Tell them...tell them that the weapons are enchanted. The enchantment is bound to something... wait! Of course!"
"What?" Kiera asked.
"Their weapons are bound to the deed! They have to destroy it!"
"But that deed is the key to our rights! My mine!"
Shamus paused, and looked at Kiera. "I know." he said, flatly. "Ack, what would I have done with twenty five thousand septims?" he asked, turning back to look at the girl. She looked back at him.
"A dowry?" she asked.
"Got drunk on the best Tamika vintage, more like."
"Not even... a dowry for me?"
Shamus closed his eyes, and walked forward to stroke her hair. He paused, looking at her, furrowing his brow, before looking away.
"Go. Keep to the shadows and you'll be alright." he said.
"What will you do?" she asked.
"Distract those blue ring pansies."
Kiera reached up and kissed the grizzled features of the bandit softly, tenderly touching his hand.
"Stay safe." she urged. Shamus grunted.
"Urgh. Whatever." he said, before rushing out of the house, his dagger drawn, screaming obscenities at all the assassins and their kin.

This post has been edited by Foster: Apr 4 2006, 02:18 AM