Perilous Journeys. Shadow Over Rhudaur III

[Griss]

A Chilling Realization
November 1
Broggha's Camp

"Did you ever see anything like that in all your life, Captain Griss!" Heggr exclaimed enthusiastically as Princess Gimilbeth's entourage passed by the rude shack where the two men were lounging. Spitting a long stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth, he laughed in amusement as the brown liquid narrowly missed a yellow cur nosing amongst the garbage at the side of the shack.

"Aye, truly impressive, but it surely did not compare with the Jarl's triumphal entry into Cameth Brin last month. No doubt, much to the old king's chagrin, that event will be given a page to itself in the royal history," Griss remarked waggishly. After watching the end of Princess Gimilbeth's procession pass out of sight, Griss drew on his long-stemmed clay pipe. A small vagrant breeze pulled the hazy smoke towards the east.

"Maybe our names will be recorded. Do you think so, Captain?" Heggr asked after he had spat the depleted plug of tobacco from his mouth and prepared another chew from his tobacco pouch.

"Who knows?" Griss shrugged. "Why don't you ever smoke the pipeweed instead of chewing it?" Captain Griss' eyebrows wrinkled in a disapproving look. "I don't know how you can tolerate the taste of the strong stuff in your mouth."

"Captain, chewing the pipeweed sometimes eases the pain in my aching teeth, or maybe it just takes my mind off the misery." Heggr looked disappointed at Griss' nonchalant dismissal of a question he considered important. "Wouldn't you like to have your name written down in a great volume of history as being someone who did something important?" Heggr looked at Griss hopefully.

Griss laughed. "People like high and mighty Princess Gimilbeth get their names in history books, not rogues like us. Don't tax your mind on it anymore, Heggr. We have more important things to do than stand here. We need to be getting to the Jarl's keep. He will want a full report of the Princess' departure."

***

Retrieving their horses from where they had been tied behind the shack, the two men were quickly mounted and on their way to Broggha's estate. Rolling the new cud of tobacco in his mouth, Heggr was silent, a mournful expression on his homely face.

"Why so glum, Heggr?" Griss asked without much interest.

"Nothing," he spat to the side. "Only I was hoping there would be a little time to stop at the Hare and Thistle. I was hoping to see Fainwen."

"Heggr, that is impossible. You shouldn't even ask! The tavern is in the opposite direction from the Jarl's keep. You can always ride over and see her tonight. What's so important that you should want to see her now?" Griss replied disdainfully. He had never been able to understand Heggr's infatuation with the plump barmaid, who, while her face was pretty enough, was a little too old and well-used for his tastes.

"You see, Captain, it's like this. She's grown pretty fond of me, and... well, I am somewhat fond of her. You remember during the procession that one of the boys who work at the inn came up to me and whispered into my ear?" Heggr seemed almost shy.

"Yes, I remember that. What was it all about?" Griss smiled as their horses trotted into the courtyard of Broggha's hall.

"Well, he's Fainwen's nephew..."

"Aye, I know that," Griss replied as the two men dismounted and turned their horses' reins over to the waiting grooms. "I suppose the lad was delivering an important message from your lady love."

"Aye, Captain Griss," Heggr replied as he followed Griss into the corridor that led to Broggha's private chamber.

"Well, out with it, man!" Griss growled irritably as the guard ushered them into the warm confines of the audience chamber. "What does she want? Another present, I suppose?"

"Well, sir, if what she thinks is true, maybe I have given her present enough as it is." Stammering, Heggr's face flamed crimson.

"You old dog!" Captain Griss slapped him hard across the shoulders. "You've gotten the wench with child! Are you sure it's even yours?"

Heggr had not been prepared for the enthusiastic response, and the wind was almost knocked out of him. Recovering quickly, he whispered to the captain. "Aye, it's mine, or at least I think it's mine."

"Be quiet now," Griss muttered. "The Jarl is looking at us!"

A tankard of ale in his hand, the red-haired giant sat alone, attended only by one trusted servant. The Jarl nodded when they drew near to him. "Take seats," he ordered, "and tell me everything that happened."

Griss inclined his head respectfully before he began. "Princess Gimilbeth, full of her usual arrogance, rode at the head of her lackies, with that supercilious, smirking Captain Merendil coming along right behind her like a trained dog." Griss paused as the serving boy set tankards of ale on the table beside Heggr and him.

"Drink, men," Broggha's booming voice seemed far too loud for the moderate sized room, "The draughts will take chill from your bones." Nodding, the two men smiled their gratitude to him. "And the coffin of Nauremir? I trust it was with the procession?" He beamed a broad, pleased grin.

"Yes, my lord Broggha, the dog's coffin was right there," Griss replied after wiping the froth off his lips with the back of his hand.

"Everything is going according to His Majesty's plan. Won't the lady be surprised when she discovers that there will be a little welcoming party for her, or should we say a little surprise party?" Broggha chortled. "She and her party will be observed every step of the way. The marvel of it is that none of them will ever suspect a thing until it is far too late for them to do anything about it! His Majesty thinks of everything!"

Broggha's eyes had begun to take on that strange gleam which made Griss feel slightly uncomfortable. The Jarl's eyes had never appeared that way before the Great Lord had visited them back in September. Always when dealing with the emissaries from the North in the past, the Jarl had been visited by underlings. Griss wondered if it had been the King himself who had made an appearance. Whoever the lord was who visited them, he made an overpowering impression upon Griss and Broggha.

Heggr coughed uncertainly and Griss turned to look at him. Heggr stared at him in a strange way for a moment and then looked away. A shiver rippled down his spine when Heggr realized that the expression upon Griss' face was just as wild and mad as the one which was on Jarl Broggha himself!

[Arinya]

Cameth Brin fortress court. Morning of November 1, 1347.

Arinya watched Gimilbeth's entourage ride off into the distance. The people next to her lost sight of it long before she did, and moved away from her uneasily while she was still gazing after it. The king denounced the rumors and seemed to support the elves, but change was in the air, and the people felt it.

"Best to stick to one's own," said a woman to her daughter, nodding towards Arinya darkly and pulling her daughter away protectively. "I don't want you talking to her anymore!"

"But mama, the lady is so pretty and kind, and always says the most interesting things!"

"And that's how they catch their victims, most likely!" said the mother ominously.

Arinya came out of her reverie just in time to see the young girl being pulled away by her mother. She looked around - she was quite alone now. Little knots of people were gathered together, heads bend in close and talking quickly and quietly, while others had just left to go about their business.

She sighed with frustration - all she had wanted was to learn more about the second-born. Tutoring seemed to be a good idea, and she had come to love her pupil, and to love teaching. Surely a tutor could teach in peace, and wouldn't have to get involved in politics! But here she was, right in the middle of what looked to be a very volatile uprising.

Bears and Hillmen, she thought wryly, remembering the disasterous party. I suppose you can teach them some tricks, but you can't take the animal out of them.

[Arinya]

Cameth Brin fortress court. Morning of November 1, 1347.

As Arinya turned to go, she saw Caelen approaching her, and smiled. So young and earnest, thought Arinya, I like her ..."

"Oh, Arinya, I just wanted to tell you that there are others besides the king who think the Hillman's words are ... are vile and false!" The girl had started the sentence rather quietly, but finished it angrily and breathing hard.

Arinya was intrigued - and grateful. "Thank you, Caelen," she said graciously, bowing her head. "But I think we're in the minority here ... now," she ended with a grimace as a particularly loud Hillman crossed in front of them, belching and spitting.

"Are you busy now? May I come and read again?" Caelen asked hopefully.

"Certainly! I enjoy your company very much! But you need to leave some time for your husband, too, you know!" Arinya said rather loudly, for the benefit of those around them.

"Oh - well, he's going on the first part of the journey, so I'll be free for a week or so," finished Caelen, still uncomfortable with the whole marriage and pregnancy intrigue, but grateful to Arinya for her help.

"He is? But you just got here! I'm a bit surprised at that," said Arinya, puzzled why a newcomer would be preferred over men that had been there longer.

Caelen shrugged her shoulders - she didn't see anything unusual in her brother being preferred over others. "He's just really good with horses - I guess the stablemaster saw that."

"Well, then, I'm free right now - shall we go?"

Caelen looked up eagerly and nodded, and they headed off to Arinya's chambers.

[Nauremir]

On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 1, 1347


Darkness surrounded him. Lassitude lay heavy over his mind like a blanket of lead cast over an invalid, and he stared, not really contemplating what his eyes beheld. Of course, what was there to behold? Only oblivion, the complete absence of light, raven black, punctuated now and then with the strange muted colors the eye sees when all is dark; shifting burgundies and tarnished golds, and shades which his mind could not place. But darkness surrounded all, and all was darkness.

How long he lay there, he knew not. Time did not seem to matter. Days could have passed, or maybe years. Mayhap the sands in the hourglass had escaped through some fissure and ascended to the heavens to hang as timeless stars in the sky. Nothing seemed to matter in this place, this nebulous realm suspended somewhere between life and death, a place visited by the dying and by the drugged.

But slowly the shattered pieces of reality began to gather and reform, as though floating through a sluggish sea. Thinking consciousness gradually returned, and with it, a pounding headache, a pain so dreadful that he feared it would split his head in two! Moaning, he attempted to lift a hand to clutch his throbbing head, but it seemed that shackles and chains of iron held his arm in an unrelenting grasp. Another attempt. The hand lifted a few inches but clashed against a barrier which lay above him, then fell down to lie limply upon a cushiony bed.

Where was he? The mattress upon which he lay was soft and comfortable, and he felt himself being lulled back into slumber. No, no, he must resist the temptation to sleep, to sink back into the senseless oblivion in which he had so recently traveled. Somewhere in the back of his befuddled mind, a sense of unease began to grow, but the rest of his mind could not yet comprehend the reason for this discomfort.

Gaining strength, he raised his arms again. His fingers brushed over the roof which hung only a few inches above his body. A thin layer of cloth, and beyond that, hard wood. He clutched his temples in his hands, groaning like an opiated sleeper making a half-hearted attempt to wake from the stupor of the poppy.

Where was he? What had happened? He groaned again. Was this the morning after a night of heavy drinking? He did not remember... He needed light – though surely it would sear his eyes in this state. His fingers explored his surroundings. Walls all around him, a ceiling above him, some sort of cushioned floor beneath him. What sort of place was this?

He lay there, staring into the darkness above him. And then suddenly his mind cleared and the dreadful realization dawned upon him.

He was in a coffin.

He had been buried alive.

His heart pounded, waves of horror crashing down him like the drowning tides of a dark sea. The foggy bewilderment left his brain, and in its place was clarity horrifying and grim. Left for dead when he was yet alive, would he spend his last days imprisoned within the tomb, slowly starving to death? Long would be the hours as he waited for death's embrace, for the final cessation of his young life. Surely this was the worst way to die – to die once and wake to life, only to have it wither away like a plucked flower in the confines of interment!

Powered by a desperate surge of energy, he balled his hands into fists and pounded on the roof above him. It was as unyielding as the cold stone of the tomb; his struggles as futile as the last throes of a dying man. Nauremir saw his life, his death, all flash before his eyes. Panic rising up inside him, a dreadful shriek escaped his lips, and his whole body shuddered in a paroxysm of revulsion and fear. This was it – this was the end – the slow, prolonged, agonizing finale of those entombed whilst still alive - this would be his fate – his doom – his death -

And then consciousness left him, and his mind fled once again into the comforts of the murky darkness.

[Hurgon Fernik]

On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 1, 1347

Hurgon had imagined that painting on a horse without an easel would be the height of impossibility. Sadly, there was not much difference when you were in a wagon being pulled by horses, even with the easel. But would Gimilbeth listen to reason? Oh, no, her highness intended to see him paint during the journey if she had to move his hands for him.

After four mad hours of trying to draw Tarniel's mouth, he had thrown up his hands in disgust, jumped out of his wagon, and settled on the front seat of the third wagon, muttering under his breath things like, "I wish that witch would look her age! Ha!"

The driver of the third wagon, a bored-looking fellow, who had a taste for the macabre, leaned in confidentially, and asked, “How long do you suppose it’ll take before the end of our journey?”

Hurgon, who had his eyes fixed on Gimilbeth at the front of the procession, gave a start. “What? I don’t know. Three days to Brochenridge, I heard.”

“And how long before poor Lord Nauremir there begins to rot, I wonder. He should start giving off a stink anytime soon. Although maybe the coffin’s holding in the smell.”

Hurgon gave a shudder the most delicate lady would have been proud of. “I somehow don’t think that’s likely to happen anytime soon.”

“And why not?”

The answer was supplied by young Nauremir himself, who shouted out, “I’m alive! Let me out!” This followed by a series of pounds. Hurgon, who had been half-expecting this ever since they set out, cursed under his breath. Darn my needles! He’s gone and woken up! The driver pulled up short, an ear cocked.

“You hear something?” he asked Hurgon. The horsemen following them had stopped, too, looking puzzled. They had obviously not heard anything… yet.

Nauremir pounded a little more on his coffin, the sound of desperation creeping in.

“There! That pounding! Coming from behind us, isn’t it?” The sudden light of realization flooded his eyes. Hurgon waited with bated breath for the inevitable horror and shock. It came….


… only not quite in the way he expected. With bulging eyes, and fear written over his thin face, the driver shouted, “They’re drums! Drums in the deep!”

“What deep?” a confused Hurgon asked.

“Doesn’t matter - Everyone know goblins use drums to alert each other! They’re going to attack us!” His voice gaining panic, he began shouting over the rhythmic pounding of Nauremir’s coffin, completely oblivious to the fact that it was making the wagon rock from side to side. “Goblins! Orcs are upon us! Brave soldiers, defend us!”

Various cries of “Ready Arms!” “Where?” “What drums, I don’t hear anything!” and “What in the name of cheese is going on?!” permeated the air. The wagons in front creaked to a halt. At almost the same moment, Nauremir, his little energy spent and the drug taking hold again, gave a final shriek and fell back into blissful sleep.

Gimilbeth got down majestically from her bay stallion and swept up to them to ask crisply, “Well?”

“My Lady, we heard the orc-drums. They’re preparing to attack us any minute! And just now, I heard them give a most blood-curdling war-cry, my Lady!”

“We? You and who else heard these ‘drums’?”

The driver promptly pointed at Hurgon. Hurgon refused to wilt under her icy stare - a first for him – and began shaking his head and wagging his eyebrows vigourously towards the coffin behind them. He mouthed, “Nauremir! He’s awake! Awake!"

[Gimilbeth]

On the road south of Cameth Brin, evening of November 1, 1347

"He is awake!"

Gimilbeth had no need to ask: "Who is?". Ever since they set out on the journey, she had been afraid of that moment. Should Nauremir come to his senses in an inopportune time, the secret would be out! Sure, no Hillman was allowed on the journey, save one, Algeirr by name - a trustworthy man, according to Captain Merendil. But still even one Hillman was far too many. And even the Dunedain, if once scared witless by the apparition of the unquiet dead man, were bound to chat about it afterwards, especially when drunk.

Gimilbeth cursed inwardly, cocked her head and listened. Everything was quiet in the wagon with the coffin. Perhaps the wretch has fallen in a swoon again, if not worse. She sincerely hoped it had been the case. Anyway, nothing could be done until the evening.

Meanwhile, Merendil's barked orders rallied the men, some of whom had fanned out into the forest on both sides of the road looking in vain for assailants. The journey continued.

By sunset, Gimilbeth's party reached an old roadside inn. But those who looked forward to warm beds and hot meal were sorely disappointed as the house proved to be deserted. It stood with broken windows and doors and the wind blew dry autumn leaves through empty rooms. Captain Merendil sent several men to scout around, appointed the night guards, and the travelers settled for the night as best they could.

A big fire was lit in the abandoned hearth of the former common room of the inn and a small tent was set in a corner for Gimilbeth and her maid. The others took out their bedrolls and laid them on the floor. There was not enough place for everybody, of course, so Gimilbeth's order to bring in the coffin as well was met with astonished silence.

"Has the witch gone mad?" thought the bewildered Merendil. He coughed several times and then objected as politely as he could.

"A-hem... My Lady, the late Nauremir is precisely the only one here who won't suffer from the cold. In his present...er.. condition he will only benefit from some exposure to the night's frost."

"I want the coffin here" replied Gimilbeth icily. Her cold eyes met the Captain's and held them. Merendil was the first to lower his gaze, muttering darkly- the journey with the crazy witch was proving every bit as unpleasant as he feared.

With muffled curses from the guards the heavy coffin was brought in and set in a small adjoining room, maybe a former pantry or a storage room as there were empty shelves on the walls. The floor of the little room was littered with debris, but still it was better than to have the coffin in the common room. To Merendil's relief, Gimilbeth had no objections to this arrangement.

After the evening meal, which everyone ate seated on the floor on his own bedroll, the weary travelers fell asleep. Gimilbeth lay awake listening how the hushed muttering in the common room finally ceased, replaced by snores. Quiet as a shadow, Gimilbeth slipped out of her tent. First she shook awake her two pages and sent one of them to fetch Hurgon. Soon the four of them assembled in the pantry around the coffin.

"Now, open the lid" ordered Gimilbeth. With much effort the three men lifted the heavy lid and laid it on the floor. They stood for some time looking down at Nauremir in wonder.

The hapless youth lay before them pale and emaciated. His cheeks and chin were covered by long uneven stubble, curly, and a shade lighter than his hair. The sparse ungainly beard made him look older and somehow different.

"Good!" commented Gimilbeth. "Now he will be hard to recognize, especially after Edelbar cuts off his hair. Here are the scissors, Edelbar!"

"Chop off his hair?!!! gasped Hurgon. All the nobles wore their hair long and only commoners cut them. Cutting one's hair short was an outrage - a loss of stature. "But he is Elendil's descendant, your own kin!"

"He has forfeited the right to his high lineage when he vilely attacked the King's guests, putting his kin and all the Numenoreans in danger!" hissed Gimilbeth. "From now on, he will be a commoner - your new apprentice, Hurgon."

She bent to the coffin, retrieved a bundle of cloth that lay hidden at Nauremir's feet and threw it to the painter. "Here are his new clothes - plain, threadbare stuff. Put it on him instead of this fancy dress when Edelbar finishes his haircut."

Long strands of raven black were falling to the ground. Hurgon stood at a loss watching what disturbingly looked like a degrading execution. The two pages stripped the body and dressed Nauremir in the plain clothes provided by Gimilbeth. Now the noble Daurendil's friend was truly unrecognizable.

At this moment Nauremir's eyes opened and focussed on Gimilbeth. By sudden fear and revulsion in his gaze it was evident that the youth recognized her. Gimilbeth laughed evilly.

"Arise, apprentice painter!" she said haughtily. "New life awaits you - the life that is MY gift. Your old life has ended. Nauremir is no more. Helmir I name you, as your heart should henceforth be as cold as it used to be fiery. Now kiss my hand and be grateful for my gift. You are in my debt forever."

[Callon]

Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early hours of November 2, 1347

Callon lay quietly on his bedroll, unable to sleep because of the heavy snoring of the man next to him. He thought over the events of the last few weeks yet again - little else had occupied his mind lately. His decision to flee from their home now seemed naive and rash. He was young then, and the young are optimistic; he was older now. Age gained the hard way - by bitter experience.

It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for his sister. Young men in the stories set out for adventures, but they never seemed to have sisters to take care of. He wondered moodily how Beren and Tuor would have fared if they had had their sisters with them. Of course, Turin had his sister, and look at all the problems they had... He sighed with irritation and turned onto his other side. The guy on this side of him wasn't snoring as loud as the other guy, but he had an irritating habit of getting quieter and quieter, making you relax, and then letting loose with a real snore-bomb that about made you leap out of your skin.

Maybe they should have stayed at Eryndil's father's place after all, but Callon had talked Caelen into going to Cameth Brin - he thought it would be safer closer to the castle, and then they could look for their cousin, too. Last he had heard, Maleneth was somewhere around Cameth Brin - but that was long ago ...

I can't wait 'till this trip is over! he thought, uneasy about leaving Caelen alone. Well, at least she and the elven tutor had hit it off. "Stay with her as much as you can," he had admonished his sister. "And remember - I'm your husband!"

A gigantic snore-bomb from the man next to him made him jerk and then turn wearily back to his other side. He made a mental note to never sleep by this fellow again.

[Nauremir]

Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early hours of November 2, 1347

Nauremir gaped up in horror at the evil witch. Her face was twisted in wicked glee like some leering female gargoyle. He still felt lightheaded, the lingering remains of the draught which he had been given and the fright which he had experienced. What had the witch done to him? He did not recognize his surroundings. Had she kidnapped him? Had she drugged him and stuffed him into a coffin, in some bizarre murder plot? Or was her intent something far darker?

Forever – the world reverberated in his mind. Life that was her gift. His heart should be cold. Kiss her hand and be grateful. What did all that mean? Perhaps he HAD died after all, and she had raised him from the dead by some unholy necromancy!

"Gimilbeth! What is the meaning of this? Nauremir demanded shakily. "What in Eru's name have you done to me?!"

[Gimilbeth]

Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early hours of November 2, 1347


"What in Eru's name have you done to me?!"

Gimilbeth tossed her head and laughed again. Seeing someone she disliked utterly helpless and at her mercy felt like heady, strong wine. It made her nerves tingle and her head swim pleasantly. For here he was - Nauremir of royal blood, the best friend of the King's Heir, the best swordsman and the best dancer, the sweet dream of all the young ladies of Cameth Brin - now brought down. This dashing youth now stood swaying on his feet and looking at her with his bloodshot, puffed eyes like a terrified rabbit...

Rabbit...rabbits... she almost forgot... Sobering, she turned to her pages: "Edelbar, have you brought those rabbits you killed three days ago?"

"Yes, my Lady, here they are," replied Edelbar, grinning. He produced a leather bag, untied the strings and tossed the contents into the open coffin. Five dead rabbits. Sweet cloying stench of rotting flesh filled the small pantry. Gimilbeth nodded, satisfied.

"Now close and fix the lid, but don't forget to extract Helmir's bedroll first. It is there, under the pillow."

Edelbar pushed a plain soldier's bedroll into Nauremir's arms. The poor young man looked upon it in bewilderment. Then the witch addressed him again.

"This is not the right time and place for explanations, Helmir. Know only that I have saved not only your worthless life but also the Kingdom you put in peril by your foolishness. Keep quiet for now, lest nothing could save you again. Hurgon, your new master, will tell you the tale on the way - far from the curious ears."
"Take him to the common room, Hurgon. Sleep now, but make sure to get into your wagon before the first light"

Nauremir's lips trembled, but he said nothing. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand and turned to Hurgon, obviously hoping for some reassurance. But the painter only shuffled his feet uneasily and pulled him out of the pantry.

"Do as she says," he whispered. "Come with me. I will find you something to eat and to drink."

[Hurgon Fernik]

Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early morning of November 2, 1347

He had some bread and cheese left over, and he still had that bottle of red wine all left over. He had had many plans for that bottle, but Nauremir, that is to say, Helmir, obviously needed it much more.

He rolled out the bedroll in a quiet corner of the common room, and pushing the dazed man onto it, he handed him the food and the bottle, and sat down heavily beside him. Helmir looked as confused as a newborn pup, so Hurgon alternated between patting him on the head and wringing his own hands. He should have known Gimilbeth would do this! No doubt she had heard every single name he had called her, and this was her revenge. The amulet had obviously lost its power - or else she was far too evil and powerful for it to work against her!

"What is going on?" Helmir whispered, trying his best to keep his voice level. "I thought I was dead, but now I fear something worse than death! Were those rabbits... part of some dread ritual?"

"Oh, no, I think they're to make the coffin smell rotten... so everyone will know you really are dead."

Helmir, who had cautiously taken a bite of the bread, choked. Hurgon hit him on the back a few times, saying 'Shhh!'

"You mean I really am dead?" Helmir forced out through gasps.

"Well, everyone thought so, and many people even think she," he inclined his head towards the old pantry, "killed you herself, but Tarnendur says she didn't really kill you. Even I had trouble believing, but look at you, my lord... ah, Helmir, you're walking and talking and eating, so you can't be dead, right?"