Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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Nearing Brochenridge from the North. November 3, 1347
Written by Gordis and Valandil
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The next day of the journey proved uneventful. After a miserable night spent in an old, draughty watchtower, the travelers completed their crossing of the dangerous Trollshaws. Thankfully, not a single troll was sighted, and few other creatures as well, if any. Captain Merendil seemed uneasy because of the absence of game and the silence of birds and kept his soldiers on the alert. The road constantly climbed up and down the steep ridges running across their way. The journey was tiring for the horses, and the wagons needed a great deal of help to be able to negotiate the steep climbs.

Gimilbeth rode at the head of the procession, flanked now by her two devoted knights, Elvegil and Gwindor, the latter only recently recovered from his wounds (an elegant way to describe the bruises from the vulgar beating he received at the hands of some Hillmen at the memorable feast). Elvegil was most entertaining, however, telling funny stories about common acquaintances back in Cameth Brin. Captain Merendil kept a morose distance: he was still sulking after yesterday's confrontation and avoided Gimilbeth.

"Well, enough of this silliness!" Gimilbeth said, still laughing. She smiled and waved her knights away. The story about Curugil was quite funny, but it was undignified and far beneath her to shake from laughter while riding in state at the head of a hundred fighting men. The knights bowed and fell back.

Gimilbeth opened an embroidered pouch on her belt and took out the emerald necklace. She frowned, remembering the day when Tarnendur, beaming like a fool, presented this last heirloom of the drowned Numenor to his dearest Tarniel - for her tenth birthday no less... Such stupidity... A wave of frustration washed over Gimilbeth again. Why give such a thing to the silly pup when he had an elder daughter? Elessya should have been Gimilbeth's by right! Tarniel was evidently still too small to appreciate it - how could she have lent the priceless treasure to Odaragariel, as if it were no more than a kerchief! And then Oddie lost it - and neither the King nor Gimilbeth were told about it.

What to do with it now? Ask Merendil to take it back to Tarniel? or to Tarnendur? The King would be angry, sure, but then he would simply return the necklace to Tarniel, maybe with some mild reproaches. Nothing to gain here.

What if she sent the treasure to Odaragariel directly? The princess would be grateful; perhaps one day Gimilbeth might ask for a service in return...

Or, better still... perhaps she could keep the necklace until her return to Cameth Brin? There was this green velvet dress in her trunk and the turquoises she wore with it were not exactly matching. Hmm...

***

Merendil sniffed the air and slowly shifted his head from side to side. But he hadn't smelled it yet today - that awful scent he had just faintly detected the day before.

"Orcs," he thought to himself. "Wonder how many and how far... or how close."

He had first noticed it about the time that whole affair came up with the man they hung. No mistake about it - after several decades of campaigning, that was ONE smell he would never forget. Didn't seem like anyone else noticed it though. Couldn't smell it - or else too intent on carrying out an execution for some lowly scoundrel. "Poor blighter," thought Merendil further - not for his hanging, but for what would likely happen to him after. Why couldn't they have just kept going and settled that affair up later?

But - it hadn't cost them their lives. Leastwise not yet - and they were awful close to Brochenridge now. Why - the very fact that the Orcs were upwind meant they were after something else.

Or else in large enough force that they didn't care.

No need to alarm Her Highness - but he had been extra sharp with his men in the 24 hours since. On his way back, he'd set to scouring the woods. Maybe bring some of the boys from Brochenridge that far back with him... He wondered if there'd be anything left of the dead man's corpse.

The King would have to know - and soon! Along with the whole Council. The borders would need better watching, and a sweep of the countryside might be in order. Oh - and winter comin' and all! Merendil shook his head and muttered to himself.

***

Merendil’s forward scout came into view around a bend up ahead, galloping back toward them. "Eru," thought the Captain, "is something after him?"

But before he could even begin to get his men ordered up into a defensive posture, the scout yelled out, "My Captain, My Lady, Brochenridge is in sight! They have opened the gate and a company of guards is riding down to meet us."

"Rookie!" said Merendil, just barely under his breath, and the man next to him chuckled just a little bit louder.

He motioned for the scout to fall in at the rear, and the party continued on their path. This particular path had settled into one of the deep valleys running more or less northeast to southwest. They were making about due south now, but the bend to the right up ahead, which the scout had just come around, would get them right in line with the ridges above and the valley below.

He had been to all the sights of this land, and seen them many times, but this was one he always liked watching for.

Slowly they rounded the bend, crossing a small bridge over a brook down below them, and the fortress came at last into view on their left side. High on the south range it was - where there was a gap, or break in the ridge. Nestled into that gap was the bulwark of Brochenridge. Once home to the Kings of Rhudaur - but now a noble mansion and a way-station - but a formidable one at that. To cross the mountains to the south, you had to go through Brochenridge - and none had been able to go through it by force.

Their own errand led them on westward though, so if they entered Brochenridge from the north, they would also leave it from the north the next day - following their road toward the Last Bridge.

The oncoming riders were almost to them now - they had come through the small town that lay at the fortress's feet, right in the path of the Valley Road. There was an inn there that was his usual stopping-over place. But tonight - it would be a special treat to stay up in the fortress!

He looked around himself once more. "Safer too," his thought continued - then looking around at his men and those in his charge, "for all of us."

***

Gimilbeth’s eyes widened when the approaching riders came close enough for their faces to be seen. Old Ormendur, Lord of Brochenridge, coming out to meet them himself! Not that surprising, though, considering that they were bringing along the coffin of his eldest grandson… And with him were his son Laengrim, father of Nauremir, tears glistening on his gaunt, pale cheeks, and even Nauremir’s mother, still young and obviously grief-stricken.

The last thing Gimilbeth had time to do before greeting the riders was to send her page Edelbar to reiterate her orders to the painter. Hurgon was to watch over Helmir and not let him out of the wagon.

The Brochenridge riders drew rein and the customary greetings were exchanged. Gimilbeth’s words of condolence to Nauremir’s family were compassionate and touching – she had had time enough to prepare her speech and delivered it really well. By the end of it, most of the listeners were crying and Nauremir’s mother had broken down in tears, wailing and sobbing, her face red-eyed and blotchy. Gimilbeth thought that if she ever needed to cry, she would do so in a more decorous and less face-damaging fashion.

Lord Ormendur, however, remained thoughtful and grim and replied rather stiffly, thanking Gimilbeth and inviting her into the Castle. Once past the drawbridge, he gave orders to bring the coffin to the family crypt and the procession moved there directly.


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Near Brochenridge, afternoon of November 3, 1347.
Written by Serenoli
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Hurgon dipped his brush half-heartedly into the paint and experimentally dabbed at the canvas. It was no good - he felt too distracted to paint. It wasn't simply the motion of the cart - it was that he was fast becoming convinced that he was traveling with two very disturbed men.

The first few hours after his release, Helmir had talked incessantly, trying to make sense of what was going on and asking numerous questions, so that Hurgon had to remind him several times to lower his voice in case they were overheard. He seemed to be pretty sick, too, feeling hungry and sleepy all at once and sometimes feverish. The closer they got to Brochenridge, though, the healthier Helmir seemed to feel - and that was acting as a powerful restorer of hope. He was nearing his home and his family, and he could not but help think that there must be some more conventional method for paying back his debt to Gimilbeth than by being a painter's apprentice. The fact that Hurgon was a completely innocent bystander in this scheme did not cross his mind; as Hurgon was the visible symbol of Gimilbeth's power over him, perhaps it was not altogether surprising that some of his resentment rubbed off onto Hurgon. He did not rave at him, or threaten him, for he knew better than to draw attention to himself. He just sat there for hours with a mocking smile at Tarniel's potrait, occasionally making a sarcastic remark.

The cart-driver was a different kind of madman. For a long time, Hurgon was certain he was a sane person altogether, though very quiet (but then, it took all sorts), until he suddenly jumped up and ran after a man, shouting and gesticulating. In the end, the man was hanged, though Hurgon was still not sure why, and Callon came back to their cart, still quiet, but with an oddly satisfied look on his face. The kind of look that is enough to send a chill down a man's spine... All in all, an uneasy, tense journey that was making it even harder for him to render true Tarniel's innocent beauty.

Of course, Gimilbeth had her share in handing him yet another worry. She had sent him a note saying, "On no account are you to let Helmir out of your sight when we reach Brochenridge." Short and bitter.

And now the walls of the fortress loomed before them, and Helmir looked stronger than ever, and Callon was hardly the man Hurgon would confide in to help him with this. If Helmir made a run for it, what then?

“Helmir?” Hurgon asked tentatively.

He didn’t respond. Lately he had taken to ignoring the name Helmir. Sighing Hurgon tried, “My lord Nauremir?”

“Yes, Hurgon?”

“I know you may like to see your home town and everything, umm, but the fact of the matter is …”

“… that the witch you work for has forbidden it, yes?” He looked at Hurgon and smiled almost mockingly.

“She asked me to keep an eye on you. And I don’t work for her, I work for the King, but if his daughter happens to need my help ...” Hurgon floundered, trying to defend himself.

“I don’t hold it against you. Whatever you are doing to ruin my life, you’re only doing it for your mistress. I can understand the loyalty of a servant for his mistress ...”

“I am not her servant! I am the Royal Painter, and I work for Tarnendur, and believe me, no one hates that evil witch more than me!” Yes, Nauremir’s new tactic of provoking Hurgon was working pretty well.

He leaned forwards persuasively, “You hate her as I do? She makes your life miserable, yes? Then why are you helping her in ruining my life? What hold does she have over you?”

It seemed so silly to just say, “A nameless fear. When I see her cunning eyes and her twitching mouth, I can just feel the evil tainting the air around me, and I can almost see the ground quake with some new level of meanness.”

So Hurgon didn’t reply; he just shrugged.

“Now, Hurgon, how about this? I pretend to go to sleep; you start painting, intently, so that you spare no eyes and ears for me… hmmm? And then when you finally look around, you see a pile of blankets. You run out screaming my name, but it’s too late. She can’t blame you.”

“Well, she could just call me a deaf and blind idiot who deserves to really lose his ears for it…” Hurgon muttered, but he was starting to feel pleasantly rebellious.

“Or I could just give you a light tap on the head and render you unconscious? You can hardly be expected to have won a fight against me.”

“That’s all right,” said Hurgon hastily, “I have a slight headache anyway, wouldn’t want to compound it. I think I’m in the mood for painting.”

“I won’t forget this.” Nauremir almost smiled. “Lend me your cloak, will you? I don’t want to be recognized too early.”

“Yes, of course. Right.”

The wagons were already standing within the city walls. Hurgon watched as Nauremir leaped down and walked away as nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he turned to his canvas. There goes one madman, he thought. And the driver had also left for a drink. Soon the maddest of them all, Gimilbeth in a rage, would make an appearance, and who knew if he would ever get the chance to finish the painting again? They were on dry land, the cart was not heaving, so Hurgon frantically dabbed his brush in the paint, and began painting. A few minutes later, he was absorbed and had forgotten his surroundings.


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Brochenridge, evening of November 3, 1347.
Written by Elfhild and Gordis
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The family crypt of the Counts of Brochenridge was cut deep in the rock at the base of the tower, in Numenor fashion. An ornate bronze grid followed by a heavy door barred the entrance. Four guards took the coffin into the vault, and, following Count Ormendur’s directions, placed it upon an empty stab of granite next to Nauremir’s grandmother. Then, to Gimilbeth’s dismay, Nauremir’s father Laengrim expressed his wish to open the coffin, regardless of the stench that everyone could not fail to notice.

“But, My Lord,” protested Gimilbeth, “I am loath to say it, but the embalming has been inadequate. Something has gone awry and I am afraid the view of the corpse will only add to your grief and will prove a cruel blow to your poor Lady.”

At these words, Nauremir’s mother, who had sank to her knees by the coffin, finally fainted. Gimilbeth knelt by the lady, trying to revive her with a vial of smelling salts. Ormendur ordered the guards out, as the air in the crypt was stale and suffocating.

When the area cleared, the lords of Brockenridge became aware of a tall, hooded figure standing silently by the door, hidden in shadows. A sudden chill running down his spine, Lord Ormendur asked:

“Who are you, stranger, and why do you disturb the privacy of a grieving family?”

The tall figure stood brooding by the doorway, like the spectre of death itself. Beneath the dark hood, Nauremir's eyes blazed like two fires as he beheld the scene before him: his grieving family and the witch who had caused all his problems. His first impulse was to damn her right there and reveal the truth to his family. But he knew that if he did, Gimilbeth would shriek for the guards and claim he was some crazed madman. And who were they to know otherwise? Nauremir was "dead," and few would recognize him in this new disguise.

"An acquaintance of the deceased, come to pay my respects," he spoke quietly, his voice muffled. Then he turned upon his heel and left the tomb like a storm cloud.

He fled into the darkling evening, evading the members of the funeral entourage. Seeking shelter in the woods, he sat down on a rock and observed the mausoleum and surrounding buildings from afar. Several choices lay before him. He could stay as Helmir the painter's apprentice, ever under the close watch of Gimilbeth. This would mean severing all ties with his parents and other relatives and forfeiting his inheritance and position. He would go from a well-liked nobleman to a pauper whom no one knew. Or he could hide out until the witch turned her attentions to matters other than him, and then return to his family, reveal his identity, and tell them the truth of what happened. How would his family react? How could he go back to living his old life? His "resurrection" would probably be a scandal that would shake the country and be on the tongues of all in Arnor.

Gimilbeth wanted Nauremir to remain "dead," he knew. If she had been working with only his best interests at heart, she would have told his parents the truth and conferred with both him and his family. After Broggha's ire had calmed, she could have helped weave some story that Nauremir was not really dead, but merely in a deep, long-lasting swoon like, say, Turin after he slew the dragon. But, no, Gimilbeth had other plans. What they were he did not know, but he was sure there was some dark conspiracy brewing in her mind.

He was a man with powerful enemies – Broggha the Hillman chieftain and Gimilbeth the witch of Cameth Brin. He hated being so weak, both in power and in body, for he was still recovering from his wounds. Right now he needed some powerful friends and allies. Clutching his head in his hands, he struggled to plot and plan, racking his brain for ideas.