Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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Brochenridge, evening of November 3
Written by Gordis and Serenoli
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Gimilbeth’s blood turned cold when she beheld a hooded stranger by the door. She was sure it was Nauremir, escaped from the foolish painter. She berated herself for not setting better guards. Meanwhile, the fugitive had to be apprehended – quietly and effectively. Muttering some excuses about fetching help to get Nauremir’s mother up to her room, she rushed out of the crypt and looked around. There was nobody of note outside, only her two pages. These she sent immediately to search for Nauremir.

She climbed the steep stair to the main court of the fortress where the wagons were parked and most of her men had been waiting. There she spotted the driver of Hurgon’s wagon, the auburn-haired Callon, who was walking slowly across the court admiring the Tower. Gimilbeth gripped his sleeve and hissed, “Where is Helmir, Hurgon’s apprentice?”

Startled, the young man bowed to Gimilbeth. “I don’t know, Your Highness – I left him with Hurgon a while ago,” he replied.

“Go and find him!” ordered Gimilbeth. “Be careful, he is raving mad and dangerous. Don’t listen to anything he says. Just knock him on the head and bring him back to the wagon.”

Leaving the wide-eyed Callon, Gimilbeth made her way to the second wagon, knowing already what awaited her there. Curse the foolish painter! If Nauremir escaped, Hurgon would rue his lenience to the end of his days!

***

There is only so long one can paint while concious of being in mortal danger. It was when Tarniel's face on the canvas began to assume the characteristic frown of her half-sister that Hurgon decided to abandon it, and look instead to the more urgent task of protecting himself. He was starting to wish now he had let Nauremir hit him over the head; between him and Gimilbeth he knew well whom he was more frightened of.

He checked first that his amulet was secure around his neck. It hadn't done a very good job so far, but hopefully its magic would be activated now. He cleaned up, for the first time in living history, so that perhaps Gimilbeth might be protected from the temptation of hurling things at him. He kept a sharp lookout for her, peeking out every now and then. The moment he saw her, the glare on her face burning a path before her, he let out a bewildered wail.

"Helmir! Now where did that scamp go? The beautiful lady Gimilbeth," he couldn't help choking slightly at this point, but sometimes good men need to descend to lies for self-preservation, "made it clear he was not to go anywhere; and I did tell him not to. And, then... why he was sleeping, and I was painting, and woe begone, he must have fled while I was absorbed in painting the Princess Tarniel! Ah, me, what misfortunes have befallen! But, maybe it is not too late and Helmir has just gone for a drink. Yes, I shall retrieve him for the good princess immediately." Delivering which speech in a loud, carrying voice, he turned to get out of his wagon, and found before him a Gimilbeth torn between laughter at possibly the worst acting she had ever seen in her life, and the desire to take off her shoes and whack him soundly on the head with them.

He gave a large fake start, and tried to look guilty. This part was not very hard, as it was his habitual expression around her. Then, the last bit of his carefully crafted speech, "You have caught me out, your highness! My sincerity and devotion to one task you have assigned me has caused me to fail in the other. I think I am no longer qualified to guard Helmir. I myself step down from the task. In fact, when you find him, I shall myself move out of his wagon and ..."

She turned away to hide the smile that would appear, despite all, and then reminding herself just how angry she was, she turned back to him. "Do you think I am a fool? I thought he had escaped due to your leniency, the kind of leniency only seen in the blindest of fools, but no... I see you and he have contrived to have him escape! A nice little plan to hoodwink me, was it? I hope you recall the fate of the last unfortunate man who tried to trick me? You must have seen his corpse swinging from the tree yesterday." She smiled painfully and began to gather up steam, and Hurgon decided there was only one way to stop her. Distraction.

He focused on a point behind her shoulders, and opened his mouth several times as if to interrupt her. She finally noticed and said impatiently, "What?"

"Behind you, my lady..." she turned around. There was nothing. "It's gone now. It was there a minute ago!"

"No more of your foolish tricks!" she hissed, "I don't know in which tavern you picked up the reputation of being a good actor, because you-"

"But I assure you, I saw..." he gulped, and thought faster than he had ever done in his life, "a large raven, which was looking directly at you, beckoning you to follow him. Maybe it is a dark portent of some sort. My grandmother used to say-"

"I don't want to know what your grandmother said!" she snapped. But all the same, she was interested. Having grown up on magic all her life, it was hardly unlikely Gimilbeth would not know of all the portents there were to know of. "Besides, how would a raven beckon to me?" Hurgon proceeded to imitate a bird and flapped his imaginary wings at her. Her anger momentarily diverted, returned again, full course.

"You are going to find your mad friend, and by whatever means bring him back. He will trust you more than anyone else right now. And when you get back..." she turned on her heel, and walked briskly away, leaving Hurgon to contemplate the various ways that last sentence of hers could have finished. None of them impressed him much, so he wrapped himself in Nauremir's cloak and dispiritedly began walking towards the houses and inns by the city wall. At the very least, he would have to put up a show of finding Nauremir.

***

Callon was searching high and low for this Helmir, this alleged lunatic; which, on reflection did not seem so strange as it had done when Gimilbeth first pounced on him. After all, though he had paid little attention to what went on in the wagon, he could hardly help overhearing some of the shouting and cursing that had gone on behind him, and it did not require much stretch of his imagination to know that at least one of the two was not quite right in the head.

His sharp eye caught a man, half-hidden in some shurbs, swigging brandy. Callon's lip twisted in disgust at the abandon with which he was drinking. He went closer, and thought the man looked familiar... yes, he recognized the old grey cloak with the tattered hood that the painter's apprentice wore. He was quite certain this was one of his two passengers. And since he had just seen the painter absorbed in his work back at the wagon, this HAD to be that other fellow ....

He circled noiselessly around the bush, looking for something to knock the man out with. He didn't like that bit, but the Princess had stressed that the man was a lunatic, and she should know. Callon had heard about the unnatural strength of lunatics before, and he certainly didn't want a lunatic on the loose, especially a drunk one! Finding a nice handy rock, he crept up behind the man and hit him - trying to knock him out, but at the same time not hard enough to kill him. The man, already drunk, slumped forward onto his knees. Callon took his bottle away from him and threw it away, and then hauled him bodily to his shoulder, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of drink floating into his mouth and nose.

As he neared camp, one of the men saw him and approached. He had been talking to Callon just that morning and recognized him. A look of concern stole over his face at the sight of the senseless body.

"Who's that you've got there, Callon?"

"Lady Gimilbeth's orders, for me to bring him back to camp. Apparently he's a lunatic and tried to escape." Tired from all the hauling and panting with the weight, he let the man slide to the ground for a while. His friend leaned over and gave a low whistle.

"Well, well, it's Hurgon the Royal Painter. We always did figure he had a slight crack in his head, and this just confirms it."

"Yes!" Callon wiped sweat from his brow. Then the significance of what he had just heard sunk in. "Did you say Hurgon? The painter himself?"

"None other."

"Not Helmir the apprentice?"

"Who's Helmir?" That and a frown were all the answer Callon recieved, and it was enough to confirm his worst fears. Frantically, he began trying to resucicate Hurgon. A fine lookout for him it would be if it got about that Callon had been beating up harmless, if rather drunk, painters instead of escaped madmen. He looked at his friend.

"We have to wake him up!"

"Well... I guess I could try slapping him a bit." Which he did, sharply a few times, and strangely enough, it even worked. Hurgon's eyes opened, out of focus, and he moved his lips. Callon bent to hear what he was so desperately trying to say; it turned out to be a rather rude song. Well, that was probably a good sign.

The two of them dragged him back to his wagon, where after much water, and a few more slaps, Hurgon looked shame-facedly at the two of them and said, "Thank you so much for bringing me back. Sometimes, I do drink too much and keel over, though it hasn't happened recently. I am very ashamed, I assure you, and I thank you again. I was really thirsty, see?"

Callon's friend began laughing, while he himself explained the real situation, amid profuse apologies. Hurgon tutted and wagged an unsteady finger at him, but truth be told, he was not displeased. After all, it gave an iron-clad excuse for him not to go hunting for Helmir, and besides, he could now utilise Callon to go and get him as many drinks as he could carry. With some dinner if possible. And if Gimilbeth frowned, he would be sarcastic at Callon's expense, and occasionally clutch his swollen head in agony. She could hardly call for a hangman then.


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Brochenridge, early morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Rian
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"First, you have to clean the hoof really well so you can look for signs of the infection ... ", and Callon did just that while the Brochenridge stable master watched with interest, and Captain Merendil and Gwindor watched Callon with interest. The horse wasn't watching anything; his long lashes covered his dark, liquid eyes as he relaxed - he was just relieved to have his weight off of his sore foot. He leaned a little more heavily on this thoughtful human, and Callon gave him an elbow in the ribs to make him stand up a little straighter.

"And now you look for a little sensitivity to pressure and possibly some discoloration ... ahh, here's a likely spot ... "

Callon, holding the horse's hoof securely in his strong, experienced hands, tapped a slightly discolored area on the hard tissue on the underside of the hoof with the flat end of his hoof knife. The horse threw its head up and pulled back a bit, his eyes now wide open, but Callon had him securely cross-tied, and the horse relaxed again.

"Now I just pare away gently here until I reach the infection ... doesn't hurt a bit until you reach the pocket ... " continued Callon, and with deft little twists of the hoof knife, he followed the discoloration down until a final twist of the knife opened up the infected area, and the pus welled out. The horse jerked again, and then relaxed as the painful pressure in the hoof slowly decreased.

"Sometimes the discolorations don't lead anywhere, and you have to try another spot. We were lucky here - we hit the right spot the first time." The stablemaster grunted his understanding of the procedure, stroking the gelding's flank as he watched the pus drain.

"Now pack the hoof with some clean herbs - peppermint is ideal, it draws things out well - and keep it as clean and dry as possible, then ..."

But Captain Merendil and Gwindor never heard the rest of the follow-up care. They had moved a little farther away so as to speak privately.

"I don't know why the Princess commanded it," said Gwindor, raising his eyebrows at the whims of royalty, "but he's definitely going to be a good man to have along."

Merendil nodded. "My nephew speaks well of him, and I like what I've seen so far. He won't be happy about being gone longer - just married, and a lovely wife, the men say - but we'll make it worth his while."

Gwindor left, and Merendil watched the young auburn-haired horseman finish giving instructions to the stablemaster, then reach his hands over his head to stretch the kinks out of his back (working with hooves is hard work on the back!) as the stablemaster led the horse off.

"Callon," called Merendil, and beckoned him over.

"Yes, sir?" replied Callon respectfully. He liked the Captain - he admired how the captain had insisted on a fair hearing for Algeirr, refusing the Princess's first demand to just hang him, even though everything inside of him had been screaming out for revenge at the time. How odd that it had turned out as it had ... Callon's warning to Algeirr had turned out to be all too true ...

"Nice work, son," said Merendil. "You really know horses.”

"Horses are what our family does," replied Callon simply. "We ride before we walk!"

Merendil smiled, then grew serious again as he told Callon that plans had to be changed, and he would be joining the Princess's entourage.

Callon stared at him in disbelief. "But sir, they're not to be back until spring!" he objected. "My wife ... you said ... "

"I know, I know," interrupted Merendil briskly. "But things change - we're adding quite a few more men to the Princess's escort - reports of orcs in the area - and I would feel much better about the Princess if you were one of them, with your knowledge of horses and all. It could come in very handy."

Callon started to object again, but Merendil stopped him with a raised hand and a stern look. "I'm sorry, but you don't have a choice in the matter. The Princess herself requested you. The time will go quickly, and I'll make it worthwhile for you - you can send a note to your wife and enclose your extra pay for her to spend in your absence (here he allowed himself a little smile and a wink, as one knowledgeable in the ways of women and money) - we'll get it safely to her. You'll be home again before you know it."

"But ..." started Callon again, and was again interrupted by the Captain.

"The decision is made!" concluded Merendil with finality.

Callon took a deep breath and looked beyond the courtyard into the distance, bright and beckoning in the cold, crisp morning air. Three months ... but she had Arinya, and Eryndil was there now, too. She would be fine ...

He nodded his head in resignation, and left Meryndil to go write his letter to Caelen.

And as he wrote the letter, he thought uneasily that the worst part about this new turn of events was not that Caelen would be left without his protection for three months - the worst part was that he felt so happy about it ...

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Brochenridge, morning of November 4, 1347
Written by Gordis
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The morning of departure was cold and crisp with watery sunshine and frost on the ground. Gimilbeth descended to the Fortress court with eyes reddish from lack of sleep and threw a withering look at her entourage: her two cheerful pages, a sleepy Nimraen, a guilty–looking, somewhat battered-looking Hurgon and a still bewildered and, for some reason, also guilty–looking Callon the wagon-driver.

There was still no Helmir, despite all their efforts to find him. Last night, Gimilbeth sent everyone she could to look for the escaped young man, choosing them carefully among those who hadn’t known him as Nauremir. Finally she went to search for him herself – after sitting through the lengthy dinner in the Feasting Hall and striving to maintain a meaningless, polite conversation with the old Lord of Brochenridge. Now she felt bone tired and thoroughly disgusted.

Men had little gratitude, and Nauremir had none whatsoever! Out of the kindness of her heart she saved the wretch from a certain, humiliating death, maybe torture at the hands of Hillmen brigands. And instead of being grateful for her gift, he just ran away at the first opportunity. Well, she was done with him. If he got caught, she wouldn’t move a finger to save him again! What an ungrateful, base rascal her kinsman proved to be!

Gimilbeth's escort was waiting – two wagons and forty guards commanded by Gwindor. Last night Merendil proposed her 20 additional men and Gimilbeth gratefully accepted them, wondering what exactly moved the gruff Captain to such generosity. But she had to promise to send 20 guards back once they were safely at Amon Sul.

Lord Ormendur, swathed in a rich mink coat, and Captain Merendil said their farewells. The Captain and his remaining eighty men were also ready for departure – back to Cameth Brin. Merendil looked concerned and advised caution once again. “There may be orcs around,” he said to Gwindor and Elvegil, once Gimilbeth was out of earshot. “Keep your eyes open and don’t forget to set guards at night.”

Gwindor nodded and gave the signal for departure.

Once outside the Gates and out of view of the fortress, Gimilbeth motioned for the party to stop, passed the reins of her mount to Elvegil and crawled into her wagon to sleep.