The Shadow over Rhudaur Part II. Intrigues and Sorcery.

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Cameth Brin, early afternoon of October 23, 1347
Written by Serenoli, Gordis and Elfhild
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"What's that, Tarniel?"

Tarniel, who had been walking silently beside Odare, said, "What are you talking about? Where?"

Odaragariel nodded towards a procession of people, approaching the Palace, carrying something... something that looked like -

"Is that a coffin?" she asked in a horrified whisper. Tarniel made no answer. Behind them, they heard pounding footsteps... she turned to see Daurendil behind them.

"Is the Council over?" she asked, bewildered. But Daurendil ignored them completely, his eyes fixed on the distant procession, and broke into a run, his face set and desperate. She looked at Tarniel, who was equally bewildered. Without a word, they ran to catch up with him.

They reached the group just in time to hear Daurendil's frenzied query, "Who is that, there, in the coffin?"

They did not need to answer his question. He had already seen the pale, unmoving countenance of Naurmeir in the coffin. Wth a howl of misery, he sank to his knees, murmuring, "I did not believe her when she said it! I did not believe her, and it's true!"


***

Sarador the Royal Surgeon was happy. Embalming was one of the medical procedures he really enjoyed doing. Sure, it was not as exciting as an amputation, but it had its advantages. For one thing, the patient tended to lie still and didn’t distract the surgeon by his thrashing and cries. Also, Sarador enjoyed another possibility to study human anatomy, an endlessly fascinating subject for a scientist.

The old surgeon spotted the coffin from his window, and hurried downstairs two steps at a time, attracted by the corpse as surely as a real vulture would be. He gave an order to bring the body into the palace basement, where he had his anatomy room. He had several hours before the funeral and was not going to waste the precious time. The earlier the inner organs were removed, the better.

Humming softly the tune of a bawdy song popular in the Eastern army of Gondor about a hundred years ago, Sarador took out the instruments from his medical chest and arranged them neatly on the table. There were gleaming knives and scalpels of various sizes, some straight, some curved, forceps and spoons used to clean the body cavities, and Sarador’s favorite small saw for scull trepanation. Nearby stood the assortment of jars of various sizes, waiting for the intestines, the heart, the liver and the brain of the deceased.

The hapless Nauremir lay naked on a bigger table, cold and blue, oblivious to everything. Sarador chose a medium size scalpel and made ready to open Nauremir’s belly with a single practiced stroke.

***

Gimilbeth returned to the Palace feeling quite pleased with herself. Her ruse was a total success, and the brigand Hillman was so astonished that he forgot to press his demands further. Now he would have to wait long for the next Council to be convened... very long. Gimilbeth laughed aloud in the security of her rooms.

Her mood darkened however, when she saw her father waiting for her in her sitting room. The King sat slumped in an armchair, his elbows resting heavily on the polished table. He had a goblet of wine in his hand. He downed it in one long swallow and looked at his daughter with old, reddened, sad eyes. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh and unfathomably weary.

"You have murdered him, Gimilbeth, have you not?"

How old and frail her father suddenly looked! The hands that were holding the goblet were wrinkled and mottled with dark spots. Old age was on the King... early... so early... She felt a pang of pity and put a reassuring hand on his sleeve.

"No I have not," she replied levelly. "Nauremir is not dead, he is simply sleeping. I gave him the potion that will help him to pass for dead for some days."

"Not dead?" echoed the King. "How can it be?" His lips moved for some time silently. Then he sprang to his feet so suddenly that Gimilbeth recoiled.

"But Sarador is taking his guts out this very moment!" he shouted.

"Sarador?" repeated Gimilbeth. She had forgotten about the Old Vulture.

"I told him to embalm the body, as is our custom," whispered the King, completely ashen now.

Without another word, Gimilbeth turned and sprinted downstairs into the Palace basement where Sarador kept his study. She heard the King's shuffling footsteps behind, but she outran him easily. Panting, she flung open the door to the surgeon's study and cried out at the sight that awaited her there.

Sarador was stooping over the body, a gleaming knife in his hand, his beak of a nose casting an ominous shadow on the naked chest of his victim. Gimilbeth's strident cry startled him, making him drop the scalpel right on Nauremir's abdomen.

Sarador arched his brows and pursed his lips in disapproval. It was highly inappropriate for the princess to come here and meddle in his work. Quite unladylike! If she were shocked, she fully deserved it! What else had she hoped to see here but a naked man's body? It was fortunate for her, in fact, that the corpse was still whole! The sturgeon hurried to the side table, took a piece of linen and covered the body up to the neck.

Gimilbeth, however, was not at all disturbed by Nauremir's nudity. She had a good look at the body and sighed in relief. The wretch was still whole, Morgoth be praised!

"Master Sarador, the King has reconsidered, " she said, trying to sound cool. "There will be no embalming."

***

Odare found herself supporting Daurendil, slowly leading him back to the palace. His eyes were unfocused, his limbs unresponsive... he was obviously in deep shock. She brushed back her own tears, found herself tongue-tied, and concentrated on taking him inside somewhere.

They had reached the palace when suddenly Daurendil stopped walking. Tarniel had not followed them, and they were alone in the entrance hall. As if dredging his words from a great depth, Daurendil said, "I saw him today- just an hour before the Council. He was alive, he was cheerful, he was about to recover, I know it!" His words were feverish, tumbling over each other.

"I know, I know it's hard to believe," she replied soothingly, not knowing how to help him accept the truth. "But - he is dead, and-"

"He was not supposed to die!" He almost sceamed these last few words. She gazed silently at him, anguished, and he leaned against the wall behind, eyes closed in a weary gesture. She had not seen him like this before, and had no idea how to handle him.

At that moment, conversing, Hurgon Fernik the painter and the healer who had tended Odare came into the hall. They hesitated when they saw the two standing there, then the healer said quietly, "Princess Odaragariel, you should get back in bed, and rest awhile. It's only your first day up, and you are not strong enough to-"

In a loud voice, Daurendil, his eyes still closed, said, "Don't listen to him, Odare."

"Excuse me, your highness?" said the healer in a confused, aggravated voice.

Daurendil finally opened his eyes. In a bitter voice, he spat out, "Don't trust any of these lying healers! You said, you said he would recover, and look what happened to him! My advice to you, Odare, stay clear of them unless you want to follow Nauremir to the grave!"

The healer looked as if he had been slapped. Hurgon burst out, "But you've got it all wrong! It's not him you should blame, it's the witch Gimilbeth!" and then, as if suddenly realizing he was talking to Gimilbeth's brother, he grew all red, and murmured, "I mean, the bitch, no, the snitch.. I mean, sandwich-"

"What?" said Daurendil, distracted. Odare almost laughed, and stopped herself just in time.

"Slip of tongue... too much wine-drinking... I never meant to call her a witch.. or any of the others... you won't tell her?" he looked up anxiously.

Daurendil looked daggers at the mumbling Hurgon, and turned to the healer with an expression which clearly said, "Tell or else!"

"All I know is that he was fine this morning. And then the Lady Gimilbeth visited him... alone. We do not know what happened in their interview, but he died while she was present. That is to say, she called us to him - he was in a pretty bad state, and she said he had had some kind of fit. And then he - died."

Daurendil did not stay to hear him out. He rushed off once again, and Odare, after giving the still-mortified Hurgon a quick pat, pulled her skirts up and followed him. If he was about to do something rash... and the chances were very high that he was... someone ought to be there to stop him.

***

Hurgon watched the two fleeing royals, and the only wild thought that crossed his mind was that they must be going off to tell Gimilbeth exactly what he had said about her. His one mortal fear on earth was Gimilbeth. There was no choice: he had to run, too.

He shouted, "Hey! Wait a little! You misunderstood me!" But no one listened to him.

They passed the kitchens, the heavy smell of lunch wafting out at them. A burly man walked out, arms full of newly baked rolls of bread. He saw the running trio, and assumed at once that Hurgon was chasing the Prince and Princess. With a war-cry, he launched himself at Hurgon, dropping all the bread; he grabbed Hurgon's collar, and they fell, kicking and struggling onto the ground.

Hurgon picked a roll up and bashed it into the man's mouth, and the man, with a cry of rage, swallowed half the bread in one gulp. That still left the other half, and Hurgon took advantage of the delay to start tickling the man. A small crowd had gathered already, urging on one or the other one. Odaragariel and Daurendil were nowhere to be seen - they had hardly noticed Hurgon on their way to the Tower.

Then, just when Hurgon thought he was winning, he saw the two whizzing past again, now directed towards the Palace. Momentarily distracted, he stopped tickling, and found his hand enclosed in a deathly grip. He let out a yelp of pain. Daurendil, who had pushed roughly through the crowd, took no notice of them, but Odare, still following him, found herself torn between preventing a potential rash act commited by Daurendil in the future, and a rash act being commited by the burly man right under her nose.

Dithering for a while, she decided she liked Hurgon better than Gimilbeth anyway, and sprang on the burly man, her curved dagger in her hand like magic.

"Let him go! What's he done to you?"

"It's all right, my Lady, I've got him, he can't hurt me now." replied the man, pleased that she had witnessed his brave deed. Hurgon whimpered in pain.

"I meant you, you little idiot! Let Hurgon go right now!" Completely wrong-footed, the man let Hurgon go. Odare grabbed his hand and pulled Hurgon to his feet, and once again chased after Daurendil. Hurgon gave a parting kick to the burly man, and then, before any retaliation could occur, he made after Odare.

This time they reached the Palace with no interruptions, and Hurgon, now rather bewildered, but determined to follow them all the same, saw them pounding down the basement stairs. He was just in time to hear Daurendil shout, "You! There you are! Come to gloat over the dead body, have you?"

He was puzzled. Why would Daurendil speak to Odaragariel like that? Then he realized there were two more principals in their little scene - Sarador, the Vulture, looking even more disapproving at the three new entries and Gimilbeth, ashen-faced and panting as if she, too, had been running. Hurgon took one look at her, and yelping, hid behind the nearest column.


***
"Master Sarador, the King has reconsidered," Gimilbeth said, trying to sound cool. "There will be no embalming.”

Sarador straightened his spine in indignation and adjusted the old squirrel fur lined cloak he wore on his shoulders. Gimilbeth watched with amusement how the old Vulture ruffled his feathers preparing to defend his prey.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "With all due respect, what does the King know about proper preservation of corpses? In a week, this here fellow" - he pointed at Nauremir with his gnarled finger - "will stink so much that people away in Fornost will wriggle their noses!"

"It may be so," replied Gimilbeth, taking a cautious step away from the angry surgeon. "But you better explain it to His Majesty directly. He is heading this way."

And indeed, the door suddenly swung open and a living whirlwind rushed into the normally peaceful abode of the sage. Gimilbeth had no time to react before someone’s iron fingers gripped her shoulders in a painful grip and shook her mercilessly as a dog shakes a rat.

When the intruder momentarily stopped his assault, Gimilbeth found herself looking into Daurendil’s face, red and distorted with rage. His eyes looked positively mad like those of a Hillman warrior who had consumed too much of their sacred mushrooms.

"You! There you are! Come to gloat over the dead body, have you?" Daurendil yelled right into Gimilbeth’s face.

Gimilbeth had recovered somewhat and her eyes were shooting daggers back.

"Let me go, you crazy oaf!" she hissed in reply, her voice dripping pure venom. "Unhandle me now, stupid pup, or you will sorely regret it!"

Her hands flew to Daurendil’s wrists, but she lacked the force to dislodge his hands or to wriggle herself free.

Daurendil was shouting something at her again, his grip on her shoulders strong and painful. There were other people in the room, out of Gimilbeth’s field of vision. Odare’s voice was speaking to Daurendil, but he paid it no heed. Someone, possibly Sarador, tried to drag Daurendil away from his sister, but a powerful kick from the Prince sent him flying away. Gimilbeth heard a heavy thud and a string of obscene curses as the old surgeon hit the wall.

Gimilbeth never in her life studied wrestling and deeply despised women who went around swinging swords, striving to imitate men. Women were born weaker, but they had their own viles and tricks - feminine weapons that, if wielded properly, were deadlier than a dagger.

Gimilbeth was simply biding her time now, listening intently through the pandemonium in the room for the weaker sounds outside. Soon her ears caught the only sound she had been waiting for – the sound of heavy shuffling footsteps on the stairs outside. The King was coming.

Gimilbeth gasped aloud as if in pain and shock, fluttered her long eyelashes and willed herself to start crying. Long practice honed this skill to perfection – soon a rain of crystal tears washed down her face. The steps were at the door now. The door was opening when Gimilbeth started moaning for help.

***
Puffing and panting, Tarniel desperately tried to keep up with Odaragariel, Daurendil and Hurgon as they made their mad rush across the palace grounds. Being a young lady who mostly spent her days engaged in very dignified activities such as sewing and embroidery, she soon found herself left in their dust as they raced on. Her mind reeled with panic and confusion; Nauremir was dead, and madness had taken everyone else. And now the usually mild-mannered painter, Hurgon, was brawling with another man, using not swords or daggers as weapons, but rolls of bread!

And then they were off again – Hurgon, rescued by Odaragariel as she and Daurendil ran back towards the palace, now stumbling along behind them. Gasping for breath, Tarniel entered the palace, too addled from her flight to consider how undignified her entry appeared.

"Hail, Lady Tarniel," the confused guards greeted, as equally bewildered bystanders looked on, all wishing to know what was going on.

"Where... where did... they go?" she gasped out.

"You mean Lady Gimilbeth, Prince Daurendil, Lady Odaragariel and the painter?"

Tarniel nodded in affirmation.

"They raced down to the lowest level of the palace, as though they were being chased by a horde of orcs!" the doorman exclaimed. "What is going on? Is there something wrong?"

"It is a very complicated matter..." she replied in a gasp of breath, "but unfortunately I have no time to explain... My gratitude to you! Now I must be finding the others..."

She started to head for the door which led to the stairs, but the king himself came by at that moment, rushing as fast as his old legs would take him. Now Tarniel was really frightened. Running down the steps after her father, she screamed in horror as she saw Daurendil attempting to throttle Gimilbeth. Then her gaze swept to old Sarador, who was staggering to his feet, bracing himself against the wall, and the still body of Nauremir lying on the embalmer's table.

The barrage of horrifying images was too much for her tortured mind to take, and she fell into a swoon at the bottom of the steps.

***
From behind his column, all Hurgon saw was the door. When he saw Tarniel swoon, he was the only one NOT staring horrified at the fighting brother-and-sister duo, and hence the only one who sprang out to her rescue, catching her awkwardly before she hit the ground. He ineffectually fanned her, and muttered, "Uh... My Lady... uh, umm," and then recollecting that you ought to give unconscious people a good shock, he looked in desperation for a jar of cool water, failing which he....

Tarnendur looked at the choas before him, and he just bellowed. It is not certain whether it was anything as loud as the one he had produced earlier that day, but Odare, who had been present both times, was inclined to believe the second was stronger than the first. The scene seemed to freeze in time; Daurendil still holding Gimilbeth, whose face was streaked with tears (exactly two in number, big, fat and very hard to squeeze out of her eyes, but she managed it), Sarador still holding his long knife like a weapon before him. Odare leapt up to Daurendil, and prised his limp hands off, and Tarnendur pulled Gimilbeth away. Daurendil looked like he was about to throw Odare off and attack once more, when suddenly there was a sharp sound.

Hurgon had just slapped a princess.

He himself looked shocked at what he had done, but it had worked, for Tarniel's eyes were fluttering. Odare ran over to see if she was all right, leaving Daurendil unfettered. This point seemed to have crossed Tarnendur's mind as well, for he said, before anyone could start anything, "First of all, Nauremir's dead. I mean, he isn't. I mean," he closed his eyes for a second, as if recollecting himself. "He's alive. Gimilbeth managed it somehow."

This seemed likely to give rise to a host of questions, Daurendil looking a bit stupid suddenly, and Sarador had drawn himself up so much that he was taller than anyone in the room, so Tarnendur continued hurriedly, "Secondly, Daurendil, what do you mean by trying to kill your sister? And, thirdly," he turned to Hurgon, "why did you slap Tarniel?"

The explanations that followed were tedious, often shouted, repetitive and very much interrupted. There was much emotion displayed. Nauremir got his cold cheeks kissed at strange moments, and much tears were spilt over his face. Gimilbeth almost had herself strangled once again when Daurendil learnt how she had 'saved' his friend, and given him such a scare. But in the end, it all came right, and Tarniel specifically begged Tarnendur to stop glaring at harmless Hurgon Fernik, because he was an old dear after all. And it DID come all right, in the end, more or less.