Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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South of Cameth Brin, November 1, 1347.
Written by Gordis
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The long cavalcade rode down the winding King's road onto the flat meadows below the Cameth Brin hill. Soon the horsemen passed Broggha's camp - a maze of rundown shacks and tents. Broggha's brigands eyed the passing Dunedain somberly; muttering and cursing was heard in the crowd gathered along the road. Someone cried, "The Witch is gone - and good riddance!" Gimilbeth rode impassively at the head of the party, flanked by Captain Merendil. The princess pretended not to hear what was being said behind her back.

"Farewell, Cameth Brin!" Gimilbeth looked to her right at the looming hill. The Loud Waterfall, all foam and rainbows, cascaded from the top of the plateau with a deafening roar. Suddenly Gimilbeth's heart went cold with premonition. Would she ever see the place again? And more importantly, would she see again her aging father? Much as she scrutinized the star-charts, she was never able to read her future clearly. She only sensed danger ahead and danger behind. The bright morning seemed suddenly dimmed.

The head of the column crossed the bridge over the Cameth River, passed the dike surrounding Tanoth Brin and rode down the main street through the town. Here the faces of on-lookers seemed more friendly; occasionally, cheers were heard at the sight of shining armor, bright banners and dancing, richly-caparisoned horses.

Soon the troop crossed the moat and turned south. For some time, they rode along the rushing Hoarwell. The going was not easy as the old road was often damaged by spring floods and, in those tumultuous times, seldom repaired. On their left rose another highland, not so steep as the Cameth Brin Hill, but still practically inaccessible - broken crags with tall pines. Ten miles downstream from Cameth Brin, the road took a sharp turn east - away from the river. The rocky, broken ground was steadily rising. After a short halt for the midday meal, the company finally reached the densely-wooded area. The road meandered through forests of fir-trees, dark, silent and foreboding. It was easy to imagine evil creatures lurking there, somewhere in the tangle of boughs and shrubs, and only kept at bay by the presence of armed warriors.

It seemed that the others shared her apprehension - she noticed many a young soldier eye the foreboding trees warily. There were rumors that the forest south of Cameth Brin was haunted...

Suddenly, Gimilbeth heard a commotion behind, where the wagons were... She turned round her bay stallion and went to investigate.

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On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 1, 1347
Written by Elfhild
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Darkness surrounded him. Lassitude lay heavy over Nauremir's 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 on 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.

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On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 1, 1347
Written by Serenoli and Gordis
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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, even 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 forest!”

“What drums?” a confused Hurgon asked.

“Everyone know goblins use drums to alert each other! They’re going to attack us!” His voice gaining panic, the driver 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 vigorously towards the coffin behind them. He mouthed, “Nauremir! He’s awake! 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 focused on Gimilbeth. By the 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."