Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early hours of November 2, 1347
Written by Rian
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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 man on this side of him wasn't snoring as loud as the other man, but he had an irritating habit of getting quieter and quieter, making you relax, and then letting loose with a nasal explosion that 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 become friends. "Stay with her as much as you can," he had admonished his sister. "And remember - I'm your husband!"

A gigantic nasal roar 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.


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Abandoned inn south of Cameth Brin, early morning of November 2, 1347
Written by Elfhild and Serenoli
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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 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 had some bread and cheese left over, and he still had that bottle of red wine. 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?"

Was it just him, or was there uncertainty in Hurgon’s last words? Oh, Eru. What if some vile work of sorcery had been committed against him, and he was now some sort of foul creature, neither living nor dead? Well, the king did not think that he was dead. That was reassuring, at least. But what if the witch had enchanted the king and he was now her thrall?

Groaning, Nauremir bent over, holding his head in his hand. Was this evil sorceress now ruling the kingdom? No, no, he was letting his thoughts run away with him!

He seized the wine bottle like a drowning man grabs hold of a piece of driftwood in a desperate attempt to keep himself afloat. Bringing the mouthpiece of the bottle to his lips, he swilled the rest of the liquid down in one gulp, wincing as fire exploded inside his head. "What happened?" he asked at last. "I remember the fight at the reception banquet. One of those accursed Hillmen stabbed me in the shoulder. There was a fire... I was taken to safety... I remember lying on a bed," he said slowly, concentrating on his fuzzy memories of what had transpired. "After that, all is darkness. I understand that Gimilbeth is behind all this. She claims that I am in her debt forever. What vile spell has she cast upon me?" He paused, and then demanded, "Where am I, anyway?"

Nauremir was getting increasingly distraught. Remembering Gimilbeth's injunctions, and not at all relishing the prospect of explaining away Nauremir's presence to the entire room, Hurgon chose not to answer him at once, but instead led him outside to where the wagons and horses were standing. Nauremir looked around him, puzzled. "Are we on some kind of journey, Hurgon?"

"We're going to Amon Sul - but we're only a day away from Cameth Brin. Here, this way. You're staying in my wagon, and you must stay as concealed as possible throughout the journey, so no one recognizes you."

Nauremir stood his ground. He had the air of a man who intended to find out what was going on, and no more evasion, thank you very much. "What happened?" he repeated "Tell me what is going on."

"Well... the long and short of it is that Broggha demanded your head, and Gimilbeth told him you had already died of your injuries. She gave you some potion to make it look as if you were dead - and, most of us thought you were dead, and we - I mean, some of them thought she was the one that killed you. And then the Prince - Daurendil, not Amantir - tried to kill her, and the ladies Tarniel and Odaragariel tried to stop him... and then the King himself came and stopped Sarador from embalming you, and it turned out you were alive after all." Hurgon paused to take breath.

Nauremir slumped on the ground, and said slowly, "All of that really happened? Sarador almost embalmed me?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Gimilbeth was going to Amon Sul anyway, and she took me along to paint Tarniel's potrait. She decided to bring you along - I don't know why. But Broggha would kill you if he found out, and while I sympathise with you - obviously I would not like to be in Gimilbeth's clutches either; but of the two alternatives, if I may say so, she strikes me as slightly less nasty. Besides," he added, wishing to reassure Nauremir, "I am not a very tough taskmaster, lord." He gave a nervous smile.

"And she didn't put a spell on me? She didn't bring me back from the dead?" His voice was hoarse with fear.

"She says not," said Hurgon. He felt hesitant about putting forward anything Gimilbeth said as a certain fact. "I didn't even know anyone could be brought back from the dead. But the doctor, who is my friend, told me your health was on the mend before you died; that is, seemed to die."

"So she may have been telling the truth?"

"Possibly."

Nauremir groaned softly... it was hard to tell whether he was relieved or worried. When he looked up, a new aspect of the matter seemed to strike him. "Helmir... that is my new name. Does that mean I'm never to be Nauremir again?"

Hurgon shook his head.

"My family... what about them?"

"I don't think they know. They are waiting for us to bring your dead body to them. I don't know whether Gimilbeth plans to tell them." Hurgon watched Nauremir anxiously for signs of anger. "Either way, the plan seems for you never to return to Cameth Brin."

A man with no family. No home. A past, yes, but one which was denied to him. His whole life was gone. Everyone thought he was dead. Where did he go from here? No longer was he Nauremir, but instead Helmir, a stranger. The witch had saved his life, but for what? Obviously not the goodness of her heart. Well, if she expected him to do her bidding out of gratitude, she was sorely mistaken. Perhaps she sought to sway him by the threat of blackmail, offering to reveal his identity if he did not do her bidding. But what could she want with him? What importance did he have? Nauremir the nobleman was "dead" and he was now Helmir, the painter's apprentice. What did he know of painting anyway? He shook his aching head.

"I need time to think on all this," he groaned. He took another gulp of wine. It was best to be intoxicated at a time like this, he thought wryly. That was often the state of Hurgon Fernik, and if it worked well for his "employer," then it was good enough for him.