Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the road south of Cameth Brin, afternoon of November 2, 1347
Written by Rian, Gordis and Valandil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Callon shifted his weight around on the hard bench, irritated with the world, and with Gimilbeth in particular. "Why she picked me to drive this old wagon, I'll never know!" he thought moodily, looking at the riders with envy. He was a very competent driver - he was good at anything to do with horses - but he much preferred riding. "I guess those people just have their whims," he concluded with a shrug.

He took a look at Hurgon out of the corner of his eye. Callon's few ventures at polite conversation with the painter and his apprentice had been met with vague, short answers, and an evident desire to not speak with him. "It's going to be a long week!" thought Callon, shifting around impatiently on the hard seat.

At least yesterday, after the mad painter had thrown a few brushes around and then left in frustration to go sit in the other wagon (Callon looked ruefully at the bright blotch of vermillion decorating the edge of the seat, thankful that it had missed his tunic) one of the soldiers had ridden by him for awhile, making polite overtures of friendship to the new arrival. The polite conversation turned into a discussion enjoyed by both of them as they discovered many interests in common. But now, with the painter and his apprentice (the guy sure did look ill! And frightened as a rabbit!) staying in his wagon, his new-found-friend stayed away.

"It looks like there's some decent-enough fellows here," mused Callon, playing with the sturdy leather reins and enjoying the feel of the horses that flowed through them up to his hands. "I'll be glad to get back, though."

He sat up straighter, stretching his back, and then settled down again to the mesmerizing sound of hooves on a road on a warm morning. The only thing that had really bothered him on this trip, besides the snoring last night, was the one finely-dressed Hillman in the group that he caught a glimpse of at dusk yesterday - something about the guy had reminded him of the robber on the road. "Good thing Eryndil fixed HIS wagon!" thought Callon with grim satisfaction, fingering the mark on his throat.

***

Algeirr rode at the back of the party at his humble place among the servants. The first day he felt quite intimidated - after all, he was a single Hillmen in this party of Dunedain. At the beginning, the servants were eyeing him suspiciously, despite Captain Merendil's assurance of his loyalty. But by the morning of the second day the others lost their interest and Algeirr was able to breathe freely.

This last month, Fortune had smiled at him. He was neither deserter nor mercenary anymore. Now Algeirr was dressed in fine dark-brown velvet clothes - the legacy of Gudhrun's late husband - and looked a wealthy, respectable Tanoth Brin citizen. He led a pack horse with his belongings and presents that Gudrun was sending to her relatives in Fennas Drunin. He was not going to deliver them, of course, but this little addition to his plunder left him indifferent. His main treasure - the wondrous emerald necklace - was concealed in an inner pocket of his tunic. He fingered the treasure through the soft fabric and felt his heart warming at the touch of the large stones.

There were other things he had to do than making plans for the future. Broggha sent him to spy, and, as long as it was safe, Algeirr was going to do the job. The problem was that from his place in the procession he had only occasional glimpses of the third wagon - that with the coffin. There was no way of telling whether Nauremir was alive or dead. Algeirr supposed the former. Last night the coffin had been brought inside, out of the cold, so it stood to reason that the wretch was still inside - alive. A shiver ran down Algeiir's spine at the thought. Ugh... This witch was a cold-blooded, reckless enemy.

"Perhaps she got him out last night?" mused Algeirr. He had to spent the night at a campfire outside - the crowded inn had no place for such as he. In the morning he watched the knights coming out, but it was still dark when the party set out - in November the nights were long and the days short. Also Algeirr had only seen Nauremir twice - at the memorable party and later during the funeral. He was not sure he would be able to recognize him now, especially if disguised.

As soon as Broggha ordered him to watch the coffin, Algeirr tried to become appointed driver of one of the wagons - preferably that with the body. He coaxed Gudhrun into going to the King's stables and trying to arrange the thing with her buddies there. But even Gudhrun's fabled influence failed. It was Gimilbeth herself who appointed all the drivers -a highly unusual thing for a princess to do. And what choices she had made! The stables were abuzz with angry gossip. Old Damgir, a half-deaf oaf long overdue for retirement, was chosen to drive the coffin wagon. For another wagon, that of Hurgon the painter, Gimilbeth appointed an untrained young man - new to Cameth Brin, who had hardly worked a week in the stables! And to top it all, the witch decided that her own wagon should be driven by one of her pages! Considering that the stable staff had quite a few experienced, loyal wagon drivers, such orders were baffling.

"Surely the witch is trying to cover her tracks..." thought Algeirr. He decided it was time to approach the wagons and have a better look. Casually, he looked around and urged his horse forward. He made his way up the column slowly and cautiously, slowing now and then to have an amiable conversation with nearby troopers. Men were guarded with him, he noticed, but nobody hindered his progress. In half an hour he reached the wagon with the coffin.

"Hail, Master Damgir," he called out to the driver. "A fine day, isn't it?"

"Eh?" replied the driver gruffly. "What did you say? And who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Algeirr. I don't think you know me, but you must know my Gudhrun, the one who keeps "The Sword of Elendil." We are going to marry when I come back from this trip. She sends you her greetings and this bottle of wine."

Algeirr fished a bottle of Dorwinion red from his saddlebag and offered it to the driver. The sight of the bottle and the mention of Gudhrun made the old man relax and beam back.

"What a pleasant surprise! How thoughtful of Gudhrun to send this bottle - and today of all days.... This awful stench from the coffin makes my throat dry as road dust. Come down man, tie your horses to my wagon and sit by me. We shall drink this bottle together."

Algeirr did as he was bidden. He was no accomplished horseman and the previous day in the saddle made his thighs ache. He climbed to the wooden bench and stretched out his legs. Damgir meanwhile fetched two bronze goblets and poured the wine.

"To Mistress Gudhrun and to the happy journey!" he toasted. Algeirr nodded and drank deeply. The wine was good - rich, and with fruity flavor. There was some other smell in the air as well, though, the stench of rot; slight, but unmistakable. The driver was right - the coffin stank.

"Hmm..." Algeirr mused aloud, sniffing the air. "Strange that the corpse stinks - wasn't it embalmed as the Dunedain custom demands?"

"Sure it was," grinned the driver morbidly. "Seems old Sarador lost his touch. But then the body is not supposed to be brought inside to rest near the fire at night, is it? Yestereve it didn't stink at all, but after this foolishness it became as putrid as the bowels of Barad-Dur."

So either Nauremir was really dead or Gimilbeth got him out last night, thought Algeirr. Then, where was he now? He was determined to find out. As soon as the bottle was empty, Algeirr took his leave of old Damgir, mounted his horse again and rode forward to the next wagon.

When level with the driver, he offered his usual greeting. "Hail, Master! Isn't it a fine day?"

The tall young man who was driving the second wagon turned to look at him. Algeirr saw the man's face becoming suddenly ashen. The familiar face of one of his recent victims...

As if in a nightmare, Algeirr watched the gray eyes staring at him widen in recognition. Now he was truly lost...

***

Callon turned his head towards the man who was hailing him, grateful for some friendly and coherent conversation (not much was to be hoped for from the painter or his assistant, apparently!) and then froze in disbelief. The blood drained from his face as he stared at the man who had led the attack against his sister and himself on the road. But - but - this was the Hillman merchant ... No! It was the man! It had to be - he couldn't be mistaken! That face was burned into his memory, and apparently this was just another deception the despicable scoundrel was playing...

Callon made a swift grab for the reins, but the momentary confusion he had experienced over the man's identity gave Algeirr the time he needed to evade Callon's grasp. He spurred his horse away from the wagon as Callon yelled out, half-standing in the wagon and pointing vehemently towards Algeirr, "Stop him! STOP him!! He's a thief and a murderer!"

In a panic, Algeirr galloped along the road toward the head of the column. This way he had to face fewer men, as in front of the wagons were only Gimilbeth, Merendil and the knights of their entourage. But the cries of the Tark had alerted those in front, so when Algeirr passed the first wagon he was confronted by a chain of mounted knights with drawn swords. The road was barred...

He turned his horse around in desperation, but the soldiers from behind the wagons were almost upon him as well. There was the only escape left - into the woods away from the road. The dark fir trees on both sides stood dense and ominous, leaving no clear path. Algeirr rolled from his saddle and dived into the forest in a shower of needles, tearing his way through the heavy branches. He was followed by curses and cries and the sound of snapping twigs and branches. He had hardly made a dozen steps when someone grabbed him from behind. Algeirr kicked, but a heavy weight descended on his shoulders, pulling him down. A strong hand got hold of his hair and shoved his face hard into the forest floor. A heavy boot connected with his ribs and he ceased to struggle.

"Lead him here!" came Captain Merendil's order from the road. In a moment Algeirr found himself on his belly disturbingly close to the front hooves of the Captain's war stallion.

He raised his scratched, bleeding face and asked artfully, feigning indignation, "Why were you hunting me? I did no wrong! I only came up for a chat when this wagon driver attacked me. He must be raving mad... I only tried to save my life!"

Captain Merendil's left eyebrow rose expressively. The men who knew him grinned. "Then why did you run from my men, who would have defended you from this "mad" wagon driver?" he asked with a tinge of irony in his voice, dismounting to get a better look at the man. "Stop!" he commanded as Algeirr started to answer. "We will have everyone here who is involved in this before we talk further. Let him up, but keep a good hold on him so he won't be tempted to seek the 'safety' of the wilderness again," he added to the soldier holding Algeirr down.

Algeirr got up and started dusting himself off with the air of someone who has been greatly wronged but will be reasonable about it. He took a quick look at the Captain and was dismayed at the look he got back - Algeirr was used to fights where his side held all the advantages, and he didn't like his odds here at all ...

A look from Captain Merendil stopped Callon, who came running up, wanting nothing more but to get at Algeirr in a fair fight. With a great effort, Callon stopped, breathing hard, and bowed his head in a gesture of respect and obedience, contenting himself with catching his breath instead of his enemy, since he could see that Algeirr was now securely guarded by the soldiers. The time would come - he could be patient ... He looked at Algeirr with anger and contempt, and his hands balled into fists.

A young guardsman, a nephew of Captain Merendil, came running up to Callon and put his hand on his shoulder in a gesture of support. Callon looked at him gratefully and then turned back to stare at Algeirr with hate in his eyes.

Captain Merendil's other eyebrow rose. This was a curious situation ... his instinct was to believe the young Dunedain over the Hillman, but he must force himself to be fair. And his first duty was to the Princess. He remounted his stallion and called to his men, "Guard these two well - I will ride to the Princess and inform her of the situation, and see what she wishes to do."

Algeirr waited breathlessly for the Princess to appear. What a fool he had been to panic and to bolt like this... But, even so, it was his word against the Tark's. That is, if only they wouldn't search him.... The emerald necklace concealed in his breast pocket seemed to burn his skin. The thought of losing it was as unbearable as the thought of his own death.

Here she was at last: the dreaded Witch, looking lordly indeed. Gimilbeth was seated on a high lady's side-saddle, her magnificent fur mantle spread all over the stallion's flanks and back and hanging half-way down to the ground. She narrowed her piercing eyes at Algeirr as if he were a rare species of a particularly disgusting insect. Then the ruby lips curled in a cruel smile.

"Ahh... so you have caught a spy. Hang him and let us ride on."

Algeirr gasped, not believing his ears. There was an uneasy silence. Captain Merendil frowned in annoyance and protested.

"With all due respect, my Lady, we can't do that. He may be a Hillman, but he still has the right to a fair trial. Let the driver state his accusations and let this man defend himself."

Gimilbeth shrugged her shoulders and replied icily, "We are wasting our time, Captain."

But Merendil was a stubborn man, veteran of many wars, gruff but just. Pointedly ignoring the Princess, he gestured to the young wagon driver and asked in his harsh, booming voice.

"Speak up, man... uhm, Callon, isn't it? Do you know this Hillman named Algeirr? Why do you call him a thief and a murderer? What proof do you have?"

Callon took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He realized it was his word against the Hillman's, and if he wasn't careful, the man might escape justice again. Callon was a young man, but one who was used to dealing with large, unruly animals - he knew how to keep his head. He tore his eyes off of the Hillman and spoke to the Captain, lifting his head up proudly and speaking in a clear, firm voice.

"I call him 'thief' because he stole from me. I call him 'murderer' because I heard his plans to kill me and my ... wife." Callon couldn't help the slight pause before the word "wife" - it was so unnatural to say that! - but hoped it went by unnoticed. He put it behind himself and continued. "And I heard him speak with the other brigands about killing and stealing from other unfortunate travellers." He then gave a brief account of what had happened to them on the road.

Callon noticed that the sentiment of the men seemed to be on his side and was encouraged. Algeirr noticed it too, and grew more alarmed. Men were murmuring quietly and giving each other "I told you so! That's a Hillman!" looks. Captain Merendil noticed it, too.

"Quiet!" he snapped angrily, and the men grew silent again. Turning to Callon, he asked, "Is that all? Your word against his?"

"I can describe the knife that he used to do this to me," said Callon, and pointed to the still-healing scar on his neck.

Captain Merendil's left eyebrow rose as Callon turned to face Algeirr. He spoke softly and with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"And my 'proof' is back in Cameth Brin - Eryndil, the king's man that rescued us from this ... this coward, is there now, asked by the King himself to be his personal counselor."

Suddenly Callon could stand it no more. He turned back to Captain Merendil. "Please, sir, please - just let me fight him in a fair fight! He doesn't know what fair is - he attacked us, unprovoked, seven to two - and one of the two a girl!"

He whipped back around to face Algeirr. "Have you moved up to attacking grandmothers yet, you coward, or are they too much for you?" he taunted. "Maybe you could handle a grandmother if it was ten to one, and you had a knife and she didn't!" Algeirr was furious, but his life depended on keeping his temper.

"Captain, what is this ..." he started, but Callon cut him off. "Fight me here and now, you coward!" Callon yelled at the man he hated. "I don't have any girls with me to protect now. Can you handle a fair fight?" he taunted, aching to get his hands on the man that had hurt his sister. He made a movement towards Algeirr, but was firmly held back by Captain Merendil's nephew.

"Be quiet, young man!" the Captain said sternly. "You are not helping your cause!" But he knew that this was not true - attacking women was something that the soldiers despised, and they respected Callon for wanting revenge for his wife's sake.

"I'm sorry, sir, but if your wife had been abused as mine was, you would want to do the same thing!" said Callon, forcing himself to calm down again.

Captain Merendil gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, and then turned to Algeirr.

"And what do you have to say for yourself? We are listening," he said, forcing himself to put aside his feelings, which lay entirely with the young wagon-driver.

Algeirr willed his hands and his voice not to shake and replied, trying to sound persuasive.

"I see now that this young man is not mad as I have thought, but was greatly wronged indeed. I understand his hurt feelings. But I have nothing to do with this crime. I am no brigand, but a honest merchant. I have settled in Tanoth Brin recently, but I came from the East, from Dol Aglardin, not from the North. Gudhrun, the keeper of "The Sword of Elendil," knows me well and can vouch for me. I am not responsible for the deeds of some murderer who may look remotely like me. Be reasonable - this man is mistaken."

Callon started to protest, but Captain Merendil stopped him. "It looks like we shall have to bind this man Algeirr and take him back to Cameth Brin with us - for regular trial. We shall have Eryndil's testimony decide the matter." He nodded to Callon "When we return, you shall testify again in front of the King's judges."

Gimilbeth, who was getting progressively bored and impatient to go on, was not at all satisfied with the Captain's ruling. The Hillman spy - he should not be left alive! Who knows how much he had already gleaned about Nauremir's business?! And then the driver, Callon, the only one who had never met Nauremir before - she needed him on the journey East and was not going to let him return to Cameth Brin with the soldiers. She glared at Merendil.

"I see you tend to believe this liar, Captain," she hissed. Then she continued, her clear voice carrying on to the whole company "Let me make a small prophesy - once back in Cameth Brin, Broggha will connive to let his man go free, brigand and murderer as he is - just like his Chieftain. Now is the last opportunity for a fair trial. I suggest asking the driver to describe the knife the other used to wound him and then search the thief to find it."

Algeirr visibly paled and felt cold sweat trickle down his spine. It was not his knife he was worried about. He had lost the knife the very day he cut Callon's throat with it - he was never able to find the small weapon when Eryndil's men scattered his gear in the forest. But there was something far more damning to be found in his pockets than the knife....

"Sooo.." Gimilbeth drawled, "What did this knife look like, driver?"

Callon balled his fists, willing himself to stay calm. He thought back to that awful day less than a month ago, and saw again the knife in the brigand's hand moving in to cut slowly across his own neck, the same knife later marring the soft white skin of Caelen... He gulped and replied. "The dagger is of rather poor workmanship, double-edged, about a foot long. It has an ornate wooden handle, the pommel is shaped in the likeness of a snarling wolf's head - the fangs stained red by some dye."

"Search the brigand," ordered Gimilbeth. The ring of steel in her voice was now unmistakable. Her eyes were on Merendil, a clear message in their icy depths: "Don't you dare hinder me!"

Without awaiting Merendil's confirmation, several soldiers rushed to Algeirr. Desperate now, he started fighting back, but was soon subdued, his face once again pushed into the dirt. Judging by the Hillman's reaction, everyone fully expected to find the dagger straight away, but the knife Algeirr carried had a simple metal handle, and was shorter than the one described.

Gimilbeth frowned. "Search him further!" The small pile of Algeirr's possessions on the ground was growing, but nothing interesting appeared. "Let me go - I have nothing more!" came Algeirr's muffled plea. Merendil raised his hand to give further orders, when one of the soldiers kneeling by Algeirr suddenly exclaimed, "Sweet Eru!" There in his outstretched hand a pile of green stones set in gold glittered, light reflecting in millions of facets.

Gimilbeth spurred her horse forward, nearly trampling the prostrate Algeirr. "Give that to me, now!" she hissed. Snatching the necklace from the soldier she raised it high for everyone to see.

"Behold Elessya the Green!" she exclaimed, "the very necklace that my ancestor Numendil, Lord of Andunie, received as a gift from the Elven King Gil-Galad - ages ago when Numenor still ruled the world. What is the most precious heirloom of the House of Dauremir doing in the dirty Hillman's pocket?" The men around watched, gaping in awe.

Eyes flashing, Gimilbeth rose in her stirrups. "This man is a thief!" she cried, pointing at Algeirr. "Hang him!"

Merendil shrugged his shoulders, defeated. "I guess the evidence is sufficient now..." he muttered. He gave short orders to the soldiers.

"Accursed witch! You will end your life swinging on a branch as well!" Aldgeirr growled, shaking his fist at Gimilbeth.

"I doubt it," she replied sweetly, unperturbed, for she knew his words were empty.

Soon the company moved on, leaving the still-convulsing body hanged by the neck from a branch of a giant pine by the road.