Chapter 21. The Funeral of the Undead

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Cameth Brin Palace, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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“Odare!” came a shocked voice behind her ear, “Why are you wearing these jewels? You look like you’re going to someone’s wedding, not a funeral!”

Odare pouted, and reluctantly allowed Tarniel to pull off the small chain of amethysts adorning her neck. She protested half-heartedly, “I hate wearing no jewellery, I feel so… bare!” She lovingly pulled the amethyst chain back again, and turned to Tarniel, half-pleading, “Look at it, don’t I look… well, almost pretty when I wear them? Besides, it’s not like,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “it’s not like Nauremir is really dead!”

They heard soft footsteps near the door, and Tarniel took it away again. “You know it’s a secret! Don’t ever mention it, that’s what father said to us. Not a murmur of this must reach the Hillman, so you’d better just forget the fact that he’s not dead!” she whispered vehemently.

Behind them the door opened. It was the Elven-tutor, Arinya, come to fetch them. Tarniel hid the amethysts in a fold of her dress while replying composedly that they would be ready soon.

When Arinya left them, she said, “Come on, Odare, just put on that onyx brooch over there, you’ll look fine. Even Mother does not know of the secret, Father said the only way to keep it safe was to have the least number of people in the know, and already too many people know. We have to put up a good show of grief, emulate Gimilbeth, and you can not do it with purple gems on your neck. Are you listening to me, Odare?”

For Odaragariel was looking down at the onyx brooch in Tarniel’s hand, unmoving, almost hypnotised. She started, gave herself a small shake, and said mechanically, “Of course.”

She took the small brooch, and began to pin it up, but her thoughts had strayed years back. She could remember that brooch so well… the last time she had worn it had been, perhaps, the worst day of her young life. She could remember so clearly her father, stern as he always had been, but almost cheerful that day, taking her two brothers for a great boar-hunt. She had been only seven, and her father had deemed her much too young to be going, and besides, “You’re going to be a little lady, my girl, and you could not possibly go hunting in your pearls and satin.”

She had not even said goodbye to them. Sulking and locked in her room, she had watched with jealous eyes from her window, as a large company headed by her father, tall and proud on his horse, set off. They were to be gone only a day or two… when a week later, they hadn’t returned, a search party was sent out. They brought back the dead body of her elder brother, and her mangled but still alive younger brother. She remembered the grisly sight well… and she had been almost relieved when he finally died, because he had been in so much pain… Her nurse had pinned this brooch to her when she went to witness their burials…

As for her father, his body had never been found – only bits and pieces, scraps of his clothing, jewelery that was on his person. No one stated the obvious, but Odare knew all too well that what had attacked them had been the trolls that frequented the Ettenmoors. And if her father’s body had not been found, that meant he had not just been killed, but eaten. She remembered how as a child, her nurse had frightened her with tales of how trolls would spent hours arguing over how best to eat their prey – boil them, or roast them, or turn them into jelly – and she even used to sing some nonsense rhyme about trolls and their eating habits. She did not need anyone to tell her what had happened to her father – her imagination had painted the picture too harshly for her.

Suddenly sobered by the memory, she did not find it hard to ‘put up a good show of grief’ as she went downstairs with Tarniel. Tears were already welling up somewhere inside, and she felt a lump in her throat. She thought idly that perhaps… she might even out-perform Gimilbeth for once.

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An inner chamber in the Fortress of Carn Dum, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar
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The King held the long, dark hair between thumb and forefinger as he chanted a low incantation. Then, clasping the strand in the kindred fingers of his other hand, he slid his digits down the line. Winding the strand about his right forefinger where lay the Ring, he smiled.

“Weak mortal, how foolish you were to oppose my will! How you have flattered yourself to think you could circumvent my designs! Did you not know what mischief could be wrought by the possession of only a single strand of your hair? I perceive that you feel now the effects of the bewitchment I put upon you, but you have no discernment yet what is the cause of your distress.”

It was at these times that all the infirmities, all the suffering, the indignities that he had endured, did not seem to matter quite so much. Was it not a gift that he possessed – a gift so powerful that he could slay the unfortunate wretches with his mere proximity and sometimes only a thought? How she must suffer, he pondered, as she slid into the total abandonment of all hopes, all dreams, all aspirations, to die so lonely… so cold and lonely.

However, the king did not wish her death, for nothing would be served by it. He could be generous when the occasion demanded, and sometimes if the Ring upon his finger did not protest, he could be kind. He chose now to be kind and so he withdrew the spell of the icy cold chill of gloom.

“Princess Gimilbeth, how naive you remain! Could you ever grasp how merciful I am being to you? Even if you did, would you be appreciative?” He smiled again. “We shall see.

“My dear lady, though you neither know it or wish it, you could be quite useful to me, but to exert this much of my will upon you requires strong spellcraft and concentration. Now I shall strive to pull you closer to me, but not yet to bind you.”

The icy blue flames licked over the single dark hair and quickly reduced its component elements to ashes. When sufficiently cool, they were mixed with a single drop of blood whose arcane powers were more valuable than would be any amount of gold. Placed in a silver phial, the ashes were then housed in a secret chamber. The door of the chamber had been artfully designed to appear as nothing more than part of the wall, but its delicate mechanism could be quickly opened by only a thought from the king’s mind.

The king held the minute substance between a thumb and a forefinger. “Now, Princess Gimilbeth, you will find that your exploration into the occult was not wise, for you have gained what you never would have sought – my attention. Many a more powerful spirit than you has rued the day that this bane has befallen him.”

“Perhaps we shall meet soon, Princess…” If any could have seen his face, they could have seen that the king was smiling sardonically.

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Cameth Brin Palace, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Gordis, Elfhild, Angmar and Serenoli
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Dressed in an elegant black gown adorned with tiny droplets of diamonds, Gimilbeth stood alongside her family near the open coffin. Nauremir lay pale and lifeless, his hands resting on the jeweled hilt of the sword that was placed upon his body. The Hall was crammed with nobles and servants, come to say their farewells to the popular young man. More people from Cameth and Tanoth Brin, attracted by the sumptuous event, were allowed in to pass by the coffin, to gawk at the Royal family in mourning and to exit by the rear door.

Seneschal Curugil was half-reading, half-chanting the customary funeral service, endlessly long and made in the language so ancient, Adunaic not Westron, that most of the audience could only understand a few words here and there. Gimilbeth was fluent in Adunaic, but still she felt her attention waver. She had heard this service so many timesÂ… far too often indeed.

Gimilbeth took out a lace kerchief and wiped away a pearly tear from the corner of her eye. She turned her head to look at the royal family. There were the King and the Queen, the latter crying softly and so very naturallyÂ… Hmm, likely the King had not told her the truth yet.

The faces of the two princes and Tarniel were carefully blank, the latter seemed slightly uneasy, though. But Odare played her role to perfection. There was such a real unfeigned sorrow on her face that Gimilbeth felt a grudging admiration. Odaragariel of Mitheithel was a promising young lady!

Making a mental note not to underestimate her in the future, Gimilbeth turned back to look at the coffin and shivered. It was so cold in the HallÂ… cold and darkÂ… Why were the candles dimmed?

Gimilbeth felt icy darkness well up and pool upon the floor. The darkness was not a mere absence of light, but a living thing, cruel and suffocating, cutting away all sounds. She could not see or hear the others, she was alone in a cold stone tombÂ… being buried here aliveÂ… buried foreverÂ… to die so lonely… so cold and lonely.

After what seemed as an eternity had passed, a sound finally cut through the veil of icy darkness. Someone was weepingÂ… Was it herself?

Gimilbeth felt hands on her shoulders. There were people milling around and asking questions. Then her fatherÂ’s face came into focus. There was concern in TarnendurÂ’s eyes.

“You are unwell, my daughter. This grief has proved too much for you. Sarador here will take you to your rooms. Go and rest.”

***

“The fit of despair was a good touch,” Tarniel thought to herself, impressed by Gimilbeth’s show. “I had no idea she cared so much about Nauremir, but what she is doing is truly noble!” Perhaps her half-sister still had a good heart, underneath all the wrappings of black magic and wickedness.

Gimilbeth was doing a great job of acting, so much so that it almost seemed real. Or was it real? The King certainly seemed to think so. Or was that all part of the act? Tarniel was confused. However, everyone who knew the truth about Nauremir had to do a good job of feigning grief, for if anyone ever suspected that Nauremir was not really dead, then the young man was doomed. She glanced over to Odaragariel, who was weeping profusely. Tarniel looked down and bit the inside of her cheek. Those who knew that Nauremir was not really dead were making such a big show, and those who did not were overcome with true grief. Concentrating on thinking about something sad, Tarniel forced tears to rise up, and then, blinking, she sent a few sliding slowly down her face. Bringing her handkerchief up to her face, she cried softly, joining in the drama of mourning for the bewitched Nauremir.

***

A watchman on the tower was the first to see Lord Broggha’s procession winding its way up the hill. Soon the King and all the palace were aware that Broggha was on his way. After housing their mounts in the palace stables, the Hillman and his followers went to pay their last respects to the deceased Nauremir. Alert that Lord Broggha’s arrival might cause trouble, the guards were wary as he entered the room of sorrow.

The other mourners nervously greeted the Jarl, and more than a few raised their eyebrows at the sight of the long-haired, grimy old man who walked beside Broggha. It was Hrani, the shaman of the hillmen. Silently the old man shuffled up to the bier and peered down to the “dead” Nauremir. Softly cackling to himself, Hrani lay his ear on the man’s chest. Then the old shaman did what the Tarks considered an extraordinary thing. He suddenly let out a howl, leaped into the air, and began chanting and muttering to himself, shaking his hands and stamping his feet each time he landed back to the floor.

With a supercillious smirk upon his face, Broggha announced, “The shaman is calling upon the Spirit of the Bear to help guide the departed to the happiness of the other world.”

Continuously chanting, the shaman pulled a polished bear bone and a gourd shaker from his soiled and ragged robe. Then he twirled the bear claw around three times, hissing and shrieking. As he shook the gourd in one hand, he placed the tip of the bone on Nauremir’s closed eyelids. Never having seen anything like this before, the shocked mourners were speechless at this strange display and muttered louder.

Hrani turned to Broggha and tapped on the large man’s shoulder. Broggha bent his ear to listen to what Hrani said, and as the man talked to him, Broggha’s face lit up with a cunning smile. Raising his hands for silence, Broggha announced in a loud voice, “The shaman of my people informs me that a terrible mistake has been made. Some essence of the deceased’s spirit is trapped within his body, and longs to be free! It would be a horrible mistake to inter him while life still remains! Hrani will now perform a ceremony which will release the remainder of young Nauremir. Lest any of you be afraid that the body will be damaged by this ritual, be relieved to know that only small holes are required.”

To the incredulous gasps of the mourners, Hrani drew a needle from the small case that he clutched in his hand. Smiling to Broggha, the old man grasped the needle between his fingers and prepared to plunge it into Nauremir’s heart…

Five urgent voices shouted out “Stop!” in unison, and Daurendil, always the man of action, jumped straight at Hrani to knock the needle out of his hand. Broggha, suddenly angry, and at the same time triumphant at having caught them out, said, spitting his words out with difficulty, “Now what kind of man would protest at a chance of restoring his best friend’s soul? Unless there is more here than meets the eye, and your Nauremir is not really dead, and you’re just -”

Daurendil had thrown the needle under his foot and was grinding it, unable to properly articulate any reply. Broggha was interrupted, not by the over-wrought prince, but by a much colder voice, every syllable uttered frigidly, “What are you and your Shaman suggesting? That I have embalmed a still-alive person?” It was Sarador, looking more vulture-like than ever, more affronted than ever before.

“Why don’t we make sure?” said Broggha, with a truly evil smile, and pulled out a knife. “After all, a dead man will feel no pain.”

“Stop!” Odare shouted, “I won’t let you desecrate his body!”

Hrani said, pushing past the prince, slowly rising to his feet, “But it’s not really desecration, we’re only freeing his spirit!”

“And what proof have we of that? You may believe in this tinkering fool, and his Spirit of the Bear, but I do not! I will not have Nauremir be sacrificed to your heathenish ways!” Daurendil had finally found his voice, and he had struck the right chord with the stunned mourners.

A murmuring had started, which became louder every minute. They were suddenly reminded that this Hillman was instrumental in Nauremir’s death; and now he had the affontery to show up and disturb the sacred rituals of burial – and for a Dunedain, burial rituals were highly traditional, and highly sacred – and all of a sudden, Broggha and Hrani found themselves being pushed slowly but inexorably backwards by an eeriely quiet crowd of people. Inch by inch they felt themselves being pushed backwards, and somewhere along the way, Broggha lost his knife. They were over the doorstop now, and with a resounding bang, the door closed shut in their faces. But not before someone had thrown a spare egg at the Hillman.

It was said in later songs, that the egg, once broken, had immediately fried on Broggha’s red, hot angry face; in fact that Hrani ate it, too, with every appearance of enjoyment. This fact has not yet been strictly verified, and should be taken with a pinch of salt; as should the omelette.

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BrogghaÂ’s estate near Cameth Brin, evening of October 23, 1347
Written by Angmar ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Literally expelled from the funereal chamber by a deadly silent group of mourners, Broggha and Hrani found themselves out in the hall, where Broggha’s bodyguard was waiting. One look at Broggha’s livid, ruddy face told his men that something had gone wrong and the Jarl was enraged. All hoped that they had done nothing to be the recipient of the Jarl’s ire.

“My lord,” Griss asked with concern, “what has happened?”

Turning on his captain, Broggha roared, “You fool! Your assumption that Nauremir was dead was unfounded! The man is as alive as you are!”

Hrani had a smug expression on his face. “The old magic is the best magic!” he cackled.

Griss was becoming increasingly nervous. “My lord, from all indications, Nauremir appeared to be dead!”

“That shows what you know!” Hrani howled in delight at the other man’s distress, while Griss’ face paled. He was terrified of the old shaman, as were most of the other hillmen. It was said that whoever was foolish enough to incur the shaman’s wrath was doomed to suffer nothing but ill fortune. Only last month, one of the men had accidentally bumped into old Hrani as he was passing by. The next day, the poor fellow was covered from head to toe by horrible puss-exuding boils.

The soldier had suffered horribly, unable to sleep for the intense pain, until his brother had brought Hrani the dressed meat of a large buck which he had killed. In addition to the venison, it took three kegs of mead and a bit of silver before the old shaman was fully pacified. The next day after the delivery of the gifts, the soldier’s skin was almost free of the evil-looking pustules.

“There is nothing gained by staying here,” Broggha growled. “We will return to my keep.”

Around the great table in Broggha’s hall, his men were subdued. The presence of Hrani made them all nervous. At the head of the table, the Jarl was silent as he drank his tankard of mead. The eyes of all the men were on Hrani. The old shaman watched the fire in the great hearth. The old man’s eyes were closed as he softly chanted, clutching the bear claw amulet that he stroked and rattling the gourd shaker. Then from the leather pouch at his belt, the old man pulled out a handful of something that looked like sand. Holding the amulet aloft, he howled and threw it into the fire.

Evil-looking green flames belched from the fireplace, filling the room with flames and a reeking stench. Shrieking in terror, all the men except Broggha jumped back, knocking over their chairs as they rushed towards the doorway. The Jarl sat nonplussed, drinking his ale, as he listened to the shaman’s chanting wails fade to nothing.

“What evil witchery is this?” Griss exclaimed in fear and bewilderment as he saw flames twisting around the form of the wildly jumping and dancing Hrani.

“A spell, you fools!” Hrani’s ancient voice crackled in delight. “Resume your seats and no harm will come to you! Only Nauremir and his friends will suffer!”

Looking at each other fearfully, the men made their way back to the table, which they found was unharmed, untouched by even the slightest trace of soot. The only evidence that anything at all had transpired was a lingering greenish haze and a hint of sulfur.