STORY 2 - THE SHROUD OF THE DEAD

 

The shadows stretching from the Barrow-downs were thick with the reek of old earth and stagnant rot, spilling over the Southern Barrow-downs like a shroud. In the small, flickering warmth of a campfire just outside the northern boundary, the heavy, calloused hands of Bob shook as he held a tattered piece of wool. He was a simple man of Bree, worn down by honest labor and sudden, blinding terror.

"She went back for it, Captain," Bob pleaded, his voice breaking as he looked up at Echelandir. "My girl, Lalia. She’s headstrong, foolishly so. She went right into the barrows to find her lost cloak—a silly, colorful thing—but the hills are no longer just cold stone. There are things walking up there. Cold things."

Echelandir, Captain and Leader of the Company, stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the dark, jagged silhouette of the mounds. His presence was a steadying anchor in the shifting dusk. "The hills have awakened, Bob," Echelandir said, his voice deep and measured. "The news from the Rangers is grim. A dark power, a Wight-lord named Ivar, has stirred the dead from their sleep. Even now, the cold corpses of ancient kings rise from their stone beds." He turned his eyes toward the south, a faint, knowing smile softening his stern features. "Yet, there is hope. Strider—Aragorn—sent word but a few days past. The Halflings who fled from Bree were trapped in those very tombs, but they broke free. They survived the grasp of the Barrow-wights."

"Thanks to whom, Captain?" asked Echelorin, who was currently tinkering with a massive, intricate piece of ironwork on his lap. He was a dwarf of exceptional, almost exhausting energy, his eyes bright with the prospect of an impending hunt. Unlike his more traditional kin, Echelorin eschewed the standard bow for a heavy, repeating automatic crossbow—a marvel of gears, cranks, and heavy steel tension bars that clicked rhythmically under his swift fingers. "If those little ones can outrun the dead, then a dwarf, a captain, and our desert flower here will make short work of whatever crawls in the dark! Let’s get moving, my boots are freezing to the turf!"

Beside him, leaning against a weathered stone pillar, stood Echelwanaba. She was a human champion, but her heritage belonged to the sun-drenched, harsh lands of Harad. Wrapped in dark silks that contrasted with her polished steel armor, she remained a figure of quiet, lethal grace. Her dark eyes reflected the campfire as she lightly touched the hilts of her twin swords.

"The cold of these northern tombs bodes ill," Echelwanaba murmured, her accent rich and foreign to the ears of the Bree-man. "But steel cuts deep, whether the flesh is warm or long dead. We will find your daughter, Bob. Keep the fire burning."

With a final nod from Echelandir, the trio stepped out of the light and into the biting chill of the Barrow-downs.

The air grew heavy as they climbed, thick with the smell of old tombs and damp mold. The wind howled through the standing stones like the moaning of the forgotten. Echelorin marched at the front, his heavy crossbow loaded and resting against his shoulder, his eyes darting to every shadow with adventurous glee. "Come on, shadows, show yourselves!" he muttered, a wide grin hidden beneath his thick beard. "I’ve got twenty bolts lined up in the hopper just waiting for a dance!"

"Keep your voice low, Master Dwarf," Echelandir cautioned, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "The dead do not sleep soundly here. We tread upon ancient graves."

Suddenly, the mist thickened, parting to reveal a towering, skeletal figure clad in rusted bronze mail and a tattered shroud. Its eyes burned with a pale, cold blue fire. It raised a cracked sword, letting out a shriek that chilled the blood.

"Target!" Echelorin shouted, his energetic demeanor flaring into absolute focus.

With a deafening thwack-clack-thwack, his heavy automatic crossbow unleashed a rapid hail of steel-tipped bolts. The projectiles tore through the wight’s ancient armor, shattering its ribs and staggering it backward. Before the creature could recover, Echelwanaba blurred past the dwarf. With a fierce, disciplined battle cry born in the arenas of the South, the Haradrim champion spun into motion. Her twin blades flashed in the gloom, shearing through the wight’s neck. The creature collapsed into a heap of dust and empty armor.

"Swiftly done," Echelandir said, drawing his own blade as more shadows stirred within a gaping stone archway leading beneath the earth. "Into the barrow. Lalia must be inside."

They fought their way down into the subterranean gloom of the Great Barrows. The air inside was freezing, preserving the ancient malice of the Wight-lord Ivar's awakening. Echelorin’s repeating crossbow echoed through the stone vaults, providing a relentless cover of iron fire while Echelwanaba’s blades carved a path through the waking dead, her movements a mesmerizing dance of death. Echelandir led them forward, his shield blocking the freezing touch of the spirits, his voice shouting commands that kept their line unbroken.

Deep within a vaulted chamber, huddled behind a ruined sarcophagus, they found her. Lalia was shivering, her face pale with terror, yet her eyes flashed with stubborn defiance.

"Lalia!" Echelandir called out, stepping forward to shield her. "Your father sent us. We must leave this place at once. The mounds are crawling with Ivar's servants."

The girl looked up, gasping, but instead of running toward them, she pointed desperately toward a darker alcove of the tomb. "No! I won't go! Not without it! My cloak... my beautiful, bright cloak! It fell into the deeper well when those horrible, freezing hands grabbed at me. I won't leave Bree without it!"

"Are you mad, girl?" Echelorin gasped, though a laugh bubbled in his throat as he cranked the lever of his crossbow back with a loud click. "We are fighting ancient kings and undead horrors, and you want to dress up for a stroll through the market?"

"It is her pride," Echelwanaba said, her voice calm but unyielding as she kept her eyes on the entrance. "A dangerous thing in a desert, and fatal in a tomb. But we do not leave our quarry half-done. Captain?"

Echelandir looked at the stubborn girl, then down the dark corridor where a low, resonant chanting had begun to echo. "We find the cloak. Quickly. Echelorin, guard the girl. Echelwanaba, with me."

They plunged into the side chamber. There, draped over a pile of old, moldering bones, was the vibrant, mismatched cloak. Standing over it was a larger barrow-wight, its hands glowing with a pale frost that threatened to sap the very life from the air.

With a roaring command, Echelandir charged, his shield slamming into the creature, shattering the frost aura. Echelwanaba followed like a striking serpent, her swords slicing through the dark magic holding the corpse together. As the creature dissipated into the cold air, Echelandir snatched the cloak from the bones.

"Move! Now!" the Captain ordered.

They gathered Lalia, who snatched the cloak from Echelandir's hand and wrapped it tightly around herself, completely indifferent to the danger they had just escaped. Together, the four of them fought their way back up the narrow stone stairs, bursting out of the suffocating darkness of the tomb and into the crisp, cold air of the downs.

They did not stop until they crossed the ancient stone dikes, leaving the borders of the cursed hills behind. As the oppressive weight of the barrows finally lifted from their shoulders, the morning sun began to pierce through the heavy mist, casting long, golden beams across the grass.

Suddenly, a merry, booming voice echoed through the trees ahead, completely shattering the lingering dread of the night.

"Ring a dong dillo! Ring a dong! Hop along!"

"By the Valar," Echelwanaba whispered, her hand dropping sword in utter bewilderment. "What manner of creature sings in the shadow of the tombs?"

Out from the thicket stepped a strange figure. He wore a battered old hat with a blue feather, a bright blue jacket, and boots of a vivid yellow. He was dancing, his boots clicking merrily against the earth, entirely unbothered by the terror of the nearby mounds.

"Tom!" Echelandir laughed, a genuine expression of relief washing over his face. He bowed his head in deep respect. "It is a great pleasure to see you well, my friend."

Tom Bombadil stopped his dance, his bright blue eyes twinkling with endless mirth as he looked at the battered company, the energetic dwarf, the foreign champion, and the stubborn girl in her retrieved cloak.

"Old Tom is always well! No wight can catch Tom, no shadow can bind him!" Tom sang out, spinning on his heel. "You have been playing in the deep holes, have you? Shaking the dust of old bones? A silly business, a cold business for those with warm blood!"

"We fetched a foolish girl and her cloak, Master Bombadil," Echelorin said, grinning widely as he rested his heavy crossbow on his shoulder. "Though I reckon your yellow boots would make a finer prize than this scrap of wool!"

Tom looked at Lalia, who was clutching her crimson cloak, and gave a playful wink. "Bright red for a little maid, no need to be so afraid! Go home to your fire, child, before the woods grow too wild!"

"We are heading to Bree, Master Tom," Echelandir said. "Are the borders safe?"

"Safe enough for sharp swords and bright eyes!" Tom sang, turning back toward the dense, golden shade of the Old Forest. "Tom must go to Goldberry, waiting with the cream and berry! Fair lady is waiting, no time for late debating! Safe journeys, Echelandir, Captain of the wandering track!"

With another burst of joyous laughter, the strange man bounded back into the thicket, his golden song fading into the rustling of the leaves.

The three companions stood in silence for a moment, the warmth of the encounter lingering in the crisp night air. Echelorin looked to the sky, noting the stars finally breaking through the heavy clouds.

"A strange country," the Hunter murmured.

"A country worth protecting," Echelandir replied, gesturing toward the welcoming lights of Bree. "Let us return a daughter to her father."