The Barrow-downs lay deep within the most desolate reaches of Eriador, a land long abandoned by life and hope. At the very heart of this cursed region, in the deepest valley upstream of the Willow Stream, Robert finally arrived at his destination.
Following the route marked on the map Tom Bombadil had given him, Robert had traveled along the winding course of the Willow Stream for hours. The stream grew narrower the farther he went, its waters quieter and clearer, until at last he reached its source. This hidden valley, nestled within the Barrow-downs themselves, was strangely untouched by the corruption that plagued the surrounding land.
Robert suspected the reason was Goldberry.
Tom's enigmatic wife—whom Robert strongly believed to be the River Spirit or even a minor river deity—seemed to exert a quiet but powerful influence here. The water was pure, the soil untainted, and the air lacked the suffocating malice that filled the rest of the Barrow-downs. It was as if this small valley had been carefully protected, preserved as a final remnant of unspoiled land amidst overwhelming darkness.
After resting briefly and replenishing his strength, Robert left the safety of the valley and headed toward the Barrow-mounds themselves.
The moment he crossed into the heart of the Barrow-downs, the atmosphere changed drastically.
Dark clouds perpetually blanketed the sky, thick and unmoving, as though frozen in place. Dense fog rolled endlessly over the hills, reducing visibility to only a few dozen meters. Even though it was daytime, not a single ray of sunlight pierced the gloom. There was no birdsong, no insect chirring—only oppressive silence.
Although Barrow-wights were said to rarely appear during the day, Robert did not allow his guard to drop even for a moment. He raised his wand and quietly cast a Shield Charm upon himself.
With the wand acting as a magical focus, the spell was far stronger than usual. What had once been a simple invisible barrier expanded into a multi-layered, all-encompassing defensive field. Ordinary physical and magical attacks would have little hope of breaking through it.
Even so, Robert knew better than to underestimate this place.
The Barrow-downs had once been the capital of the Kingdom of Cardolan, one of the successor states of Arnor. As he advanced, Robert could see shattered stone walls, broken pillars, and ancient roadways half-swallowed by the earth—mute remnants of a civilization that had long since fallen into ruin.
During the Second Age, after the island kingdom of Númenor sank beneath the sea, Elendil and his people fled to Middle-earth. There, in the land of Eriador, he established the Kingdom of Arnor.
However, in the year 861 of the Third Age, Arnor fractured into three realms: Arthedain, Rhudaur, and Cardolan. Cardolan's capital had stood precisely where Robert now walked.
That kingdom did not endure.
In the year 1409 of the Third Age, the Witch-king of Angmar launched a devastating assault upon Arnor. Cardolan was overwhelmed, its prince slain in the defense of the capital. Soon after, a Great Plague swept through the land, erasing what little remained of its population.
The Barrow-downs were left abandoned—an empty graveyard.
The Witch-king claimed the land as his own, saturating it with dark sorcery. Those buried within the ancient tombs were twisted into undead servants: the Barrow-wights. For more than a thousand years, even the bravest adventurers avoided this cursed region, and merchants refused to pass through it after nightfall.
Robert walked for nearly two hours before the Barrow-mounds finally came into view.
The landscape rose and fell in unnatural hills, each crowned with massive stone barrows. These tombs belonged to the kings, princes, and nobles of the Northern Dúnedain. Unlike ornate southern tombs, these were austere and solemn—great slabs of stone stacked into enduring monuments meant to last forever.
Now, they were crumbling.
Mist clung to the mounds, seeping from cracks and crevices like breath from a corpse. The air was cold, heavy with death, and every instinct in Robert's body screamed danger.
Suddenly, the surrounding fog churned violently.
Robert reacted instantly, tightening his grip on his wand.
A black shadow burst from the mist at blinding speed, striking at his back without warning.
Bang!
The shadow slammed into his invisible barrier and was violently repelled, thrown backward by the recoil.
Robert spun around, heart pounding, and finally saw his attacker.
It was a tall, humanoid figure clad in rusted, decaying armor. Its skin was gray and shriveled, stretched tightly over exposed bone. Hollow eyes burned with a sickly green light, radiating malice and hunger.
A Barrow-wight.
Robert sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn't expected it to move so quickly. If he hadn't cast the Shield Charm in advance, that ambush could have been fatal.
The Barrow-wight screeched and charged again.
This time, Robert was ready.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The spell struck the undead creature squarely. Instantly, its body locked up, frozen mid-motion like a grotesque statue.
Still wary, Robert summoned two Cleaver Knives with magic and sent them flying toward the wight's neck.
Clang!
Sparks flew as the blades struck solid resistance.
Robert hissed in shock. Even with magical reinforcement, the knives failed to cut through. He continued the assault relentlessly until a shallow wound finally opened, exposing blackened flesh and pale bone beneath.
But before he could feel relief, black energy surged from the wound, knitting it closed in seconds.
At the same time, the Barrow-wight broke free from the petrification and vanished back into the mist.
"Damn it…" Robert muttered.
He had tolerated Old Man Willow's absurd magic resistance—but a Barrow-wight too?
By his estimation, only four or five minutes had passed since the Petrification Curse landed. For it to recover so quickly was alarming.
The mist remained still, but Robert could feel it—malicious eyes watching, waiting.
Then the fog exploded outward.
The Barrow-wight emerged again, this time wielding a massive Greatsword wreathed in black energy.
It crossed the distance in an instant.
The blade crashed down upon Robert's shield, cleaving through the first layer like paper.
Robert's blood ran cold.
The undead creature grinned hideously, confident of victory.
But the sword struck a second barrier—and was violently repelled.
Before it could rise, Robert unleashed a rapid barrage.
"Impedimenta! Petrificus Totalus! Expelliarmus!"
The wight slowed, froze, and lost its weapon in rapid succession.
Robert didn't hesitate. He layered spell after spell until the creature was completely immobilized.
Only then did he turn his attention to the Greatsword.
The blade radiated an overwhelming curse. Touching it directly would invite disaster.
Then Robert smiled.
If normal weapons couldn't kill a Barrow-wight, perhaps its own cursed blade could.
With a sharp gesture, the sword flew forward, piercing the wight's chest.
Black energy burst forth as its strength rapidly faded.
"It works."
Robert continued until the creature collapsed into bones, its dark essence dispersing into the sky.
The Barrow-wight was destroyed.
And this was only the beginning.
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