by C A Oliver
This ceremony lasted over two hours. As he methodically carried out his exploration, the wine-lover set down many notes on an old scroll with his quill pen and ink, until all seven phials were empty.
“That was quite an experience,” he concluded, a feeling of exhilaration overcoming him as he abandoned himself to the inebriating mists. “There is no better way to reach the soul’s depths, though I doubt you would agree with me,” he added, as he seized his bastard sword, which had so far remained hidden beneath a green blanket on the table.
The Night Elf looked at the dark weapon, delicately caressing its amethyst-encrusted pommel as though it were the gentle skin of a lover. This sword, its blade four feet long, was a powerful weapon designed to be held with both hands at the hilt. It could only be wielded with a particular technique. Its aggressive design had been optimized for thrusting and cutting. The powerful, enchanted black blade gleamed like an agent of pure chaos, a servant of the shadows that could summon the darkest of forces. Its edge looked capable of slicing through any material that was unprotected by potent sorcery. The Night Elf addressed the sharp blade as though some spirit inhabited it.
“I tell you, Moramsing, this ‘O Wiony’ is definitely the finest. I am not coming to this verdict out of pride, or because I spent my youth walking among those vines. I can feel that you disagree, that you deem me biased. This I freely admit; after all, I have harvested these grapes by hand, at night when the moon was full, as dictated by tradition. I replanted those vines when they reached seventy years of age. With my bare hands, I have ploughed the sandy soil of my family estate… You have now fed upon my soul for so long; you should know that I am able to form a fair opinion on wines! ‘O Wiony’ is extraordinarily rich with the characteristics of exotic plants, truffles, spices and black fruits.”
Looking aggressively at the dark blade with an evil look in his eye, the Night Elf began to raise his voice, becoming increasingly absorbed in the debate.
“You disagree! I can feel that you do not trust my judgement! Well, why would you? Your appetite for controlling me is second only to my own thirst for Elvin wine. Your cursed nature has stolen my life force, sapped every ounce of hope, and made my life into an endless, agonizing journey, with only guilt and self-loathing for companions. Savouring wine is the only pleasure you have not destroyed. Why is that?”
Despite the intense scrutiny it was under, the dark sword remained silent, impassive as the metal it was made of. After a long, tense silence, a strange noise emanated from the depths of one of the cave’s alleys, like a cat mewing for a mate. The Night Elf stood, readying his dark, bastard sword. In an instant, the dizziness obscuring his mind had disappeared. Soon, the shadowy silhouette of a black cat emerged from the alley. It rushed to the Night Elf’s feet, wildly meowing all the while. As it ran, it felt as if the souls of thousands of flies and spiders were buzzing and creeping all about the cave.
“So, they have finally come,” the Night Elf concluded, as the shadowy form of the black cat was absorbed by the dark blade, like a soul returning to its grave.
The Night Elf concealed his bastard sword in its woollen blanket, and then carefully chose his position, selecting a comfortable armchair and settling down with a final glass of ‘O Wiony’ in his hand. The scene was now set; his expected guests could arrive.
*
A few moments later, the sound of footsteps on the dry floor echoed around the darkness of the cellar. Two High Elves were silhouetted against the weak light of the candles beyond. The young lord Dol Lewin and his mentor, Curubor Dol Etrond, emerged from an alley. They seemed calm as they selected their own seats and sat around the main table. The newcomers behaved as if they had left their interlocutor only a moment before. After some customary words of welcome, Camatael spoke.
“I chose this place for our meeting, Master Saeröl; for I knew that it would meet your high expectations.”
“It has exceeded them, Lord Dol Lewin,” replied the Night Elf. “I have begun to explore this magnificent cellar; the wines I have found were beyond my imagination. I know of many hidden treasures across the Lost Islands, but I never could have guessed that such a bounty existed so deep underground.”
“This cellar is indeed remarkable. Lord Dol Braglin was a wise Elf, well versed in the knowledge of wines and liquors. Some accumulate fine weapons, others amass precious jewels, but Lord Braglin collected rare vintages, of every variety and from all parts of the Lost Islands. He must have known that this remote place would be ideal for preserving such marvels.”
“A stable temperature and appropriate humidity are what’s required to preserve the finest vintages,” added Saeröl. “However, it’s the power of the alchemist’s rune that eventually makes all the difference. The wine remains its own master; only it can decide whether to live through the centuries or return to nothingness.”
“Lord Dol Braglin was a fine Elf; it seems he has left Camatael precious legacies,” said Curubor as he looked around at the cellar, visibly impressed by his young companion’s inheritance.
Camatael smiled. “These wines will remain here for the sole enjoyment of those who know of its location. Not a single flask can be removed from this hidden place. The contents could not withstand it.”
Saeröl understood that Camatael was sharing his precious secret to help the negotiations that would soon be discussed in this very place. The move was either deeply generous, extremely foolish or, perhaps, highly astute. His own reaction to their offer would decide which. Saeröl emphatically expressed his satisfaction.
“You honour me greatly, Lord Camatael, by granting me access to this shrine and all its treasures.”
Visibly enjoying the exchange, Camatael simply nodded politely. He was now curious as to what would happen next.
“Might I suggest,” he proposed with some enthusiasm, “that we taste some wine to mark the occasion?”
Slowly, enjoying every part of the ceremony, Camatael drifted towards a remote part of the cellar. He was totally absorbed in his task, as if he were worshipping of Eïwal Lon in the temple of light. Camatael delicately withdrew an old bottle from a dusty hidden corner. He examined the rune impressed upon the cork before announcing, with an unembellished tone.
“An ‘O Mento’ vintage, marked ‘Rowë Dol Nargrond, Year 492 of the Second Age.’ What would you say to that?”
“That bottle is over seventeen centuries old! Will it have survived unspoiled from those heroic times?” exclaimed Curubor.
“Let us see whether it is worthy of its reputation. The cork bears the rune of Rowë Dol Nargrond, which should be guarantee enough,” replied Camatael, becoming excited.
Saeröl, however, was keeping his distance from the other two Elves. He softly caressed the blanket that covered his sword, deep in thought.
“You’ve selected that year for a reason, haven’t you?” he eventually asked.
There was a silence.
“The year 492,” Saeröl continued, “is the last harvest that Rowë could have possibly enjoyed. By the end of that sad year, he had disappeared into the entrails of the Oryusk mines, along with his friend Lon and three other companions… only to reappear before the eyes of the Elves a few days later… However, the lord of House Dol Nargrond was not the same. His head, his arms and his legs had all been cut from his body. Those dark remains, soiled by shadowy marks, had been placed within his large shield, which then floated along the river from the mines of the Volcano and into a swamp, close to the lake of Yslla.”
Camatael, unmoved by the horrible description of Rowë’s tragic end, replied.
“You are right, Master Saeröl; what we shall taste today is, in all likelihood, one of the last bottles that Rowë ever marked with his rune: a legendary ‘O Mento’ vintage. Is this not an appropriate homage we could offer to his glorious memory, before embarking on such a dangerous quest?”
Camatael, impassive, continued with his preparations. From an old iron chest, which he unlocked with a small key, he
extracted a jug and several glasses of crystal. The carafe’s delicate curves, combined with the exquisite precision of the glass, added a considerable elegance to the scene. Meanwhile, Saeröl shared his remembrances, his gaze lost in the shadows.
“Indeed, it is. You should have seen the Nargrond Valley in the last days of the year 492. As for me, I witnessed every moment of the spectacle. I watched the units of the clan Myortilys marching to war for the first time since the battle of Ruby and Buzzards. You should have seen with your own eyes the constant comings and goings of that multitude of Dark Elves, driven on by a common thirst to exact vengeance. Once Rowë and his disciples had been murdered, once Lon’s preaching on the Lost Islands had ceased, the clan Myortilys were instigating the war of shadows.”
“Your father, Elriöl, was among those assassinated with Rowë,” Curubor recalled, carefully but deliberately.
“Indeed, he was. Strangely enough, his mutilated remains were found inside his shield on the banks of the river near our own vineyard, ‘O Wiony’. My father considered himself the Nargrond Valley’s greatest alchemist, and Rowë’s foremost companion. He devoted his life to the realization of their great design. That unshakable loyalty led him to his doom.”
“Elriöl was a great visionary who left us the mightiest of legacies. I knew him well,” Curubor declared, wishing to pay tribute to the legendary bladesmith.
Saeröl was apparently indifferent to the homage. Finally, in the profound silence that followed Curubor’s words, Camatael decided to open the bottle. The young lord, conscious of the importance of that moment, brought the bottle close to his nose. When he spoke, his deep voice was without emotion.
“The wine is… unspoiled.”
He then set about pouring the wine from the ancient bottle into the carafe.
“Pay close attention,” he suggested as it flowed, “the nectar is releasing some of its aromas already. See how its colour is dark ruby, for now.”
“Indeed, the surface of the wine is almost pitch black, as though some wickedness dwelled within it,” added Curubor.
Camatael picked one of the large glasses of crystal, so refined that it seemed carved out of ice. He heated it above the flame of a candle. Once this delicate task was complete, he slowly poured the wine from the carafe. It was a solemn moment, and all of them, as if by tacit agreement, stopped breathing. The red liquid, as deep as a dark ruby, trickled into the glass. A magnificent mixture of complex aromas diffused about the three Elves.
“Without even moving the glass, you can already pick up those fleeting, highly volatile elements. See how its colour is turning to a magenta with purple hues,” commented Camatael.
Looking at the precious liquid with fascination, Curubor noted, “This is extraordinary. It would seem, from its colour and texture that the wine has lost none of its quality or complexity.”
“I shall serve the two other glasses,” declared Camatael, seizing the crystal carafe, “with the very same method used by the alchemists in Yslla to get the most from their fairy wines.”
With a gesture of his right hand and some quick incantations, Camatael performed a spectacular decantation of the precious beverage. Two thin trickles of the wine flew up into the air from the carafe, like dancing threads of red silk. With incredible dexterity, moving the two crystal glasses with his free hand, he managed to fill them with the precious liquid without wasting a single drop.
“This exercise is extremely difficult, and not without risk,” Camatael confessed, “but, according to the alchemist masters of the Nargrond Valley, this is the best way to release all the aromas of the finest vintages. Let us put their theory to the test.”
Saeröl, having accepted his glass, moved it far away from the candles, holding it out towards the darkest side of the cellar. He contemplated it for a long time, as if inspecting a precious gemstone. Finally, he expressed his excitement.
“Magnificent!” he began, unusually loquacious in front of company. “The shadow of the reddish-purple mixes is like a perfect dark garnet. Did you know that some of the best vintages from the Nargrond Valley have the power to recount legends? Indeed, it is said that the alchemists of the legendary guild of Yslla used this very method to communicate their final testaments to their families. Imagine the close family members of the deceased sharing the same vintage, all understanding at once what was his will.”
Saeröl could not resist any longer. He wetted his lips and took a tiny sip from his glass. The Night Elf was silent for some time.
“It’s as if I’m entering a secret vale, surrounded by luscious plants… the multitude of sensations is like nothing I’ve ever felt.”
Saeröl was much older than what his delicate, refined appearance implied. Such was the reputation of his bloodline; time had little influence on the Night Elves. He was born in the city of Yslla, in the Nargrond Valley at the apogee of Rowë’s rule. Each gulp of the ‘O Mento’ transported Saeröl back to his youth, to that land of subtle remembrances where smells, colours and feelings comingle in poetic assembly. The wine’s effects started to take their own bewitching course.
“This is a most inspiring experience,” he declared. “This moment deserves music. I feel like hearing a moving symphony, with dozens of powerful woodwind instruments. Some wines engender decadent sensuality; others give you a taste for blood, while others still inspire perverted desires. This vintage is unique. It’s telling me of the end… the magnificent end of all things.”
“As if Rowë knew that his own end was coming…” agreed Curubor.
“What I’m feeling goes far beyond Rowë’s destiny. I feel something much wider, deeper, some phenomenon of incredible magnitude; it is far away, yet somehow inevitable, like a great wave rising in the distance, drawing its power from the void. And still it grows, like the just ire of an almighty creator…”
Overwhelmed by the powerful sensations that the wine was provoking in him, Saeröl resolved to seek refuge in his art, the only shelter that could protect him from his extreme anxiety. He seized his flute. The five-holed wind instrument had a v-shaped mouthpiece and was carved from the bone of a vulture wing. Saeröl took a deep breath, brought the flute to his mouth, and began nimbly stopping and releasing the holes, creating rare harmonies with a distinct, bright timbre. He improvised a new piece of music, at once grandiose and terrifying.
Over a long few minutes, he played a powerful lament, which was both intoxicatingly beautiful of unimaginably sad. He then lowered the flute and sang improvised verses of his own dark poetry. Finally, Saeröl declaimed a prophetic tale, whose grandeur amazed his small audience.
“This, I know: the harpists, the violinists, the flautists, the pipers, the organists and the countless choirs of Elves shall come together. They shall attempt to create the most beautiful piece of music ever known; they shall send forth beautiful melodies, which will mingle and dissolve amid the thunder of their harmonies, till the Lost Islands will be filled with music, the echo of that music, and the echoes of its echo. But it shall be to no avail; the roar of the vast seas will not be halted, and the great wave will swamp them all, until the lowest of valleys and the highest of peaks are submerged.”
The prophecy’s glorious beginning and the tragedy of its end caused both High Elf lords to shiver before Saeröl. When at last he had finished, a profound malaise reigned in the shadowy room. Curubor was speechless. Camatael was silent but, after a while, he could not resist countering the dismal prediction.
“The words of your song are dreadful, though undeniably poetic. You craft verses with the bitterness of one who sees only darkness in the world.”
“I am what I am,” Saeröl spat back. “Revenge is my sole comfort. The sorrow of my enemies is my only joy, for it feeds my pride.”
It felt as if there was no more to say after this violent exchange. Each Elf turned his attention to the contents of his glass… At last the heavy silence was abruptly ended by a dry interruption from Saeröl.
“Lord Curubor, I think
that the time has now come for you to explain why you have sent for me?”
“Indeed, it has…” replied the Blue Mage, feeling suddenly under pressure. “First, I must thank you for your patience, and for ensuring through your connections that we reached Tar-Andevar’s harbour safely. It was an important first step, and we are now your debtors.”
Curubor made a pause as if every word would count.
“The second part of this plan was our responsibility, and I can inform you that it was executed successfully. Lord Dol Lewin and I now have no doubt in our minds that our worst fears were justified… The knights of the Golden Hand have set their sights on the testament of Rowë. Norelin has sent them forth to find the tombs of the four bladesmiths of Nargrond Valley. By way of this supreme blasphemy, the king of Gwarystan intends to deliver a message to the Arkys in the Secret Vale. There is no force powerful enough to resist the king and his Western allies. By seeking to desecrate the graves of the bladesmiths, Norelin is proclaiming the advent of his empire.”
Visibly unimpressed by the Blue Mage’s uplifting rhetoric, Saeröl replied.
“There are some rare occasions when flowery speeches are needed. I am not sure that this demands such grandiloquence. What do you know, exactly, of the knights of the Golden Hand’s plans?”
