by C A Oliver
With a quick movement of his hand, Camatael uttered a short, sacred incantation, calling upon Eïwal Lon’s power. The ghostly figure was held for a moment longer in the air, while Camatael repeated his prayers and raised his voice. It finally vanished, disappearing in a burst of flames, sending burnt fumes billowing violently around the room. Curubor let out a quick succession of mysterious words, circling his open palms around his head several times. His features then became placid, his face closed, his lips immobile.
A few moments later, the door was slowly opened, its rusty hinges emitting a long, sad whine, like the faint, night-time whimper of a Chanun Giant slave. Three silhouettes, clad in large red cloaks, stepped into the room. Their ruby-coloured headdresses masked all their features but their eyes. All three wore a gauntlet of rare design on their left hand, the very same as the other members of their order, which could be used as a dreadful weapon in close combat. It was the golden hand with six fingers. Camatael and Curubor immediately recognized the dreaded knights. Norelin had honoured them all with the title of Mowengot. Only three of the king’s servants had come.
First Megiöl, the Half-Elf, appeared. He was known as an enchanter of shadows and was feared for the evil influence he held over the king’s judgements.
Second came Turang, the Westerner: a schemer and a trader of gold, a master of spies and plots, dreaded for his murderous ways. He had skulked his way to the steps of the throne by supplying the royal court with invaluable stolen information.
Finally, in golden armour, their commander stepped into the backroom. This High Elf was the most powerful knight of their order. Eno Dol Oalin, the cadet of a famous house, had forsaken his family to seek true power alongside the king in Gwarystan. Eno was the first to speak. Smoke still wisped around the dark red glove on his right hand.
“Good evening to you, Elves of the forest!” exclaimed the tall knight sorcerer with dark irony. “Or what, exactly, should we call you? Perhaps ‘dyn Lewin’ and ‘dyn Etrond’ would be more appropriate titles for those who, I believe, are honoured members of the council of the forest.”
The spite he put into these last words contained every ounce of the disdain he held for the assembly of Llymar.
“How have you come to this? How could you renounce the power of your former ranks? Do you not envy the other Dol who are masters over others’ destiny, and who subdue both Elves and Men to their wills?”
“These are arrogant words, Eno Dol Oalin…” countered Camatael to stop the flow of insults.
He deliberately used the knight sorcerer’s former name, knowing full well that Eno had long since cut all bonds with his family, to embrace this very different path.
“Indeed, they are, but my arrogance is not undeserved. I am the commander of the Golden Hand; I can afford to be undiplomatic.”
Neither Curubor nor Camatael dared reply to the outrageous boast. Taking their lack of reaction as a sign of weakness, the knight sorcerers stepped into the backroom and up to the three centre seats. Slowly and cautiously, never losing sight of their hosts, they sat down on their side of the table, their weapons close at hand. In an attempt to clear the air, Camatael spoke again. His voice was soft.
“You cannot imagine what it is like to meet Blue Elves from across the Austral Ocean. Those famed sailors believe that the music of Gweïwal Uleydon still lingers in all the world’s waters, like an invitation to set sail and discover new horizons. I think that many High Elves, too, are drawn to this music, yet are not able to properly listen to it. The towers of Gwarystan are furnished with thousands of fountains, yet none who lives there pays attention to the message carried in the melodious flow.”
“Let the Blue Elves have their superstitions!” responded the proud Eno Mowengot, laughing. “Gweïwal Uleydon, that so-called God they worship, may well be master of all waters. He may well control the breaking of rain and the formation of clouds. He is nonetheless a mere elemental spirit. It is absurd to claim that he has the power to influence our fate,” Eno Mowengot exclaimed, his eyes burning with arrogance.
“Remember, Camatael, the ancient songs of yore,” he continued, “that tell of the time when the Elves were finally forced to part. The High Elves did not join those who hid, still less those who fled and were lost. And yet now, after all this time, you have decided to side with those cowards. You are following the path of those who have always lost battles and fled. Do you even understand the extent of your humiliation?” provoked the commander of the Golden Hand knights.
“You may be a great sorcerer and a master of war, Eno Dol Oalin, but you should not speak of what you do not understand… Indeed, the High Eves were invited to gather at the knees of the Gods. All the woes that have befallen our kin can be traced back to those dreadful summonses. So, let me ask you: who were proved wisest in the end? Who chose the right path? Perhaps it was those who preferred the wide empty spaces of the Mainland to what the Gods offered us: the glory of immortal life. It could well be argued that the stubborn Llewenti patriarch and the bold Irawenti guide, who chose to reject the Gods’ gift and stay behind, made the right choice.”
Camatael spoke with passion and conviction. As he preached, he had no illusions about persuading his interlocutors, but he nevertheless felt a profound contentment in proclaiming his faith, in throwing in their faces the beliefs that inhabited him. By his side, Curubor remained silent, impassive and absent, his gaze empty. The young Dol Lewin continued his passionate declaration.
“You should know that we can learn a lot from those Elves you call simple. Their path took them to Essawylor and ultimately to the shining waters of the Lost Islands. All these years, as we have been striving towards our ruin, they have lived in freedom,” concluded Camatael, with utter faith in what he preached.
“We have not come here to discuss history,” interrupted the Half-Elf Megiöl Mowengot. “We received your unsolicited trade proposal. How dare you ask us to enter a secret agreement such as this?”
“How dare you suggest we are such low-level smugglers?” added the Westerner Turang Mowengot. “Have you fallen so low that you would expect the Golden Hand to barter with traitors?”
“Did you really hope that we would ever deal with tainted outcasts?” insisted Megiöl Mowengot. “Did you really expect us to abandon our vows for the sake of more gold? On the contrary, capturing you alive and taking you to the royal justice will be a far greater reward. You cannot imagine how eager King Norelin is to watch you kneel before the Ruby throne.”
With a malicious look in his eye, Turang Mowengot concluded the onslaught.
“How does it feel to be trapped? As we speak, you are surrounded by our troops: dozens of guards awaiting our order to seize you. You cannot escape.”
The knight sorcerer caressed his gauntlet with his other hand, as if the six metallic fingers were already grasping the two rebel lords. Eno Mowengot laughed loudly at Camatael.
“Tell me, my friend. Is it merely for love of this Dol Etrond maiden that you have disavowed your rightful sovereign? Is it possible for an Elf to throw away millennia of tradition for the intoxicating favours of a tempting prey?”
The dreaded Eno was staring at Camatael with flames in his eyes. He continued with a renewed fervour.
“We are the foremost servants of the king in Gwarystan. All kneel, seeking his guidance and protection. For the first time in history, Norelin has united Elves and Men under one kingdom… For more than a century, the Archipelago has seen peace and prosperity, thanks to the strength of the king’s army holding all its factions together. With time, the memory of those wars and conflicts shall fade, and the bonds uniting High and Green Elves, Westerners and Barbarians, will strengthen… Look to history. Remember those warring domains ruled by the Elves at the time of King Lormelin. We were easy prey for the savage barbarian tribes, as they sailed southward to seek new lands. When their long ships landed on the Islands to take tribute from our tiny cities, the glorious noble houses of the High Elves also shuddered.”
Eno Mo
wengot paused, looking for the effect that his more pragmatic argument was having on his future prisoners. Then, he went on, unable to resist the desire to mock the rebel lords before him.
“Camatael, I daresay the Ruby College taught you to count with an abacus. If King Norelin had not forged this alliance with the Westerners, the barbarian tribes would have become more numerous and more powerful. They would have ultimately conquered every single island. King Norelin has reversed the tide of history. The years of chaos and destruction on the Lost Islands have been ended.”
Camatael was not impressed by this argument. Ignoring Curubor’s utter passivity, he fought back.
“A ruler who does not acknowledge his subjects is a wicked sovereign. Norelin ignores his kingdom’s population; he is perverse. He has renounced the legacy of his house. Remember how his forefather King Ilorm walked with the Gods, and how he thereby acquired a profound knowledge of all creatures’ relative merits. He could speak the least of languages, of birds and of hounds, but also the most complex tongues of the Elves. Where has that wisdom disappeared to now?” Camatael appealed.
Turang Mowengot that cold Westerner with the gaze of a murderer, suddenly understood the purpose of this unnecessary debate. Camatael Dol Lewin was stalling.
Deep in thought, losing the thread of the ongoing conversation, his gaze concentrated on Curubor. Unconsciously, his metal gauntlet reached for the pommel of his sword.Meanwhile, Eno Mowengot, as sure of himself as ever, was embarking on a long tirade, with all his arrogant spite.
“In an effort to preserve its safety, Llymar chooses insularity and therefore paralysis. The kingdom of Gwarystan is doing the opposite. Its ships travel the oceans and establish trade agreements fare and wide. King Norelin shall defeat adversity by claiming all routes across the seas. His ultimate prize will be to link all cities to each other and rule the unified world he shall create,” he explained, before launching a final, decisive charge. “Who is your hero? Your Protector of the Forest with his long spear… a mere hunter, a lowly warden charged with defending the boundaries of your woods. Our new allies are honoured with the title of sea hierarch. They command great galleys and travel the vast seas.”
Suddenly, Turang Mowengot realized what Curubor had been doing. A small but powerful illusion had been masking the movement of the ancient mage’s lips. The Westerner reached for his leader’s arm. But Eno Mowengot paid no heed to his companion’s warning. He could not resist one final humiliation of Camatael.
“A scribe such as you, Camatael, should stick to writing manuscripts and avoid attempting discourses. You think you are making history simply because you are drawing fine lines of ink on rich parchment… Let me tell you, scholar, it takes far more than that to be a ruler. The knights of the Golden Hand are lords who serve the rightful king. We help him bear the burden of his responsibilities. We truly are the fingers who hold the sceptre.”
“I can read your face like an open book,” Camatael spat back. “When I look at you, Eno Dol Oalin, I see what I could have become; it makes me nauseous.”
Turang Mowengot then saw that Curubor had been patiently uttering long, inaudible incantations, though his lips and body seemed immobile to his inattentive guests. Suddenly, the knight sorcerer stood up.
At the same time, Camatael violently leapt up from his chair, a flash of anger on his face. He struck his hands out towards Megiöl Mowengot and delivered a formidable blast of energy. His nails seemed to multiply and extend outwards towards the Half-Elf’s head.In the blink of an eye, the knight sorcerer was flung against the back wall, out of his companions’ reach.
Waiting for this moment since their guests walked in, Curubor sprang from his chair, uttering a sudden roar. The formidable energy he unleashed as he stood brought the heavy table flying towards the other two knight sorcerers with force. It came crashing against them just as Turang Mowengot was about to throw a dagger, and just as Eno Mowengot was summoning unnatural fire.
Curubor was standing at his full height in the middle of the room like a God of War seizing the battlefield. From his own hands he sent forth a powerful field of energy, which began forming a wall of unnatural power. Four runes, the colour of gemstones, which had been carved into the corners where the walls met the ceiling and floor, now glowed brightly, strong as the four corners of a dam that holds back a strong river.
Now blocked by the impassable barrier and separated from their companion, the two Golden Hand knights called upon their powers to break it up. Yet, their joint efforts proved unsuccessful. Meanwhile, beyond the translucid wall of energy, in a concert of horrible cries and terrifying shouts, Camatael’s spirit claws were penetrating the mind of Megiöl Mowengot, searching his memory and seeking out his secrets. The Half-Elf lay on the ground, his free hand pulling out his hair, his body convulsing violently and his strength disappearing.
“Quen Asta! Quen Asta!” Camatael repeated like one possessed.
Suddenly, the roof broke in above the young Dol Lewin; cracked tiles and broken timber came crashing down onto the floor. Another knight of the Golden Hand leapt down in the room. This new Westerner, short and agile, landed on the soil floor like a cat. He swung his gauntlet at Camatael who stepped back in panic. This surprise attack freed the spiritual hold Camatael had imposed over Megiöl Mowengot. Almost dying and barely able to move, the Half-Elf reached for a dark dagger hidden inside his cloak. Without hesitation, he gripped the deadly instrument and pierced his own heart. The effect was instantaneous. His body burst into a cloud of vapours, the colour of blood. The nauseous cloud escaped upwards through the large hole in the roof. Only his headdress, clothes and weapons remained on the empty soil. His gauntlet, however, had disappeared.
Seeing that their companion had escaped, Eno and Turang abandoned the battlefield and escaped by the front door, barking orders at their troops. The final knight sorcerer hoisted his muscular body up onto the roof as quickly as he had jumped down from it. The backroom was soon empty. Camatael turned to Curubor.
“Quick, to the trapdoor. They will burn this building to the ground.”
In an instant, the dusty carpet was taken away and the floor tiles removed. Underneath was a large opening, leading down into utter darkness. The two Elves swung down into it, becoming engulfed in the shadows, climbing down a ladder for more than several dozen feet. Finally, they reached a level tunnel, and stepped away from the ladder for cover. The air was humid and stale. Camatael turned to run, eager to minimize any chance that their enemies might catch them.
“Wait!” ordered Curubor, as he listened to the sound of a formidable wreckage echoing down to them.
“They did it. They’ve destroyed the shop,” Camatael ascertained.
There was a moment of silence between them, as they watched fiery debris tumble down into the tunnel.
“I suppose that solves the issue of being followed. Now, I believe we have a map to look at, if we wish to honour our arrangement to taste wine with our special guest,” stated Camatael. He was already on his way.
CHAPTER 4: Saeröl
2712, Season of Eïwele Llya, 96th day, Tar-Andevar, Nyn Ernaly
The vast wine cellar, animated in the dull radiance of sparse, flickering candlelight, had something of a mystic atmosphere. Stacked about the cave walls were innumerable bottles, carboys, amphorae and barrels. Temperature and humidity were carefully maintained, and the darkness provided protection against harmful external influences. A dozen alleys, each with towering bottle racks on either side, radiated out from a large central room.
An Elf was standing within this room at the centre of the wine cellar. He wore a black tunic and a broad, dark cloak. A silk scarf, the colour of leaves, was wrapped around his head, out from which flowed his long black hair. His face was fair: almost as white as snow like that of a Night Elf. His right cheek was marked with the infamous rune of outcasts. A contemptuous smile crept across his face as he started to sing the melancholic verses of an ancient song. His voice was melodious, almost mus
ical. The Night Elf headed towards a large cabinet and selected seven crystal glasses. He arranged them in a perfect line upon a long table. Still alone, he continued to chatter away.
“Why, after all these centuries, is the tasting of wine the only thing that soothes my soul? I wonder. All that makes up this elixir is a few grapes, mixed with various flowers and herbs, before it is left to ferment and age in oak barrels. Well tonight, I propose a blind test. I will be dead soon enough, so now is the time to confirm whether or not these wines of the Nargrond Valley are still up to scratch. Let’s free these precious nectars, allow them to breathe, so that they might reach their full potential!” the Night Elf exclaimed.
With a wide movement of his arms, as if he were passionately conducting an orchestra, he sung out, his pristine voice soon climbing to unnatural heights that only accomplished bards can reach. The notes built in intensity until all bottlenecks exploded under the pressure, sending their waxen corks shooting all the way up to the ceiling. Satisfied after this demonstration of his powers, the extraordinary singer carried out the same careful ritual: first, he would pour the wine into a crystal glass, examined at length its colour, tannins and its consistency. Next, he would breathe in the complex aromas released by the exquisite drink, which he did with his eyes closed in order to sharpen his sense of smell. Finally, he would take a sip of the liquid, swilling it about his mouth for some time, all the while sniffing and emitting odd noises, until he had fully analysed the wine’s contents and structure, and understood how its taste evolved over time once taken in.