A Fray of Four Fiefs

A sequel to Ember of the Fallen Kingdom

Artwork by Winston Coady

Chapter One: Where Five Paths Meet

In many a corner could be found the King Alfon Alderstar of the Four Fiefs of Athemor: perhaps pondering wisely upon the seat of his throne, or orating a powerful speech from atop the Royal Rostrum of Cliffenheim; feasting in great halls laden with goblets of mead, conceivably, or gazing upon the four realms he had so nobly made one. Though, in the winter following this unification of the Kingdom of Athemor, the elf could be found only poring feverishly over heaps of old scrolls.

It was the eve during which Alfon would reveal his discoveries, though to only the most trusted souls he knew—and in the kingdom’s most protected, most abundant center of literature. First came his queen, Embla, through the doors of the Crestwood Royal Library—where it seemed even the books and scrolls bowed to her in honor of the library’s very namesake: Queen Embla Crestwood and her father, Fraxinus. These two nobles had been the first humans ever to shelter an elf in Cliffenheim—secretly—when Alfon Alderstar arrived in the city as a spy traveling between Cliffenheim and his elven homeland of Súnimanta. This was before he, along with the siblings Odin and Hilda Wrenstone—the library’s next visitors—had met by chance in the ancient shrine of Tamikúmu long ago and discovered the treachery of Cliffenheim’s former Berg dynasty.

And this eve, striding shoulder-to-shoulder through the library, Alfon’s two most devoted advisors now rushed merrily into their gracious lord’s embrace. Both Odin and Hilda, of course, were dying to know: “How are the little angels?”

“Such joys!” Embla cheered. “I can see already a royal future for the tots!”

“Mere inches from the throne!” the king chuckled. “Where are Little Alfon and Alfwyn now?”

“I sent my father to give them a bath.”

“Splendid. Then, we await one last visitor.”

Hardly had he spoken when through the doors came a tall, nobly-dressed young man smiling at them with a narrow mouth beneath sharp cheekbones and eyes that seemed to express more than he said. All four bowed at his arrival, and thus spoke Alfon: “Greetings, Lord Inwid Ofurling, son of Duke Vassal-lord Felsen, heir of Ofurburnin and the Duchy of Ostenfeud! Much have we all to discuss during this hour, though perhaps for Your Highness I may bear the most important message of all!”

There was intrigue in the eyes of Embla and the Wrenstones, though—as Alfon noticed—a puzzled expression as well. Clearing his throat, the king announced: “I suppose you three wish for an explanation as to why His Highness has graced us so with a visit!”

Artwork by Winston Coady

Chapter Two: A Five-Thousand-Coin Order

“Ever since the day when archaeologists began marching into the ancient halls of Tamikúmu,” Alfon explained, “Lord Inwid Ofurling has managed the temple’s excavation with precision that could open new doors for the future of the Four Fiefs.” The elf’s voice echoed across stonemasoned walls and between rows of book-laden shelves immeasurable in both height and vastness. “His noble leadership and frequent meetings with me have led to discoveries of ancient Kananti literature that may prove to be more influential than Jasifi’s Scroll itself.”

An awed silence fell over them all. There was a glint in the listeners’ eyes akin to the shimmer of a jewel.

“Jasifi’s Scroll,” Embla uttered under her breath. “The scroll that toppled a dynasty. Brought death to a tyrant, and peace to a kingdom. The scroll that named you king of Cliffenheim.”

Alfon smiled. “To unearth buried wisdom and elven prophecies… we could heal the enmity that remains in Athemor. We could expose this fiend they call the Rallier… this terrorist who led the raid on Eselenor that fateful night months ago. That night when the last lord of the Iselon dynasty was assassinated, and when…” His voice faltered. A tear could be seen sliding from the elf’s eye. “When they took my sister’s life as well.”

The story was known already to them all. Alfon’s nephew, Keloras, had washed up at dawn on the banks of the Athemor River near Cliffenheim. Embla, walking along the bank as if led by fate, had drawn him out of the water. Shivering, half-drowned, grief-stricken, nearly unconscious… all the young elf could utter was: “My mother’s gone.”

“No,” Embla had told him, “she’s still with you, Keloras, still a part of everything she passed on to you. And still there is no shortage of those who care deeply for you.”

“A son you shall be to me,” Alfon had declared upon the eve of that day. “A third child of mine. And I shall be your father. The bond between us shall be far stronger than any mere uncle-nephew relationship.”

“Súnimanta was in ruins after that night,” Inwid murmured. “Leaderless, wary of men, famished… until you made that dying kingdom a fief, led from thence by none other than Lord Keloras. And it wasn’t long before all four lands became one. Cliffenheim, Súnimanta, the Northlands… and, finally, the Ostenfeud.”

“Why, Inwid,” Hilda Wrenstone inquired, “did Ofurburnin pass its territory so readily beneath Cliffenheim’s crown?”

A silence followed for the next moment. Then: “I never quite understood my father’s decision. Perhaps he feared a kingdom once held by man was stumbling too quickly into elven control, and wished to become one with the rule of Athemor. Or perhaps there’s more to it than he’s made plain.”

“Alfon,” spoke Odin Wrenstone, “what think you of these tidings I’ve heard tell, these news of the Súnimanti’s urge to reclaim their homeland?”

“A fine question,” the king replied, “and one that demands faster restoration of Tamikúmu. What will happen when an influx of elves is crammed into the forest of Kananta, where every footstep will leave a mark on the already fragile land?” Alfon cleared his throat. “I’ve made up my mind to grant five thousand golden coins towards the haste of the Ofurburnish excavation.”

The king’s gaze passed from the appalled Wrenstones and Embla to the beaming marquess. As Inwid rose from his seat, an uncontainable ecstasy seemed to twist his smile like a river’s bend. “My gracious lord, Your Majesty’s generosity will not be in vain.”

Alfon rose slowly to his feet, smiling at him. “Meeting dismissed!” His booming voice echoed across the chamber.

Chapter Three: A Knife in the Study

One week after Alfon’s grant, the jagged crest of Mount Wulfang stabbed like a blade into the sinking sun. At its flank, the winding streets of Cliffenheim echoed with the clip-clops of Inwid Ofurling’s steed—until the great beast halted before the gates of the castle.

Listening from atop a high balustrade of the palace, Odin and Hilda Wrenstone could discern the voice of their king amidst the eve’s silence. “...three hours’ time past sundown, and by the Crestwood Library’s hearth…” And all that they heard next was the distant cawing of ravens.

The feast was no less silent, save for the minstrel’s hushed lay marking Inwid’s arrival. Every so often, Hilda watched the marquess glance at her for an instant—as if whispering something with his eyes.

By the time every goblet sat empty of mead—and once the sun had departed at last—so too did the nobles take their leave for want of rest.

Three hours had passed since the sun’s passing. Three hours had Odin Wrenstone tossed and turned in restless sleep. And for three minutes had he laid roused in bed, deathly-still, unable to resist the urge to grope across the bedstand for his dagger… feeling naught but cold wood beneath his fingers.

“Hilda!” A series of knocks struck against his sister’s door. As soon as she appeared, Odin’s tidings burst forth. “My dagger’s missing. Though I believe I know where it is.”

The eyes of Alfon Alderstar and Inwid Ofurling glinted with the ginger glow of the hearth. “I must say,” the king rumbled, “I expected better, for so generous a grant. Five thousand golden coins, yet a decline in the influx of documents.”

His eyes followed Inwid’s tense hands as they reached into his pockets, hid there like a groundhog, peeked out, scuttled back down into his pockets…

“Aye, sire, aye… It was indeed a most luckless week for us, and I apologize. Perhaps, my lord… perhaps a greater sum of funds…”

“Nay.” Alfon’s voice was like a cold stone. “My grant was far greater than plenty. The demographers state that Ofurburnin’s head count has soared of late. Cliffenheim’s folk have flocked to your city. Ofurburnin’s might has all but dwindled—though I should hate to spurn its name during the Council of Eselenor next eve.” His teeth clenched. “Reveal your answer, Felsen’s son—and whatsoever you fiddle with in those pockets!”

Alfon’s heart thundered in his chest. He’d hearkened to the rumors, and seen it firsthand—how it could enslave a man, devour his wit, refuse to let his attention stray from the thing.

Inwid’s every muscle froze. He stood before the king, motionless, staring into his eyes with an impenetrable expression. When the marquess’s hand emerged, Alfon realized his misjudgement—and was blinded by a flash of steel in the glow of the hearth and the moon.

Chapter Four: A Shard by the Fire

Alfon’s throat trembled before the dagger’s flashing point. The elf stared with disbelief into Inwid’s bloodshot eyes, pressing his back desperately against a corner where the wall met the end of a slender shelf. Many books shifted behind his weight like reeds yielding to the wind, and some tumbled from the shelf as stones drop from great summits. The hall echoed with thuds of fallen leather and crinkles of pages creasing on the floor behind… followed by close footfalls, the shing of an unsheathed blade, and the sudden scrape of steel across wood.

As cleanly as an arrow flies from the bowstring, Hilda Wrenstone’s sword shot through a gap in the shelf with a flash off the dagger in Inwid’s hands. Alfon gasped with awe, watching it slide to a halt an inch beneath Inwid’s throat.

“Drop my knife, thieving traitor!” Odin bellowed, leaping from behind the shelf and hurling his strong arms around the marquess’s ribcage.

Inwid Ofurling stood thus for several moments: motionless, clasped in Odin’s arms, barred by Hilda’s sword, already feeling his once-resolved arm faltering under the weight of defeat.

“Inwid…” Alfon’s voice, quivering like a harpstring, started as a plea—a call to an old friend—but ended as a demand. “Lower the blade. And tell me the truth, or else…”

Two words seemed to hide in his tone, words he feared even to fathom. Interrogation. Torture.

The marquess obeyed Alfon’s first order. Slowly, he withdrew the dagger from Alfon’s throat and stared at the weapon as if it held the fate of the world itself.

Neither Hilda nor Odin beheld what came next. All they caught sight of was a swift, inward thrust of the blade. All their ears witnessed was a sudden pierce, a cry of pain, and the deathly thud of a body striking the floor.

Hilda rushed to their sides. There, sprawled powerlessly across the floor, lay Inwid Ofurling, son of Felsen, heir of the Ostenfeud. Amidst the dimness, half of a knife could be seen glinting in his chest.

Alfon dropped to his knees beside Inwid’s body, clutching the marquess’s shoulders. “Why, Inwid, why… oh, my dear boy, for what?”

Inwid’s eyes rose weakly to meet Hilda’s. A tear slid down his cheek. “You… Hilda…” His voice was a rasp. “You w-would… have been my duchess…”

Inwid’s head lolled back. It struck the floor like a fallen pillar.

The next few minutes hung heavily with a grim silence. None knew what to say. When the firewood seemed to shift in its iron rack and ignite new flames, feeding the hearth’s light brighter once more, the king’s eyes caught sight of something resting beneath the fallen marquess’s waist—something none of the three dared touch. It shimmered softly, with a blood-red hue and a crystalline sparkle—so very minuscule in size, yes, but fraught with an evil Alfon had known and feared his entire life.

Chapter Five: The Schism is Born

“Several hours ago, in the dead of night,” announced Queen Embla, “an assassination attempt was made on King Alfon Alderstar.”

Thousands of gasping Cliffenheimians were gathered beneath the tower, faces pale as ivory and softly illumined in the dawn’s light.

“I was not present to witness the tragedy… And perchance that is why only I can tell it comfortably.” The queen glanced solemnly at her husband and the Wrenstones. “Odin Wrenstone’s dagger Lord Inwid Ofurling did steal, and with it confronted our king after their meeting in the library. In suspicion the Wrenstones burst in to seize him, and the traitor—fearful of interrogation—grasped his final chance for control.” Embla cleared her throat. “Inwid Ofurling ended himself with the very dagger he had held to our king’s throat.”

Gasps surged no longer over the crowd. There was silence now—grim, dark, and yet hollow with an unsurprised sense of confirmation.

Odin and Hilda stood shoulder-to-shoulder, armored, grasping their weapons. “My blade,” Odin whispered, “will be forever stained with his blood. Great was my dread on hearing those creeping footfalls in my room. No greater curse could befall me. Lo! would that any other knife had he chosen, any other path had he taken.”

“I’m sorry,” Hilda whispered. “You two suffered… much friction. That knave was smitten with me, you know—and I’ll warrant he saw you as more than just a threat. But oh, let us hope that so bitter a feud spreads not any further!” She gazed into the distance—over the plains and the eastern forest, where dawn rose now over the towers of Ofurburnin.

“Such we hoped,” Odin growled, “on this very rostrum, months ago. Remember what we thought we’d escaped? And how old Berg fell? How the thing slew him? That plummet, those fluttering robes… the fire that swallowed him. We thought both were gone.” Odin laughed grimly.

“Don’t be gloomy, Odin.” Alfon shot a glance at him. “We’ll shatter that trinket. And whatever bit of Berg’s spirit still festers within. But we blessed well won’t let the word spread.”

The king strode toward the balustrade, raising his voice. “There is reason, my people, to believe that Inwid Ofurling was indeed the Rallier. Since the birth of my reign, he and his followers have sought tirelessly to stain our kingdom with elven blood. But we’re not to trust Ofurburnin any longer. This night, I shall speak with the lords of Súnimanta. Together, we’ll decide on how the elves will return to their homeland in the forests of the Ostenfeud. Queen Embla will scour the city of Ofurburnin for secrets, and Duke Felsen will be questioned.”

Alfon raised his sword to the sky. “Let not this rift seize our kingdom!” The crowd burst into cheering—thunderous yet edged with fragility, as if wondering what would come if one plan went awry.

Stay tuned for the next chapters…