Ember of the Fallen Kingdom
6,470 words
Read time 27 mins
Chapter 1: The Kingdom of the Mountainside
In a land that has long since left the songs and tales of men, fifty-four travelers mounted on fifty-four steeds were led east by the king of a city that now loomed six leagues behind them. This city was Cliffenheim, a kingdom whose mighty foundations were built into the highest clefts of Mount Wulfang. This king was named Berg III of Cliffenheim and rode far in front of his people; he had been leading them all the day long from the majestic gates of Cliffenheim to the gloomy forests that lay to the east of the city.
Nearly every resident of Cliffenheim could agree that King Berg III was an ambitious lord, whose sole purpose in serving the kingdom was to bring the power of Cliffenheim to its fullest potency. He was dressed lavishly even on horseback, with royal blood-red robes hanging from his shoulders and in his hands a spear longer than the snow-white stallion on which he rode. His eyes were cold, judgemental, and with an aggressive gaze that seemed always to scan the horizon for potential threats to obliterate. But the element of his appearance that truly inspired terror into his enemies was the golden crown upon his head: golden, gleaming, and with a searing jewel embedded into its center that could be seen blazing from afar.
This jewel was one of the only two that existed on Earth, and burned with the intensity of a hundred thousand hearts beating at once; for it was the gem that held within it the power of Cliffenheim itself. The things it did seemed too fey to have fallen into the hands of a mere man: it extended the life of the king beyond measure, so that no disease nor the dreadful thing called old age could take him; it strengthened the hearts of the Cliffenheimians, who were known from far places to be brazen and fearless warriors; and its enchantments were said to render the city’s walls nearly indestructible.
The king gazed upon this jewel for hours on end, he muttered to it, he kissed it, he slept with it; he would not part with it. His two sons had both been slain in battle long ago, and his queen had soon after left the kingdom in secret, never to be seen nor heard of again. This jewel was all he had left to love, and it brought him great power.
Yet oft he would find himself gazing into the east from his watch-tower, and would feel a passion within his soul; he wanted more power, and would lead his people many leagues to obtain it. After the one hundred and forty-seven years he had lived in admiration of this artifact, King Berg III of Cliffenheim was on a quest for the second jewel that had so long lain beyond his grasp. And it would not come easily to him, he would soon learn…
Chapter 2: An Age-Old History
“Long ago, there lived two civilizations in this land,” the king called to his cavalry, “the Cliffenheimians and the Kananti, a tribe of elves that dwelt yonder in the forest of Kananta.”
There was an immediate uproar in the crowd, during which one enraged voice rose above all the others: “You bring us into elf-territory, then? I would rather march into an army of goblins than by the hut of an elf.” It was Fenris Sutblade, one of the king’s most trusted warriors, who pronounced this last word with such contempt that none who stood by him could resist backing away.
“Silence!” the king bellowed, striking his spear on the ground and reining his horse to a halt. “These lands have long been rid of elves, and all that remains of their existence are the temples they once built in the woods of Kananta. It was five centuries ago when the Mountain-men of the Northlands came hither, and seized the land of the East-elves by force. The Kananti were banished to the Western forests of Súnimanta, never to be found in these woods again. Then the Mountain-men built their new home upon the cliffs of Wulfang, and for many a century the great city of Cliffenheim thrived. In that kingdom were crafted the Two Jewels, and they preserved the might of the city for many ages to come. Why, then, does only one jewel glitter upon my head?”
King Berg turned to face the crowd, the red gem blazing on his crown. “Because it was stolen!” he roared. “The lord of the elves, Iselon the Golden, led his army from the West to unleash war upon us. It was then that my great grandsire, King Berg I of Cliffenheim, was tragically slain by an elven-arrow and robbed of the jewel he wore upon his crown.”
The crowd flew into a rage, thrusting their weapons into the sky and cursing the elves. “That’s right!” the king snarled. “We will avenge the king and take back what the elves stole from us, the jewel which they hid in this very forest! We must make for the central shrine of Tamikúmu, which my scholars have confirmed to be the location of the second jewel. It is a two-league journey thither, but we must set down sometime anon for the evening. And when we return to Cliffenheim with this newfound power, my dear travelers, we shall wage a war upon the Súnimanti greater than they can fathom!”
There was much gasping at the mention of war. This was followed by a grave silence, which was itself interrupted by one brave voice.
Map by Winston Coady
Chapter 3: An Objection to War
“I daresay it is unwise, sire, that we should bring about war with purpose to destroy rather than defend.” All helmets turned to face Hilda Wrenstone, rising proudly upon her steed’s saddle. “Many more lives will be lost than power gained, and exiling the Súnimanti further yet will do no good to either side. We and they have maintained peace for centuries, and now Your Majesty wishes to summon more war and destruction? What will come of this but bloodshed and hatred? I beseech you, sire, use not the Two Jewels as weapons.”
The king scowled and attempted to appear taller on his saddle, snarling, “And since when has Hilda Wrenstone served as the advisor of King Berg III of Cliffenheim?”
“Speak not to my sister that way!” shouted Odin Wrenstone, sitting up on his steed next to Hilda’s own. “If none of Your Majesty’s advisors have objected to this folly, sire, then Cliffenheim truly has descended into madness. If we surrender from this strife between elves and men, my lord, think of the lives we could save from death, and the palaces we could save from destruction; think of the peace we could settle between Cliffenheim and Súnimanta. The Kananti lost everything: their land, their people, their home in the East; let us not take more from them. I beg of Your Majesty: please, spare the elves, forgive them for the death of King Berg I and the theft of His Majesty’s jewel.”
The king stared grimly at the two siblings, teeth clenched. “Odin and Hilda Wrenstone! You two have been bold and brazen since the day you joined Cliffenheim’s army, and ever the more inseparable. You are two of my greatest warriors, yet more steely than the blades of your swords.” Then, the slightest smile spreading across his lips, King Berg announced, “Nonetheless, I wish to hold a meeting with the both of you once we set down for the evening. We have matters to discuss.”
Then, in a louder voice, he called to the crowd: “My travelers, let us continue through the forest until nightfall, whence we may set up our encampments and prepare supper.”
And so, in awe of this jewel and the dark history it bore, the expedition made their way into the elven forest. Singing all the while, they filled the woods of Kananta with olden poems and folk-songs that had existed for many generations in Cliffenheim. The Wrenstone siblings shuddered at the thought of their kingdom going to war with the Súnimanti, and wondered tensely what the king planned to discuss with them later in the evening. In spite of these apprehensions, they sang merrily along with the rest of the travelers under the last light of the afternoon:
“When dawn riseth to day
We march our steeds away.
With spears held aloft in the sky
Armor clasheth whilst we cry
And sing, all the day long.
Whither we tread we bring our song
Into the sun’s last light
Till day waneth to night.”
Chapter 4: An Unforeseen Assignment
Odin and Hilda Wrenstone stood nervously outside the royal tent. A great encampment surrounded this enormous shelter of fine fabrics and vibrant banners, with countless posts raised across the clearing where steeds were hitched and fed for the evening. The smoky scent of campfires and roasting supper wafted through the air. The Wrenstones slowly entered through a large tent flap and found King Berg lounging on a royal settee, gazing with entranced eyes into the crown resting in his hands. “What is the matter?” he called to the siblings, without turning to look at them.
The two exchanged confused glances. “Your Majesty summoned the two of us to meet in this tent,” Odin reminded him.
The king seemed to pause for a moment. Then, carefully, he placed and adjusted the crown on his head before turning to face the two siblings. “Yes, right. Come and have a seat, you two.”
They made their way forward and placed themselves tensely on two stools by the king’s settee. “I have considered your objection to a war between Cliffenheim and Súnimanta. You two put up a convincing argument, and I have pondered your words for the past hour. Finally I settled on a conclusion that may save tens of thousands of lives, human and elven alike. I shall send a herald from our location to the gates of the capital city Eselenor, bearing a message promising peace between Cliffenheim and the West-elves should they confess their vices and send us recompense for all they took from our kingdom. Eselenor is nigh on fourteen leagues to the west of Kananta; therefore, the herald should return within four days bearing Súnimanta’s answer. If they agree to surrender, there shall be no more strife between elves and men. If the herald returns claiming that Súnimanta has refused to yield… another elven kingdom, annihilated. Do you understand me, Wrenstones?”
The two siblings nodded gravely. “I stand with Your Majesty’s proposal to settle a treaty between the two kingdoms, but perhaps we should not threaten them with total annihilation,” Hilda mused. “If Your Majesty addresses them rather with a promise of succor gifted from our kingdom, I am hopeful that Súnimanta will see no other choice than to surrender.”
The king chuckled. “Your compassion for the elves is admirable, Hilda Wrenstone. I have always seen something within both of you that differs from all the rest of my warriors, which leads me to assign you two an immense task. As you know, on the morrow our expedition shall search the shrine of Tamikúmu for the second jewel, although the walls in this temple are quite narrow. We would not want such a large group tramping through such a fragile structure, especially with the threat of an elven ambush. Would you two have the courage to steal into the temple, alone? There will be great reward, should you return with the jewel in your possession.”
Needless to say, the Wrenstones could not resist accepting this quest. On the next day’s dawn they were riding off on horseback toward the elven shrine, faces alight in the sunrise climbing over the treetops. As soon as their steed had passed beyond sight of the encampment, a smile spread across the king’s lips.
Chapter 5: Into The Forest’s Heart
The colossal elven shrine of Tamikúmu towered over the two siblings, this mountain of glittering stone bricks and soaring quartz pillars that seemed to penetrate the sky in their grandeur. Four storeys there were, each no less than three fathoms, neatly interwoven with the roots of trees whose canopies served to crown the structure.
Along the impregnable walls jutted mighty balconies where ancient Kananti once emerged to gaze upon their vast territory or hail arrows upon their enemies. Vines of an emerald hue coiled around every brick and frieze in this once indomitable structure, but the ancient shrine had not lost its majesty over the centuries.
It was like a tooth rising from the earth, wrought of material seldom found on this world’s surface; it was an undying monument of nature. An archway loomed over the two of them ominously, its vaulting engraved with ancient runes that the Wrenstones could scarcely attempt to decipher. A cold breath seemed to greet them from the swallowing darkness that lurked within the temple’s ruined walls.
While Odin and Hilda Wrenstone admired the monument, they knew that the rest of the king’s expedition would be busy furling their tents and mounting their steeds. Their journey, the king had claimed, took them rather southward to the great city of Ofurburnin on the westernmost frontier of Kananta. It was a kingdom belonging not to the elves but to the people of the Northlands and had been an ally of Cliffenheim’s ever since Kananta had been conquered. The expedition was to recruit a troop of Ofurburnin’s most skilled combatants, who would then march with the Cliffenheimians toward Tamikúmu.
There, they would hide under the eaves of the forest, and they would wait, wait, wait for an elven expedition to arrive. For the king’s desire for the second jewel was not unknown to the Súnimanti, and the elves were wholly expected to appear at some point in one last attempt to regain the treasure they had once obtained. But the combined might of Cliffenheim and Ofurburnin would be waiting there, behind the trees, bowstrings drawn and arrows nocked…
That is what the Wrenstones had been told. They did not relish the idea of exiting the temple to find a heap of slaughtered elves lying before them, and they had begun to develop a distrust for the king and his ways. Uneasily, they slid one by one from their steed, named Drasel, and produced a rope from their pouch. Gently leading Drasel to the nearest tree, they tied one end of the rope around the trunk and the other around the steed’s neck. They muttered several last words of comfort to the whinnying horse before setting off to explore the shrine.
Hardly had the archway passed behind their heads when the two siblings felt themselves enveloped in an overwhelming, inescapable darkness. The only light source guiding them was a distant ray of sunlight streaming through the open roof, creeping down corners and crevices to cast its faint glimmer upon the very deepest recesses of the structure. Blindly and defenselessly did the Wrenstones traverse this endless labyrinth of stone and blackness, until at last they spotted a faint orange glow flickering in the distance. It did not take long to perceive that this brightness was the light of a torch, and that the wielder of this torch was approaching them, slowly…
Chapter 6: The Dim Light Of Mercy
“Who goes there, and what brings you hither to the fallen shrine of Tamikúmu?”
A cloaked, torch-bearing figure loomed over the two siblings, and the point of a dimly illumined sword could be seen flashing just inches from their throats.
Odin was the first to break the silence. “I am Odin Wrenstone, and this is my sister, Hilda. We are soldiers in Cliffenheim’s army, sent by King Berg III of Cliffenheim himself on a quest to retrieve the second jewel from this temple’s shadow. Over eight leagues of rolling plains and dense forests, we come—”
“In peace, for the elves that once inhabited these lands,” Hilda interjected, glancing sidelong at her brother, “and who, leagues to the west of their past home, continue to suffer under our king’s tyrannical reign. It was the two of us who managed to persuade him into renouncing his declaration of war against the Súnimanti. Impressed with our pity of the elves and our boldness to question His Majesty’s resolve, the king sent us into the heart of the forest to navigate this temple’s winding networks. After all, we are the only warriors in his army to appreciate and understand the elven culture, the only ones who had spent years of our childhood studying the elven texts. Be you man or elf, stranger, we come as friends.”
The figure seemed to pause for a moment. Then, slowly, a shadowy hand rose to cast back the figure’s hood; a handsome, spritelike, almost ethereal face now gazed on them with gentle yet otherworldly eyes. The elf calmly sheathed his sword and presented them with a warm smile, his face brightened in the orange glow.
“How funny,” he muttered, “that my lifelong quest has been to hinder Cliffenheim’s obsession with the second jewel, yet I feel no inclination at all to fight you two. I must admit I am no true swordsman, but a traveler in search of bringing peace to these sundered lands. This blade I must use only for defense, and nothing more. My name is Alfon Alderstar, a lone adventurer from the city of Eselenor within the heart of Súnimanta. I come from no family of riches and nobility, but great are the dreams I have held since the earliest years of my childhood. My eyes ever wandered beyond the treetops of my land, over the Great Plains and the highlands where Wulfang stands; until my gaze settled on that great, lonesome forest in the East, the lands from whence we were banished. Here I am today, assigned by Súnimanta’s lord to seize control once again of the jewel that drove many kings mad, the jewel that shall be brought to Eselenor ere two days to be destroyed.”
A shudder crept down their spines, but Alfon smiled. “Yes, we wish separate fates upon the jewel,” he admitted, “but we all share a common longing for peace between men and elves. Come, let us walk together, tell our stories. Let us enjoy the warmth of my torch, and discuss, as the treasure draws nigh, which path we must take when it comes time to make our choice.”
Like friends of old, the three braved the dark of Tamikúmu, sharing tense words and the warmth of a flickering flame. It was unbeknownst to the trio, but far more than a jewel awaited them within the depths of the shrine.
Chapter 7: A Flame That Sheds Darkness
Odin and Hilda Wrenstone learned many things about Alfon Alderstar as he led them through the gloomy corridors. They were especially astonished to hear that he had spent almost his entire life traveling between Súnimanta and Cliffenheim, delivering news between the two lands while disguised as a cloaked man. The elf had kept every part of his identity concealed, knowing that he would be killed if anyone discovered who he was. He had gone so far as to sever the tips of his own pointed ears, lest the executioner sever his head instead. In all his time he had never been asked to reveal himself, nor confronted at all; for he was viewed only as a shadowy and unimportant figure wandering the stone streets.
Alfon had survived on the kindness of two individuals, a hospitable Cliffenheimian aristocrat and his daughter. They both knew he was an elf, and accepted it with grave loyalty, never speaking of his name nor of his comings and goings. During his residence in Cliffenheim he had learned many things, but had immediately left for Eselenor upon hearing news of King Berg’s quest the day before the expedition’s setting off. It had been difficult to part with his hosts, for he had shared love with the aristocrat’s daughter.
In Eselenor Alfon had attended a great council meeting, where it had been determined that he himself must be the one to infiltrate the shrine. “The Súnimanti must attract as little attention as possible,” they had told him, “and you, Alfon, are both the most furtive and the most ambitious of all our travelers.”
Now here he was, leading the Wrenstones fearlessly into the heart of Tamikúmu. Even in the torch’s dim light, Alfon’s long, golden-blond hair looked like strands of wheat in the summer sunlight. His smooth face and capricious eyes were ever flitting about. “Strange, is it not,” Alfon mused, turning a corner, “that the most brilliant of all monuments fashioned by the hands of the elves, creatures of light, should plunge into utter darkness after but a few centuries of warfare and decay.”
They thought about this for a moment. Then, Odin turned to the elf and inquired, “Why, Alfon, did your people choose to hide their plunder in the forsaken lands of Kananta rather than close by their new kingdom?”
The elf grimaced. “Unlike the royal family of Cliffenheim, the West-elves chose to reject the jewel’s power, seeing the latent evil hidden within it that had slowly driven Cliffenheim mad. The Súnimanti went to war not for revenge, nor even power or land; but simply because they were disgusted by how the king submitted to his jewel’s voice. Why didn’t the West-elves flaunt their new treasure, crown it, embrace its life-extending properties? Because the light of the Two Jewels is akin to that of a fire, appearing warm and life-giving until it is given excessive greed as fuel. Cliffenheim’s jewel is searing into the king’s mind, inflaming in him a lust for the second jewel that cannot be doused. Thank fate that my people hid the jewel far from their land, deep within an undefended structure where no guards could succumb to its corruption.”
As if on cue, the three turned a corner and entered a cavernous chamber; there, just beyond a narrow bridge beneath an open skylight, a crystalline artifact gleamed atop a stone table.
Chapter 8: Silver Script in the Shadow
The second jewel of Kananta shone with a moonlike glow unlike all else on this world, holding the trio’s eyes enthralled as they gingerly crossed a narrow bridge leading to a platform that rose above a black abyss. The Kananti architects had built this bridge over a natural gorge as a defense mechanism against invaders, with an overhead skylight to brighten the way. A mossy scent filled the air, and the sound of a waterfall could be faintly discerned amidst the darkness.
“The day has finally come,” Alfon uttered upon stepping foot on the platform, his voice echoing off the fathomless walls, “when both our peoples lay eyes once again on this artifact with such strength within it, yet with a power that took countless lives. Look at that ever-so-faint orange wisp in its core — or whatever spirit your eyes may perceive — like the last flickering embers of a ruined kingdom.”
Lustrous as the jewel was, something else caught their gazes. Eyes widening, Alfon reached tremulously for a scroll lying on the stone table and began to unroll the parchment with quivering fingers. “No, this couldn’t be…” he whispered incredulously, squinting at the inscription. “Could this be the final remains? But they were all… all stolen and burned, destroyed, lost to all knowledge!” he cried.
“This is the very last of the words of Jasifi the Silver, wisest of all elven soothsayers, whose prophecies travelers flocked to hear in these halls! Silenced was her wisdom when Ofurburnish invaders assailed this shrine and enslaved nearly all its residents, but no one knows what fate befell Lady Jasifi after she vanished from all sight. Some claim she was slain, others that she fled to some distant land. The jewel had not yet fallen into the hands of the elves in her time, mind you, and it would have been a veteran of the War of the Jewel who placed the treasure by this scroll. I see now that the inscription is written in your tongue, Wrenstones, which may reveal the audience at which Jasifi’s words were directed.”
Alfon held the scroll before them, and all three silently read the silver script:
Surging from all directions, hundreds straight from Ofurburnin breach till mighty Tamikúmu crumbleth. My archers throng the battlements, but not swiftly enough to hinder the invaders rushing in and shackling my people. My guards hasten to barricade this chamber’s doorway. Now, with this silver quill in my hands and this parchment beneath my fingertips, I hear a final prophecy speaking:
The next rightful heir of the cliff-city’s throne
Shall bring lore the two kingdoms have ceased to remember.
A descendant of the masons who wrought its towers of stone
And cloaked seeker of the fallen kingdom’s ember.
Pray that this figure shall bring light to these words. The Cliffenheimians and Ofurburnish have deceived us, covertly stealing everything from our people. Men did not craft the Two Jewels; it was we, the Kananti, who unearthed the crystals in our quarries and enchanted them with our greatest mages. I sense an evil developing in the jewels, fueled by the strife that hath sundered our peoples. A war is coming. King Berg the First hath forsaken our truce, inscribed and formally signed on this scroll’s back side.
Eagerly did Alfon rotate the scroll, where, beneath a many-paragraphed armistice, the signature of Cliffenheim’s former king glowed in silver calligraphy. The trio’s disbelief was interrupted when footsteps sounded behind them; swiveling, they saw a cloaked figure entering the chamber.
Chapter 9: A Backstabbing Encounter
“Drop to the ground!” Alfon hissed sidelong at the Wrenstones, and before the intruder could take another step, the two siblings were lying prostrate under the elf’s cloak. All three waited tensely as the figure’s echoing footsteps began to cross the narrow bridge, until at last Alfon ventured, “Greetings, fellow traveler.”
There was the sound of chuckling followed by an unsheathed blade, and “Greetings, elf-scum,” was the figure’s response. The Wrenstones recognized this voice at once to be that of Fenris Sutblade, King Berg’s right-hand man as well as Cliffenheim’s fiercest warrior. Fenris had never been particularly fond of the two siblings, and his view on the elven race was not exactly warmhearted. Knowing his lust for the Two Jewels and for vengeance against the elves, the Wrenstones’ desire for a bloodless encounter grew less and less hopeful.
“Well, if it isn’t an elf here before me,” Fenris sneered, “standing over both a precious jewel and two sprawling humans that appear to be my faithless comrades in Cliffenheim’s army. But oh, you know rotten well I haven’t come to see them. What will it be, leaf-sprite? Will you hand over my treasure, or will I, Fenris Sutblade, Chief General of Cliffenheim, have to lop off that pretty, keen-eared head of yours? Clearly you’ve some virtue, seeing how you’ve managed to rid the earth of these scums now lying dead on the ground.”
Fenris’s cold and unperturbed tone was deadlier than the jagged, soot-black dagger in his hands. Alfon, choosing not to unsheathe his own sword, remained levelheaded and answered calmly:
“Nay, they’re not dead. Wandering these halls, I found them gaping at this accursed jewel I’ve sought to destroy all my life. I wrestled them both to the ground and questioned them till they fell speechless, learning only that they’re called the Wrenstones and that they come from Cliffenheim and not much more. Then, planning to smuggle the siblings along with this jewel to Súnimanta, I tranquilized them with the most powerful herb in all my people’s lands, the sedative leaves of the black-petaled flower we call sloomwort. None else on this world carries—”
“I did not travel eight leagues to hear some lecture in elven culture!” Fenris snarled. “The second jewel has come to me at last, and with it I’ll bring Cliffenheim to its fullest power!”
And with that he lunged forward, shoving Alfon out of his way before clasping his fingers around the coveted artifact. And though its fiery heat seared his hands, Fenris Sutblade’s laughter rang terribly as he bounded away over the bridge.
But at that moment Alfon thrust out his sword lightning-fast to bar Fenris’s way, and the Cliffenheimian commander retaliated with a stroke of his soot-black dagger that struck the elf’s sword out of his hands. Alfon’s blade spun wildly as it dropped into the black abyss, until a faint clatter could be heard sounding from the rocky depths of the cavern.
Resisting the urge to shoot a gloating remark, Fenris bolted across the bridge and over the chamber’s dark threshold. While the Wrenstones leaped to their feet, Alfon hurriedly tucked Jasifi’s Scroll in his cloak’s pocket. “After the scoundrel!” he cried, and the trio started over the bridge.
Chapter 10: A Quelling of Fire and Life
Alfon, Odin and Hilda sprinted through the shadowed halls of Tamikúmu, with only their memory and the sound of Fenris Sutblade’s distant footsteps to guide the way. Finally, a welcoming shaft of sunlight greeted them from around a corridor. There was the archway they had passed an hour ago, unaware at the time of the appalling revelations and the treacherous encounter that awaited them. With pounding hearts the trio emerged from the darkness of the shrine, expecting to find their expedition standing guard around the entrance. What they saw instead was far more harrowing.
Flames bit and devoured every trunk and bough of the forest surrounding Tamikúmu, belching forth terrible plumes of smoke that had them coughing within seconds. Amidst the fiery glade only one other soul could be seen, a soul whose agonized whinnies racked the Wrenstones’ hearts as they surged forward to unhitch their dear steed.
“Drasel!” Hilda screamed, tears welling in her eyes. “Why, oh why did they leave you here, why did we leave you here, poor thing!”
“He’s suffocating!” Odin sobbed, slicing the tether with his sword. “Alfon, you’re an elf, a guardian of nature, so please do something — lull this fire to sleep, however it may have been born, and help our poor steed! We can’t afford to lose him, we can’t — or we’ll never catch up with the expedition, never make it back to Cliffenheim and reveal their corrupt lies!”
Alfon crouched by the fallen horse, closing his eyes. “I can ease him into a state of rest, hearken to the voice of his breath and soul,” the elf muttered, “and the fire, too, I’ll try my best to pacify.” Incanting under his breath, he pressed his ear to Drasel’s chest and listened for many moments. Finally, he began to translate the steed’s whispering heartbeat into words:
“Drasel noticed the expedition appear after you two arrived, he tells me, and only one explorer entered the shrine: a cloaked man with a shaggy beard and a blade blacker than death — that rogue, Fenris Sutblade — who soon burst out of the temple and lit everything afire with a strike of the searing jewel against a tree… and when he proceeded to lead the expedition westward, that scoundrel simply laughed as the smoke choked Drasel…”
A heart-wrenching silence fell over the trio, and all that could be heard was Alfon’s soft chanting as he lulled each flame asleep. The heat lessened, and smoke no longer stifled the air. “I fear Drasel may be approaching his last moments,” Alfon sighed, watching tears stream down both siblings' cheeks.
“You’re a good steed, Drasel,” Odin whispered, stroking the horse’s mane. “You’ve served us valiantly, brought us many leagues — you don’t deserve this fate.”
“Remember when we were young, Drasel?” Hilda sobbed. “When Odin and I were just children and you a little colt, and we grew up, traveled together… my Drasel, my hero…”
The life faded from Drasel’s eyes, and with it the last flames in the branches. With no time to mourn their noble steed, the trio made their way deeper into the forest as their hopes of catching Fenris Sutblade waned. They had lost their one form of transportation at the hands of an unnecessarily destructive act, and the second jewel was now far beyond their grasp.
Chapter 11: The Heir of the Mountain’s Throne
When the trio had trekked from Kananta’s heart to the edge of the forest, evening had already cloaked the sky. The Great Plains stretched for nine leagues to the east, bordered by the western forest of Súnimanta and crowned by the jutting peak of Mount Wulfang where Cliffenheim’s towers stood like pine trees. To the north there loomed the great mountain range where the people of the Northlands once dwelt, before they had migrated southward to seize control of the elven lands and construct new kingdoms. Two leagues to the south stood the mountain-city of Ofurburnin, its many peaks blotted out by the Kananti treetops rising above the trio.
Bereft of energy to pursue Fenris Sutblade, the three gathered kindling and lit a small campfire. While Alfon boiled his supply of salted meat using water from a nearby stream, the Wrenstones laid all their travel blankets on the ground for bedding.
Alfon had traveled to Tamikúmu on foot, leaving all three of them without even a steed for the morrow’s six-league journey to Cliffenheim. There, the trio’s final task would be to expose the kingdom’s dark history using Jasifi’s Scroll. Yet there remained one puzzle piece missing in their hopeless plan, and Hilda voiced it during supper. “Who, according to Jasifi the Silver,” she asked quietly, “could be the next prophesied heir of Cliffenheim?”
“From what we know,” Alfon muttered, “This figure must deliver forgotten lore, descend from Cliffenheim’s stonemasons, and seek the ‘ember of the fallen kingdom’ — either in a concealed manner or wearing a literal cloak. None of us meets all the criteria, so the throne must belong to someone else — possibly Fenris or even Berg already, if either of them has discovered some lore we aren’t aware of. Or, it could—”
“Alfon!” Odin blurted. “It could be you! I know Jasifi didn’t explicitly state this, but it’s possible Cliffenheim was masoned by the elves — it was they, after all, who crafted the Two Jewels. And Cliffenheim’s architecture is strikingly similar to the fashion of Kananta — think of the unequally-sized towers, the engraved archway, the strong trees weaving each wall together, everything! If indeed the stonework of Cliffenheim was stolen from the elven architects, then you, Alfon, could be the rightful heir of Cliffenheim!”
Odin’s theory left all three of them white-faced in their blankets for hours. It was the truth. Alfon Alderstar had to be the one, and it chilled the elf’s blood to think of the fate in his hands. Such truth the trio had unveiled that day, and such horror as well. King Berg III had lied to the Wrenstones, claiming that they were his only two explorers when in truth they were the pawns clearing Fenris’s path. His claim of an elf-human treaty, a detour to Ofurburnin, and above all that the Two Jewels had been crafted by Cliffenheim… every word was deceit.
Fenris Sutblade had celebrated his victory through slaughter and destruction, two acts that slaked his thirst for power and his resentment against the Wrenstones. Though the fury of losing Drasel seethed in their hearts, the hope of a promising heir and a coming dawn eventually lulled the trio asleep.
Chapter 12: The Rider of Cliffenheim
Over five leagues of barren plains the trio jogged under the sun’s blazing rays, drawing ever closer to the mountainside kingdom. While Alfon had spent nearly his entire life traveling afoot, the Wrenstones had never excelled in the cross-country training provided by Cliffenheim’s army. All of a sudden, they spotted a distant rider mounted on a flaxen stallion galloping their way, guiding a second steed at her side using an additional pair of reins in her right hand. When Alfon could clearly see the rider’s face, he let out a cry of sheer joy.
“Embla!” he exclaimed, surging forward as the two steeds were brought to a halt. “Alfon!” she laughed, sliding from her saddle and falling gracefully into his arms. The two burst into a long and heartfelt embrace, kissing and twirling in each other’s arms while the Wrenstones waited awkwardly for an introduction.
Alfon turned to the siblings. “This is Embla Crestwood, my beloved and the only human with whom I ever shared a relationship before I met you two. She and her father, the Cliffenheimian nobleman Fraxinus Crestwood, were the only Cliffenheimians who knew and accepted the elven face hidden beneath my cloak. Two days ago I thought I’d never see you again, Embla, never gaze into those warm eyes and feel your soft hands…”
Embla’s urgent expression silenced their lips before any of them could utter another word. “The expedition arrived an hour ago, Alfon, and the king plans to wage war on the Súnimanti — but the West-elves have anticipated his intent, and they’ve begun to march their army to the east. As soon as I heard these tidings, I gazed longingly from my watch-tower and saw you three specks in a sea of barren grasslands. And then my heart leaped and I knew it was you, Alfon, and I guided my steeds hither to find you. Why, you two must be Odin and Hilda Wrenstone — though Berg and General Sutblade proclaimed you dead. They’re awful men, but it’s an honor to meet you two — and I sense you've discovered something important. Come, Cliffenheim is calling!”
While both horses bore two riders each toward the tooth of Wulfang, the trio recounted all they had gone through together — their convergence, the appalling history and the hopeful prophecy they had uncovered, their encounter with Sutblade, and how they had witnessed the death of one of Cliffenheim’s greatest steeds. Embla, shocked pale, vowed to inform her father about these revelations as soon as she arrived. Cliffenheim’s soldiers, she told them, had already begun to guard the ramparts, and the rest of the population was to hear the king’s speech at the city’s central plaza beneath the highest tower. The trio’s next step would be to infiltrate the royal rostrum, where they would unveil Cliffenheim’s true history once and for all.
“I can’t believe Súnimanta has resorted to war once again,” Alfon announced. “They didn’t utter a word of this during the council I attended two days ago in Eselenor. My people have betrayed me, just as your king has done to you. Everything unfolding today is everything I wished to prevent, and I’ve failed already.”
As if on cue, the land began to quake under the fury of ten thousand thundering steps; from the west, innumerable brigades of elven soldiers marched with spears thrust to the sky.
Check back next week for new chapters…
