Divine Right

Divine Right

  Copyright © 2015 James Neal

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to Mr. Neal, at the address below:

  253 Bumper Hill Road

  Camdenton, MO 65020

  [email protected]

  All characters and events are fictitious. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America

  First Electronic Edition

  Table of Contents:

  Dedications

  Story

  Other Works by Author

  About the Author

  Dedications:

  As always, first and foremost this goes to my children, Azure and Xavier. Whichever dreams you two decide to grab for, I know you can reach them.

  Also, my lovely lady Dawn who has yet to give up hope on me. Thank you for putting up with the stress of having a writer in the house. Thank you more for not giving up on me.

  Last but not least, thank you to Avery Tingle, one of my dearest friends and lenders of great knowledge. None of it is going to waste, I promise you.

  Story

  The last grey sands of Yeurik Desert passed under Jon Carghen two smicks back. Yeurik, where he took a boy of fourteen years and turned him into a monster. That monster now has the ability to create new creatures from his imagination. The boy, Ben Hhand, spared Carghen’s life, though Jon holds no illusions…they will meet up again.

  Now though, the backwoods town of Galrey unfolds before him in the form of simple, wooden buildings making a jagged skyline. All told, Galrey looks like a broken-down box that smells of molasses and whiskey. Carghen takes his time learning the geography of the town before putting his horse up with the stable master.

  Feeling anxious, Carghen does a walkabout on foot, ensuring he knows every nook and cranny of the town. Galrey is surrounded by a wall, but being only three feet tall and made of chicken wire, chances are the inhabitants don’t count on it providing any defense. The biggest building is in the center with a modest sign that says, simply, Galrey Whiskey. Every other building is set up to support this one business: small warehouses that could send a man cross-eyed just by breathing near them, several gates where wagons are being loaded with wooden barrels, two taverns, and several homes on the outermost edge of the town. Aside from the taverns, everybody living here appears to work for the distillery in some fashion.

  The people themselves seem happy. Many have a heavy tan, making them appear leathery. Carghen makes a guess that these are the men and women who take to the fields to plant, grow, and gather the grain. The rest of the people are within a gradient between pasty and dark.

  Satisfied he knows all he needs about Galrey, Carghen makes his way to the more expensive looking of the two taverns. Whereas outside, everyone stayed to their business and paid Carghen no mind, the story changes once inside the tavern. Once his hooded figure steps through the doorway, all conversation stops, and each pair of eyes is glued to the newcomer. In Carghen’s travels across Rivnik, few things give him more personal enjoyment than this moment. Every. Single. Time.

  Stepping with slow, deliberate movements, Carghen makes sure his gawkers see the three blades on his person, the line of knives across his chest, and no fear in his eyes as he takes a seat on a barstool in the front. Only then does Jon bring his hood down, the eye of Maylyn crimping into nothingness as his red hair spills out over his face in limp curls.

  The bartender, with some caution, steps up to Carghen, “I take it ye’ll not be giving coin, then?”

  Carghen looks hard at the man, such a question should not be asked. No Crimson Knight pays for meals nor room and board. Crimson Knights pay their dues by delivering justice and hunting unnatural creatures. For asking that question, Carghen could kill this man by Divine Right, as is well known throughout Rivnik, and sleep just fine. He’d just been spared though- violence is not necessary at this moment.

  “No. Bring me a full meal and your best whiskey.”

  When a second crimson hood comes through the door, Carghen knows something terrible is going to happen. He won’t get to enjoy his meal. Unlike Carghen, this Knight moves with lithe, short movements, as though in a hurry to pass through the civilians. He could tell the newcomer used magic more than the blade. The tell-tale sign being the figure’s nigh imperceptible jumps between steps, whereas a blade-bearer knows that choppy footwork results in death on the battlefield.

  Carghen also isn’t surprised when the figure’s hood comes down, and feminine features shine from under long, black locks of hair.

  “Good morrow, Evelyn,” Carghen says.

  “Good morrow. Jon.”

  Jon’s plate of steaming food lands too loud between the two hooded knights. Worse, everybody is looking at the two of them again, wondering just what is about to take place…and if there will be blood…and if any will be theirs.

  The bartender looks at Evelyn, “I suppose neither of ye’ll be giving up coin?”

  Jon closes his eyes. Stupid, stupid man. You made a mistake being this up front the first time. Carghen doubts Evelyn has been spared her life any time in recent history. Hearing Evelyn already whispering a spell, Jon keeps his eyes closed and waits for it to be over. He doesn’t need blood blinding him; and he’s already given up on his food.

  Evelyn’s hands begin glowing as she finishes the last stanza of her spell. Orange flames spark up and down the tattooed lines, now glowing red, on her arms. The bartender realizes he’s going to die. Fire roils in a tight circle around Evelyn’s fists just before shooting out and enveloping the bartender in hellish fury.

  The force of her magic pushes the body against the wall behind it. Everybody except Jon watches as skin melts from muscle, muscle burns black, and peels to reveal gristle and bone. Within seconds, the bartender’s skeleton falls to the floor, smoking and surrounded by ash.

  Evelyn turns to her onlookers, “Well. Get to it. Drinks are free tonight.”

  Nobody moves.

  Carghen opens his eyes. The smoke stings, not much, but enough.

  “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “Mixpit! Jon, he was trying to deny service to a Crimson Knight. Our rules are clear: if we ask from one who does not need, we receive. Whether we ask for coin, meals, rooms, or information. If they refuse, they are refusing Maylyn herself and must be punished. And our allowance for punishment includes death. That is our Divine Right.”

  “He wasn’t refusing anything. He asked a question, a stupid question…but nothing was refused.”

  “This is why the Crimson Bishops are talking about you, Jon. You’ve gotten soft-hearted in recent years. And the bartender’s attitude was clear. He didn’t feel he should have to give us anything. In Maylyn’s name, did he do the same to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you kill him?”

  “I already answered that question. Violence was not necessary.”

  Some of the patrons scoot their chairs and step out the door at this point. Carghen looks after them, wishing he could join them. Evelyn is here for a reason though. Time to discover that reason.

  “Evelyn, it’s been great fun, but why are you here?”

  Evelyn shifts in her seat. Carghen notes the movement, this is not a good sign. Anything that makes Evelyn jumpy is bad news. Carghen’s stomach warns him that her visit is a bit more personal than semantic differences.

  “A writ
has been sent out by the Bishops. They want you released, Jon. I don’t know the specifics of what you did but they want you, bad. Dead or alive bad.”

  “Released? That means…”

  “You will be stripped of your Divine Right. You won’t be a Knight anymore. You’ll be hunted if you don’t return to the temple in Judicus. And Jon, if you make them hunt you down…”

  “The dead or alive bit loses an option. Yeah, I know the mixpittin’ rules. You don’t have any idea why the decision was made?”

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Spill it.”

  “Because of how you handled Arnellus Hhand. Using that fourteen year old boy, and then letting the boy escape. Jon, he’s a monster too. You should have killed him. And there’s several jobs before Arnellus…jobs where your target should have landed in a casket.”

  “I’m going to take care of Ben Hhand. Maylyn hasn’t called me to that particular job yet. As for how I’m handling my targets, Maylyn judges me, not the Bishops. And she hasn’t called for me to