The Right to Rule: Domain Wars, #0.5

By Nikolai Wisekal

Two mortals race to win crowns from a God resisting the machinations of a Goddess.

 

Deities and Mortals alike feel the hunger of ambition in Imreth. Rexus, the God of Crowns, is eager to forge a new crown for a worthy head as the current King of the North slowly dies. Alkhim, the blood-stained Northman, is eager to win the race for the crown to take power over his own future.

Jannan, a queen of a Southern kingdom, is eager to earn a Blessing for one of the crowns she brings so that she can free her nation from the ruthless control of the Goddess of Law and Justice.

 

To fulfill his own ambitions, Rexus must navigate the deadly politics that govern every God and Goddess of Imreth as surely as Alkhim and Jannan must navigate their own journeys. Will each find what they seek? What consequences await them all during the perilous race up Kingspeak Mountain? Ambition drives all of them to change their lives in exchange for power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nikolai Wisekal
• Release date: Jul 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201472597

Nikolai Wisekal

Nikolai Wisekal’s love for storytelling began with his wonderful aunt, whose stories made him laugh, think, and just want to read everything he could get his hands on. His mother also had wonderful editions of the original Grimm fairy tales that he enjoyed as a child. Eventually he began to read series like the Dragonriders of Pern, Lord of the Rings, Foundation Trilogy, and the Dresden Files, which set him on the path to being a fantasy and sci-fi fan for life.   He got the wibbly-wobbly idea that he could learn how to write at the age of 16, thus starting a start/stop pattern as a writer for nearly ten years. After attending DFWCON in 2018 and making friends, he started to dig into everything writing entails--characters, structure, dialogue, and his long hated enemy: grammar. If you asked some of his critique partners, he seemed to either ignore or have a personal vendetta against commas.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

In the North, people had two names, a birth name, and the one they earned. The second could keep your purse full until the day you died or earn you nothing but laughter. Some went their entire lives hunting for the moment they could earn it. With his teeth pressed together to avoid chattering, Alkhim didn’t give a shit if they called him Shivertooth! 

For three weeks, he’d been chasing this rogue general through the snow. Three weeks of cutting down the man’s bodyguards as they pissed and shat or gave chase. Three weeks of surviving nights without a fire. By the second week he couldn’t smell his own stink. He wanted to kill the general and go back to spit on the dying fool king who'd ordered it. He glanced out of his hollow tree into the clearing where three men sat around a fire with drawn steel. One of them had been kneeling in prayer for the last hour. An Oathmarked expected aid for such devotion. The low wail of the winds and creak of swaying trees were the only answers Alkhim observed. Northmen did not worship Imreth’s subtle Deities. Hopefully, he wasn't praying to one of the cunning Deities.

For perhaps the hundredth time, Alkhim looked at the tent behind them. General Osrin had not emerged that day. His men were alert, their eyes constantly watched the treeline. They pissed and shat in sight of each other. Not one of them wanted to risk being alone. Three weeks ago, Alkhim would have enjoyed the challenge of luring them away. Here and now, frustration was what he drank and ate to stay awake. Each movement brought new discomfort, and he almost wanted to laugh as he thought that he’d never heard a single song about the evils of sweat. How every drop soaked into your clothes and froze against your armor. No song sang about the dead’s blood doing the same. All the damn songs were about the duels, the deeds, and the glory. Snow trickled in where some bastard’s spear had ripped through Alkhim’s chainmaille. 

Fuck this! Alkhim growled and stripped. The armor was deadweight and wouldn’t hold against three men hacking at it. Shedding the maille was hard, but he used his axe blade to cut away his pants. Stubborn rage was not the best thing to trust, but as his father liked to say. 

Once you start the work, finish it. 

With everything from knees to ears exposed, Alkhim felt the winter wind whip across his skin. He breathed through the shivers, freezing air tinged with pine filled his lungs. Goosebumps rose across every inch of him except his feet. He’d left his boots on. If he survived this, he didn’t want to lose any toes. Not for the first time, he wished he had defied his father, sworn oaths to one of Imreth’s many Deities and had an Oathmark of his own. At least then he’d know someone would listen to his prayers, and maybe, just maybe, tell him if his plans would let him live or kill him. At the sound of his approach all the men stood, but didn’t leave the fire. If he was going to die, at least he’d die warm. 

Axes in each hand, he walked straight into the clearing. One man pointed, and all three fixated on him. One by one, their mouths dropped. Not surprising when the man hunting you walks out of his hiding place wearing only boots. He thanked whatever Deities were listening that none of them drew a bow. Alkhim pointed his axe to address them. They raised their shields. He chuckled as the shields shook but he’d killed many of them with a thrown axe.

Enough of that, we’re all freezing out here because of the fat idiot in the tent. What did he promise? To make you a First Blade? Alkhim pointed at the Oathmarked man. Wealth and women? Alkhim pointed at the other two men. One by one, they lowered their shields. How will he claim Rexus’ crown and keep his promises while he’s out here running and hiding? Alkhim bit his tongue against the shiver threatening to spasm his limbs, and the men muttered amongst each other. One more push and they’d be off. King Gresh the Tongue Taker’s orders are to kill Osrin. Said nothing about all of you. Let me kill him and we can all be on our way to warmer homes. 

It was the sort of plan that earned a name or a grave. Alkhim watched their eyes and waited. The longer they stood, the deeper the winter cold sank into him. The Oathmarked man acted first. He sheathed his sword, and the others nodded, following suit. All three picked up their packs and walked into the night. Alkhim strode into the tent and saw what he wanted. A guard’s armor and clothes. Then he recognized the sound filling the tent. Snoring. The fat fucker was snoring with a brazier near his bed. Alkhim peeled away his filthy clothes and dressed as quickly as he could. The dry clothes and brazier’s warmth against his skin were euphoria after so long in the cold. The pleasure gave Alkhim a moment of cruel clarity. He remembered the weeks chasing Osrin, the cold, the frozen blood and sweat. Osrin had likely spent every night warm. Alkhim marched to the man's bedside and with the curved spike of an axe, tipped the brazier onto Osrin’s chest.

Furs and fabrics took in the fire, same as oil, flaring to life. Osrin’s screams replaced the sound of fire eating air. He threw the blanket away, but the fire had spread to his hair and beard. Heat melted away skin and fed upon the fat beneath.

For your betrayal. Alkhim shouted in Osrin's face and the man ran out. The frozen earth melting as bits of flaming clothing fell away from him. He fell into the snow, rolling and screaming. The flames smothered away when he turned over his face more bone than skin. The spittle mess coming out of Osrin’s mouth were pieces of words. 

Alkhim didn’t ask and said no prayer. He brought his axe down and the blade split through Osrin's fire-softened skull.

He exhaled the stench of burned traitor and knelt near the fire. The last logs reduced to cooling embers. Alkhim was one of the Godless and had no one to pray to, but he knew at least one God who was listening to every prayer in the North. 

Rexus, God of Crowns, friend to those he coronates, grant me luck in the race to come and I will honor the crown you forge. Alkhim thumbed some hot ash from the edge of the fire painting a thick band across his forehead to complete the prayer.

CHAPTER 2

Rexus heard Alkhim’s prayer and thousands more from every able body in the North. Gresh was dying. A race for a new crown was due to begin. Lightning skittered across the sky. He walked to the edge of a balcony no human had ever set foot on. He admired the flowing lapis tiles interweaving with flaming paths of sunstones framing scenes of great deeds by deity and mortal alike. From the ceiling to the floors, his fellow Deities had engineered Zenreth into a tapestry of world history into immortal beauty. It was a worthy palace to every Deity worshipped in Imreth’s temples. A cold storm wind broke against his skin. Kneeling by the edge, he dipped a hand large as a boulder into the black clouds, the drumbeat of thunder shook his bones.

Behind him was a lavish feast celebrating the Ascension of the Goddess Juristes. In a mere century, her Lesser Domain of Law and Justice had reformed many nations. She was the Youngest of Younger Deities, Ascension raised her Domain from Lesser to Greater. Now Deities of Lesser Domains, no matter their age, would defer to her. Rexus as the God of Crowns was among the Lesser Domains.

Not for the first time in his many millennia he considered how to Ascend. Other Deities described it as a ruthless game of popular politics. He'd never tried to play. From the first dreams and silent wishes of those who wore crowns, he was born from the cosmic chaos of the stars. From there he had