Tears
of a Heart
Kan
Savasci Cycle Book 1
by
Chase Blackwood
Genre:
Epic Fantasy
Winner
of John E Weaver Excellent Reads Award
#50
of 100 Best Fantasy Series Ever - reedsydiscovery
He's
been called the Scourge of Bodig, the Bane of Verold, but most know
him as the Kan Savasci. He's one of the most feared men alive. Chaos
and war have followed him like an angry shadow.
The
one problem, as the world faces the wrath of forgotten gods, Kan
Savasci is nowhere to be found.
The
annalist, a man trained in the ancient arts of the arkein, has been
tasked to uncover the whereabouts of the Kan Savasci at any cost. In
order to find the man, one must unmask the depths of his reclusive
history.
The
clock is ticking as Verold descends into darkness.
Delve
into an award-winning fantasy novel described as "epic,"
"beautiful," and "reminiscent of Rothfuss' work."
It was on a warm Sumor day that he found himself on one of the many roads leading to the great city on the shores of the River Lif.
Irrigation streams carved channels through the valley, sectioning off parcels of land for farming. Aeden had never seen farming on such a scale. The thoroughfares were made of crushed stone and were plied upon by thousands of groups. Travelers, troupers, farmers, merchants, and the nobility all made their way over the vast network of roads.
The route he took led to the heart of Bodig. By the third day he could make out the great Red City. Massive walls of maroon-hued sunstone enshrouded the city. The early morning light graced the sunstone and cast it in luminescence, giving it the appearance of a giant gemstone.
To his left, the River Lif carved a wide, slow-moving channel. Its waters shimmered in the morning light, feeding the great vine of the central kingdom.
There was almost too much for Aeden to process. He had grown accustomed to the quiet of the forest. The sights and sounds sparked lucid fragments of crumbling memory. A brief flash of him sitting about a campfire settled in his mind.
He was back in his village, sitting next to Devon after a long day of training. Their bellies were full and stories of faraway lands were told to amuse and to educate. He would purposefully position himself to watch the firelight play with Dannon’s delicate features. That night was the story of the Great Empire to the West. How one man set about uniting three massive kingdoms.
Aeden blinked back tears and attempted to clear his throat of the constant lump of sadness that now resided there. He glanced down; surprised to see he was clutching the lock of Dannon’s hair. He tucked it back into his pocket and followed the movements of the boats plying the River Lif in an effort to distract himself.
Brightly colored sails flapped in the subtle wind. Flags demarcating noble houses of trade snapped and fluttered. Dark-skinned men appeared as insects in the distance moving about the wooden decks. Aeden couldn’t help but wonder what Devon would think of it all.
Thoughts consumed Aeden, swallowing the hours as the sun rose into the afternoon sky. He had followed a trouper’s caravan to the walls of the Red City. A series of piers stretched out to his left. Boats of various make and shape were docked. Men were busy casting lines, offloading cargo, or shouting orders. Smaller skiffs lay anchored, awaiting their turn, sails folded and tucked away.
Soldiers stood alert along the road leading to the huge gates. They had the solid look of pillars, sweating under the Sumor sun. The symbol of an oak tree with a single sword underneath emblazoned their red chest armor. Aeden quickly wrapped his bodark bow, quiver, and Templas sword within the folds of the great shroud cat’s skin that he carried upon his back.
He huddled ever closer to the multi-colored wagon in front of him, its wheels creaking over the gravel and stone. Aeden was temporarily cast in shade as they squeezed through the massive archway of one of the main entrances to the city. Huge metal gates stood open, the black bars stood in stark contrast to the differing shades of red brick that comprised the walls. The bricks themselves were partially transparent, as if they struggled to retain the color within. A shove from behind snapped him out of his fascination and forced him into the city. He was surprised at how many people were making their way into Bodig. It reminded him of the mass elk migrations he had seen back home.
Once within the city walls he left the relative safety of the lumbering trouper caravan. The smells of spices, humanity, and rotting foods flooded his senses. A dizzying array of colorful stalls lined the great artery leading deeper into the capital. People shoved, shouted, and bargained as they clogged the streets. Small alleyways twisted off the main road like branches of some great tree. Smaller shops lined the alleys cast in shade by red canvas strung overhead. Bins of spice stretched into the twisting depths of each alley he saw. He never knew there were so many spices in all of Verold.
Foreign words were uttered all about him. People pushed past him as he watched a small group of children beg for food. All the while the swelling tide of humanity pushed him ever deeper into the heart of the Red City. Hopefully toward a place of greater quiet, he thought.
Aeden passed another wall and another open gate. He paused, briefly running a hand along the strangely translucent, red stone. This second section was nearly as busy as the first. People continued to push their way through the crowds like rain upon an open mountain.
Almost immediately the stench of feces, blood, and death hit him like a fist to the stomach. A cacophony of squeaks, squeals, barks, and hollers trumped the haggling shouts of the populace. Live animals of every shape and size imaginable were chained, caged, or otherwise enclosed and for sale. The ground was a slippery mixture of dung, urine, and water, all running in thin runnels over faded stone.
Flies buzzed about in angry clusters. They droned around incessantly. They were attracted by the ever-present metallic tinge of blood. Small rivulets of red ran from the stands where animals were killed. Impatient customers watched in agitated boredom, swatting at flies as butchers worked their craft. The scene was fascinating, gruesome, and mundane.
Tower
of the Arkein
Kan
Savasci Cycle Book 2
2017 Royal
Dragonfly E-Book Award Winner, 1st Place
Beverley Hills
Book Award Finalist: Fantasy
2017 Best Book Awards Finalist:
Fantasy
#50
of 100 Best Fantasy Series Ever - reedsydiscovery
Trapped
as a slave, facing an impossible decision, Aeden must choose between
his friends and his soul...
The
clock is ticking as the world descends into darkness.
He's
been called the Scourge of Bodig, the Bane of Verold, but most know
him as the Kan Savasci. He's one of the most feared men alive. Chaos
and war have followed him like an angry shadow. The one problem, as
the world faces the wrath of forgotten gods, Kan Savasci is nowhere
to be found.
The annalist, a man trained in the ancient arts
of the arkein, has been tasked to uncover the whereabouts of the Kan
Savasci at any cost. In order to find the man, one must unmask the
depths of his reclusive history.
The cliffs that rose to either side of the River Lif were sheer walls of immense beauty. They had the appearance of having been sculpted and smoothed over the centuries. Veins of marble colored the walls, creating patterns that the mind struggled to understand.
The cliffs were highlighted in rays of light under a still and quiet sun. A startling blue sky watched over thick puffs of white clouds that billowed about lazily. The morning air was cool, and the subtle texture of history weighed upon the gentle breeze.
“We’re getting close,” the archduchess said, approaching Aeden.
Aeden looked up, surprised she had ventured out into the sunlight.
Alina had spent the entire prior day and night in the shelter of her cabin. Perhaps she had simply come for some fresh air. He didn’t care the reason. She was out, and he was happy.
“Close to what, my lady?” Aeden asked.
She pointed ahead to the gentle curve in the river. The cliff walls on either side grew narrower and even taller still.
“Godsend’s Pass,” she said reverently.
Aeden nodded his head, as if he knew what she was talking about. Verold was huge. In the last couple of years, he had seen more of it than he had ever imagined, yet he knew that he had only scratched the surface. There still lay vast continents unexplored, unclaimed islands beckoning the adventurous, and places that lay uncharted and unseen by human eyes.
He had read about The Great Mysteries of Winter’s Bind, The Forbidden Forests of Varna, the wild tribes of Dimutia, and only a scattering on the great empire that once was Templas, yet the more he read, the more ignorant he felt on the vast span of history that was Verold.
Aeden’s revere on the breadth of his ignorance was interrupted by movement. He noticed one of the crewmen join the other at the front of the barge. He then glanced out along the portion of water before them. They were alone. No other rivercraft was within sight. The waters were moving quicker as the river narrowed, but never dangerously so.
As they rounded the great bend, the clouds parted and shafts of light fell upon the rock sculptures of Godsend’s Pass. There, stood immense carvings of each member of the Scapan, the Old Gods; Anat, Ansuz, Baal, Balder, Bellas, Enlil, Gauri, Ghut, Huta, Kegal, Kurat, Marduk, and Zhov.
They stood proudly on the southern side of the River Lif. Each crafted in such detail, one would have thought the sculptor had just finished yesterday.
Aeden studied each in open-mouthed awe. Here they were. Here were the gods of his people, The Thirteen. Here was a reminder of his failure to avenge the fallen villagers of S’Vothe and free them from their semi-mortal coils.
“They’re amazing aren’t they,” Alina whispered.
Aeden looked over. She was closer now, studying his expression. She seemed amused by his amazement. He closed his mouth, his face turning slightly red. He normally masked his emotion the way a fire gecko masked its scent.
“We had something similar back home, the Sacred Pools we called them, but,” Aeden paused, taking a moment to study every lovely line that made up Alina’s face, “they were nothing so large and impressive as this,” he broke his gaze and gestured to the statues.
“You see that one there,” Alina pointed to the tallest in the center, “that’s Magis, many believed him to be the most powerful of the old gods.”
“We called him Ansuz,” Aeden said quietly.
Alina turned to look at him. Her face oddly passive.
“What did you say?”
Into
the Fold
Kan
Savasci Cycle Book 3
Continue
the Award Winning Saga...
For over a millennium The Fold has
been a carefully guarded secret, shrouded in mystery. Within its
shadowy depths the greatest of the old gods had carved a world unto
himself. A place unrivaled in its beauty, obscurity, and
danger.
Trapped within The Fold, under the tutelage of the
last arkeinists, Aeden must overcome his greatest obstacle, or die
trying.
Welcome
to Chase Blackwood's author bio, where he'll try to write something
interesting about his life that captures your attention.
Chase
Blackwood's life has been defined by struggle the way a moth battles
an insect zapping light. He's studied martial arts since childhood in
an effort to overcome fear. He's lived in a half dozen countries in
an effort to "find himself," traveled to over 60 countries
in an effort to "find humanity," lived in nine states just
for the hell of it, oh... and the military has had something to do
with that too. Chase has enjoyed combating terrorism, working as a
federal agent, and also really likes puppies.
His most recent
passion, puppies aside, has been working on the Kan Savasci Cycle, a
series of fantasy novels that pulls from his life experiences to make
the most vivid world imaginable.
Follow
the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!
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