Tears of a Heart

by Chase Blackwood

  TEARS OF A HEART

  (Book 1: Kan Savasci Cycle)

  Copyright © Chase Blackwood 2014

  All rights reserved

  The right of Chase Blackwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, character, places, or ideas are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, historical events, business, religions, or ideas is coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART ONE - Thane Sagan

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART TWO - Heorte

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  PART THREE - Pilgrimage

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  PART FOUR – Sha’ril

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue

  PART ONE

  Thane Sagan

  Prologue

  “A hero isn’t defined by his actions but by the deeds that others think he accomplished under the light of unscrupulous men.”

  Anonymous - Tower of the Arkein

  An azure sky slashed at the mounting gray clouds in a vain attempt to paint the scene in the colors of Lenton. It failed as a tepid wind blew in from the north. It carried the sounds of leaves torn from branches, sleet slicing cruelly through the air, and a hidden mystery blanketed by time, waiting to be uncovered.

  The frigid wind attacked a lone man’s hungry body as the thin mountain air grasped for his very breath. The man glanced up at the gray sky and shivered. Cold stinging nettles of snow bit at his face. He tugged on the Bodigan scarf that clung to his head like a well-worn glove. His cheeks were red and burned and his lips were cracked. They were the idle discomforts that would have discouraged less ambitious men.

  Sheets of frozen water gusted over the tattered remains of a stronghold lost to the years. They were the broken stone fortifications that shyly revealed fragments of their former self in the light of hazy distance. The sight gave the man strength.

  Blood struggled to pump to his shaky legs as he unconsciously clenched and unclenched his hands. You see this man’s hands were his trade, his livelihood. He was an annalist, a chronicler of history. It wouldn’t serve him well to have travelled hundreds of miles through some of the most unforgiving terrain to find that he couldn’t write of his discoveries.

  Another gust of wind snapped over a stone and slapped the annalist in the face. It felt as if the very weather were struggling against him. Fear crept into his heart like a dull shadow at the first hints of afternoon. The annalist couldn’t help but worry it was the arkein work of the very man he was writing about. An old Q’Bala expression leapt to his mind, “Fear is but the crucifixion of man upon the planks of past and future.”

  Was it possible that his writings had summoned the attention of the most powerful man of his time? It was rumored that merely uttering his name would unleash the torrents of seventh hell.

  The annalist stumbled on an icy slip of terrain. His mind shook loose his growing anxiety and he pressed forward. He knew the consequences if he failed. They were too grave to fathom. If a thousand Bodig soldiers had died to bring him thus far, he could muster the strength to climb a little farther.

  The annalist crested another small rise and came upon the tattered ruins. The secret whisperings of the Syrinx were true. A once impenetrable town of warriors had been reduced to molten ash and twisted stone.

  Buildings lay broken and crumbling along the mountainside. A light peppering of snow rested serenely upon everything. The scene was reminiscent of shattered teeth. White and black scorch marks scoured the surface of gray stones. Wooden beams the length of draccus weasels were scattered and torn asunder.

  It appeared as though war had descended upon the town from the sky, but the annalist knew better. The unthinkable had occurred. A draccus fiend had visited these parts. It was something that hadn’t happened in an age, at least according to recorded history. The man knew otherwise.

  He tripped as he stepped over a cracked wooden beam. His eagerness to uncover what he had glimpsed made him hasty and clumsy.

  Mumbling a silent curse under his breath he weaved around some large foundational stones. At that moment the clouds parted and a shaft of light fell through the broken sky. The light fell upon a floor of carefully carved stone. Half-collapsed walls of crumbling gray formed a semicircle about the center of the shaft of light. It was as though the hand of Ghut swept down through the heavens to guide him. There in the center of the shaft resting in a bed of fractured earth lay a massive chest. Gold and silver leaf once adorned most of its surface but presently only covered parts. Two heavy iron clasps were held fast by a strong lock.

  It felt almost too easy after everything he had endured. His dark eyes searched about for any sign of subterfuge. The annalist carefully observed every detail until he was fully satisfied that what he saw was what rested before him.

  The annalist dusted off some snow and examined the lock for a moment before circling the chest. The clouds overhead moved and the light faded. Once again the world was cast in shades of ashy granite.

  He leaned forward rubbing his fingers along the back of the chest. It was as he suspected, the hinges were made of copper. The annalist scraped gently at the patina, flecks of corroded metal flaking off in a shower of green.

  He pulled a small flask out of his pack and uncorked the lid. He held the flask away from his face, knowing the contents were poisonous when inhaled and the vapors could cause blindness. In a deliberate, practiced motion he poured the contents onto the hinges and stepped away.

  The reagent reacted with the copper, hissing slightly as a light brown gas lifted lazily from the hinges, vaguely reminiscent of a startled snake. The annalist watched from a safe distance as a tight grin made its way onto his face. Anticipation gripped his heart and squeezed it in a vice-like grip.

  When the reaction was complete and the gas dissipated he moved toward the chest. Using a blunt tool he struck the hinges. With a muted thump they broke and fell into the copper stained snow.

  The annalist wedged open the lid with a few deft movements. Ever cautious he glanced behind him before eyeing the contents within. To a king
a chest of gold and gems would be a welcome gift. To an annalist, books, scrolls, and words were of immeasurable value, for in them lie the truth.

  Parchment laden with a simple rudimentary script lay entombed in the heavy chest. A thin layer of wax covered each sheet, protecting the contents from the elements. He leafed through the sheets reading through each quickly; a list of sacred items, the history of a dozen weapons, and the lineage of two schools of philosophy. His excitement grew with each sheaf of parchment. He was closer than he had ever been to uncovering the true beginnings of the Scourge of Bodig.

  He paused as he read through a genealogy. His hand trembled slightly as he came upon the name he had been searching for. Kirin D’Velt, son of the Kovor. His bowels iced over, it was the subtle feeling of cold spreading through one’s stomach after drinking from a mountain spring. Then he felt his hand go cold. His fingers lost their dexterity and a wave of fear swept over him.

  A cold sweat burdened his brow. His heart thumped oddly in his chest like a trapped bird. The annalist clenched his shaking hand into a fist and struggled to clear his mind.

  Fearful breaths settled into a steady rhythm. Blood once more flowed unrestricted into his fingers. He opened his eyes not realizing they had been closed. The fallen parchment lay upon the snow, the names glaring at him defiantly.

  The rumors were true; the most feared man in the Middle Kingdom was once a prince of the fabled Thane Sagan. A man with more stories attributed to his greatness, his villainy, and his power than Magis himself.

  Burdened by fear, driven by duty, and devoted to the point of pain the annalist continued. He knew he had to start at the beginning. No complete truth could be gleaned from some distant assessment. Anyone could do that. The annalist, however, had been tasked with the far more intimate and far more dangerous task of uncovering the layers of history that shaped Kan Savasci.

  He took in a shaky breath. The air felt cool in his lungs. The annalist shuddered to think he was peeling back the layers of Tui Faaroa as he was known to the Amevi Tribes of Dimutia, and Touja Keventaminen to those tattered souls in Templas. It seemed that no part of Verold had been left untouched by the arkeinist’s reaching hand.

  Hungry for more the annalist pulled out more sheaths of parchment. His heart pounded away in his chest with the intensity of an angry dog. Finally the pieces of a greater puzzle and the early history of the legend he was tasked to truly understand were beginning to come into focus.

  Chapter 1

  “The heart of a warrior is something shaped over time, molded in the forge of fire.” Proverb of the Thane Sagan

  Kirin D’Velt was not quite what his father had hoped for. Although he had wished for a son, he hadn’t wished for that son to rob him of the one woman he had truly loved. Instead of the tall, strong, and independent leader he had prayed for, the gods had decided to test him with a weak, pink little boy, a mockery of the kovor lineage.

  This child was sickly and starved for attention. His pale skin would wrinkle into contorted lines of discomfort as he cried at all hours of night, burdening the widow who had been chosen to care for him. His screams of discomfort could be heard through thick stone walls and caused the kovor, Kirin’s father, to lay awake at night wishing the boy had died and his wife had survived.

  As the boy grew he became less sickly. A steady diet of motherly affections, hearty foods, avoidance of bad smells, and an old herbal elixir of Templas origins all lent to improved health. A thick head of white hair, marking him as different, grew wildly. His awkward features slowly became handsome and his gray eyes were often described as bewitching. The trouble was he was too smart for his own good. He questioned authority when he should have followed. He daydreamed when he should have trained, and he argued when he should have listened.

  Therefore on Kirin’s thirteenth birthday the kovor was worried. It was a year that was considered sacred. The number thirteen demarcated the number of gods in the Thane Sagan pantheon. It represented the number of hidden mysteries within the gevecht and it also represented the yearlong trial that awaited Kirin to prove his manhood. Kirin wasn’t in the least excited.

  An older man with a thinning head of hair stepped into Kirin’s field of vision. The movement was deliberate, graceful even. He wore simple leather armor with a fearsome cat emblazoned in the center. The cat stood for the solidarity of his people. It adorned the armor and shields of all who passed their coming of age tests. If all went well Kirin would join them and too wear the insignia of his family lineage.

  It was the beginning of Lenton and the snow had recently melted leaving the ground muddy. A cool wind swept down the mountainside and played with the fine wisps of hair on the old man’s pate. Kirin was reminded of a particular children’s fable, A Night’s Cool Shadow, in which nymphs used dance to steal the king’s treasure. He had an inexplicable affinity for women at a very young age.

  “Kovor’s son, holder of the gevecht, and future memory of our people, it is time,” the old man said.

  The images of the dancing nymphs were yanked from his head. Kirin eyed the man’s leathery face for a moment, his heart heavy. These were the dreaded words he had feared for years. Every boy and girl of the Thane Sagan had to prove themselves. It was simply part of life. For the son of a kovor, the testing was more grueling and rigorous than for most.

  S’Vothe, as their foothold of land up in the mountains was called, had been attacked numerous times over the ages. Kings, emperors, and caliphs all attempted to wrest control of these tepid lands from the Thane Sagan. Only once had they been conquered. These constant raids and attempts at uniting foreign lands to appease the masses at some faraway home left the Thane Sagan ever watchful and ever prepared. It was one of the reasons for the rituals of becoming a true member of their society and of becoming a warrior.

  “Time for what?” He asked innocently enough.

  This earned Kirin a stern look. It was an almost perfect imitation of his father.

  “You can play your games. Your wit may have served you well among children, but there will be little use for it in your upcoming trials.”

  “We’re all children under the eyes of the gods,” Kirin said.

  “As I said I will not be roped into your attempts at humor or argument.” The venerable master looked about the village for a moment then leaned down to whisper to Kirin. “Do you know what wisdom is?”

  Kirin paused sensing a trap, but his clever mind and quick tongue couldn’t be held down by something as feeble as the fear of faltering.

  “Wisdom is the accumulation of knowledge over time.”

  The master smacked Kirin quickly on the back of the head. Kirin was shocked at the speed of it.

  “I didn’t ask for a definition young man.”

  Kirin was about to speak up when the master smacked him on the back of the head once again.

  “Wisdom,” the master resumed as if nothing had happened, “is learning to keep your mouth shut when you have nothing of value to say.”

  “And learning to dodge quick-handed old men,” Kirin whispered to himself.

  The master chose to ignore his last comment.

  “You’re still the kovor’s son and have a part to play, so play it,” the older man said as he nodded a greeting to the village blacksmith.

  Kirin took a subtle step backward waiting for a hand to smack him again. None did. He glanced about and took in a breath.

  “With patience in my heart, dedication in my mind, and steel within my soul, I stand prepared.” Kirin responded with the words he’d been taught over the years, although they sounded hollow even to his own ears.

  If it were up to him he’d forgo the tests altogether and spend more time hearing about the greater world, chasing Dannon, and enjoying the company of his best friend.

  The old man’s face remained passive but his eyes grimaced slightly as if an insect had landed on his face. It reminded Kirin of the expression his father too often wore, like a well-worn mask.

  A few
months ago he had been training all day in the biting cold of Vintas. The snow fell in swirling mists as if angered by the wind. His fingers had grown numb on the hilt of the spathe sword he held in his hand. His teacher admonished him again for maintaining an overly tight grip, yet every time he loosened his grasp the sword would feel weak in his hand and shudder uncomfortably when he parried a blow. And there in the shadow of a building overhang stood his father. His features were stern, proud, and unflinching.

  As the hours froze upon the frigid ground the other students were allowed to seek warmth indoors and fill their bellies with a hot meal. Kirin, however, was forced to practice the ancient movements of fighting and defense cleverly disguised within the gevecht. Ever watchful, ever judgmental, his father stood like a pillar, galvanizing the teacher to push Kirin toward greater levels of discomfort.

  Finally as the sun began to set and the true chill of Vintas tore down the harsh rocks of the Barre Mountains Kirin performed the movements with precision and skill. His body ached, his bones shivered, but he denied his father the pleasure of seeing weakness upon his face. His mind clung desperately to fanciful images of another land, of a time away from home.

  The teacher finally nodded to him, releasing him from training for the day. Kirin passed his father, glancing hopefully at his face, wishing for a smile, a nod of approval, a hint that he had done well. Instead his father’s eyes looked at him critically. The kovor grimaced ever so slightly as he saw the white-knuckled grip return to the hilt of the spathe sword.

  “Very well, follow me,” the old man turned on his heel and without waiting for a response stalked off.

  Kirin only hesitated for a moment before following the man. As an ever curious boy he already knew the shape of what was to come. The Thane Sagan were a small and tight knit community with few secrets, save for the coming of age rituals. Somehow the details remained locked inside the hearts of each who had undergone them.

  It was rumored that no two rituals were alike; the master shaped the rituals to fit the personality of the warrior being tested. In Kirin’s case there was a lot to be tested and the hope that he could still be molded.