by Chris McMahon

The Calvanni, first book in the Jakirian Cycle, is up on the Naked Reader site!  It is available now as an electronic download, with the print version following next month.

The Calvanni is an heroic fantasy adventure set on the world of Yos. The book is set thirty years after the fall of the once vast Bulvuran Empire, when Kelas is divided into waring sardoms, and the ancient enemy of Man, the Eathal, plot their long-awaited revenge.

In The Calvanni, first of the series, it is Storm Season on the world of Yos, when the twin suns eclipse and the planet is plunged into bitter cold. It is usually a time of quiet, when the wise lock their doors, praying for the demons of the red sun-goddess Uros to pass them by. Yet deep in the Caverns of Maht, Hukum, the Sorcerer-Lord of cavern-dwelling Eathal, plots his attack on the world of men.

Cedrin, a street-wise calvanni (knife-fighter), is summoned to the secret underground tunnels of the Brotherhood of the Night. There, Cedrin is forced to join Hukum’s attack against the rulers of his native Athria. Caught between the threat of death and his suspicions that all is not what it seems, he must try to keep his friends Marken and Skye alive and escape.

When Cedrin makes his escape he comes face-to-face with Hukum’s minion Raziin, a fearsome mercenary. His world is shaken as Raziin’s Sorcerous attack triggers the awakening of his own powers. Cedrin survives, but must now flee not only the wrath of the rulers of Athria, but also Raziin and the Brotherhood of the Night.

Ellen, daughter of the assassinated Athrian Sarlord, is named as heir before his death. She struggles to assert herself as the new ruler, little suspecting the civil war that will be unleashed on Athria within days. Ellen’s father warned her never to reveal her hidden powers of Sorcery, but as Hukum’s minions close in, she has little choice. She is forced to flee persecution at the hands of the Druids.

Both Cedrin and Ellen head for the ancient capital of Raynor, soon to come under attack by Hukum’s armies. Pursuing both Cedrin and Ellen is Raziin, eager to escape his bondage to Hukum and convinced by a powerful prophecy that Cedrin holds the key to an artifact of untold power. . .

I hope you enjoy the ride!

The publication schedule for the Jakirian Series is:

The publication schedule is:
Flight of The Phoenix (prequel novella): Available now on Naked Reader as an electronic download 
The Calvanni: Available now on Naked Reader as an electronic download – print version coming in August 2011
Scytheman: December 2011 (electronic & Print-On-Demand)
Sorcerer: June 2012 (electronic & Print-On-Demand)

For more background on the world of Yos, check out my first post on Yos.

Meanwhile. Here is a taste of the book. . .

The Calvannni – Chapter 1

Sarlord Myan Cintros lay on the dais below his overturned throne.

‘Father!’ Ellen cried as she pushed through the ranks of scythemen. She sought him across the Bridge of Minds, but there was nothing, not even the formless colours of his sleeping mind. Fear sent her heart racing and the vast chamber contracted to a roaring tunnel.

Ellen rushed forward; she could not lose him — not now. At the thought of her life without him a frightening emptiness filled her. She would be left alone with the secrets of the Cintros, forbidden to share her knowledge with anyone.

As she neared the scene she saw five Druids of the Temple surrounding her father’s body, shielding him from further harm.

She longed to go to him, to embrace him, but her limbs were suddenly weak, as though reluctant to bring her any further.

He cannot just die like this, Ellen thought as she watched two physician-Druids, their robes dull brown, work a potion into his mouth. Her father had been one of the most powerful defenders of the old Empire, the man who had turned back the Sorcerer-Lords of the Eathal. Who remained to stem the tide of chaos and war that was engulfing them? She looked at two black robed Moon-Druids, their necks adorned with gem-studded effigies of the twin moons Asic and Rea; they knelt together in open supplication and prayer, determination creasing their brows.

Crephis, a big Moon-Druid with straight, dark hair watched gravely, softly directing their combined efforts in a calm even tone.

‘Is he dead?’ Ellen cried as she pushed through the Druids and sank to the floor beside her father. The pungent smell of the potion made her dizzy, burned the back of her throat. He looked so pale and grey. She took his calloused hand. It felt as cold as the marble beneath her, his skin clammy with approaching death. Tears fell. Ellen struggled with her royal composure. Lifeless, she thought, reaching once more across the Bridge to be again confronted with formless grey.

‘Close,’ said Crephis. ‘He is just clinging to life.’

The throne room, usually so noisy with debate and conversation, was strangely silent. The ranks of robed courtiers and Suulqua messengers were absent, replaced by scythemen and palace guards. The sound of a squad of soldiers marching on the gravel of the courtyard below came up through the wide open windows, the coarse commands of the Razor seemingly loud as he disciplined a soldier, oblivious to events above.

‘Crephis, tell me he will live,’ Ellen pleaded, looking up to the Druid’s bright golden eyes. ‘Please tell me you can bring him back . . .’ 

Bowing his head, Crephis said nothing.

The ranks of scythemen guarding the chamber parted, their long white cloaks, emblazoned with the grey Cintros raptor, swishing across the floor. She turned to see the Regent Kerril, robed in a fine grey cloak edged with white fur, approaching, with the tall, skeletal Warlord, Aris Cinev, hard and unemotional, at his side. Always austere, Aris distained the use of cloaks, preferring instead to wear plain trousers and shirt of white, a small Cinev crest of the Yos’s twin suns, Larus and Uros, emblazoned in yellow and red over his heart — a mark of his family’s ancient allegiance to the Temple of the Sisters.

As one, the gathered assembly bowed to the Suulvey lords.

‘Where is my brother?’ Ellen’s voice shook. ‘Torren should be here.’ Their brother Estle was in Raynor, days away even by war-galley.

Aris appraised her coolly, adjusting the patch of dark leather that covered his left eye; it was a mark of courage, which he wore as a symbol of his power. ‘I have ordered him to remain with his troops,’ he said dismissing her question. ‘The Captain of the Wall must never leave his post.’ His long, lined face, framed with short-cropped silver-grey hair had never looked more severe.

Ellen let out a ragged breath. Torren would be relieved. No doubt he would be waiting for news of his succession as Sarlord. Her bond with her father was one Torren had never shared, and she had always felt his resentment, his jealousy, like a knife. She loved her two brothers, and had wanted all three of them to be like a family around Myan. Now. . . it would never happen. Her heart twisted as she looked into the future, seeing them split apart even further as the fractures between them finally cracked open; Myan, the centre of their lives together, gone.

‘Can we save him?’ asked Kerril.

‘No, my lord,’ said Crephis. ‘The poison has all but destroyed his nervous system. The assassin chose his time well, striking in twilight when the Sun-Essence fades and the Moon-Essence is yet to rise,’ the Druid paused. ‘What meagre Essence we have gathered has merely delayed his death.’

Uros the Destroyer, the red Sun-Goddess, had turned her terrible face toward Ellen’s father. Not content to wait for Storm Season, her time of power when she eclipsed her yellow sister Larus the Protector, Uros had given Myan her dark blessing.

Ellen buried her face against her father’s cold chest. ‘No, no …’

Then twenty-three years of court life asserted itself. She straightened, smoothing back her braided, honey-blonde hair; refusing to appear weak in front of the Suulvey lords. She may only be a Suulqua — the lowest rank of nobility — but she was the Sarlord’s daughter. Myan had been a traditionalist, insisting his sons and daughter earn their rank as full Suul lords of the court like any other Athrian noble. Most nobility remained Suulqua throughout their lives. Only those with senior positions at court were rewarded with the title of full Suul lord. The Suulvey, members of the Council, ranked above all.

Her knees began to ache with the cold, but she did not move from his side. A gust of wind came in through the window sweeping away the fumes of the potion and carrying the scent of the sweet incense burning near the throne toward her. It seemed inconceivable that it should continue to burn as her father lay dying.

‘So there is no hope for him?’ asked Kerril.

Crephis shook his head gravely.

‘Uros’ blood!’ Kerril shouted, for the first time showing emotion. He turned away from Myan’s body, looking out the wide windows of the throne room. His brown eyes glistened with moisture. His brown hair, shot with grey for as long as Ellen could remember, now seemed more grey than brown.

Kerril was one of her father’s closest friends and advisors and Ellen wanted to say something to ease his grief, but she was barely containing her own.

Outside the twilight was fading. The sky was full of dark shapes, thousands of bats flying silently to their nightly feast; the children of Kallor, the Lord of Death, rising from his realm of Llors. Ellen’s hands tightened into fists.

Kerril turned to Crephis. ‘Can you rouse him long enough to confirm the succession?’

The big Moon-Druid raised a chubby hand to his chin, his eyes flashing with intelligence. ‘It is possible. I can reverse the paralysis and restore his powers of speech, but only for a short time.’

‘How long will he remain alert?’ Kerril looked anxious.

Crephis sighed, the symbols of office clattering against each other as his massive chest rose and fell. ‘Only the briefest of moments, my friend. Llors will have him within the hour.’

Her heart skipped a beat. She could save him; here in front of all these witnesses she could use the power of Sorcery — the Matrix of Form — and save him, damning herself in the process. Sorcery was forbidden by the Temple.

Ellen stood.

‘There must be a way to save him,’ she said looking directly at Crephis. Only Crephis, in all of Athria, knew of the hereditary powers of Sorcery she shared with her father.

Crephis’ eyes widened. He shook his head.

‘No, Ellen,’ he said.

‘I must,’ she said, reaching for the Fire.

Crephis gripped her shoulder, stopping her.

‘No. His veins are filled with poison. His nerves destroyed. No magic can save him. Even if the Moon’s were full and we could heal his tissues, the poison would destroy them again and again; it would only condemn him to more agony.’

‘You must accept this, Ellen. Myan is beyond their arts,’ said Aris, unaware of the subtext of their conversation.

Ellen’s knees went weak. She leant into Crephis for support, who grabbed her arm to steady her.

Father.

‘Rouse him,’ said Kerril, walking across the room to where another body lay.

‘Is that …’ said Ellen.

‘Yes. The assassin. It was Kerril himself who killed him. The Regent was talking to your father when the assassin struck,’ said Crephis.

The assassin’s body lay at the base of the Sisters’ Dance — a vast statue of cast ceramic depicting the two Sun Goddesses, Larus and Uros, locked in their endless cosmic struggle. Coagulated blood soaked the assassin’s rich clothes and his dead fingers still clutched the blowpipe. The deep and ruddy colour of last twilight, the light of blood-red Uros, bathed the statue.

The handle of Kerril’s throwing knife still protruded from the body.

Kerril ripped open the soft silk of the assassin’s shirt, scanning the tattoos on the torso.

‘Here! The mark of the teremb, the night-hunter.’

Ellen shivered. Assanni.

‘Uros spawn,’ said Aris in disgust.

Kerril viciously pulled his knife from the corpse and straightened. He waved at a palace guard who stood stiffly at attention against one of the columns.

‘Have this body removed,’ commanded Kerril.

‘Yes, Lord!’ said the warrior, bowing. 

Kerril watched the guard and his two comrades carry the body out, his jaw clenching and unclenching. The guards avoided his gaze.

Ellen looked on numbly as the two Druid-physicians packed away their potions and stood, looking to Crephis for instructions. He nodded gravely and waved them away.

Crephis knelt with the two other Moon-Druids, sweat sheened his smooth brow as he sought to harness and direct the weak Moon-Essence. The chant of the Moon-Druids now rose steadily to a final crescendo then ceased.

The weight of expectation grew heavy in the silence.

Myan’s eyes flickered open.

‘Thank the Goddess!’ said Ellen, smiling as she wiped away her tears. She knelt at his side, next to Crephis, and took her father’s hand. ‘How long does he have?’

‘Only minutes,’ replied Crephis.

She gripped Myan’s hand tighter. She could not believe her father would be gone so quickly. She sniffed, trying to stifle another wave of tears. Once her father was gone, a new, empty world would begin. It was only moments away, and nothing, nothing she could do would delay its arrival.

‘My, Lord. The poison has left you paralysed,’ said Crephis. ‘We have driven back its effects for a time, and given you a potion for the pain.’

Ellen took a cloth from her robes and gently wiped away a trail of the green potion, which trickled from the corner of his mouth. She clenched the cloth in her hand to keep it from shaking.

Myan closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he seemed resigned.

Kerril came forward and knelt. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, a silent exchange passing between them. They had been friends since their childhood.

‘The heir, Myan. We must know,’ said Kerril finally. ‘Can you confirm that, as eldest son, Torren will succeed you?’

Myan’s eyes swept from side to side.

No.

‘Then who? You must choose one of your two sons. Do you want to recall Estle from his duties in Raynor to be Sarlord?’

‘No. Ellen,’ whispered Myan.

‘Ellen?’ said Kerril. ‘Are you saying you want Ellen to be Sarla?’

‘Yes,’ said Myan, his eyes clouding with pain.

‘Impossible!’ exploded Aris. ‘He is confused. This must be a mistake.’

Crephis placed his hand on Myan’s brow then looked levelly at Aris. ‘No, Warlord. He is quite lucid,’ said the Druid.

Myan looked at Aris, his face set with determination.

‘Ellen,’ repeated Myan.

‘No. Torren is the only one fit to rule!’ snapped Aris.

Kerril’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘It is Myan’s will, Aris.’

Ellen was stunned.  She was to be the next ruler of Athria.

Her world collapsed. All the things she regarded as important – her liaison with Palsus, her ambition to be an ambassador, the endless indulgence of the young Suulqua – all seemed trivial and shallow. How could she sit on the throne of Athria? She was a scholar, not a ruler. The only thing Myan had ever put her in charge of was the administration of court records and legal documents; her empire of bookish scribes, as Torren called it.

Myan looked to each of his old friends one last time and indicated with his eyes they should leave. They bowed low and withdrew, along with the Moon-Druids.

Myan turned his head towards Ellen, staring into her with dark green eyes, the twin of her own. They glowed with the unwelcome shine of coming death.

‘Father,’ she said, her voice choked with grief.

‘Listen,’ he said, drawing her gaze. ‘Belin was here.’

She struggled to clear her mind.

‘But, Father, Belin is long dead …’ she said, convinced the delirium of the poison had begun to destroy his mind. Belin was one of the generals of the old Empire. Even if he had survived the destruction of the Cinanac Dynasty, old age would have taken him long ago.

Myan’s gaze grew in intensity. ‘Listen!’ he repeated. The cool clarity of his voice caused Ellen’s heart to miss a beat. ‘Cedrin must be found. He bears Belin’s signet ring. You must find him and protect him.’ Weakness suddenly overcame him and his eyes rolled. He was fighting for consciousness. ‘I had hoped to … prepare you,’ said Myan his voice weak.

‘Father. Father!’

She took his face in her hands, looking down into his eyes. He was fighting and losing a desperate battle. She felt the Fire surge within him, his mind seeking hers.

The Bridge of Minds was formed.

Her father’s desperation flooded over her in a wave, amid a thousand images of his past; people, names, places, laughter, war-cries, love and battlefields. Far below the torrent pulsed a spinning gem, barely perceived as it followed the flow; spinning, coherent, it pulsed with its own energy, rapidly slipping from her vision.

Then, at last, his mind found hers, and the torrent ceased.

Ellen. There is no time … left. Remember, the Scion must stand in the Temple of the Iris.

For a brief moment their minds lay silent, touching like breath above their mingling seas of emotion. Her father’s love flowed through her, lifted her, and then abruptly he was gone.