Friday, December 31, 2010

Special PRE-RELEASE Excerpt from the chapter "Kéle'il's Escape"

“Mathion?” Kéle’il called, but the only answer he received was the sound of his echoes reverberating off the walls. Kéle’il heard sounds from the ground below and was able to move just enough to look between the bars and down to the stone courtyard below.
He saw a tall man with long, raven-dark hair and a black beard walking toward the tower in which Kéle’il was being held. The man dressed in a black-and-crimson cloak. He was being followed by another man, head shaven and scarred, dressed in a simple black tunic.
“Where are the prisoners Kôdeiro?” the tall man asked.
“Separate cells, my lord,” said Kôdeiro. “What do you wish for them?” The raven-haired man stopped and thought for a moment.
“The son of Eredôn is still quite strong, if what Ecálos said to me is true,” he said finally. “Keep him bound. Let him weaken enough for my vengeance to be… sufficiently fulfilling.” Kôdeiro nodded.
“And what of the other, my lord?”
Then, as if Kéle’il wasn’t mortified enough, the man looked toward the tower where Kéle’il was being held. Kéle’il did not look for long, but he saw a pair of evil crimson eyes with yellow irises. They seemed to gaze directly through him, into Kéle’il’s very soul. Those eyes were the very embodiment of evil.
“It’s him,” Kéle’il said to himself. “He does exist.” He looked around frantically. “I have to get out of here now.” Kéle’il heard Azgharáth give an order below, but he couldn’t make out what had been said. He had definitely heard the word “tower”. Soon after a horn sounded, and the sound of thousands of running men, melded with cries in the Kânavadian language, filled the whole of the city.
A few moments later, a door opened. Kéle’il turned as far as he could, and he beheld a tall werewolf, covered in sweat and grime, wielding a battle-axe.
“The High Lord wishes to see you, da’ico,” the guard said in the Common Southern tongue. How the Kânín had managed to learn it Kéle’il did not know, but he suspected that the last word was from his native language. Of course the Kânín also spoke the language of men, almost as foul and uncouthly as their own tongue. The guard came over and unlocked Kéle’il’s shackles. The guard then pulled Kéle’il to his feet by his hair; Kéle’il winced from the pain.
“Walk,” said the guard, and he shoved Kéle’il hard in the back with the axe handle. The guard kept hold of Kéle’il’s left upper arm, gripping it with tremendous force. Suddenly, a thought entered Kéle’il’s mind, and he looked at his right hand. Kéle’il glanced down, and he saw the uc’he ktildér gleam on the back of his hand. Kéle’il glanced back up and saw that they were approaching a corridor.
“If I have to do this, it has to be now,” Kéle’il whispered to himself.
“What was that, Wolven-filth?” said the guard. Kéle’il balled his fist.
“Nothing,” Kéle’il replied quickly. They walked a few more steps, then Kéle’il made his move.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Extended Christmas excerpt! From the chapter, "The Steward of Kihar"

The party reached the city by the next day. As has been said, in the midst of Kihar was a single tower, the Great Tower of Feoheir, and within that tower ruled the High Steward of Kihar: currently Esuvar, son of Ektiro X. Around the tower were built several smaller stone buildings and houses that branched out and created seemingly innumerable side-streets and back-alley paths throughout the city. The encircling wall rose to about seventy feet high and was seven feet thick, and it had a rail along the top, so that soldiers could assume posts in case of battle. As of yet, no enemy had been able to penetrate the imposing wall since its construction. The city itself had an area of about seven square miles.
“The Lord Esuvar awaits you,” said Kedaer as they reached the main gates of the city, which were flanked by two tall guards wielding bladestaffs. The gates were tall and made of thick steel, and they bore the crest of the Kiharian Stewardship: two wolves sitting on either side of a single stone of adamant. The gates swung open and the party entered the city. There was a main street that led directly to the tower, along with three other streets from the south, east, and west. The street broke off into side-streets, where Mathion saw heraldic motifs of different guilds and practices. They saw that on their right hand, as they walked down, was a street that bore the crests of smiths and wrights. And on their left hand they saw a street that was home to traders and barterers. Narios saw these and gazed at them in wonder, for he had never been to Kihar before.
“What do all these symbols mean?” he asked.
“There are many guilds in Kihar,” Kedaer replied as they walked down the street. “Saddlers, potters, gardeners, traders, and so on. But only four of them have hereditary membership: scribes, healers, smiths, and masons, which include carpenters and sculptors. The son of a smith will then become a smith; the son of a scribe will become a scribe, and so on and so forth. These are what we call the Elder Guilds, because they were the first to be established in Kihar. Many of the smiths and healers that attend to the King at Avakaš are actually of Kiharian origin.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mathion. “They are the best in all of Ánovén.” He then summoned his sword Aelak’ra and held it in front of him.
“This sword was forged for me by Thúros, who was born in this city one thousand one hundred and five years before my time,” Kedaer looked at the sword, his expression calm but his eyes betrayed his awe.
“My father knows Thúros,” he said. “They call him Ktildion, because he has such a connection with blades and their making. Many say he is the greatest forger of sara’il since Aruvai himself.”
“Indeed,” said Mathion. “Sadly he passed into the Next Realm.” As they walked, Kedaer bowed his head. He touched the center of his forehead with his two left-hand forefingers, a sign of sadness and mourning for the dead.
“How long ago?”
“Not two decades. Aelak’ra was the last blade he forged; it was given to me as a reward for my ascension into the Sentárin thirty-two years ago. After that he rested from his labors for twelve years. He passed on in peace.”
“I would go so far as to say it is the most beautiful weapon I’ve ever seen, be it sword or shield or bladestaff.” Mathion nodded in thanks and recalled his sword.
Now they had come to the midst of the city, at the base of the Great Tower of Feoheir. They ascended a flight of marble steps and stopped in front of the high doors to the Tower. They stood nearly twenty feet high, and were flanked by two soldiers on either side. One took his great right fist and knocked once, paused, and knocked again twice. The doors promptly swung open inwards, though Mathion could not see who opened the door from the inside. Immediately two attendants came and took the reins of Mathion’s, Dovosir’s and Oharion’s horses and led them to a stable on the other side of the tower.
“I leave you here,” said Kedaer, “I must return to my duties. But I hope that we will meet again soon.” He swiftly descended the steps, returning to his post outside the city walls.
“Enter,” said one of the guards, which slightly startled Mathion. “The High Steward wishes to see you.” Mathion led the party into the Great Chamber of Feoheir. Once again, another lord of an Ánovénean city had a vast, cathedral-like chamber, only this one was not as tall as Belevâk’s hall, and not as grand as Hâr-Tharion’s. They walked to the far end of the chamber, and on the walls were banners that bore the crests of each of the former High Stewards of Kihar. It was Kiharian custom for each High Steward to choose a personal crest that would be displayed alongside the Crest of Kihar. Many of them were associated with various guilds of the city from which the Stewards claimed descent. Then, they saw another banner, shining with scarlet and grey: a white crescent moon prominent against the black silhouette of a bladestaff. On either side of the chamber they counted thirty-six banners in total, the Lord Esuvar’s banner being the thirty-seventh.
Below the hanging banner, there was a great throne, carven out of rich mahogany. Unlike many Ánovéneans, Kiharians used wood and other such items along with the stonework and masonry that the Wolven in general were widely known for.
Upon the throne sat an aging man, obviously of high blood, and he wore on his head a richly engraved circlet made of sara’il with a single, oval piece of onyx in the center. The hair on his head was a deep oaken brown flecked with bits of grey, and he had a white beard. But his deep brown eyes still conveyed the vigor of youth. Respectfully, Mathion bent down his head and bowed slightly, grasping his left shoulder with his right hand.
“Baec cadim Ka’én uvo,” he said. The others did the same, and even Elekan managed to bow his head and lower the front of his body.
“Rise, Ser-Mathion of Avakaš,” said Esuvar. His voice was calm, and yet an air of anticipation, even anxiety, was in it.
“My lord, are you aware of why we have come?”

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Excerpt #2: From the chapter, "Divided" (special early premiere!!)

Bazôkaš, the northernmost city of Kânavad, was home to one of the three Lords of the Kânín: Kahacîr was his name. He was the father of Ehóxar, who had been imprisoned by Mathion. His city was a little over ten miles from the very edge of the Várhade Kânavádo, a black range of tall jagged mountains that ran along the eastern coast of Kânavad; and it was just over one hundred and sixty leagues in a straight line from Ak’horokaš, the chief city of Kânavad: built for and dedicated to Ak’horos, the Dark Twin of Ka’én. The werewolves of Bazôkaš were larger than other werewolves, for they lived and trained in the mountains just south of their city. They became the shock troops of the armies of Kânavad. Kahacîr was the son of Bazôgoþ, the second son of Mênecoth, Father of the Werewolves.
Fifty-six leagues from Ak’horokaš was the city of Padakis that lay on the Bay of Tisîr. The lord of this city was Yehâgaf, the son of Tisîro, the eldest son of the Father. Because of its location, Padakis had become a maritime city. The werewolves of this city, however, did not build ships like the Men of Kalendu or the Wolven of Mekelir. The Kânín of Padakis were instead great swimmers, and they were slightly slimmer than those of their cousins to the north.
The Kânín of Ak’horokaš were an amalgam of these different breeds of Werewolf, and it was here that the other Lords met every five hundred years with the High Lord Azgharáth, the youngest son of Mênecoth. The Wolven called this event the Tatháleji Avarol, the Summoning of the Lords. It occurred on the seventh full moon of every fifth century, at the summit of their sacred Mountain of Ak’horos, at times referred to as the Deghad, the Black Mountain. Within the Deghad was a fell temple dedicated to perverse religious practices, and at its summit was an altar. The High Lord, accompanied by the two lesser Lords of the Kânín, ascended a winding trail to the altar first, and under the light of the Full Moon, they drew blood from their right arms, which dripped into an urn of black stone that was set atop the altar.
This ritual was done in remembrance of the blood-oath made by Azgharáth to the demon Ak’horos, as had been said before. These heinous acts earned him the title of Hréokai, Betrayer.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

From the chapter, "Ehóxar's Mission"

In the land of Kânavad, the homeland of the Kânín, the High Lord Azgharáth stood still in the middle of a dark chamber, seeking guidance from his master Ak’horos. Suddenly there was a flash in his mind, and though his eyes were closed he saw, as clear as day, the image of a blue stone emitting a golden light.  A Wolf’s howl pierced his mind as it drifted between the Ethereal Realm and the Plane of Mortality.
As Azgharáth’s vision continued, he found himself soaring over tall mountains capped with freshly fallen snow. Beyond the mountains was a wide River, flanked by great forests on either side that spanned for hundreds of miles. And then the land opened up into a vast plain, and in that plain was a solitary hill of dark stone. At the top of the hill, Azgharáth beheld seven towers, shining brightly with the light of the noonday sun. Energy filled Azgharáth’s being, and the vision faded.
Azgharáth’s eyes snapped open: piercing yellow eyes, and where they would have been white they were instead a deep crimson. No one, not even Azgharáth’s own sons, could look into his eyes for very long, and those who were foolish enough to try were overwhelmed by fear and despair.

Friday, December 10, 2010


Hey guys, Jeff here, author of MATHION: BOOK ONE OF THE MAVONDURI TRILOGY. I'll be using this blog to give you EXCLUSIVE peaks into MATHION, which I'll post every Sunday up until the release January 3rd!! They won't be too long, but they WILL be out of order, so you don't get TOO good of an idea of the plot. Regardless, they're some of my favorite pieces from the book, and I'm excited to share them with you!

Today, I'm revealing the full cover for the STANDARD EDITION being released on the Barnes & Noble NOOK, as well as a plot synopsis. Enjoy!


At the age of seven, the Wolven prince Mathion encountered a dying White Wolf, and received two gifts that would forever change not only his life, but the course of history itself. Centuries later, now with a White Wolf at his side, Mathion gathers together a small band of warriors, consisting of both friends and family. Their mission: help the city of Kihar defend itself against an advancing army of werewolves.
Along the way, Mathion learns of a secret that he has carried with him all his life, and a power that could change the tide of a war that has raged between the Wolven and the Werewolves for over twenty thousand years. Little does Mathion know that his enemy also very well aware of this secret. And they will do anything to obtain the final piece of a puzzle that, if completed, could condemn the world to eternal darkness.
When someone close to him is captured alive by the enemy, Mathion is forced to attempt the impossible: to venture into the enemy's homeland itself, and infiltrate the Black City, the stronghold of Lord Azgharáth, the overlord of the werewolves. With this choice, events are set in motion that will hurtle these lands toward a final confrontation, and an epic journey is begun that will change everyone's lives forever.