Excerpt from Red and Gold by Jonathan Winn

Red and Gold

The Martuk Series

Jonathan Winn

From the blood drenched depravity of The Wounded King and the ancient curses of The Elder, we now follow a young man in his journey to the coveted red and gold robes of a Priest in Red and Gold, the third installment in The Martuk Series, Jonathan Winn's ongoing collection of short fiction inspired by his award-winning novel Martuk ... the Holy.

It begins with a whisper.

The words a warning, silently spoken to the heart of this innocent kneeling in the mighty Temple of Uruk one thousand years before the birth of Christ. A young one who dreams of being wrapped in the red and gold robes of a priest. But this warning whispered by a mysterious Magi leads to doubt. And then to fear. This stranger who wields magic from the anonymity of shadow forcing this initiate to look beyond the power of the Temple into the frightening black hearts of those who rule.

Haunted by the cries of those Bones in the Stones, his kindness stumbling under the weight of a young boy he leads to slaughter, all while trapped in this life he's chosen and now can never escape, this is the story of how horrible truths and bloody betrayals destroy the dreams of innocent hearts.

This is ... Red and Gold.

Hey everyone!  So last year I had posted several times about The Martuk series, and now Jonathan Winn is back with Red And Gold.  Today I have an awesome excerpt for you.  Hope you enjoy!
*Liz

The Elder was now passing in front of me.

I exhaled, deep and slow, inhaled, deep and slow, and then held the breath.  I felt I would weep, so great was my fear of this tall, skeletal Priest who had worn the red and gold long before I had taken my first breath as a new babe in the mountains.

That's where I had been found, my life offered to the Temple when I was but a boy.  But my memories of my father, my mother, whatever brothers and sisters I had left behind, they mattered little now.

Listen well ...

The voice, the whisper, came again.

I listened.

The Elder was passing me.  He moved by, calm and quick.  I did not exist to him.  I was no one.  A stranger to ignore.  An initiate who had yet to earn the priesthood, my thick hair damning me to ignominy on sight.

Ah, but this stranger, the one with the cloak ringed with the dull white of bone, he was not one to ignore.  I could sense fear in the old man, The Elder.  I could feel the air thick with secrets and shame and an utter sense of powerlessness.

The Elder stopped.

I glanced at his bare feet.

They were covered in blood.  And bits of flesh?   Yes, that's what it looked like, his long toes smeared in discarded shards of torn flesh.  And the hem of his red and gold robe, it, too, was covered in blood.  It was dripping, small drops of blood staining the stone beneath his feet.

Dripping.

The blood was fresh.

And they, the two of them, The Elder and this stranger who could whisper to the darkest depths of my soul, both smelled of smoke and raging fire and torn flesh.

But The Elder had stopped.  Could he hear my thoughts?  Could he read my soul?  Did he know I had linked his name, his greatness, with words like shame and powerlessness?

If so, I would incur his wrath.

No ...

The stranger grew close.  Looked at me.  He, too, was covered in blood.  His robe dripping fresh blood.  His feet stained red.  More so than The Elder's.  As if this stranger, whose toes almost squished with fresh blood, had waded through an ocean of red to stand before me.

Yes ...

I raised my eyes, slowly, so, so slowly.

His chest was bare.  It was covered in blood.

His head was shaved smooth.  It was covered in blood.

His eyes, peering from beneath a layer of red, were looking at mine. 

A small smile grew on his thin lips.

Young priest ...

came the whisper.

Listen well and I will give you the world.

Screenwriter, playwright, actor, and now award-winning author, Jonathan Winn was born in Seattle, WA, and currently divides his time between the East and West coasts. Feel free to follow him on Twitter at http://twitter.com/Jonathan_Winn or visit him at http://martuktheholy.com and on Goodreads

Previous Posts on Fictional Candy
Spotlight - The Elder
Excerpt - The Wounded King
Excerpt - Martuk The Holy


Buy Red and Gold:
Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00F4499F4

Barnes & Noble:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/red-and-gold-jonathan-winn/1116881080?ean=2940148646839

Smashwords:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/356505

Excerpt from Red and Gold by Jonathan Winn

Red and Gold

The Martuk Series

Jonathan Winn

From the blood drenched depravity of The Wounded King and the ancient curses of The Elder, we now follow a young man in his journey to the coveted red and gold robes of a Priest in Red and Gold, the third installment in The Martuk Series, Jonathan Winn's ongoing collection of short fiction inspired by his award-winning novel Martuk ... the Holy.

It begins with a whisper.

The words a warning, silently spoken to the heart of this innocent kneeling in the mighty Temple of Uruk one thousand years before the birth of Christ. A young one who dreams of being wrapped in the red and gold robes of a priest. But this warning whispered by a mysterious Magi leads to doubt. And then to fear. This stranger who wields magic from the anonymity of shadow forcing this initiate to look beyond the power of the Temple into the frightening black hearts of those who rule.

Haunted by the cries of those Bones in the Stones, his kindness stumbling under the weight of a young boy he leads to slaughter, all while trapped in this life he's chosen and now can never escape, this is the story of how horrible truths and bloody betrayals destroy the dreams of innocent hearts.

This is ... Red and Gold.

Spotlight/Giveaway: The Elder by Jonathan Winn

In The Elder, the latest installment of The Martuk Series, Jonathan Winn, author of Martuk … The Holy, digs deeper into the world of ancient Uruk. A world of power and absolute rule. Of magic and superstition. Of Dark Gods and mysterious Ancients, magical Immortals and unseen Seers. Of powerful Priests cloaked in robes of red and gold and a Man from the Mountains who has yet to arrive.

From the innocence and depravity and blood-drenched chaos of The Wounded King, we now follow The Elder, a Priest desperate to rule, blinded by power, afraid to die. A man who climbs deep into caves beneath sun-scorched mountains and sacrifices anonymous flesh in a blood-stained Temple. A desperate soul driven by words whispered from the lips of a doomed Child and haunted by the warnings of an Immortal buried in ash. One who makes an impossible choice for the promise of Life Everlasting and, riddled by doubt, chooses again, this final act of violent desperation opening the way for an ancient curse from a Darkness older than Time.

From the whispered pleas to the Darkest of Gods to the anguished screams of the stolen innocent, this is … The Elder.

The Elder

The Martuk Series

Jonathan Winn 

I'm very excited to welcome Jonathan back for a third time with his Martuk series! The Elder is the second book in The Martuk Series, an ongoing collection of Short Fiction inspired by the full-length novel Martuk … The Holy. And on top of that - we have a THREE book giveaway! Yep, Three winners will each receive a copy of The Elder!

ALSO

Check out this cover art!  Jonathan has used the same cover artist, AM Shultz, for all three of his books!  I think these covers are terrific, really striking and unique!  Be sure to check out AM's website at the link below.  Bonus - you can get extra entries in the Rafflecopter for following him as well as Jonathan!


Follow Jonathan Winn Online...

Website

Twitter

Facebook

Jonathan On Goodreads

Follow AM Shultz Online...
Website

Twitter

Goodreads

Previous Martuk Series Posts
The Wounded King
Martuk... The Holy

Excerpt

The flesh sizzled as it blushed and then split, thin wisps of white smoke rising from the blackened corpses.

The acrid scent of ash invaded my nostrils as I inhaled.

My flesh smelled of sick.  My stomach turned as it clenched and then clenched again.  I rose to my hands and knees as I swallowed, my throat thick as more bile threatened to spill from my lips.

I opened my eyes. 

No longer in the cave of The Seer and the dead, broken Child, the ground below drenched in sick, I discovered a new world.

A world of grey. 

Loose mounds of grey beneath me.  The crumbled, flaking grey of vast walls which buckled and bent around me.  And above, hidden by shadow, yet more grey, the air a constant cloud of grey dust and ash which stained my nose, assaulted my throat, and drowned my lungs.

From the dark, she appeared.

Her long black hair caked in ash, the smooth flesh of her beautiful face, her eyelids, her full lips, the slender span of neck, all drenched in grey.  Even the simple robe that covered her from shoulder to ankle swallowed by delicate clouds of dust rising as she drew near.

I opened my mouth to speak, to ask her name ...

Shamisé ...

Came the silent response.

An ancient name.  First born.  From the West.  Egypt.

The grey of her flesh cracked as her cheeks lifted in a small smile.

There were wings, I wanted to say.  Yes, wings.  Great wings, the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh the last thing I heard in the cave, yes, the last thing before darkness came.  Hours ago with The Seer, the dead, broken Child, her golden hair in the jaws of the great wolf as it, as they, the wolves, dragged her away, the darkness having stolen my breath, the Whispers suffocating me. 

She waits, They had said, the Whispers.  In the ash.  Yes.

The stranger, this Shamisé, raised her hand, quieting my inner thoughts.

And then she spoke.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Spotlight/Giveaway: The Elder by Jonathan Winn

In The Elder, the latest installment of The Martuk Series, Jonathan Winn, author of Martuk … The Holy, digs deeper into the world of ancient Uruk. A world of power and absolute rule. Of magic and superstition. Of Dark Gods and mysterious Ancients, magical Immortals and unseen Seers. Of powerful Priests cloaked in robes of red and gold and a Man from the Mountains who has yet to arrive.

From the innocence and depravity and blood-drenched chaos of The Wounded King, we now follow The Elder, a Priest desperate to rule, blinded by power, afraid to die. A man who climbs deep into caves beneath sun-scorched mountains and sacrifices anonymous flesh in a blood-stained Temple. A desperate soul driven by words whispered from the lips of a doomed Child and haunted by the warnings of an Immortal buried in ash. One who makes an impossible choice for the promise of Life Everlasting and, riddled by doubt, chooses again, this final act of violent desperation opening the way for an ancient curse from a Darkness older than Time.

From the whispered pleas to the Darkest of Gods to the anguished screams of the stolen innocent, this is … The Elder.

The Elder

The Martuk Series

Jonathan Winn 

I'm very excited to welcome Jonathan back for a third time with his Martuk series! The Elder is the second book in The Martuk Series, an ongoing collection of Short Fiction inspired by the full-length novel Martuk … The Holy. And on top of that - we have a THREE book giveaway! Yep, Three winners will each receive a copy of The Elder!

ALSO

Check out this cover art!  Jonathan has used the same cover artist, AM Shultz, for all three of his books!  I think these covers are terrific, really striking and unique!  Be sure to check out AM's website at the link below.  Bonus - you can get extra entries in the Rafflecopter for following him as well as Jonathan!


Follow Jonathan Winn Online...

Website

Twitter

Facebook

Jonathan On Goodreads

Follow AM Shultz Online...
Website

Twitter

Goodreads

Previous Martuk Series Posts
The Wounded King
Martuk... The Holy

Excerpt

The flesh sizzled as it blushed and then split, thin wisps of white smoke rising from the blackened corpses.

The acrid scent of ash invaded my nostrils as I inhaled.

My flesh smelled of sick.  My stomach turned as it clenched and then clenched again.  I rose to my hands and knees as I swallowed, my throat thick as more bile threatened to spill from my lips.

I opened my eyes. 

No longer in the cave of The Seer and the dead, broken Child, the ground below drenched in sick, I discovered a new world.

A world of grey. 

Loose mounds of grey beneath me.  The crumbled, flaking grey of vast walls which buckled and bent around me.  And above, hidden by shadow, yet more grey, the air a constant cloud of grey dust and ash which stained my nose, assaulted my throat, and drowned my lungs.

From the dark, she appeared.

Her long black hair caked in ash, the smooth flesh of her beautiful face, her eyelids, her full lips, the slender span of neck, all drenched in grey.  Even the simple robe that covered her from shoulder to ankle swallowed by delicate clouds of dust rising as she drew near.

I opened my mouth to speak, to ask her name ...

Shamisé ...

Came the silent response.

An ancient name.  First born.  From the West.  Egypt.

The grey of her flesh cracked as her cheeks lifted in a small smile.

There were wings, I wanted to say.  Yes, wings.  Great wings, the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh the last thing I heard in the cave, yes, the last thing before darkness came.  Hours ago with The Seer, the dead, broken Child, her golden hair in the jaws of the great wolf as it, as they, the wolves, dragged her away, the darkness having stolen my breath, the Whispers suffocating me. 

She waits, They had said, the Whispers.  In the ash.  Yes.

The stranger, this Shamisé, raised her hand, quieting my inner thoughts.

And then she spoke.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Excerpt/Giveaway - The Wounded King by Jonathan Winn

The Wounded King 

(The Martuk Series)

Jonathan Winn

A sacrifice. A dying King. Bones in the stone, blood in the wine. A Queen consumed by the Darkness.


From ancient Uruk, The Almost King tells his tale. Of The Elder and his cunning Priests in their robes of red and gold. Of an Old Woman who can call the power of the Dark Gods. Of his mother, the Queen, and his dying brother, the King. 


And of the Darkness, an evil from before the Time of the Moon. Inescapable, its hunger never-ending, its shadow fed by the Priests, slowly overwhelming his family.


Drowning in a sea of red and gold, the Almost King battles an unwinnable war as he navigates the wreckage towards his fate as … The Wounded King.

*** EXCERPT *** 

In the silence of the Temple, they spoke.
A murmur, a sigh, an awakening, a cry.
Mother …
Father …
King …
I moved my cheek from the stone, the pain of the whispers too great to bear.
Although night, the workers -- slaves, prisoners of war, many of them mere boys -- still pulled and pushed the immense blocks into place, the already overwhelming Temple forever expanding, a veritable mountain of stone overlooking the city.
For many of them, this was all they knew, their lives after capture, after defeat, one of constant work, nonexistent sleep, and death, quick and inevitable.
Above them all, the Priests watched.
And here, under the light of an almost full moon, the pain, the rage, the powerless despair of all those trapped and troubled bones in the stone surrounded me like a fog.
In the quiet, safe in the dark, far from those who watched and those who worked, I pressed myself to the cool rock.
I would listen.
Cry …
Whimper …
Sob …
Yes, I feel you.
Wound …
Suffer …
Die …
I pulled away.
Die …
King …
Die …
“They know you.”
I turned.
A small woman stood behind me, her long hair as silver as the light bathing her, the years in her face softened by the glow of the moon.
I glanced around for my guards before remembering I had left them hours ago, ordering them away before climbing the hill to the Temple.
“Your guilt needed solitude,” she said.  “Your shame too great to share, yes?”
She waited.
I nodded.
Yes.
“And this is why you, the Almost King, stand here now, at this hour, under the moon, listening.”
She stepped closer.
Though draped in woolen, the rough fabric scarred by clumsily mended rips and tears, her feet bare, her wiry frame alarmingly thin, she carried herself with an unapologetic sense of majesty and dignity and strength as she moved near.
“Is your power worth all that death?” she asked.
“No,” I said, the answer quick and unthinking.  “No.”
“And yet it is not something you can deny, this power.  This crown.  It will be yours regardless of what you want or what you do.  Or what I do.  Born into this, you are as trapped as those in the stone.”
The tears threatened to come.  I blinked.  And blinked again.
“The most powerful of men,” she continued gently, “utterly powerless to change what must be changed.”
Watching me, she grew silent as if she, too, were listening.
She turned her head, her gaze settling on the workers in the distance, the sweat on their skin shining under the glow of torchlight.
“Your mother is one with the Dark Gods, yes?” she asked.
I hesitated.
“There’s no need to answer,” she then said.  “It’s commonly known, understood.  We barbarians, as she calls us, here in the city talk of her and the Priests and their ancient religion.  Those beliefs from the Time of the Moon.  Of their worshipping those who must be paid in blood, in flesh, in fear.  In the tears and cries of those they slaughter.”
“This is known?”
Looking at me, she continued.
“It is also known, and spoken of, that once these souls are bled and lifeless and useless, they burn --”
“Stop.  Please.”
She stopped.
It was my turn to watch the muscles straining as the strangers pulled and pushed, braided rope splitting and shredding .
“The gift you must give,” she said, echoing my mother.
“Is something I regret,” I quickly said.  “Something I wish I didn’t have to do.  Something I wish I had never done.”
“But it’s done.”
I looked at her.
“She’s a very powerful woman, your mother,” she continued.  “Not many can deny her.  Not many dare.  Those who do .... ”
Growing quiet, she left the thought unfinished.
“And the Priests?” I asked.  “What of them?  Do the people talk about the Priests?”
“Yes, they do.  And they understand what you and your mother do not:  the Priests are more powerful than you know.”
“She believes she’s a God.”
“An easy lie for them to feed her,” she answered.  “And her mind …”
Hesitating, she looked for the words.
“Her mind is wounded and hungry.  Desperate for comfort, the grief, the guilt, the horror at what she’s done still at war with the delusion of her immortality.”
“She struggles,” I agreed.
“And eats.”
Confused, I looked at her, her eyes almost silver under the light of the moon.
“The bones are in the stones, yes?” she asked.
I waited.
“And what of the flesh?  The flesh you burn before they grind these bones?”
She stopped, watching me before asking again.
“What of the flesh?”

Now, I've had a conversation with Jonathan, and he says that you do not have to read Martuk... The Holy in order to enjoy The Wounded King.  In fact, he says "...The Wounded King is actually a bit of a prequel to his part of the story in Martuk, but you needn't have read Martuk for it to make sense" But if you ask me, I think you should read both, because they both sound fantastic.  So to make that easier for you, I offer up this:

Previous Post on Martuk...The Holy 

(which has an excerpt so you can get a feel for that story)

Martuk on Amazon

Martuk on BN

Jonathan Winn on Smashwords Both books!

About the author...

Screenwriter, playwright, and author of Martuk … The Holy, Jonathan Winn was born in Seattle, but raised two hours south in a very small town in Western Washington State. After graduating high school and living in Los Angeles for the better part of a decade, and desperate for four seasons instead of constant sun, he moved to New York City where he happily lived in Greenwich Village with his two dogs. But after almost twenty years, the pull of family led him back to the Northwest where he now lives once again. Happily. 

Like most writers, every word Jonathan writes is accompanied by endless cups of coffee with lots of milk and sugar (the ratio changing depending on whether he slept five hours or six hours the night before). He's also regarded as politely relentless by his friends, unbearably annoying by his enemies, and recently discovered he makes a mean fried chicken, often used to placate those aforementioned annoyed ones. 

The Wounded King is his second book, the first in an ongoing collection of Short Fiction called The Martuk Series.

Stalk Jonathan Winn

Twitter

Facebook

Goodreads

Buy The Wounded King

Amazon

Smashwords

Barnes & Noble

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Martuk... The Holy by Jonathan Winn - Excerpt/Giveaway

Martuk... The Holy

By Jonathan Winn

"I am Martuk. Remember, it’s Martuk as in “too”. Or “two” with that hard “k” at the end. Martuk. The Holy. The audacity of it still makes me smile."


In a crowded Left Bank cafe, an immortal man sits, the phantoms crawling near, the heat of their whispers stinging his cheek …
and Martuk ... The Holy begins.


One thousand years before the birth of Christ, a golden god damns Martuk with a kiss. In a land ruled by a wounded king, life everlasting steals his mortality from the bottom of a golden cup. Finally, generations later, a Messiah who has the power to heal breaks under the weight of Martuk's demons, stumbling to his death defeated by darkness.


From his home in modern Paris, he writes, his memories lush, his words evocative. Revisiting his impossible life, he vents his rage and shares his loneliness. From bloody battles with a demon he cannot escape to the ghost of a beauty who haunts him still, this is his story.
This is Martuk ... The Holy

Now tell me that you don't want to read that?  Just from the synopsis it sounds like this is an awesome story.  And even better - the author, Jonathan Winn, is super nice. And even better than that?  Well, Jonathan has agreed to give a copy of Martuk...The Holy to one lucky winner!  So check out this excerpt, and tell me what you think.  And thank you to Jonathan, for letting me promo your book and for the giveaway!

*~*~*~*

Excerpt

*~*~*~*

“So much rage in you,” he whispered, looking again at the dying man struggling to breathe. “Just let it go. Let life, all that power, all that glory, go. Those riches. Let it all go. It’s at an end now, you silly, stupid old man. It’s ending. It’s over.”

The Elder opened his eyes and blinked, looking up at The Magician and then glancing at me, searching my face for a clue to who I was.

I considered assisting him, the Elder. Helping him on his journey. But this sliver of inhumanity growing in strength reveled in his struggle.

Not the gloating celebration of the Magician. No, it was a more quiet appreciation of the Elder's pain.

The sweat, the shivers. The stained bedding. The tears and the shallow breaths slowing as he gulped and gasped. The obvious regret.

This battle between Light and Dark as the Veil tugged and pulled and clutched at his sleeve. Wrapped its cold fingers around his bony neck, drawing him near.