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!
“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.
But The Elder was weak. Killing him would be too easy. The Magician, though ... ah, he was so close. Within reach. I could easily snap his neck. Lift him into the air and throw him against the wall, his bones breaking against the polished stone. I could almost taste it, this impending victory, the satiating of this blood lust. It was on my tongue, my fingers tingling, my muscles readying for battle.
“You enjoy killing, don’t you?” The Magician asked, his eyes fixed on The Elder. “All those innocents. Those broken bodies. All that poison. Those bones cracked and splintered and ground into dust, into the stone.
"You felt power as you watched them struggle, their tongues swelling black, their eyes weeping. As they tore at their flesh. Power when you watched them breathe their last. Happiness. Satisfaction. You liked it.
"Even now, the memory of it, of all that suffering flesh, those cries, their tears, it’s enjoyable for you, isn’t it?
"Killing is enjoyable.”
Yes, I thought, as I turned to him, the gleaming skull and his garishly painted face so close.
Killing is very enjoyable indeed.
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