a world screaming

From the blood drenched depravity of The Wounded King, the ancient curses of The Elder and the heartbreaking betrayal of Red and Gold, we now follow The Tall Priest as he meets the boy who will soon become the immortal Martuk.

It begins with blood.

Ordered to bring the famous Seer from the Mountains to the Elder, the Tall Priest quickly discovers a world outside Uruk’s massive gates. A world alive with the impossible. A world screaming, warning him of the unseen darkness shadowing his every step. Of the horrors of a past that still live. Capturing. Trapping. Feasting. Horrors the Seer is desperate to fight, her only hope the Tall Priest taking her beloved son far from danger and saving him from certain death.

Once home, betrayed by the one he loves, his end ignominious for one so powerful, the Tall Priest waits for death. Blinded and mute, fearing an end that never ends with Those Bones in the Stones, this is the story of a heart broken by unimaginable truth. Of honesty and kindness met with torture and death. Of how unconditional love results in the prison of timeless immortality.

This is…The Tall Priest.

 

martuk-series-crop-feb2017
coming soon

 

Coming soon

The Tall Priest from The Martuk Series, the fourth installment in a continuing series of short fiction based on the full length Martuk…the Holy novels

tall-priest-page-peek

Stay tuned for synopsis, excerpts, reviews 👊😎👍

Visiting a Wounded King

Sometimes, in the middle of all this work, it’s easy to forget how I got to where I am today. What books, what early efforts, helped pave the way to the writer I am today.

So, with that in mind, I decided to pay a visit to The Wounded King, the first in The Martuk Series, an ongoing collection of short fiction inspired by, and based on, Martuk … the Holy. And wouldn’t you know it? It’s a damn good book!

Here’s a small taste:

They were dying.

First, my father, the First King, tongue swollen, his words thick, his body scarred and wounded.

Now my brother, the King, bloodied, beaten and blind, half-buried in a mountain of stained silk.

And I, the Almost King, walking this familiar maze of shadows with my quiet guilt, the cavernous halls aglow in torchlight as I turned and then turned again, losing myself in the echo of my footsteps.

Yes, much like they swallowed the sun, the Dark Gods were gobbling my family up, bite by bite.

And together, she and I, we were helping them.

My stomach lurched and heaved, the rancid taste of vomit on my tongue and in my throat as I swallowed.

And then swallowed again.

The Wounded King Final - cover

The Wounded King – FREE

Yep, you read that right.  The Wounded King, Book One in The Martuk Series, an ongoing collection of Short Fiction based on my award-winning debut novel Martuk … the Holy, will be FREE for one day and one day only, March 27th.

Curious?  Here’s an excerpt:

 

“I eat,” Mother suddenly said.

“The flesh –”

She interrupted me with a nod.

“It’s hungry,” she said, her voice low, the words almost a whisper. “Its stomach desperate for the meat, the muscle, the skin. If I don’t feed It, there’s pain.”

Her hand on her stomach, she continued.

“I am powerless, my son. I don’t want to. I don’t want this. It’s disgusting, it sickens me, it’s something I cannot stop, and it’s destroyed me. The taste, the feel of it in my mouth, the smell on my hands, my fingers –”

She stopped, this brief moment of lucidity gone as quickly as it began.

Closing her eyes, she cocked her head, distracted by something only she could hear. The morning had grown dark, the sun shadowed by a rare cloud.

I looked up to see a clear blue sky.

The shadows grew.

“A God is being born,” she finally said. “The pain, the anguish I endure, is this body dying so that this God, this Dark God, can be born. And I, as that God, will rule.”

The dark grew darker.

I moved closer to her.

“Mother …” I began, “the shadows, they’re moving.”

“Yes, It moves and It is only one shadow.”

It quickened, the dark, as it slid along the ground, vaporous fingers reaching out to my Mother as she spoke.

“It needed the flesh, you see. An eternity caressing all those bodies as they slept, lifetimes licking the skin, the flesh on its tongue only a taste, ephemeral, quickly gone.

“It needed to eat. Finally. Needed more. It needed to feel the life in Its mouth. It needed to tear the skin and rip the muscle and gnaw the bone. Experience being alive, experience living, all those deaths feeding It.

“And now It will live through me, with me, as me.”

The shadow grew, an immense cloud around us, the dust lifting from the ground to churn in the black, the warmth of day now the moist, steamy heat of something uncontrollable, unknowable, and wrong.

“Mother, It will eat you.”

She no longer heard me, the silent song of these shadows obsessing her.

I grabbed her hand.

“Please …” I began as the Darkness lifted me.

churning and turning and whipping

An excerpt from The Wounded King, the first book in The Martuk Series, an ongoing collection of short fiction inspired by Martuk … the Holy:

 

I ran.

The shadows followed.

It had dropped me, the Darkness, Its strength not yet great enough to hold me.

But I had climbed to my feet, the dark unbelievably dark, my ankles stained by the moist heat as I tripped and then stumbled and, tumbling down the hill, ran.

She was on the ground, Mother, oblivious, the dirt against her cheek, her hands buried in the earth, the shadow rolling and twisting around her as It ate her whispers, her sighs, her tears.

And now I sprinted toward the city under the glare of a bright sun as It chased me, churning and turning and whipping in the dust.

My heart pounded in my ears as the rocks cut my feet, the Darkness’s desire for me inflamed by the blood staining the ground.

The city drew near, the thick walls and heavy gates in sight.

In the quiet calm of morning she had urged me to leave the city with her.  Had insisted on passing through the gate to climb the small hill so we could speak away from those who would see, our secrets unknown to those who would hear.

She had lied, my Mother.

I stumbled and fell.

The heat was on me, the moist fingers wrapped around my ankle, my calf burning in the heat, the flesh raw under Its touch.

I kicked It free as I crawled, my hands pawing at the dirt as I climbed to my feet to run again.

It reared back, the shadow lunging forward like a snake before It followed, the Dark rolling on the ground like a wave.

I was close, so close, to the city.  To safety.

What if the Darkness followed me beyond the gates?, I suddenly thought as my heart beat in my ears.  What’s to stop It were it to slip into the city and torment me there?  Is there anything to keep It from swallowing me while I sleep?

What if this monstrosity were inescapable?

The guards recognized me, the brawny men in a rush to open the gates for the Almost King.

I darted through.

The Darkness followed.

I felt It on my heels, my calves, the back of my thighs, my back, my neck, the fingers around my skull as I ran and ran, the pain a constant sting, the burn excruciating as the Darkness took hold of me.

I had lost.

 

The Wounded King Final - cover

the air thick with secrets

Doing a final polish on Red and Gold, the latest installment in The Martuk Series, and should have it Live on Amazon, etc. in a day or two.  🙂

Until then, here’s the cover.

Red & Gold Final-cover

 

Tip of a grateful cap to my cover artist, Timothy Burch.  He’s kinda awesome.  🙂

And, yeah, why the hell not?  Here’s a brief excerpt:

 

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.