Raptor's Revenge

Jim Malloy

Description

Raptor's Revenge has won six (6) five-star gold seal awards from book review contests.

Love/hate; betrayal/triumph; battles/intrigue. A "Book Shelf Keeper". Mystery and romance with revenge and adventure on land and sea await readers following Jamey's quest in this historical fiction saga.

It is Elizabeth's England and the saga of Jamey, fourteen years old, returning home to find his whole family murdered. Vowing revenge, he begins his quest with his only clue, a ring left by the killers. His adventures take him to sea and the Spanish Main as a privateer earning the title "El Raptor". Sailing to Jamaica to find the killer, he finds his true love but is captured and turned over to the inquisition.

Sujets

• Historical
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 16 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781664197589
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

RAPTOR’S REVENGE
Second Edition
Jim Malloy

Copyright © 2021 by Jim Malloy.
 
Library of Congress Control Number:
2021922319
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6641-9760-2

Softcover
978-1-6641-9759-6

eBook
978-1-6641-9758-9
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 11/15/2021
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
828787
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
BOOK TWO
BOOK THREE
BOOK FOUR

To Maria, the love of my life. Who cheered me on and watched my back.
BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1
“I KILL FOR God once more,” he whispered low.
As Thomas gazed over the silent valley, it seemed a veil of doom coated the mist of morn. Awake for a time, restless and anxious, he felt uneasy with a tickling dread this battle would be different. Something this morn would change his life. He was sorry he ever met that haggard old crone warning him of danger striking from behind. She looked every bit a humped old witch when she pulled on his cuff.
“Black art hags be damned,” he huffed and shook himself, chasing the thought away.
Turning, he sniffed the damp hanging thick and looked slow toward the distant hill. No morning lark broke the silence as timid shafts of sun glistened over dawn crusts of frost.
The long valley, shadowed quiet, lay waiting for the day’s dying and he sensed its scorn knowing its blood-watered grass would rise again, leaving no memory.
Standing hard in the breathless air, his eyes lingered against the ghost-colored sky knowing the enemy arrows would find their flesh. He smirked, certain Lady Death diced with Fate’s Snicker for the power to decree the victor before this sun’s zenith.
His eyes lifted as the amber sun cracked over the edge of the land and the curved valley slowly appeared before him. Lazy night mists hanging low swirled like wispy spirits sneaking sly, hiding from the day like their vampire kin. Again, thoughts of the netherworld shivered him as winter chills hit his bones, aching old wounds. He grunted, shifted his weight, and pulled his cloak tight with another deep breath, fogging the crisp air.
Trumpet blasts ripped the silent dawn, snapping his thoughts. Reveille, he hated it. Even the sun obeyed the call as its first glow caused the war camp to come alive with the familiar groaning, cursing, and clanking of troops. War-horses rustled, stomping against the tether as they whinnied their hunger with a snort, shooting jets of steam like old dragons with no more fire. He watched bushed sentries drag back to camp worn from the hoary night as his stomach growled from the warm smells of the morning fare drifting by.
With a last chilled shiver, he turned back as the sun melted the spirit haze, warming the plain to an Ireland green. He was surprised it was still so lush and thick this close to Christ’s day. This morn would be the final battle before winter camp, then three full moons of much needed rest before the next campaign.
Wandering back to his group, he was keenly aware of the legions preparing for battle and felt blessed God favored him bigger than most. It stood him well since joining the crusade six winters past. He was just fourteen.
Thomas Michael Fallon was tall and skinny then, with strong arms from beating black-red iron in his father’s smithy. But as time drudged and his height grew, he vowed a different course as he watched his father’s tiring stoop and final step to the grave. So when winter bit under a harvest moon, he left to join the crusade.
As water boy, he hauled bone heavy water for two turns of winter for troops before and after battles. Always a pace behind the padre, he weaved between groaning and dying men begging for salvation, pouring many drops into mouths of soldiers bleeding their souls into the earth. As moons passed, the water skins, lead heavy, made his muscles iron tough and at sixteen, he was ready to kill pagan infidels. Eighteen campaigns since formed him battle hard with scars to prove.
His squad was hustling awake when he returned. Twelve good men and some would die today. The veterans groused at the routine of breaking camp while the fresh replacements stayed quiet with their fear.
“Good morn, lads,” he greeted, knowing the worth of keeping spirits high.
Chris turned with a sleepy growl, “Watcha so happy fer?”
Chris was with him the longest, toughest of the lot, Irish like the rest. The command always kept Irelanders together, being Catholic and all. Over the seasons, he learned Irish squads were sent to the front more than the rest. It pissed him but made him and his lads’ fierce fighters and was a point of pride. When an Irish squad strolled about the camp, no one dared cross their path except maybe another Irish troop. But that was rare, except when sotted, because they knew their bond of blood and stuck together.
As he readied, he looked over the rest. They were thick, the lot of them, and he was proud. By blood and death, they earned their badge of the toughest unit under the king’s flag, willing to fight to the last man.
A trumpet blast sounded from the hill, signaling the call to arms. The rustling clamor of the camp rose as the sea of troops formed into battle groups. Men yelled and dust clouded against bugle blasts and rumbling drums.
“On me, lads,” Thomas ordered, leading his squad to the center of the line. To the rear, jogging bowmen, a thousand strong, sounded like flapping birds splitting equal to the right and left flanks. Behind them, two thousand armored horse cavalry with lances three men long, waited, ready. To the right, on a low hill, the king’s knight and escort took positions to direct the battle. Runners, trumpeters, and flagmen at attention awaited orders to relay messages to wherever needed. Scores of mounted knights, shouting encouragement, whipped through the ranks on war-horses directing the various fighting groups.
The men cheered the pomp as wild-eyed battle horses with stiff-bowed necks and flowing manes high stepped to their own tune. Slick sheens covered their hides as they champed and frothed the bit, huffing proud, with chests thick as bisons. Tail stumps, standing stiff as flag poles, sprouted from haunches so mortar hard arrows couldn’t pierce. Their riders, armored Knights of St. John seemed born to their steeds, prancing their gallant flourish. Bright coverlets and sashes with thick colors waved soft in the still morn proclaiming holy truths and brave deeds, declaring them invincible, bequeathing courage to all. They were a wonder.
With the turmoil circling him, Thomas called his men to huddle, reminding them with a stern look to stay in sight at all costs. Catching each eye, he knew just eight were left from his original squad and four just added this week were yet untested in battle.
“Darby lad, whers yer cod?” he asked.
Darby glanced down nervous as a flopping fish. “I ferget it,” he said, blushing bright.
“Too late now, . . . least ya got yer sword.”
The others muffled a chuckle.
Another trumpet blast brought complete silence through the ranks. Only jingling tackle and shallow whispers of prayers broke the eerie hush of ten thousand. At the same time, Thomas almost felt the internal click as his mind and body centered on the battle. Embracing it like a sultry lover, he looked across the narrow valley toward the pagan enemy. His body warmed as his heart turned cold foreseeing the killing of the godless infidels before him. With shoulders hunched, his eyes grayed under narrowed brows waiting for the trumpet march. His men sucked his energy to their bones, standing solid, ready to follow his lead.
A helmet taller with heavy arms and shoulders, Thomas looked fearsome fitted with black breastplate and silver metal helmet. Below that, a black leather face guard, stitched with thin steel rods covered his face and neck, showing only silvered cold eyes. A mantel of laced steel plates with the Irish ensign, stamped special, guarded his shoulders.
Thick bull leather armor strapped to his arms and legs had an oiled shine. Spiked metal-toed sandals invented by him were mounted in salted leather that was boiled, formed, and dried metal tough, matched and the steel spikes strapped to his elbows. His leather codpiece was pulled snug with leather strips instead of linen laces. He wanted no mistakes there.
Two long daggers, one at the waist, the other in a sheath strapped to his calf matched the double waist high broadswords that sat heavy, crossed on his back, in leather metal sheaths oiled baby soft. The last, a narrow metal shield, heavy thick with a snap release, allowed a quick twist to protect the length of his back.
His gear finished with a small flask of lemon water and strips of boiled cloth for any wounds. Past trials taught him fast attendance cleaning a wound a