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BLOG TOUR - "The Curse of the Conchobar" by David Fitz-Gerald

The Historical Fiction Company is pleased to welcome David Fitz-Gerald to the blog today on his blog tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club. This post is a meaty one, full of intrigue and a spectacular excerpt from the book. Also, HFC was privileged to give an editorial review to David on his book, so don't forget to scroll through to the bottom to read the review... yes, it is a surprise so we want to build your suspense!! Believe me, you won't want to miss this!!





AUTHOR BIO:

David Fitz-Gerald writes fiction that is grounded in history and soars with the spirits. Dave enjoys getting lost in the settings he imagines and spending time with the characters he creates. Writing historical fiction is like making paintings of the past. He loves to weave fact and fiction together, stirring in action, adventure, romance, and a heavy dose of the supernatural with the hope of transporting the reader to another time and place. He is an Adirondack 46-er, which means he has hiked all of the highest peaks in New York State, so it should not be surprising when Dave attempts to glorify hikers as swashbuckling superheroes in his writing.





Book Title: The Curse of Conchobar―A Prequel to the Adirondack Spirit Series

Series: The Adirondack Spirit Series

Author: David Fitz-Gerald

Publication Date: 20th January 2021

Publisher: Outskirts Press

Page Length: 171 Pages

Genre: Historical Fiction






BOOK BLURB:


Banished by one tribe. Condemned by another. Will an outcast's supernatural strengths be enough to keep him alive?


549 AD. Raised by monks, Conchobar is committed to a life of obedience and peace. But when his fishing vessel is blown off-course, the young man's relief over surviving the sea's storms is swamped by the terrors of harsh new shores. And after capture by violent natives puts him at death's door, he's stunned when he develops strange telepathic abilities.


Learning his new family's language through the mind of his mentor, Conchobar soon falls for the war chief's ferocious daughter. But when she trains him to follow in her path as a fighter, he's horrified when his uncanny misfortune twists reality, causing more disastrous deaths and making him a pariah.


Can Conchobar defeat the darkness painting his steps with blood?


The Curse of Conchobar is the richly detailed prequel to the mystical Adirondack Spirit Series of historical fiction. If you like inspiring heroes, unsettling powers, and lasting legacies, then you'll love David Fitz-Gerald's captivating tale.


Buy The Curse of Conchobar to break free from the fates today!


Trigger Warnings: Violence


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The Curse of Conchobar is available for free in exchange for signing up for David’s email list via BookFunnel: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/iwczowhp8q


 

BOOK EXCERPT:


The Curse of Conchobar

by David Fitz-Gerald

Excerpt 1, From Chapter 1


I hear a voice. Could it be God? Am I dead? I try to open my eyes. It should be easy, yet my eyes will not open. What is the voice saying? It seems nearby and far away at the same time. I don’t understand the language. It dawns on me that there are several voices.


I try to recall where I am. I remember dragging my boat ashore and falling to the ground. How long ago did it happen? I should get up. I wonder if the voices mean danger or assistance. My body seems unwilling to move―not so much as a finger or toe obeys my command. Perhaps I should be glad that I am not in pain, yet feeling nothing is terrifying.


Something touches my mouth. My lips separate and I realize that someone’s fingers are holding my mouth open. A trickle of water moistens my lips, crosses my teeth, and wets my tongue. It tastes like mana, better than I imagine the nectar consumed by God would taste. I feel a hand beneath my head, lifting me slightly. A little more water causes me to swallow. My head is gently set back on the ground. I try to wiggle my toes.


Water splashes on my face. I gasp for air. The shock of cold, salty water on my skin brings back the pain, and I instinctively curl into a ball.


I feel a pair of hands at my back, beneath my shoulder blades. I’m swiftly lifted in the air. Someone must expect me to stand, but my legs fail to find support beneath me and I crumble to the ground once more.


I am lifted and tossed into the water. The voices are louder. I feel the hands of several people dunking me swiftly, then I’m back on the ground again. Sensation has returned to my body.


My lips are parted once more. Something has been placed between my cheek and gums. My mouth waters and I sense the faint taste of meat.


I feel fingers on my face. Slippery hands rub something slimy on my skin. It still feels dry. I picture a mud puddle at the end of a dry day. I recall being in the sun for days, weeks, perhaps a month or more. Then I remember being lost at sea. An accidental voyage that began with a sudden storm.


Greasy fingers pry my eyes open and I see the face of a stranger. Intense brown eyes are surrounded by shiny blue skin. The man releases his hold on my face and my eyes remain open. I blink rapidly, aware of a dozen men and half as many canoes on the flat bank of a wide river.


A couple of the men hoist my body into the air with as much care as they would provide a fallen deer that they planned to butcher. They drop me into the center of one of their slender canoes. One takes the front and the other gets into the back. My little fishing boat is tied with a short rope to the back of their canoe. The men paddle steadily, keeping pace with the canoes ahead of them.


The nourishment provided by the dried meat and water have my senses functioning again. I’m now aware of how weak my body is. I’m barely strong enough to hold up my head or move to a sitting position. Instead I lie here quietly staring into the sky as the canoe moves steadily against the river current. I spend the day trying to recall how I came to be in this predicament and trying to figure out where I am.


I don’t know how long I was on the riverbank. I don’t remember reaching the shore or seeing land from the expanse of open ocean. I recall day after endless day of floating wherever the current cared to take me. It could have been weeks. It could have been months.


I try to distract myself from worrying about whether the men who paddle the canoe have rescued or captured me. I am glad that I can recall my homeland, but I keep returning to thoughts about one fateful morning and the events that brought me here. That morning, I took a few hours off from chiseling steps on the cliffs of my island mountain. I wished to try my hand at some fishing. A storm gathered, so abruptly that I was unable to paddle back to shore. The harsh wind blew so forcefully, it was all I could do to keep my boat afloat. I quickly lost my oars and was left with the lunch I had packed in a pail and my fishing gear.


As a result of my fateful fishing trip, I spent countless weeks floating in despair, tossed around by the whims of wind and waves. I despise my memories of those endless days and nights while lost at sea, yet my mind keeps returning to those bleak and perilous times.


Oh, how I long for the majestic island of emerald and stone. I regret having dodged Lector Beccán, taking his long green robe and the small boat. In my seventeen years, I had been permitted to go fishing only once. The ocean seemed full of promise and adventure, but everything changed after being lost at sea. I no longer feel drawn to the ocean; I despise it. Perhaps riding in a canoe is better. It helps to know there is land on either side of the river.


My head feels so fuzzy, I can hardly think, but concern pushes through. I know that my survival is a miracle, but I have plenty of concern about my current situation. The men who rescued me from drought and starvation look like demons and carry all manners of weaponry. It’s just the sort of scene that Lector Beccán’s readings described. I can picture the Abbot, the Prior, and the Sub-Prior nodding behind my proctor as he reads. I wish I had the strength and energy to sit up in the canoe.


After paddling all day, the men stop an hour before sunset. They argue and fight well into the evening before it gets quiet. I lay among ferns outside of the light of the fire, forgotten until morning.

 




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