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  PRAISE FOR CROWN OF SERPENTS

  CROWN OF SERPENTS is a compelling novel deeply rooted in the history of the Six Nations Iroquois. It takes place in contemporary times with fully developed characters and a powerful narrative; its author is well versed in the complexity of modern Iroquois life. Far more than a simple mystery the book follows the path of Tony Hillerman’s Navajo based novels by providing the reader with remarkable insights into the culture and traditions of the most influential Native nation east of the Mississippi.

  — Doug George-Kanentiio, editor, columnist, author from Akwesasne Mohawk Nation

  CROWN OF SERPENTS is a page-turning story with a creative plot backed up with incredible historical tidbits from the author’s extensive research. Karpovage’s careful crafting throughout compares him very favorably with others in the genre such as Follett and Ludlum.

  — Sue Lofstrom, Associate Professor of English, Georgia Perimeter College, Atlanta, GA

  I thought: Indiana Jones meets the Godfather! Read the entire book in two sittings. Had to pause occasionally during the first eight-hour read-a-thon to catch my breath. One of the best novels I have ever read!

  — Paulette Likoudis, Finger Lakes Times columnist, Lodi, NY

  The plot is very intricate but well conducted by the author, the characters are well developed and the narrative is fluent. This mystery thriller grabs the reader and does not let go of him until the end.

  — Bruno Gazzo, editor, PS Review of Freemasonry, Genoa, Italy

  I thoroughly enjoyed this book. I couldn’t put it down from the moment I picked it up, until I finished the last page. Karpovage is a name to watch for in future writings…right up there with Dan Brown. I am anxiously awaiting his next novel!

  — Brother Alan Johnson, Stone Mountain Lodge #449, Stone Mountain, GA

  CROWN OF SERPENTS is a bombshell of a book! Precise maps and historic manuscripts help lend credence to a compelling scavenger hunt that burns across the reservations of Western New York.

  — William P. Robertson, Bucktail novelist, Duke Center, PA

  Michael Karpovage’s character Jake Tununda is fascinating and displays the amazing qualities of a Seneca Indian, an American soldier and true Freemason. The author, being a Freemason, was able to weave the Craft in and out of the story so well that it didn’t appear forced and complemented the plot well. He was also able to describe some small secrets about the Craft which only Freemasons would recognize and stays true to any obligation, which is a great accomplishment.

  — Brother Jeb W. Carroll, Kenilworth Lodge #29 GRA, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada

  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 actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Karpovage Creative, Inc.

  5055 Magnolia Walk

  Roswell, Georgia 30075

  www.karpovagecreative.com

  Copyright © 2009 by Michael Karpovage

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Publishers Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Karpovage, Michael.

  Crown of Serpents / Michael Karpovage

  ISBN: 978-0-615-38928-8

  1. Tununda, Jake (Fictitious character) — Fiction

  2. New York (state) — Fiction

  3. Mystery fiction.

  I. Title

  PS3611.A7 C7 2009

  Printed in the United States of America

  Third Edition

  Cover and interior book design, illustrations, and maps (except where noted) by

  Karpovage Creative, Inc.

  designer • map illustrator • publisher

  www.karpovagecreative.com

  www.crownofserpents.com

  /CrownofSerpents

  THE TUNUNDA MYSTERIES

  Book One: Crown of Serpents (2009)

  Book Two: Map of Thieves (2014)

  MILITARY THRILLER

  Flashpoint Quebec (2003)

  www.karpovagecreative.com

  Table of Contents

  Author's Note

  Maps

  Crown Of Serpents

  Prologue

  Chapters

  1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20 • 21 • 22 • 23 • 24 • 25 • 26 • 27 • 28 • 29 • 30 • 31 • 32 • 33 • 34 • 35 • 36 • 37 • 38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Historical Timeline

  Betrayed by a Mason?

  About the Author

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although Crown of Serpents is a work of fiction based on pure speculative narrative, and all the present day characters are creations of my imagination, some of the historical figures in this book are real people. They existed and left records of themselves, some more abundant than others. I tried to be faithful to their actions and encounters as best I could determine from historical sources.

  For anyone interested in the historical background of the story within the novel, a timeline of events is provided in the back of this book. As bonus material, I’ve also included Betrayed By A Mason?, a published article based on my research depicting the true historical account of Lieutenant Thomas Boyd’s tragic mission and the Masonic circumstances surrounding his death.

  Visit KarpovageCreative.com for author interviews, book signing events, newsletter subscription, photos, and more.

  — Michael Karpovage

  For my sons Jake and Alex...

  PROLOGUE

  Monday, September 13, 1779. Seneca Nation territory between Genesee River and Conesus Lake.

  LIEUTENANT THOMAS BOYD wrenched his head back as a heavy wooden war hammer passed by his face. The momentum of the missed blow threw the attacking Iroquois Indian off balance and gave the young rebel officer the chance he needed to counterattack with his sword. With a horizontal slice, Boyd opened the Indian’s bare tattooed chest. The warrior screamed and looked down at the gaping red gash across his abdomen. He dropped to his knees and bent over on his hands. Boyd finished him off by plunging his sword deep between the Indian’s shoulder blades. The hard thrust slammed the warrior flat against the ground. With a boot on his victim’s back and a twist of his hand, Boyd extracted his blood-smeared sword and readied himself for the next onslaught.

  Movement from behind a tree.

  A lone British Ranger, his musket fitted with a dreaded bayonet, charged directly at Boyd. The Ranger made it to within seven feet when a rifle cracked to the officer’s right. The Ranger grunted, dropped his musket, and clutched at his face. He stumbled past Boyd and slumped to the ground — dead. Heavy gray smoke drifted over the British trooper, enveloping the officer’s next would-be killer.

  Boyd, a veteran of the Continental Army under General Sullivan, glanced to his right to see which of his trusted scouts had made the shot. It was his Oneida Indian guide, Honyost Thaosagwat, a courageous fighter from the only breakaway Iroquois nation supporting the American rebellion. He received a wide-eyed nod from Boyd. Thaosagwat gave him a nervous smile in return and took cover behind a boulder to reload his weapon.

  Through the wafting battlefield haze, not fifty paces away, a British officer barked the command to fire. Several shots of lead whistled by Boyd’s head as he sought cover behind a tree. The volley of enemy musket fire cut down what was left of his small
scout detachment. Hugging the tree, he felt a searing sensation rip through his side as a musket ball penetrated his deerskin coat and impacted above his hip. Boyd grimaced and dropped to a knee. He grabbed at his waist, blood oozing between his fingers. Nausea and dizziness immediately swept over him.

  “Lieutenant’s been hit!”

  Boyd looked to the shout. One of his soldiers crouched toward him, scout rifle and powder horn in hand. It was Sergeant Michael Parker.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here, sir.”

  Through labored breathing, Boyd managed a response. “No, no, it went straight through. Stay in the fight. They’ll be coming again.”

  Parker nodded, “I won’t leave your side Lieutenant.” He knelt and popped open his horn, poured black powder into his rifle’s barrel, reloaded another shot, and then rammed it all home with his rifle rod. His actions were swift and practiced. He then moved to a nearby tree and rested the rifle against the trunk to steady his aim.

  Boyd squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his wound tighter, and willed himself to fight on. He looked beyond Parker, wondering how many of his men were still alive inside the grove of sapling trees where they had sought protection. The pressing attack by the British and their Indian allies had nearly decimated his detachment of twenty-nine scout riflemen. And it was completely his fault.

  Guided by youthful cockiness and overconfidence, he pushed too far when he deliberately made contact with three Seneca Indians earlier in the day. Thinking he could take their scalps as trophies, Boyd ordered his marksman to open fire while the Indians ate over a campfire. His men killed two, but one had made his escape. Boyd ordered pursuit of the lone Indian against his Oneida guide’s recommendation. They pursued their prey through the woods and mistakenly ran into an ambuscade made up of the fiercest combination of wilderness fighters the rebellion had seen. He had led his troops directly into the jaws of four hundred British Rangers, Tories, and Iroquois warriors led by the notorious pair of Colonel John Butler and Mohawk Chief Joseph Brant.

  Boyd could clearly hear the specific orders of his commander now ringing inside his throbbing head. The night before, General John Sullivan had ordered him not to make contact with the enemy. His was supposed to be a recon mission only.

  The British and Indians had immediately surrounded his men and commenced the ambush. Boyd’s marksmen fought back with utmost precision, shooting behind good cover. They felled many but Butler and Brant’s sheer numbers ultimately proved too great. The slaughter took its toll after three heavy volleys from the British crack troops. Boyd knew he had no choice but to get his men out. After several unsuccessful organized attempts at breaking through the enemy lines, he had become separated and lost all means of control over his scouts. Each man was on his own.

  Now shot through the side and panic-stricken, he looked around as the end closed near. Smoke shifted and he watched brutal hand-to-hand combat rage on his right flank. The famous Virginian marksman Timothy Murphy, the best shot in his detachment, had just beaten down an Indian. Boyd’s close friend and Brother in the Freemasons, Sergeant Sean McTavish, waved Murphy over as he and several others made one more desperate attempt to break the enemy lines for escape. The battlefield haze shifted across Boyd’s vision again and the rest of his scouts vanished.

  Parker fired his rifle bringing Boyd back to his immediate surroundings. Parker then moved up, disappearing into his gunpowder-filled cloud. Boyd’s vision blurred, his eyes burning in the smoke.

  The violence of the battle suddenly subsided.

  Two British Rangers emerged from the thick haze to Boyd’s front, their bayoneted muskets at the hip. Boyd heard more movement behind him. Turning, he observed a half dozen shirtless, sweat and blood stained Iroquois warriors jump from tree to tree. Donning distinctive war paint, feather headdresses, and decorative jewelry, they clutched war hammers, tomahawks, and hot muskets. Using his sword as a crutch, Boyd staggered to his feet to face their final assault. He knew he was a dead man either way, whether it was the two Rangers at his back or the Iroquois pack of wolves to his front. He could only hope the end would come swiftly.

  Instead, time stood still.

  The battlefield grew strangely quiet.

  Boyd blinked through watery eyes.

  A war whoop shattered the silence as a young Seneca Indian made a dash straight for Boyd. But another Indian cut the youngster off. Clad in a fine red cape over a ruffled white blouse with a silver gorget about his neck, there stood their leader. His arm was stretched straight out, blocking the scalp-hungry young warrior from gaining his trophy.

  Boyd recognized this man from when he first laid eyes on him at the Battle of Newtown last month — the feared Mohawk chief, Joseph Brant. A captain with the British Army responsible for several massacres against the colonists, Brant was the great persuader who had convinced the other Iroquois nations to ally with the British instead of staying neutral.

  Brant strode to within several feet of Boyd, a blood-smeared tomahawk in one hand, a pistol in the other. His plumed headdress swayed atop his closely shaven, battle-tattooed head. His warriors shouted encouragement in anticipation of the kill.

  Fear gripped Thomas Boyd’s entire body, intensifying all of his senses. He could feel the warmth of his own life-blood spreading across his wound. He became dizzy again. His hands shook. His knees trembled. With a pounding heart ready to burst from his chest, he suddenly remembered Brant’s stature as the very first from the Iroquois Confederacy to become an English Freemason. He remembered that Brant had helped two other rebel soldiers escape death back in 1776 at the Battle of Cedars. He knew now there was but one slim chance for survival. Since he and Brant belonged to the same secret fraternity, he could only hope his so-called Brother would honor the ancient obligation of a Mason in distress — and spare his life.

  He must make the sign.

  With the tip of his officer’s sword planted in the ground, Boyd let go of the hilt and watched it swing away to drop at Brant’s feet. Surrender. Boyd then raised both arms, made the secret magical gestures only a fellow Freemason would interpret, and lowered his arms back down to his side. He finished by whispering a single word to Brant. The communication was delivered.

  A confused murmur rippled through the group of Indians. The two British Rangers looked at one another then over to Brant. Brant narrowed his eyes and hesitated. He inspected Boyd from head to bloody boot then calmly scanned the battlefield around him. Boyd followed his gaze.

  Off to one side, Boyd noticed his battered Sergeant Parker resting on his knees, head silently bowed as the two British Rangers stood over their prisoner with muskets ready to fire. Brant then looked in the opposite direction and became transfixed on several Iroquois warriors just beyond some rocks. Boyd too looked that way.

  His Oneida guide Thaosagwat was being held by two other Indians as a third spat in his face. A fourth Indian then snuck up from behind Thaosagwat and buried a tomahawk in the back of his skull. The crunch was crisp. Thaosagwat’s legs buckled and he collapsed face first to the ground. His scalp was immediately and thoroughly sliced and peeled back from his head. It was held high in victory.

  War whoops echoed through the woods.

  Brant turned back and locked eyes with Boyd. They held each other’s gaze for several seconds. Boyd never flinched, even as the blood drained from his body.

  “Brother, your life is under my protection,” Brant finally declared in perfect English. “Should you survive your wound, I’ll transport you to Montreal for a prisoner exchange.”

  With relief, Boyd promptly passed out.

  Brant directed his war chiefs to take both Boyd and the other surviving rebel soldier into custody. He then turned and ran off into the thick woods, a group of his warriors at his heels. A Ranger grabbed Boyd’s sword before the Indians could get to it, but once they pounced on the unconscious prisoner, the savages stripped him of all clothing and possessions, like vultures on a fresh carcass.

  The young Seneca warr
ior who had been denied Thomas Boyd’s scalp as a trophy, was one of the Indians pillaging the victim for items of value. He came away with the rebel officer’s shiny belt buckle, his hunting knife, powder horn, and a small leather booklet. The youngster fanned the English language pages inside the book and frowned. He had no idea it was Boyd’s personal campaign journal. He stuffed the booklet into his pouch thinking he could barter with it later. He then kicked Boyd several times in the ribs to awaken him for the march back to their village. The Seneca warrior still felt the officer’s scalp was rightfully his and that he would not be denied taking it again.

  He did not have to wait long.

  His trophy would come the very next day.

  1

  Present day. November. Early Monday morning. Cranberry Marsh.

  North of the Hamlet of Romulus, N.Y.

  THIRTY FEET DEEP inside a rock fissure, U.S. Army Major Robert “Jake” Tununda gained his footing on a ledge, gripped his rescue rope tight, and hugged the stone wall to catch his breath. As he inhaled, the stench of fresh human excrement rose from below and filled his nostrils. He shook his head, the odor somehow triggering a suppressed memory he had stored away for many years. His eyes glazed over for a moment and he remembered himself back as a young infantry captain leading an assault into a shit-filled al-Qaeda underground bunker in Afghanistan. The scene in his head ended in an atrocity he would never forget — his black moment in an otherwise illustrious combat career. Jake pressed his eyes shut and filed the thought back where it belonged, refusing to let it cloud the attempted rescue he was performing. Only now, he thought, as he crinkled his nose, there would probably be a dead body instead to recover below.