Refrain Of The Fallen: Pieces Of Eight, #3

By Steve Conoboy

Book Three of the 'Pieces Of Eight' series.

The pirate Province of Maudlin lies in tatters. Those who remain hear Whispers of a fleet that roves back and forth across the harbour and an army closing in over land, ready to cut down anyone who dares flee. Cap'ns Silus de Senza, Samira Dalal, and Shay-yo, Three o' the Eight, flounder inside this grand trap, all far from their glorious prime.

Billy, the undead crow's nest girl, hunts down the Whisper who killed her, determined to get the last laugh this time. Even in death, however, Pear cannot be shaken off easily, and her eyes glare from the deep shadows that have become her new home.

Silus also finds himself haunted. His old crewmates Razor Jane and Pinhead Pete, whose souls he sold in exchange for Billy's, grow in strength and fury. They lurk in mirrors and glassy reflections, talons reaching for the chance for revenge. It makes his need to hide from an entire Province of desperate pirates a tad more tricky.

Samira waited too long for her friend Silus to come to his senses: the net around Maudlin may now be too tight. She must escape at any cost. There's a price on Silus The Curse's head, a big price. A horde of coin might be her only opportunity to escape in one piece…

Shay-yo is as broken as the Province around her. She knows what Silus did for Billy, and is determined to tap into the same dark magic. But she must hurry, as time tightens the noose around all their necks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Conoboy
• Release date: Sep 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201109004

Book preview

Reading Order

Book 00 - Krakenvale - the Prequel

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www.steveconoboy.com

- Pieces of Eight -

Book 01 - Shanty of the Soul

Book 02 - Canticle of Oceans Lost

Book 03 - Refrain of the Fallen

Book 04 - Melody of Fools

- Forging the Eight -

Book 01 - Silus

Book 02 - Samira

Book 03 - Valdirez

Book 04 - Tressie

- Pieces of Eight -

Book 05 - TBC

Book 06 - TBC

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

©(2021) STEVE CONOBOY. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced or copied without the expressed written permission of the Author.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover art under licence from Shutterstock/Tithe Luadthong

This one’s for the pirate in all of us,

That wild part who fights for your beliefs

And your rights

Even when you’ve given up.

That pirate can fight for others to.

Refrain Of The Fallen

Pieces of Eight - Book 3

A novel by Steve Conoboy

Chapter 01

Weasel whistles a jaunty tune as he picks through the tunic pockets adorning the top half of a split-apart pirate. He’s never been happier. Two days since the bombing, his sixth trip out gathering, and once more after only an hour his pouches bulge.

‘Thank ye kindly, me fine feller,’ he mutters as the divided pirate’s pockets give up their contents. ‘I’ll put all this to grand use, I promise ye, as gratitude for yer kindness.’ He’s made a similar Accord with every absent soul. He intends to spend these coins on the entertainments their original owners would have indulged in, and he’ll enjoy them at least as much, if not more, because he has survived and these coins have chosen him to continue their journey with.

The death of Maudlin demands celebration.

He glances at the glistening guts hanging from the ragged end of the torso without meaning to. Strange impulses in the brain drive eyes to look at that which can’t be unseen. It doesn’t bother Weasel much. These carcasses are merely abandoned vessels, some with their hulls torn out, cheap cargo tumbling loose, bilge water pouring from the broken seams, masts snapped, helms bust open. The souls that sailed in them have gone. Weasel can’t guess where. He’s heard a lot of theories from a lot of pirates who reckon they know everything, or believe they’ve seen the Other Side of the Sea. Weasel doesn’t like thinking about any of that. It makes him queasy, the way he imagines civvies get seasick. There was a civvie priest once who told him he’d burn in Damnation for all the terrible things he’d done. His Cap’n had argued back that they can’t be terrible things if they’re a normal part of the Life... but Weasel had bad dreams for weeks after, visions of himself bursting into flames on the deck, fire roaring as it enveloped him, and he would throw himself overboard and crash into the sea, but the water could not snuff out the inferno. It raged on as Weasel sank to the ocean floor, burning alive.

It strikes Weasel as best not to think of such things, and instead get on with the simple pleasures of living, even if living means raiding the battered corpses of his kind.

Jessie, his companion today, heaves into the rubble of the tumbled clock tower. ‘There can’t be much left inside ye,’ he calls over to her as her back buckles and her shoulders roll, vomit churning its way up her gullet. ‘Ye ain’t doin’ me much good on yer hands and knees. Yer meant to be keepin’ yer one eye out.’ His first gathering had been a great success, and once that coin collection was stashed, he’d headed straight out for more. Second time out, Weasel had taken two packs on either shoulder, intending to fill each with a grand, gleaming haul. Unfortunately, they’d weighed him down, making it difficult to flee when he bumped into a pair of pirates also out gathering. Luck alone means that Weasel didn’t discover the answer to what happens after death, but he had to sacrifice those full packs so he could continue living. Yesterday he paired up with an old crew mate for a cut of the profits, but that crewmate stumbled upon an uncracked barrel of grog and rolled away with it and never returned. Weasel found Jessie, a recent addition to the crew (ex-crew really, for their ship and Cap’n are dead), sitting down at the docks, kicking her feet in the water despondently, and worryingly near to one of his stashes. He distracted her from mourning with an offer of easy coin.

He hadn’t, however, considered the possibility of Jessie proving weak of stomach.

‘Give me a minute,’ she says in a wobble. ‘Reckon after this I’ll be... I’ll be...’ Up gurgles another chunder. From where he crouches over the remains of a pirate in the remains of a pawn shop, Weasel sees the glutinous strings unfurling from her mouth. He was right: not much left in her.

Finished with his half-pirate, he looks round for the next pickings, wishing he’d thought of coming here much sooner. The mortar strike cracked the pawn shop wide open, laying bare all the chests and trunks and display cabinets usually locked up and well-guarded by the owner. Then again perhaps the Fates had protected him. Most likely a dozen or so wily pirates had come to the same conclusion, judging by the number of bodies cut and chopped and stabbed atop the rubble, over and above the poor souls present when the establishment exploded. Most of the dead had already been stripped of their valuables. But not all. Weasel prides himself on diligence and attention to detail.

Jessie pushes herself up. It’s as if she’s vomited up all of her colour. She’s become a Shade, set loose from her body, guarding its hard-earned treasures from raiders such as he.

Stop thinkin’ like that. Superstition ain’t a religion, it’s a cripplement, so stop.

Jessie totters like the thin boards of a groaning raft. ‘I’m grand now.’ She wipes her mouth, reels from the smell of her own wrist.

Weasel’s grateful for the scarves he chose to wear over his mouth. ‘Ye said that the last time. And the time before, after we found that lass with her head cracked open like an egg.’

Her throat roils, her eyes pop, her cheeks puff out.

‘Shittin’ hell, Jessie, yer meant to be a pirate, ye can’t be this soft!’

With a struggle, she swallows down the gloop of rising sick, a consistency similar to slick egg whites. ‘I ain’t soft! I’ve seen all sorts. I can handle anythin’. It’s just... there’s a lot of it, ain’t there? It ain’t like a sword fight, it’s... so many parts.’

They flash past the backs of Weasel’s eyes, every single death he’s seen. The stabbings, the beatings, the panic-filled drownings. The split skin, the spilled blood, the bloating. Aaarr, there’s been a lot of it. Some of them were friends. Some of them he liked. And somehow I’m still here. ‘Nearly done, Jessie. One more spot I want to visit, then we’ll take a break, stash what we’ve got. Ain’t wantin’ to push our luck too much.’

Pale relief. ‘Aaarr, a break, prob’ly a grand idea to rest our luck.’ She walks alongside Weasel, slipping on loose, charcoaled brickwork. ‘Where to?’

‘The library.’ He’s sure-footed as they trek around the rim of the crater.

Jessie forces a laugh. ‘Ye after a spot o’ readin’? Ye wantin’ one o’ them romance novels?’

‘Readin’s for civvies. Ain’t nothin’ in a book can beat the Life, eh? All that stuff them writers make up, ain’t nothin’ compared to battlin’ a pair o’ krakens. And I get all the romance I want, thank ye kindly.’

‘O’ course ye do.’

‘We ain’t here for the books, smart arse. They’re prob’ly all burnt to cinders. Which is for the best I reckon, stop people wastin’ their time. I mean, how can ye get any enjoyment from it? There ain’t no voice, is there? It’s flat words on a flat page. What’s wrong with sittin’ on deck at night round a firepit, passin’ the rum while ye listen to a proper storyteller, relatin’ it all as it really happened? Bloody civvies, don’t know how to live properly...’

‘Why are we here, Weasel?’ She wants to take deep breaths to settle her stomach, but the air still holds a bitter tang of ash and smoke that clings to her tongue.

‘Ye know who claimed the library as a vessel for himself and his crew, don’t ye? The Knowledge. Cap’n Haywood Fallows.’

‘Eh? He had a ship, in the harbour...’

‘The library was his home from home. That means he was there, his crew was there, any of his most valuable treasures must o’ been there with him, even his crew must o’ had stuff on ‘em. It’s the next of the obvious places to check.’

‘Obvious means other pirates must o’ thought of it, right?’

It clutches the base of his throat. ‘It would be foolish to reckon otherwise.’ As he learned yesterday. ‘But others can miss things that I don’t. That’s what I’m relyin’ on. Them others, they tend to nip in quick, grab what they can, then get out o’ there.’

‘What about you? Are ye goin’ to hang around longer than ye should waitin’ for trouble to arrive?’

‘I’ve got you, that’s what. Don’t be worryin’, I said it’s only for a minute or two, want to get a feel for the place, see what’s been left behind by the other gatherers.’ See if there’s a way down to Haywood’s treasure as a little extra treat.

He’ll only go for it if it’s relatively easy. Which it probably won’t be.

But it might be.

Some giant beast has taken a huge bite out of the library. Only the southern wall stands, with short stubby chunks of the eastern and western as a memory of what once was. Said beast chewed, chewed, spat the lot up, then set it all on fire. It’s a tangled, blackened mess. Not as easy as he’d hoped, then.

‘Alright gatherer,’ says Jessie, ‘where do we start?’

‘You stand over the road, at that corner, and shout if anyone comes near. I’m carryin’ a small fortune. I’ve lost one, and I ain’t losin’ another. Keep yer ears open too. Pirates ain’t usually the quiet type. So ye ought to hear anyone comin’ afore ye see ‘em.’

‘What about...’

‘That means no distractin’ yerself with questions an’ chatterin’ on.’

She tromps off towards the corner indicated, huffing. As far as Weasel cares, she can huff all she likes so long as she does as asked. He’s had enough surprises over the last few days.

The first couple of bodies he finds offer up nothing. Their pockets and pouches hang empty, turned out by whoever beat him here. These are the most easily found corpses, thrown from the building during the blast and into the street where any passer-by could stumble upon them and have a quick fumble around. Nothing to worry about. No reason yet to believe that some gatherer as diligent and dedicated as he has scoured the area for all coin, or The Knowledge’s secret stash, or something equally good.

Weasel wants the good stuff. He wants plenty of it. He needs a grand stash o’ coin ready for when he finally flees Maudlin. The few ships left in harbour show no sign of setting sail. Stories abound that death awaits any who dare try. They say a grand fleet arrived in response to the start of war, and they’re armed to the teeth. Besides, there’s limited room for crews, and duels happen day and night as pirates challenge each other for the rare slots remaining. Weasel knows his limits. He can handle a blade, but he won’t win a duel any time soon. The only other option is a trek overland, a prospect that sends shivers down pirate spines at the best of times. Further rumours indicate that another army of troopers will soon descend upon the Township, bigger by far than the last. Such an army would be difficult to avoid.

That leaves Weasel unsure what to do.

Best not to think about it. Best to keep preparing for whatever decision he might eventually make. Whatever happens, he hopes he’ll get time to retrieve his stashes.

Here, where sections of interior wall tumbled against each other to form a narrow tent, lies another empty vessel. A woman, most likely, though the extent of the mangling renders it hard to discern gender. This dark work was committed by no pirate sword. Years ago, his Cap’n set down at an island dressed in lush forest, and a small landing party headed out with the intention of replenishing the food stocks. Weasel was in that party, as was a pirate named Dexter. Always full of energy, Dexter forged ahead, leading the gang through the trees. He disappeared from sight for a single moment, and the screaming started. Agonised shrieks, followed by the deep roar of a creature unchallenged at the top of the food chain. A bear shredded Dexter, tossed the rags of his carcass in the direction of the party, and gave chase. They fled, and didn’t return for poor Dexter’s body... but it was Weasel the savaged pirate landed near, and he got a close and mercifully quick look at the trauma his crewmate had suffered.

This body in the rubble of the library gives Weasel sudden, sharp pain. Dexter’s death was terrible, the kind of ending no-one wants to their Story, and this pirate has suffered a similar fate.

Weasel’s heard all the rumours and tales. What pirate hasn’t? The whole Province sits clenched with anxiety. Silus de Senza has a creature they say, maybe a demon. He’d heard that the mad ex-Cap’n was sending his monster out to kill anyone who dared defy him. More than that, he overheard a conversation last night in which someone reached a realisation: de Senza hates all of Maudlin after what happened all those years ago. He came to destroy it, and he’s almost achieved his dark aim. Silus regards everyone in the harbour town as his enemy... and that means his demon will take them all, one by one. Weasel doesn’t like to think about that.

He needs to leave Maudlin.

He’s unsure what to do.

A quick pat-down, avoiding the worst of the wounds and still-sticky blood, reveals this pirate has held onto her coins and trinkets, hiding them from all others until Weasel arrived. ‘Thank you kindly,’ he whispers to her, taking coin purses, a dragonfly brooch, silver earrings, a half-dozen rings from the fingers left on her ravaged hands. ‘I’ll put it all to good use, I promise ye.’

Beetles, ants, spiders scuttle past. None linger on the corpse. All go in the same direction: away. He looks to his right, where all the bugs come from. They trickle out of the cracks between chunks of rubble, in an area approximately at the centre of the once-library. He scampers over, starts hauling bricks out of his way.

‘Thought we wasn’t supposed to make any noise,’ calls Jessie.

‘Damnation, ye holler any louder? They didn’t hear ye over in Foolshope! Get over here an’ help me with this.’

‘Thought we was only stayin’ here a minute.’

‘We are! I just want a quick look under this lot so I know if it’s worth comin’ back or not. Come here so we can stop shoutin’!’

She grumbles her way over. He catches a few of her mutterings, about how this isn’t the job she agreed to, and there’d better be more coin. If she keeps her moaning to herself, he’ll slip her a few extra coins, if only to keep her sweet. The way things are in Maudlin, he’ll need all the allies he can get.

‘We’re lookin’ for a hint of a way down under the library. The basement hatch, a hole smashed through the floorboards, anythin’ like that. Then we’ll cover it over, we’ll hide it, so no-one else finds it afore we come back, alright?’

She pauses, a brick in each hand. ‘Shouldn’t we get straight in? If ye reckon this Cap’n Knowledge’s stash is down there, why not go for it now?’

‘Because it’s down there. There’ll only be one way in an’ out. It’ll be a narrow way too, most likely. If we’re down there when some other gatherers or gang o’ angry pirates happens to turn up, bad things are likely to happen.’ He indicates for her to keep removing rubble. ‘We’ll see what there is to see, then go get some back up, a couple o’ extra swords to make sure the job runs smooth. If we need it. There might be nothin’.’

But there’s somethin’. He can feel it.

He picks the spot that gives him the most feeling, rapidly shifts rubble. Jessie does the same a few spans away

and she gags, reeling away from an unpleasant find. ‘Yer goin’ to have to toughen up,’ says Weasel, barely looking up. ‘Roll it aside an’ get on with the job, you’re the one who wants this over with quick!’ Weasel misses off how desperate he is to leave himself. The more coins he has on his person, the more he has to lose, and the more his nerves jitter. Much like this Province, the Pirate Code has taken a battering. Greed and desperation outweigh courtesy and respect for Accords. A little bit more work here and he’s sure he’ll find what he’s after, then they can flit off and make a plan.

Jessie can’t stop heaving.

Weasel takes a look at whatever set her off.

It’s the front half of a dog, concertinaed, the skin of its back and chest folded over in ripples, front paws and head scrunched up. Weasel stares, considers it. An odd memory from years ago: he was helping Hodgkins, a particularly rotund pirate, out of his shirts by pulling them over his head. The man’s chins resisted any efforts to force them through the collar, rolling up over themselves in a ruffle.

‘Don’t worry, boss man,’ coughs Jessie, staggering away from the partial animal. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t see it, I’ll get on with what I was doin’, I’ll be alright...’

Tearing his gaze from the oddly-crumpled dog, Weasel watches as Jessie, without realising, follows a trail of dark blood leading like a ribbon from the dog’s squashed guts to a point underneath the rubble pile.

At this pile, Jessie resumes work.

Weasel’s nerves sing like a choir.

She clears bricks and wood pieces with renewed vigour.

The gap widens. A gap that was already there, albeit small.

The dog. The blood. The trail.

‘I reckon we’ve done enough for today,’ he says, voice vibrating. ‘What do ye say we get out o’ here, and I’ll give you yer cut? I know where there’s a barrel o’ grog no-one’s touched...’

‘Naaarr, I’ll prove to ye I ain’t soft, I’m a proper pirate, I can do the work.’

‘Ye’ve got nothin’ to prove.’ Weasel takes a creeping pace towards her, rocking on his feet as if his boots are unconvinced and want to stride in the opposite direction. ‘Ye’ve done me a favour by comin’ along...’

‘You’re the one told me to shush, and now look at ye! I get it, yer tryin’ to distract me from thinkin’ of the... the dog... the poor dog... but I’m doin’ grand now, I’ve calmed down.’ Crashing and bashing as she pulls and throws debris out of her path. ‘I can see... somethin’... this hole gets bigger... if I can get a few more of these chunks out o’ the way...’

Weasel feels like he’s eating his own throat. ‘That’s grand, ye’ve found somethin’, a way down, that’s what we came for, so...’

‘One more minute, I’m nearly there...’ She slows, then stops, then leans forward, turning her ear to the cavity she’s torn open.

Scraping.

Scratching.

Scuffing.

‘Come away from there,’ he says, low but clear.

‘Ye reckon someone’s trapped?’ she whispers.

A hand made of twisted, burnt tree branches seizes hold of her head, a hand large enough to smother her face. The arm, longer than any pirate’s, is the black of whatever lies behind the night sky. Long wires of muscle flex in that arm, a hungry spasm that clenches those wood-tight digits enveloping Jessie’s skull.

A muffled scream.

The creature’s own shriek rings clear. A woken demon in need of food.

It pulls, yanking Jessie towards its underground den.

Weasel runs, thinking of the concertinaed dog.

Chapter 02

Alight, cool drizzle peppers her face as she strides through the streets, hangs in her hair like pixie jewels. She cradles her cat, Jones, nestled in the folds of her scarlet jerkin, only a nose and whiskers peeking out. The gems set down the length of her sword sheath glimmer, flaring briefly whenever the sun slips free between the clouds. Her boots give sharp jangles with every stride, buckles jostling for prominence. A lone pirate across the street spots her approach, veers to intercept. A single pointed glare from Samira returns him to his original course.

She smirks, satisfied.

She squeals, as an umbrella tip jabs her in the neck for the third time.

‘Sorry, Cap’n,’ blurts Taluna, wincing and flinching a step sideways, out of easy reach of fists. The sleeves of her tan rain mac swish as she dances aside.

‘For the last time, will ye put that damned thing down! Better yet, throw the bugger away. What are ye doin’ with it?’

‘It’s... It’s rainin’, Cap’n. Umbrellas keep ye dry. It’s like this incredible bit o’ technology...’

‘Yer a pirate, Taluna. Ye have been for quite a few years. Pirates tend to sail on the seas. Seas are made o’ that splashy stuff, water. And ye call this rain? Ye’d get more wet if I spat on ye.’

‘Please don’t spit on me, Cap’n.’

‘I’m not goin’ to... Fold it up. Do it. Grand. Now throw it away.’

Taluna takes her time to bind the strap around the collapsed umbrella, then uses it as an elaborate walking stick. ‘I ain’t gettin’ rid of it. Matches me outfit.’

‘Mer-row,’ agrees Jones.

‘You shush,’ Samira tells him. ‘You always take her side, ye little traitor.’ A paw pops out briefly to bat at her, retreats as soon as water drops hit fur. ‘Yer as strange as the day is long, Taluna. Do what keeps ye happy, as long as ye keep that bloody lethal weapon out o’ me neck. Where’s yer new best pal got to? She’s usually hangin’ off ye like a limpet on a hull.’

‘Hardly,’ says Taluna, flushing. ‘She’s away doin’ errands, she said. Must be little missions for Silus, what with him not bein’ able to go out.’

‘Aaarr, and ain’t that fun an’ games for everyone involved?’

‘Hmm,’ says Taluna, searching the end of that note for the courage to ask her question. No, not quite yet. A different query takes its place. ‘Where are we goin’? Ye told Silus we were off to the Shipyards, but they’re over that way, and we’re goin’ towards...’

‘A remedy. That’s where we’re goin’, to get me a remedy for all me ailments. What me old Cap’n used to call a revivifier. Ye want some?’

A grin spreads across Taluna’s face. ‘That sounds like a grand plan to me.’

‘Brace yerself then, as it might be a bit of a trial gettin’ hold of it.’

‘How do ye mean?’ Taluna moves to walk alongside Samira, twirling her umbrella like a cane.

‘It’s quite the tightly-run organisation. I mean, fair play to ‘em for spottin’ an opportunity an’ jumpin’ in quick afore anyone else got their wits together. But it’s made them a tad... jumpier. The irony, jumpin’ in quick an’ all that...’

‘Who’s them?’

‘Now, don’t be gettin’ all agitated when I tell ye.’

Ropes tighten across Taluna’s shoulders. ‘Right.’

‘Look at ye, yer already riled up and I ain’t told ye who it is yet.’

‘Who says I’m riled up?’

‘Me, ‘cause I can see ye.’

‘If someone says to ye ‘Don’t get agitated but...’ then it’s bound to get yer hackles up, ‘cause it sets ye up to expect somethin’ bad. It ain’t Glover Garrick, is it? After what he did to me, I’ll snap his neck if I see him again. Snap it clean in half, the