Krakenvale: Pieces Of Eight, #0

By Steve Conoboy

No-one sails through Krakenvale. There isn't a reason good enough. Except Silus de Senza is no normal Cap'n, and he's in another not-normal situation. He's on the run from three vicious crews, he's made yet another promise to Eliza Mantroshino, and Krakenvale dwells between him and escape.

 

He's a man of reason. There's a map, and the map depicts an island, and someone must have been there in order to draw the chart. Been there and survived. If some artist can live through the journey, then surely Silus de Senza, One o' the Eight can too?

 

Out of options, the Machiavelli and her desperate crew of lasses an' lads sail out across Krakenvale, with danger behind, ahead, and under them. Long-held secrets await and terrifying legends prepare to attack...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Conoboy
• Release date: Jul 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201392475

Book preview

Reading Order

Book 00 - Krakenvale - the Prequel

- 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/Tithi Luadthong

This one’s for you, crewmates.

Take a look at the ocean at night, see how it gleams like glorious iridescent ink,

enough for everyone to write their own Stories.

KRAKENVALE

A Story of the Machiavelli

By Steve Conoboy

Chapter 1

‘I ’m the first one to admit that the situation ain’t ideal.’

Uproar from the crew gathered on the foredeck, a tired and salty bunch packed with hot and sour opinions. Cap’n Silus de Senza rests an elbow on Helmsman Harley’s shoulder, allowing the complaints to sweep over his head as usual, ignoring the wafts of stale alcohol that the firm wind sweeps off the pickled man. This is a trick he learned long ago from a Cap’n he once had: stand beside the most raggedy crew member you have, they’ll double the effect of your own appearance. Right now, Silus believes he looks damned grand. Two minutes ago he changed into his most Cap’ny outfit, the one that makes Eliza raise her finely-plucked eyebrows. Jet black blousson that opens at the throat with criss-crossing lace, leather tunic and overcoat held by two buttons at the waist, all set off with streaks of crimson trim. His knee-high boots boast triple buckles studded with rubies, custom made in Trelally, the most fashionable of the Western Provinces. Fabricated after his last grand success with the Eight. A little while ago, that was.

Silus has to look good while in command of a galleon as beautiful as the Machiavelli. Her timbers are the gleaming bronze of Batcharell’s finest, tallest trees. The sails are cut from thick slices of the night sky, finished with a gold border pattern like the sun’s last rays falling from the horizon. This bunch are too busy moaning to realise how lucky they are. The trouble with pirates, he reckons, is that they’ve all got a bloody mouth.  He chews the inside of his cheek, just enough pain to hold his temper in check. They’ll run out of steam shortly, just let ‘em chunter on.

He feels the scrutiny of Eliza Mantroshino as she leans languidly on the starboard rail, bedecked in easy elegance. How well she wears a many-layered dress of black-and-white stripes, her luxurious black hair pinned up in perfect bundles by silver pins. Her expression wavers partway between amusement and impatience, as if watching amateurs practising a play and doing so badly. Whenever she’s aboard the Machiavelli, Silus’s time splits between enjoyment of her company and wishing she was nowhere near. This moment is one of the latter.

The crew aren’t calming down.

Silus holds out his arms to silence the chatter and ensnare their attention, like he’s a grand pal greeting a pub full of drinkers. ‘Lasses an’ lads, as we’re all aware there’s been some unexpected events...’

‘Again,’ grumbles Razor Jane. She is a sneer worn by a pirate. She sports her hair long on one side, the left half she keeps shaven, showing off the jagged scars across her skull. Her gormless brother Pinhead Pete, forever at her side, mirrors her contempt even though he has no clue what the word means. Silus notices that both have ditched the ship’s black-and-gold colours, usually worn as a dirty handkerchief around their thin biceps. Noted, ye pair o’ bilgebags.

‘...there’s been some unexpected events which have led to the current set o’ circumstances. Contrary to the unfriendly rumours rumblin’ around me fine ship, we ain’t runnin’ away. What we’re doin’ is gettin’ a little time an’ space in which to counter-attack in grand fashion.’

‘How we ended up like this?’ shouts a voice that keeps its face tucked away behind others. ‘Ye said Cap’n Emeline Nayte was a trustworthy ally, ye said there wasn’t nothin’ to worry about.’

‘Again,’ chips in Jane, and this time it gets a couple of grim laughs and Silus does not like that at all. First Mate Finian shoves through the gathered crew to swing a meaty palm at her head.

The voice continues: ‘And these other two! Who pissed in their barrels? What they got against us? Three onto one ain’t the best odds, Cap’n, certainly not when we’re the one!’

There’s two thousand spans between the Machiavelli and her pursuers, but each is easily identifiable. The Endless Fathoms leads the charging trio, a shallow-draft brigantine, a triumphant eagle spreading her wings on the bowsprit, and a simplistic eye design on each of her scarlet sails. Cap’n Emeline Nayte’s crew all wear a deep red sash and an eye tattoo at the nape of their necks, forever watching. On her starboard flank runs the square-rigger of Cap’n Kattie ‘Evil Grin’ Springfield, known for her crazy laughter while killing her enemies. The three sails on each mast alternate blue, white and green, worked by a small but viciously loyal crew. On the opposite side, a galleon like a bunched-up set of shoulders. The Solemn Twilight, headed by Cap’n Arley Bane, the Salty Dog, and renowned for carrying more cannons than any other ship on the seas. All three have a reputation for relentless determination, for never giving up, for never letting a target go. All three run at full sail.

The rumble in the crew’s chests escalates rapidly. Silus raises his voice: he will be heard. ‘Emeline Nayte got too big for her boots, fancied a chance at bringin’ down One o’ the Eight, the only chance she reckons there is of makin’ a name for herself. She couldn’t possibly do that on her own... Oh, here we go.’

The gathering of pirates ripples as Magus steps out, sweeping his black robes so that they flutter like a giant crow’s wings. Even outdoors he makes an entrance. The more days pass, the more Silus finds himself disliking the Weirder’s crinkled leather face and his pious demeanour and constant theatrics. Me own fault, I brought him aboard, I gave into me idiot crew’s demands. If I kick him overboard, they’ll only say it’s a bad omen and desert me. With his customary flourish Magus drops to his knees on the deck in front of the crew, negotiates the gold string binding a black leather pouch. All lean in for a closer look.

Silus tries to hold back at least part of his sigh. ‘What fascinatin’ technique are we employin’ today?’

‘Why, the only method that could work in these circumstances, Cap’n.’ Magus looks to Silus like a child who’s been caught stooping over a dead animal and needs to explain what he did. ‘The teeth of Lula Brink. Surely you’ve heard of her?’

‘Aaarr,’ says Finian wistfully. ‘The likes o’ her breed many a tale. She never told a lie, not even to save her own hide. She’d rather speak the truth and fight her way out o’ trouble than tarnish her reputation for honesty.’

‘Sounds like an idiot, if ye ask me, plenty o’ room for lyin’,’ mumbles Silus, until he feels Eliza’s red-hot gaze on his neck and clams up.

Magus pours eight blackened teeth into his palm. The lads an’ lasses looking on coo their interest. ‘The teeth talk.’

‘Teeth don’t talk. The gob makes a noise, the lips flap about to turn the noise into sound. The teeth ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.’

‘I,’ pronounces Magus, ‘will bring a voice to the teeth and allow you all to listen!’ This ekes more oohing and aahing from the crew and furrowed brow confusion from Silus and Eliza. The Act in her can’t help but enjoy a good performance. ‘The power in these teeth is not infinite. They will allow only a limited number of uses, and as such are not to be wasted. I save them for rare occasions such as this, when our lives hang in the balance. Laying hands upon these artefacts cost me a part of my soul.’

Silus rubs his eyes. He’s sure that he hasn’t always felt this tired all the damned time. ‘Get on with doin’ whatever it is yer doin’. This lot might be fascinated, but time ain’t goin’ to wait.’

Magus shakes the teeth like game dice, then casts them onto the deck in front of his knees. A series of syllables muttered at speed to set a bit of atmosphere, then he squints down at the rotten gnashers as if in fear of what they might reveal. He holds his tongue for a long moment as his audience barely dares to breathe. The waves themselves seem to press against the Machiavelli’s hull for a peek. Silus cranes his neck. There’s no discernible pattern, no readable image as far as he’s concerned. At last, Magus rises to speak. ‘The long journey is the short journey.’ A gasp greets this, followed by uncertain murmuring. ‘Allow me to interpret. This time, the meaning of the teeth is clear. Going around Krakenvale may take us longer, but it will mean our troubles will come to an end sooner. If we venture into forbidden waters, however, our troubles will only be beginning. The difficulties will be arduous and many-fold. We must, therefore, proceed with caution. We must stick to what is known. We have a lead. It would be dangerous to grasp for more.

I should o’ thrown this half-baked Act overboard weeks ago. ‘As ye say, Magus, that’s one interpretation, and I’ll allow ye a moment to be smug about dredgin’ it up from whatever fathomless depths ye’ve got access to. In yer insistence for drama, though, I reckon ye’ve missed the obvious truth o’ the readin’. The long journey – that is, sailin’ aaalll the way around rather than cuttin’ across Krakenvale – will lead to the shortenin’ of our life’s journey. In other words, if we get all shivery at the knees and skulk around this unseen border like a bunch o’ cowards, then somethin’ happens that kills us all. Use yer own brain for once, not the hushed whispers o’ the spirits. If Emeline Nayte can summon Bane and Springfield as back-up at short notice, then ain’t it likely she’s got someone else waitin’ for the Machiavelli to come skirtin’ the edges o’ Krakenvale? Up by the Windy Isles, they’ll by lurkin’ in ambush. That’s what I’d do. Nobody would dare sail through Krakenvale, the