Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Five days after Port Royal’s fall, Pedro returns to Kingston with more scars than answers. Archbinder Lyra Valtor explains the Bindweaver Curse is gone, but another is in its place. Something older, perhaps more sinister. Morowen Waxbend explains the truth that Pedro is bound to a mysterious being from deep inside the Etherwave. To survive, he must keep drinking his graveyard syrup, hunt down Dryden Storm, and shatter Storm’s amulet. Some debts can never be dodged, and fate may have chosen a role for Pedro he never wanted…

Aug 14, 1722. Proud Dog Pub. Kingston, Jamaica. Needing to pay respect where it was sorely overdue…

There’s a ritual for the living to remember the dead that’s as old as history. It didn’t require a priest or incense. Just nothing more than close companions, stories, and a bit of rum.

In our case, it meant two-thirds of the Silk Duchess’ crew filled the Proud Dog Pub, Kingston’s second-worst tavern. There we told stories of those we’d lost, making them grander with each retelling, until even heaven didn’t dare call us liars.

Hooded iron lanterns hung from stained wall hooks at tactical locations in the room. Their warm, orange flickering glow draped the air, showing every mar in the wooden walls, from stains to old blood.

A polished, dark wooden bar dominated one wall for the bartender to serve drinks on, and to shield the kitchen from unruly patrons. Round tables made from cast-off whiskey barrels dotted the wide open space like wooden islands in the dusky room. Chairs and patrons filled everywhere else.

Stories flowed like rum. Nothing was buried. But the names of the missing were a roll call. Elara led the charge as captain.

“To Levi Cresswell!” Elara called out.

Mugs were raised with a hearty cheer.

“To Felicity McCoy,” growled Skaldi, face decorated with a new splint over his nose and purpled bruise around one eye.

The crew roared again, louder now, sending the memories of our missing crew onward to glory.

So on it went. Each name was called in turn, escorted by cheers that shook the walls. Everyone took a turn calling the roll until there weren’t any names left. But I remembered one that wasn’t on the roster.

I glanced across the crowd at Lysander, always the reserved, quiet island in a storm. He nodded once, as if guessing the name I had in mind. Quietly, I shoved back my chair, lifting my mug high.

“To Señor Renwick Taggart! Who didn’t let death stop him from doing what’s right.”

Cheers shook the windows like thunder as glasses and mugs touched. After that, came more stories, but no more names. Nothing else. It was all that needed to be said, since anything else would’ve stained the memories.

The tavern emptied after that in small groups. Some went on to the next pub, others back to the Silk Duchess. I stepped out of the door onto the wooden footpath and a view of the bay to clear my head. Solemn thoughts chased after me along with the cheering echoes from the pub.

Outside, the sun hung low and orange, brushing warm lips against the horizon for the evening’s last kiss. Seagulls chattered to each other a block away at the pier, fighting over fish or whatever else had washed ashore.

A gentle salt breeze drifted in like wandering ghosts from the bay. It carried scents of old seaweed, but also notes of baked bread from the nearby baker, and cheap tobacco from dockworkers along the pier. A murmur of conversation drifted up from somewhere farther down Port Royal Street.

Life moved on in Kingston, carrying shadows in its wake.

I caught my reflection in the pub window, a smoke-gray silhouette surrounded by the brilliant yellow-red flames of sunset.

“Only some carry those shadows closer than others,” I mused.

Cheers from the crew still rang in my ears with too many memories when Elara found me outside. We stood quietly there together, her dragonfly-winged silhouette bathed in yellow-gold from the dying day.

I watched nearby vendors latch shutters and lock doors, calling their day done. Faint fiddle music from nearby danced through the air.

Elara took a long breath, folding her arms across herself. A silent second passed before she glanced at me, toying with the edge of her brown vest.

“After all we bled for, this is still happening.” It looked as if every word tasted bitter. Her wings fluttered in the half-light, a kaleidoscopic blur of color. “You’re still poisoned by a curse?”

Elara’s hands clenched into fists. I took a weary breath before I replied.

“Sadly.”

Her mouth drew into a tight, frustrated line at that. The late afternoon light cast hard shadows along her face. As if it sharpened the edge of who she was.

“I hate this,” she spat, glaring at the amber horizon like a challenge. “The Archbinder is sure, very sure, the graveyard syrup will keep you alive?”

“Yes, querida. Like I told you yesterday afternoon, Archbinder Valtor really does think it’ll work.” I sighed, pushing my hands into the pockets of my long coat. “Provided we find Dryden Storm and break that amulet he has.”

Elara clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth on frustration.

“Branch and leaf! I knew I should’ve killed that pirate when I had the chance.” She hissed out a low sigh. “There was just a lot happening at the time.”

“There’ll be other chances, querida. Storm threatened he’ll be coming for me.” I gestured at nothing with my tattooed right hand. “For this. Probably to cut my hand off.”

The look she shot me was pure edged steel, but it wasn’t aimed at me, and I knew it.

“How many more chances?” she snapped, almost a snarl. Then she looked away, rubbing her eyes with a free hand.

Words failed me. I glanced at the ground, painted in gray shadows by the failing day, and simply nodded in reply. With a light sigh, I clenched my fists inside my pockets for a moment.

“The Duchess will be seaworthy again in four days,” Elara said quietly, staring off into the air. “I’ve a warrant to ferry some cargo out to the Pearl Islands after that.”

I nodded again, feeling like I stood next to a jade-eyed volcano.

“Primrose has been learning to handle the alchemy shop,” I said casually. “In four days…”

“Asa mvur, this is insane!” She interrupted me, voice brittle as frustration flashed over her eyes. “You promised to be careful. No more stupid risks. No more refusing help.”

“Yes, querida. Lysander yelled the same thing…”

“But, goddess’ teeth, you’re still…”

Elara shook her head, loose brown hair shaking a little while her words turned into a full rant.

“You can’t always leave your shop when I take on a warrant for a job. You have the shop. I have the Duchess. Land and sea. I know that.”

Her hands clenched into fists, ready to attack something if she could.

“The idea of sailing off, then wondering if you’ll be alive when we return, just eats at me. It’s like we’ve all staked you out as bait for Storm.”

I sighed, not sure what to say. Elara was right from a certain point of view.

Could the Kingston city watch try to stand off Dryden Storm if he showed his face? Most likely. But could the watch know every single pirate from the Rising Eel? No, they couldn’t. Then there was the curse. If I didn’t shatter Storm’s amulet, I’d die or live drinking a potion keeping me one step ahead of death.

I wasn’t sure that was much of a life. It felt like waiting to die, even if Lyra discovered a better way to help other than the graveyard syrup.

For a long, painful moment, the reality of our lives loomed large. We stood together, but apart, in silence as if on opposite sides of a river.

“Maldita sea,” I swore low under my breath, eyes squeezed shut. “Elara? I…”

“No, asa mvur,” she interrupted me. “No words. We know the reality here.”

The sigh that fell out of her almost burned my soul.

“Words are sometimes no better than yesterday’s wind,” she said softly.

The world suddenly seemed more broken than I’d ever felt before. More ruined than the days of bloody brush wars on Afalon Isle, where we’d first met years ago. Elara was right, there wasn’t anything to say. Sometimes words do just cheapen a moment, no matter what they are.

But that didn’t mean there wasn’t something I could do.

I let the silence sail between us while the salt wind off the bay ruffled my dark hair. Then, I silently withdrew a leather-bound bundle of tan papers from inside my long coat. I held them out to her without preamble. She frowned, eyes darting from the bundle, to me, then back again.

“What’s this?”

I shrugged lightly.

“Not yesterday’s wind.”

She untied the cord, giving me a wary glance, unwrapping the bundle. Dry paper crinkled as she opened it, eyebrows reaching for her hairline the more she read.

“Pedro? This is the deed to your shop.”

“It is.” I gestured to the papers. “My idea was to add Primrose to the deed. This way, she has legal power to handle the shop when I’m not here. A business partner with me, provided she agrees to sign.”

The silence that followed was as fragile as a butterfly. I pressed on.

“So, with a little more training, I can leave her in charge of the shop since she’ll be my business partner. Then I could move some of my equipment and things aboard the Silk Duchess. We wouldn’t be safe. Privateering is a dangerous life. But we’d be where we could look out for each other.”

It took a moment for Elara to find her words, still staring at the deed. A ghost of a smile haunted her lips.

“No, this isn’t yesterday’s wind,” she replied. “Not perfect, but real. If Primrose signs, I’ll see your lab aboard the Duchess within the week.”

She tapped the deed against her fingers thoughtfully.

“Pedro? After we find Dryden Storm and shatter that damn amulet of his?” Elara asked quietly. “What then?”

I shrugged as she handed the deed back to me. Quietly, I folded it up, then tied it closed.

“We’ll land on that shore when we reach it.”

I slipped the deed back inside my long coat.

The evening wind picked up off the bay in short gusts. It rustled my long coat around me, brushing Elara’s shirt, vest, and hair. Strains of music—a soft, meaningful rumba—skipped out of the Proud Dog Pub and then around us.

I turned to face Elara, a smile painted over my lips, one hand behind my back. The other hand, my tattooed one, I held out between us, palm up at chest height.

“My captain? Shall we?”

Elara tilted her head a little to the side, jade eyes glimmering in the evening light. A wry smile lit her face as she reached out to rest her hand on mine.

I gently grasped her hand with mine, lifting slightly. Then I closed the space between us, stepping in time with the music and with her. The first smooth steps of a dance.

The rest?

Well, that’s another story.

As I’ve said many times, all stories have a beginning, middle, and an end. This is the end of Death Whispers of the Etherwave. For everyone reading, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It really has been a great ride, and I so hope everyone enjoyed it as much as I have. Like always, I dedicate this story to you, my readers.

But, make no mistake, this isn’t the end. No, not at all. Saying “the end” just isn’t right.

Instead, let’s go with, “I’ll see you at the horizon, for oh, the stories we’ll have to tell…”

As for Pedro and his companions? Have no fear, me hearties!

Pedro and the rest of his Privateer companions WILL return in…

Legends of the Privateers: The Tidebloom Covenant

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: While Port Royal drowns under a hurricane’s wrath, Pedro and his companions struggle to ferry survivors to safety. Amidst the destruction, Pedro confronts the sea hag, Morowen Waxbend, showing her the folly of trying to save the dying town itself, instead of saving its people. At least, doing so before it’s too late…

Aug 13, 1722. Kingston, Jamaica. Where Fate collected her due…

We cheated death. There wasn’t any other way to put it. But really, all I dearly wanted was a good cup of tea, a bed, and a week without curses.

The Arcane Gate yanked us out of Port Royal’s watery grave and into Kingston Bay with a haphazard flash of lightning. We shot through the Gate with the Silk Duchess in the lead, and the Rising Eel on her stern. The hurricane howled after us like a starving fiend as the Gate snapped shut.

But in the end, we survived, even if survival wasn’t peace.

The next five days were moments stitched together in a loose patchwork of poultices, bitter tonics, and half-rest. Though for me, that also included ample doses of my graveyard syrup and paralysis infection cure. By the fifth morning, once I could walk without swaying, I returned to the familiar walls of my alchemy shop.

I’d been back barely an hour, caught up with helping Primrose with orders, when a courier arrived with a summons from Archbinder Lyra Valtor.

“Is it about your curse?” Primrose asked, pulling the goggles from her eyes.

I read the note, then grabbed my long coat off a nearby chair.

“Yes. At the very least, Señorita.”

Which was how I found myself trudging up the stairs to her office on West Queen Street. Sore and still glowering at the world.

The Royal Academy of Arcanum and Science hadn’t changed, but Lyra’s office had. Walls had been repaired, leaving new panels next to the old. Books were back in place, secured up against seashell carvings, glass vials, and the shrunken skull that mocked the world.

Her yellowed notes about curses peppered the wall behind her desk in concentric circles, like a mad astronomer’s chart. Sunlight through the single, dusty window cast a warm glow over everything. The air still held the scent of smoke and old parchment.

More important?

There were also two people there waiting for me instead of one when I walked through the doorway. I reached for my hat, then remembered I’d lost it at the Arcane Gate.

“Archbinder Valtor,” I greeted Lyra politely. Then I glanced at the woman seated next to Lyra’s deck. “Good to see you again, Morowen. You’re looking whole.”

“You’re late,” the sea hag replied with her usual bluntness.

“I was helping Primrose with the alchemy shop. Teaching her the business takes time,” I replied dryly.

Morowen made a soft grunt that I decided was agreement. She wore her usual blue shawl over another calico dress. Shadow-dark curls and glimmering shark-black eyes were at odds with a grumpier than normal expression. Lyra was a happy contrast with her undead gray skin, powder-green dress.

“Archbinder? Your note mentioned something about my curse?” I asked.

Lyra gave me a bright smile.

“I did, Doctor. Please.”

She gestured to a chair opposite her desk not filled with books.

I flinched, sitting down as a resigned sigh bled out of me. Lyra brushed a strand of gray-black hair over an ear, concerned. Morowen shifted a little, studying me like an unusual bug. I felt a bit cornered.

“Really, I’m sorry for being a bit late. A few too many burns and bruises made the walk to my shop slower than I like. I’m healing, but not whole.”

“Keep using that cream I gave you,” Morowen said flatly. “It’ll take care of those burns. Won’t be quick, but it’ll work.”

Lyra simply shook her head.

“Don’t worry about the time, Doctor. Everyone knows what happened during the destruction of Port Royal. No one comes through that without at least some bruises.”

She steepled her fingers, resting her elbows on the desk.

“But first, the good news. Ever since you’ve returned, I can’t find any sign of the Bindweaver Curse on you. Best as I know, it’s lifted.”

“I don’t feel it either,” the hag grunted, glancing at Lyra. She adjusted her blue shawl around herself before indicating me with her chin.

“What I can tell, Pedro got clever when he altered the book.” Then she fixed me with a piercing gaze. “But gone doesn’t mean destroyed. It just means changed when he wrote it in as part of a ghost trap.”

Lyra’s gray zombie eyes lit up with a sparkle.

“Ghost trap?” A grin played over her face. “Interesting! I’ll want to talk about that with you later, Doctor. But right now, back to you and your curse.”

I folded my arms over my chest, wincing over aches, as I narrowed my eyes.

“You both just said the curse was gone.”

Lyra swapped a concerned look with Morowen. The sea hag’s shark-black eyes pinched with a rare unease. That was new, especially from the sea hag. The Archbinder pursed her lips, concern crinkling the gray skin next to her eyes.

“What I know is that the corrupted ink of the Codex and the Bindweaver Curse had been poisoning you.”

I shuddered a bit, remembering my conversation with the Death Whisper at the Arcane Gate.

“So you said.”

The Archbinder nodded.

“Also, as Morowen said, you altered the formula in the Codex. Not the ink, but how it was applied.”

I nodded at that, realizing what I’d done.

“The spirit anchor page I redrew.”

“Yes. The same,” Lyra replied. “Rewriting that page pulled the curse off you, giving it a new purpose. But it also exposed something else caught up in the Bindweaver Curse. A second curse that’s killing you all the same.”

I took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“What is it?” I asked. “Will the graveyard syrup formula still work?”

“It’s called a Deepbind Curse, and I’m not sure if the syrup’s effective,” Lyra said. “I’m not that familiar with this one. There’s barely three references in a book written by a Silvashar thayan wavebinder.” Lyra gave Morowen a meaningful look. “Though Morowen says she’s very familiar with it.”

I frowned at Morowen, tired of curses and feeling like I’d been chasing my tail.

The sea hag smirked back, showing the points of her shark teeth. I saw the usual devious glimmer in her solid black eyes, but no humor. Instead, there was something else. I saw sympathy. She brushed a wrinkle from the front of her calico dress.

“I am. The Deepbind Curse,” she began in a low voice. “It’s an old one. Not seen it used since, well, in centuries before that Crossing’s Fall breach threw parts of Otherworld to Earth. Never expected to see it again, really.”

She shook her head a little when I started to ask a question. There was sadness at the edge of her rough demeanor.

“I need to get something off my chest first. Thank you for yelling some damn sense into this old sea hag’s head, Pedro.”

Memories draped shadows around her eyes, deepening the wrinkles there in her sea-blue skin.

“Port Royal was all I had left. Not the town, but its people. I needed to hear that.” Her mouth pinched like she’d sucked down a lemon. “I got too caught up in making sure Tristam wouldn’t get out and run loose. Was worried no one could stop him.”

It was obvious Morowen needed to say this, so I sat back and tried to keep quiet. But what she said prompted a reply. My words were brittle.

“No one? Right before Port Royal was destroyed, you said that you gambled on me.”

An ancient glimmer of lethal mischief shone in Morowen’s shark eyes, followed by that terrifying, bloody-minded smirk of hers.

“Yes, I did. All because if I’m going to bet on someone over this, I’m betting on those damned souls walking the hero’s path. People who do whatever bloody thing needs doing, but keep their honor.” She stabbed a blue finger at me. “Someone like you, Pedro Alejandro Sangre. Because, powers of the damn seas help me, you’ll do the right thing even if it kills you.”

I squirmed at that little speech, scowling. The hag let out a rueful chuckle.

“What you did with the Codex? What you did to it? Pedro, you rewrote that anchor page to bind Tristam, really any damn spectral thing, into the Codex. Which meant the book had to use the Bindweaver Curse, since that was all it had. That was stupid, reckless… just sheer brilliant.”

Morowen cackled like this was the best joke in the world, slapping Lyra’s desk. The Archbinder started in her chair, and I nearly jumped to my feet. But I’d dealt with the sea hag for a few years now. Morowen wiped an eye before she settled down.

“Which is why I’m calling in a few debts you owe me.”

“Then I’ll collect mine later,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Fine. But some creatures escaped the Grayfall when the Arcane Gate almost snapped apart.”

“What?” Lyra exclaimed, wide-eyed.

“So something escaped the land of the dead,” I sighed.

The sea hag’s expression lost its mirth, melting into something more dire. Her words were flat as a river stone.

“More than one something.”

“Wonderful,” I said dryly.

Lyra frowned, leaning forward slightly.

“How does this tie to the Deepbind Curse on the Doctor?”

She glanced at Lyra, me, then waved toward the tattoos on my hand. For a moment, I saw the tattoos glimmer as if they might ignite at that moment.

“It’s related.” She waved a hand at me. “Pedro’s ghostfire on his hand? It’s poison to those things from the Grayfall. But somehow the Deepbind is feeding off him.”

Morowen shifted in her seat, waving a hand at me.

“He’s spark touched. The ghostfire is a sign of that. Back on Otherworld, that was rare, because that constant connection to the Etherwave kills.”

Lyra glanced at me, then tilted her head a little, considering Morowen.

“So this ghostfire is the Deepbind Curse?”

“No, it’s what the Deepbind has its hooks into. Pedro’s just the fuel.”

Fragile silence filled the air. I broke it first.

“Lysander claims it’s a spirit,” I suggested softly.

The hag’s feral grin returned, raising a calloused sea-blue finger at me. I scowled.

“Clever. He’s only half-right. It’s not just some ghost. Spark touched are connected to something bigger, older, from deep inside the Etherwave Arcana. This was a big deal when it happened. Think of it like getting bonded to a powerful being as your patron. That ghostfire? It’s the seal.”

I clenched my jaw until the muscles ached. At her desk, Lyra had pulled out a small stack of paper and was frantically taking notes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I snapped.

“You wouldn’t have believed me,” Morowen snapped. “Now? Don’t care if you don’t. You need to know.”

“I didn’t consent to this,” I countered bitterly.

Morowen jabbed a finger angrily at my tattoos.

“Neither did the one who made that bond, Pedro! Blame Dryden Storm’s little trinket. That squirrel skull amulet you told me about reeks of the Deepbind Curse. That skull is a jail keeping something locked up so people like Dryden can use it.”

Suddenly, I realized what she meant.

“Like what Tristam tried to do to you.”

A sad, bitter look crossed her face.

“Yes.” Morowen sat quietly for a moment. “When you touched that amulet, whoever’s trapped tried to call for help. By accident or fate, it got it… namely, you.”

I swapped an uneasy look between the two women.

“So I have to find Storm and break the amulet?” I asked. “Free whoever or whatever it is?”

A flare of soft warmth from my tattoos told me I was right.

“Yes,” Morowen confirmed, then pointed at Lyra. “Only now, we’ve a twist on the Deepbind Curse and spark touched burning up like a bonfire. You, Archbinder, stumbled over an answer. Pedro turned it into a potion.”

Lyra nodded. I saw her thoughts as plain as day.

“The graveyard syrup,” I interrupted.

“It makes sense,” Lyra said, tapping her chin with her feather quill. “It was meant to bleed off excessive mystical energy from a graveyard. So long as he keeps drinking it, he stays alive.”

“Sort of like how a portal platform grounds a navigator?” I asked.

“The same,” Lyra replied. “In the meantime, I’ll look for a better way to ground raw Etherwave so it won’t kill you. Mind you, this won’t be easy.”

Morowen adjusted her shawl with a regal dignity.

“Never said it would be. In the meantime, Pedro, track down Dryden Storm and shatter that amulet.”

I scratched the stubble thoughtfully on my chin.

“Storm knows what’s trapped.”

At the ladies’ surprised looks, I shook my head.

“He accused me of trying to steal ‘it’ or help it escape. Dryden knows exactly what he has. Swore he’d come after me to take back the part I have.”

“Good,” the sea hag said with a sharp-toothed grin. “That’ll make this all the easier.”

I folded my arms across my chest again.

“Easier for who?”

The hag grinned at me so suddenly, I thought she was about to bite my fingers.

“By salt and sea, it’s like old times. You know, Pedro, back on Otherworld we had a name for stubborn, honorable, angsty spark touched people like you.”

I drew a deep breath, then braced myself for the insult.

“That was…?”

Morowen’s grin spread, showing all her sharp shark teeth.

“We called them… paladins.”

That made me blink before I barked out a disbelieving laugh.

“I’ve been called worse. Now I get holy vestments and shining armor?”

The hag’s grin widened.

“No. Just more steel in your spine. You’re going to need it!”

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: After the explosion of the Arcane Engine, Pedro wakes to find himself back aboard the Silk Duchess. Safe and sound? Not so fast. Instead, battered and bruised, memories return in snatches of what happened. The rest are filled in by his friends, and the man who rescued him from the sea… Captain Dryden Storm. The latter doing to pay back the debt of Pedro freeing him from the Bindweaver Curse, but promise he’d return to face Pedro later for a reckoning over the mysterious ghostfire. As if that wasn’t enough, the group tries to Gate to Port Royal, only to find the town being drowned by the very hurricane trying to surround them. That is, unless they try and do something about it…

Aug 8, 1722. Port Royal, Jamaica, or what was left of it. Helping the desperate run for their lives.

I’ve never watched the weather try to murder a town before. But that was exactly what I saw.

“Head to the far western docks!” I yelled to the survivors and waved my good arm in that direction. “Longboats are waiting to get you to safety!”

I stood on what was likely the last stable wooden footpath between Port Royal and the docks. Ragged clumps of people shuffled along, ushered by crew from the Rising Eel and Silk Duchess. We were allies for the moment against what Mother Nature had sent to kill us.

Lightning flashed a challenge. I clutched my battered satchel a bit tighter, shaking my head. Soaked to the skin, hat long gone, I felt like the storm was trying to strip me apart.

“This day is getting longer by the moment,” I murmured, before helping an elderly couple onto the footpath. With a weary smile, I sent them down to the longboats and safety.

Port Royal’s streets were nothing but a memory. Broken wooden planks, mud, and rain washed through the town. Every avenue was a dangerous stream looking for victims. Blood streaked the occasional debris, a final marker for those already lost.

Durner joined me a moment later, and we waded along the edge of the dying dock, looking for any stragglers. Mud sloshed nearly to our knees, the wind lashing at us. All we found were sad memories, and certainly nothing left alive.

On the way back to the western docks, Elara marched through the weather, meeting us halfway.

“Any left?” She asked, pushing damp brown hair out of her face.

Suddenly, the storm shifted sideways, hammering us with a downpour. We hunched our coats and huddled together while the small torrent subsided.

“We hauled one fisherman out of the mud. He’ll live,” I said over the storm.

“Aye,” Durner agreed. “That was the worst of it. The last found hiding in town are on their way down to the longboats.”

Pain throbbed up my wood-infected left hand and into my arm. My brewed elixirs bought me time, but not much, and exhaustion wanted to steal the rest.

“Any others?” Elara asked, words clipped.

She studied the flooded streets off in the distance, and I saw a small shudder run through her. Without a word, she held her wings tight against her back, tugging her coat closer as if against the world.

I wiped more rain out of my face. The rising water in Port Royal felt like a ticking clock against our efforts. It’d already invaded some homes, scavenging furniture for the tide.

Durner shook his head, brushing water off his own face and beard.

“No, Cap’n. Not so far.” He waved a hand at the slush rising around buildings. “That water’s a warning shot from the hurricane. It’ll get worse before it gets better.”

As if to punctuate the mood, a building ten yards away gave a low moan. We watched, speechless, as the sun-weathered, blue-painted walls rippled. Slowly, the old woodcutter’s home sank, swallowed whole by the loose, watery sand like a hungry snake.

The sand squeezed and the wood-frame collapsed. In seconds, the tortured wood pleaded with a lingering mournful wail, then vanished. For a long, trembling moment, none of us spoke, until Elara broke the drenched quiet.

“I, ah, see what you mean.” Elara swallowed uneasily. “We should check one last time, then make for the longboats.”

Durner nodded, wiping more water from his face. Voice more craggy than ever.

“Aye, Cap’n. Won’t take long. I’ll grab a few to lend me a hand.”

He tossed me a slight, sideways warning glance, and I shook my head a little. That earned me a tiny nod, before Durner stalked off to enlist help for the last search.

“Thank you for not volunteering,” Elara said quietly. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve been through a lot, Pedro.” The typical hardness in her voice turned soft with a sigh. “I do appreciate it.”

I could’ve made light of the moment, spouting some bravado or a light joke. But some moments shouldn’t be tarnished by cheap answers. She deserved better.

“Of course, querida.” I gave her a thin smile. “It’s the right thing to do.”

She gave me a thin, rueful smile, then a gentle squeeze on my good arm.

“Then I’ll see you back aboard,” she said. “Don’t stay too long. The weather has gotten bad enough, that this’ll be the last trip with the longboats. They’ll leave within the hour, so please be aboard.”

“Yes, querida. Don’t worry,” I replied.

She arched an eyebrow at me, then headed for the longboats.

After she left, I hurried through the punishing rain to the end of the western docks. Skaldi and young Jonas Banderwood, a gunner’s mate, were there with four other sailors. The lot of them were shepherding a group of Port Royal refugees along the damp steps to the shore.

“Skaldi? Is this the last here?” I called out.

His eyes snapped up to me before he nodded. He patted Jonas on the shoulder, then stepped over to me so I could better hear him over the driving storm. The brass metal veins along his skin glowed like hot embers, a sure sign of concern. Lightning flashed overhead to stab the clouds.

“These are the last from here. The only others I know about are up under the sea hag’s shelter.”

I sighed wearily, glancing up at the hill with its eerie green glimmering dome.

“No one’s gone to get her and the ones with her?”

Skaldi laughed bitterly.

“A couple tried and got run off for it.” He clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “Pedro, you know sea hags the best. The captain’ll kill me for asking, but if you’re able, we could use the help.”

Skaldi pursed his lips, glowering at me under his thick brows.

“Just in case she argues.”

I let out a wry, hoarse chuckle.

“My friend, I only know one sea hag, and yes, she’ll cause you trouble. She does it to everyone. But… I’ll do my best.”

Once the refugees were off to the Silk Duchess, we made the slow, treacherous climb up the soaked hill to the glimmering shelter and its perpetually irate creator.

Sea hags tended to be protective of the towns they lived near. But this? It felt like something else.

It was easier to see the death of Port Royal from atop the hill. What buildings weren’t already washed away, sank into the sand like scuttled ships.

I watched bits of roof, splinters of homes, and even a few raw, exposed ribs of small boats tumble along. A deadly soup churning through the town’s corpse. The air turned foul, thick with the stench of a waterlogged coffin, fresh from a grave.

After that, I turned to face the problem at hand.

The misty, crackling dome was as large as a massive barn. Morowen stood at its center, attention split between the hurricane and her shimmering shelter. Every minute or so, she’d sweep a hand through the air, sending a fog of glimmering light up to patch a thin spot or hole.

Morowen herself looked like the storm had dragged her a mile. The calico dress and worn leather boots she preferred were mud-stained wrecks. A blue shawl hung damp around her shoulders, a deeper cast than her sea-blue skin. Her shark eyes looked tired and haunted.

A small group of fifteen refugees huddled near her. Men, women, and children were all wet and terrified. Some looked at her. Others watched while their town drowned a slow death.

I waved the sailors with me.

“Get them out. I’ll talk to Morowen.”

The instant she saw me, the sea hag’s expression went darker than the hurricane. Her eyes snapped to Skaldi and the others, then back to me.

I saw tension war with anger, then something softer, before irritation masked over it.

“Pedro!” she spat, eyes hot with exasperation. “I have this. Go away!”

Skaldi hesitated, but I waved him on again, then sighed.

“You don’t, Doña Morowen,” I said flatly. ”Not against a hurricane.”

She replied with a derisive snort, then bared her sharp teeth as the Duchess’ crew helped the refugees gather their belongings.

I stepped in the way again, risking her turning me into an equal volume of crabs. Her lips curled into a snarl.

The shelter she’d made, even if needed steady repair, had cut out the abusive weather. It was a small relief. I glanced over my shoulder at the approaching hurricane crawling across the waves. It felt far too close for comfort.

Still, I stood my ground.

“You’re a sea hag, yes. But even you have your limits, Morowen. You’ve told me as much.” I frowned, with a pinched expression. “We’re taking these people to safety. You too, if you’ll come along.”

She didn’t reply, so I waited a heartbeat before I added a bit more.

“Do you really think you can out-stubborn a hurricane?”

Deliberate calculations ran over her eyes. She glanced past me at the storm, then back to me.

“Is it done?” she demanded, tossing another gossamer stream of glowing fog at the dome. “I felt the seals snap earlier, then Tristam pulling on the Etherwave. After that? Nothing. So, did you do it?”

I longed for a bed or bunk and a lot of quiet.

“Damn it, Morowen, this isn’t…”

“Did you do it?” she yelled, cutting me off.

I saw the usual feral ferocity in her shark-like eyes, colored with irritation. But now there was also a wild desperation. A look that I expected from a gambler betting everything on the next throw of the dice, not a sea hag.

That stirred some new ideas I’d missed before. I heard the refugees being shuffled out of the shelter toward the shore.

“You rolled the dice on me, didn’t you?” I asked just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds.

Morowen clenched her jaw while her eyes flicked at the clouds, then back. It looked like her words were a bitter rind she couldn’t quite swallow.

“Yes,” she snapped. “After all our time together, he tried to murder me!” Morowen waved her hands in trembling, frantic motions, trying to express the horror of the memory. “Use me like ingredients in a stew! It took all I had to trap the bastard, and it wasn’t quite enough. So yes, I bet on you!”

I drew a long breath.

The simple answer would’ve been to say I’d solved it. But the Daughters of the Deep aren’t easily fooled. If I tried, she’d know. Better truth than trouble.

I withdrew the stained Codex from my satchel, holding it up for her to see as my answer. Thunder rumbled around us enough to rattle the world.

“It’s changed,” she muttered, scowling at the book.

Her eyes widened when she saw the engraving on the cover, then fixed me with a glare.

“What in the watery hells did you do, Pedro? The book’s different, but I still sense Tristam.”

“What I had to. He’s in here. Locked in.” I shook my head. “He’s not getting loose anytime soon.”

“A ghost trap,” she muttered. A wry, predatory smile flashed around her sharp teeth. “You clever bastard. You rewrote the Codex into a ghost trap.”

“I tried.”

“Good,” she snapped. “Now go away! Let me deal with this.”

“I would if you weren’t lying.”

Morowen twitched angrily.

“What?” Her expression flipped to primal rage. “I could kill you right here.”

“But you won’t,” I snapped back.

Slowly, I returned the Codex into my satchel.

“Morowen, I understand at least this,” I waved a hand in the air between us. “You almost killed yourself trying to stop Tristam, and it didn’t quite work. But this isn’t right.”

“You don’t know…”

“Yes, I do!” I growled, cutting her off. “Because I’ve been making this same mistake since I found the Codex!”

Her eyes flashed angrily at me with a hint of pain.

“Not the same, Pedro! That town is what I have left! Without it, I’m just an old sea hag rotting in the tide!”

I thrust a hand at the dying town.

“Morowen, that isn’t Port Royal! Port Royal is its people. Throwing your life away isn’t a solution. Come with me and help those people… your people.”

She sneered, but then her expression softened at the edges. The hag’s voice growled, its edge softer, with old pain pushing to the surface.

“Your captain’s not going to let me.”

“Pedro!” Skaldi yelled from outside the shelter. “We need to go! Floodwater is rising!”

I nodded at him, then turned back to the sea hag.

“Morowen, I don’t know what bad blood sits between you and Elara. But she won’t refuse you safe passage.”

I clenched my jaw.

“But if you stay? Neither of you gets a chance to mend this fence, if you want it. Do you really want the Port Royal survivors, or Elara, watch the hurricane tear you apart?”

For a tense moment, I thought I’d gone too far. Then Morowen’s shoulders sagged, hands dropping as she blew out a resigned sigh. I watched her eyes drift over the drowning town, clouded by quiet memories.

“Fine.” Then she stabbed a sea-blue finger at me. “But this is on your head if she leaves me stranded!”

I gave her a lopsided grin.

“Accepted.”

My grin evaporated at the sound of roaring water dragging the last of Port Royal bodily into the sea. Broken shutters sliced through the air alongside tree branches.

“Time to go,” I told her. “Time to start something new, one way or the other.”

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: At the dying Arcane Gate, Pedro summons a Death Whisper. In doing so, he learns more about the golems than he ever suspected. That they are indeed made from the books and intent of the writer, but perhaps even more. Pedro suspects the Death Whispers becoming the living embodiment of an idea, or ideas, drawn from a book. Then tempered by the creator. Together, Pedro and the Death Whisper work to unwind the horror of the Arcane Engine, all before the dead are allowed to walk the earth once more. In the end, Pedro and the Death Whisper solve the problem, but maybe face one last challenge…

Aug 8, 1722. Somehow aboard the Silk Duchess. A handful of minutes later after Death stopped by for a chat…

I jerked to life at the smell of rot whiskey and the feel of rough wool against my face.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to wake up feeling half-dead. But there it was. It was even more alarming to realize I was in the crook of Dryden Storm’s massive arm.

I struggled, but he kept a tight grip while the Duchess rolled hard to starboard as if she’d been thrown.

“Easy now, Doctor.”

A cough sputtered out of me, and I glanced over. Storm was nothing more than a smear of limping, mild evil wearing a captain’s coat. His red-streaked black beard split into a grin when he saw my bitter scowl.

“You know, Doctor, I’ve long carried men in worse shape than you from far worse places.”

His voice rumbled like the guts of a volcano, raw with cannon smoke.

“But! I’ll be having you know that it takes a special kind of talent for a man to hand himself his own ass.” He barked out a rough laugh. “What you and your crew did to save Port Royal’s Arcane Gate? Killing that lich and all? Impressive. Just don’t die on me yet.”

A headache hammered at my skull like a crazed, drunken blacksmith. I pried my sore eyes from glaring at him to the chaos of the deck.

The Silk Duchess had taken a sound beating, but came through with her pride and spine intact. My vision was blurred, but I still managed to see the crew running past us, keen to repair what they could. Captain Storm’s presence drew more than one look, mostly glares, but to my hazy surprise, no one stopped him.

“Not dying, Señor,” I grunted. The words came out in broken, raw bits. “I refuse. Made a promise to live. I’m growing attached to the habit.”

Storm belted out a murderous laugh, probably the only kind he had.

We half-limped across the deck towards the ladder to the helm. Dimly, I wondered where Lysander, Ari, and Skaldi had gone? There was a memory of it that just wouldn’t come clear for me.

“Good!” Storm roared. “You’ve my gratitude for freeing me from that hells-damned book, the wraith, and all of it. That was no small deed. But you and I? We’ve a reckoning waiting. The spirit you’ve bound isn’t yours to keep. That debt will come due.”

We stopped next to the ladder for the Duchess’ helm. Storm propped me upright, and somehow my spine held, though it didn’t like it. The man hammered my shoulder once with a scar-mottled hand.

“Now, stay put. I’ve other things that need looking after.”

The ship lurched wildly over the sea. Gray-black clouds boiled overhead while wind clawed at the sails, threatening to tear them loose.

Memories then returned in a drunken haze. There was the whine of splitting glass and the hammer of rain. A golem of ink and despair sang a funeral dirge while it stood between myself and an explosion. Then I remembered being thrown into the sea.

There was also a lot of screaming, that I realized that might have been me.

Storm’s words to stay put rattled in my head and roused my anger.

“Bastard,” I swore under my breath. “I need medicine. It’s in my cabin. Need that.”

Firmly, I pushed away from the ladder holding me up, and took a step. That nearly sent me to the deck.

“Doctor!” Ari’s voice pierced the chaos like the brass echo of a ship’s bell.

She shoved two of the crew aside and darted across the deck to me, copper-gold wings fluttering.

“Don’t stand! You’re…”

She caught my right arm before I fell on my face and made everything worse. A burst of white ghostfire traced the tattoos along my hand and wrist. Then it sank back into my skin.

I noticed Ari’s lips went tight, eyes framed by a frown while she quickly averted her gaze. The woman ducked under my arm, holding me steady.

“Durner!” she shrieked, sending a broadside of sound across my ear.

“Coming, damn it!” was the craggy, perturbed reply. “Only one of me to go around!”

Just then I heard Skaldi’s voice behind us, maybe to starboard. He stomped across the deck, pure fury on short, stout legs. The brass metal veins in his skin glowed molten yellow. I saw the dark cloud of a bruise around one eye.

The instant we locked eyes, his face went slack with relief. It was short-lived when he caught sight of Captain Storm a few feet away, deep in a conversation with Elara near the helm. Skaldi’s face pinched into a raging scowl, like a bulldog savoring fresh meat.

“Storm! You’ll pay for that punch!”

Dryden Storm’s eyes cut away from Elara to the ship’s blacksmith. A mild sneer drew across his face.

“I’ll be expecting your bill, Mr. Terrason,” Storm snarled. “But first, we’ve bigger problems, and your Doctor needs to be seen about.”

I screwed my face up at that. Bigger problems?

“Ari? Skaldi?” I wheezed, trying to keep the horizon in sight. “Last of my potions are…”

“I’ll fetch ‘em, Pedro,” Skaldi said with a poisoned glare at Storm.

“Already done,” said a craggy voice from a certain Master Gunner with a rust-red beard.

Like magic, Skaldi’s brother Durner raced out of the haze of my vision. He shoved my battered satchel into Skaldi’s hands, who rummaged in it for the potions at the bottom.

Fatigued or not, I instantly recalled the inventory in the bag. There was a pitifully small amount of elixirs. Silently, I swore that I’d be smarter about having more on hand in the future.

In my defense, I never thought an evil sea chest would try to kill me.

Skaldi shoved the first of two medicinal potions into my hand.

“Pedro. Drink.”

I did, choking down one after the other, barely tasting them. I went lightheaded. How I was still on my feet, I had no idea. Spite, probably.

My vision cleared in time to see Elara lean onto the rail overhead with a look that would’ve cowed a seraphim. She’d turned from Dryden toward me, wings fanning a bit behind her to keep her stable on deck.

She looked like hell. Hair unbound, her jade-gold eyes were steel-hard, shadowed with worried concern. Blood stained her captain’s coat, but I couldn’t tell if it was hers, borrowed, or both.

“Captain,” I said with a respectful, tired nod. “The wraith…”

She cut me off.

“Pedro.” The brittle tone in her voice sounded like a dire warning.

“Don’t you ever…” Then her lips pressed tight. “Never mind. We’ll discuss it later.”

She scoured the busy deck and crew with a hard gaze, while the latter scrambled like ants madly repairing an anthill.

“Lysander! Where’s Lysander?” she bellowed, voice cutting over the wind.

“Here!” he called back in a thin voice, frayed with fatigue.

The navigator ducked under a tangled mess of loose rigging, reaching the stained ladder to the helm. Lips blue, purple bruises framed the eyes on his dark face.

“Sorry. A bit-winded captain. Arcane Gate’s mostly together. It’ll repair on its own. That’s something the natural ones do.”

I felt Ari press something thick into my hands. It was the Codex Luminari. She gave me a look, then wiped her hands on her trousers uneasily before she raced off, leaving me with Skaldi.

“Of course, it survived,” I lamented to a peal of thunder. “Renwick, and so many more, are dead and gone because of you. I should’ve tossed you into the Arcane Engine or the sea.”

I almost threw the book away right then, but changed my mind. Tristam Greenholm was still trapped inside along with his vile formulas. Against my better judgment, I pushed the Codex into my satchel to deal with later.

The conversation between Dryden and Elara snagged my limp attention. I nodded to Skaldi while I stood shakily on my own.

“It’s the only way I see it. By your leave, Captain Blackwater, I’ll return to the Rising Eel, my crew’ll be taking lead from yours, if the plan be the same.”

“It is,” she snapped with a short, sharp glare.

Captain Storm gave her a curt nod, a sneer to me, then stomped off. I watched him head for the lines connecting the Rising Eel to the Silk Duchess.

I gave Skaldi a worried, dark frown.

“Plan?”

Skaldi ducked under my arm to steady me, jerking a thumb skyward. The Duchess lurched sideways like a death-loving drunkard.

Hurricane.

We were in a hurricane.

“Dios mío,” I murmured, clenching my jaw.

Elara’s commands shot out quick and fierce.

“Someone cut those lines to the Eel once the pirate leaves!” she ordered. “If that Captain Storm causes trouble, cut the lines out from under him. Lysander!”

“Captain?” he said, still out of breath.

“Do you have it in you for another Gate? Maybe two?” She cast a worried look at the sky.

Lysander let go of sigh as heavy as an anchor, closing his eyes. I saw blood splatters across his shirt, leftover from the fight with the wraith. The fatigue bruises under his eyes seemed to darken. At my look, he shook his head at me.

“Aye. I can manage one,” he replied, voice tired. “Maybe two before I drop.”

Elara studied him and then nodded. I saw the deep concern that hovered behind her eyes and in her stance. Worry for Lysander, for all of us.

“Make it happen, Mr Riverwind. The Rising Eel’s navigator assists once you’ve opened the way.”

Lysander pinched his mouth into a thin line, his next words like cracked crystal.

“What course, Captain?”

“Port Royal,” Elara said, then stalked back to the helm and ship’s pilot.

With a quick glance, and clasp on my shoulder, Lysander hauled himself up the ladder for the battered portal platform behind the helm. Over the storm, I heard the myriad of tiny gears churn as the platform started up.

“Off to your cabin, Doctor. The captain’s going to want you rested up and full of medicine.”

I eyed the storm overhead. Skaldi nodded as he helped me across the deck.

“It’ll be tight. Using a Gate to get out of a hurricane?” He shook his head. “Risky as kissing hell.”

I winced at the pain from moving, but also at my thoughts. A hurricane was nothing short of a tavern brawl between land and sea.

“True,” I replied hoarsely. There wasn’t much else to say, other than a silent prayer.

Whitecaps and rain smeared the horizon, turning it ugly and wild. A sheet of gray sliced down from the wall clouds behind us. It looked like gray teeth eager to bite us in half.

Skaldi muscled me over the stained deck between knots of crew, all of us nearly soaked to the flesh. Under the salt air, the faint tang of unwashed bodies and fear slapped my nose.

I felt the pulse of power before we saw anything.

“Here we go,” I warned Skaldi.

We’d barely reached the small stern door to the cabins when the golden orb of navigator enchantment burst to life. Sebastian skidded to a stop by my leg and barked.

The orb burst up and out. A bright, gossamer ball of power like yellow stained glass.

Ahead in the churning, angry sea, an Arcane Gate shimmered to life. Then the Gate went as bright as sunlight, almost as if a second Gate had been set against the first one.

“Two navigators working in tandem, placing one Arcane Gate against the other?” Skaldi murmured as he turned his focus back to stowing me in a cabin. “Privateer’s gambit if I ever saw it. Gates hate that last I ever heard. If even an inch is out of place, we’ll likely die.”

It wasn’t the Gates that had my attention—it was what lay through them.

I slammed a hand against the door frame to stop Skaldi from stuffing me away. A spike of white-hot agony shot through my side.

Past the Gate was Port Royal, but not as I remembered it. Before, it’d been a lively port town coming back to life from the last disaster from years back that had tried to swallow it.

Now? Death had come calling.

“Dead gods and live saints,” Skaldi muttered. “How big is this hurricane?”

The sea had consumed the eastern quarter. Streets literally flowed like hell’s own slurry. Brick, clay and loose sand dissolved, churning under the hurricane’s surf.

To the west, Port Royal’s proudest piers had stabbed shattered corpses of ships. Timber was bent and twisted from the rising maelstrom. People raced over buildings and what land remained, swarming for any higher ground they could find.

On one, a hill beyond the ports, I saw a shimmering dome. It was all sea green, fog and spite. In its center, pushing out that protective cover for the desperate, was a certain sea hag of my acquaintance.

“Too big,” I told him. “Sea hag or not, it’s a coin toss even she can hold back a full hurricane.”

I turned to shout to Elara, but she’d spotted what I had. We locked eyes. Deep concern shone between us, then out at the shimmering dome. Pain, and possible loss she didn’t want to happen.

Her eyes snapped back at me, and I spoke, hoping she heard me over the storm.

“Get us there, querida. We’ll save them.”

I left off the part where we all might die together while trying. It wasn’t worth saying. We knew that part already.

Elara scowled at the Gate.

“All hands! Look alive! Port Royal won’t drown on our watch!”

Beyond the Gate’s glimmering veil, the town itself thrashed like a drowning man.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Pedro leaves the ruined barge, facing the instrument of the necromancer’s madness: the Arcane Engine. A device made from blood, anger and worse, Pedro deciphers how to open the foul thing. Inside is a unholy combination of enchantment and device. With all of it bent toward carving and reshaping the Arcane Gate into a means to not just spilt open the veil between life and death, but rip it entirely away. Now all Pedro has to do is simply find a way to stop the engine. To do that, he realizes he needs a little help…

Aug 8, 1722. At the base of the Port Royal Arcane Gate. Righting a terrible wrong, only to face the storm…

A fetid burst of warm air, laced with the scent of rotten fish and seaweed, caressed my face in uneven bursts. It was like warm air spit from a ragged bellows. But this wasn’t the storm, a fire, or the Arcane Engine.

It was the Death Whisper I’d crafted from the Codex Luminari and my own blood.

Wind and sea spray beat against me mercilessly, almost tossing me off the rocks and into the waves. To my right, Sebastian snarled, hissing at the Death Whisper.

Seawater slicked the granite under my boots. The air around us felt fractured by the dying Arcane Gate, by all the recent events. My stomach clenched in rebellion, but this wasn’t the time to suffer that.

Barely five feet in front of me, the Death Whisper loomed over me. The golem stood at leas six and a half feet tall, maybe taller. Dressed in ragged clothes from some forgotten sailor, it loomed over me like a bad decision. Which, given the situation, wasn’t a terrible comparison.

It hunched slightly, clothes not quite dripping from seawater and drizzled rain. The golem’s eyes were bright orbs of literal fire, coiling out of hollow eye sockets. Withered, mummified hands dappled with tiny barnacles flexed like claws, even as its distorted mouth stretched wide like an obscene yawn.

I half-expected a blood-curdling shriek as it tried to rip out my throat. But it didn’t. Instead, it tilted its head to the left like an addled, eyeless, undead bird that inspected me.

The golem stepped toward me, dry breath rattling inside its empty ribcage.

I fought down nausea and stepped back, tense, ready for a fight. The strange ghostfire flared to life around my hand.

The instant it did, the fire inside the golem’s eye sockets coiled, guttered, then surged with the same green-white fire of the ghostfire on my hand.

It drew in a long, shuddering breath that was, at best, breath in name only.

“You called,” it said.

The words were barely that. They were a low, grating sound that left the taste of ash and salt on my tongue. Each word felt thick with memory, obligation, and something that felt like regret.

I drew the back of a sleeve across my mouth, watching the thing warily. This was a dangerous, undiscovered country that I was in a hurry to leave behind.

“Yes,” I replied, voice raw. “I did. You’re needed.”

Slowly, not taking my eyes off the golem, I knelt down and recovered the Codex. Its flaming eyes watched while I tucked it under my arm. Then the golem glanced at the Arcane Engine, and finally the dying Arcane Gate.

“You,” it said, drawing out the word until it snapped. “You want to fix the… mistake. Not finish the ritual.”

Every word vibrated through my battered bones. But understanding dawned in my exhausted mind. Lyra Valtor’s comments about a Death Whisper came back in full. Only now a new piece slid into place I didn’t know I’d missed.

They were wildly destructive, along with a dozen other lethal things. But they were made from ink, books, and the contents inside them. They were, literally, ideas made whole with a voice.

“You are correct, Señor.” My voice felt like cracked leather. “I do. With your help.”

The golem’s eyes cut to the Arcane Engine, then shook its head.

“The Engine is self-consuming now. Its music can’t be silenced.”

Next to me, Sebastian barked again at the golem, more perturbed than angry. I straightened my back, trying to ignore the pain of the petrification lancing through my left hand.

“No.” I said the word like a pistol shot. “But it can be tuned, Señor. Harmonized with another,” my eyes twitched while I searched for the right word, “song. Another song.”

The golem tilted its head to the right, looking again like some curious, predatory bird.

“Change the tune,” it said. “Rewrite its will? It still needs to end its song in a pure scream.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. Somehow, given all that’s happened, I wasn’t surprised.

Pain flared in my left arm, and I grabbed it with my right. I could practically feel ribbons of wood spearing through my veins, muscles and tendons. The warmth from the ghostfire soothed the pain, but I could still feel the uneasy discomfort from the petrification infection.

I winced at the pain, took a deep breath, then stabbed a finger at Lysander.

“We need to harmonize the Engine with him, with the Gate.”

“The navigator? How?” It rasped, voice a dry echo.

I took a deep breath. It felt like I was dancing with a hungry shark. I hurried past the Death Whisper and over to the Arcane Engine.

“The jars.”

I pointed at the glowing jars, their fluid levels uneven, and leaned in as close as the searing heat allowed. Then I wiped rain from my face, and a little blood from my lips, while I looked back at the golem.

"Do you know what a ‘glass harp’ is? ‘Singing glasses?’ Each glass making a different musical note? You said ‘music’ so I trust you do?”

The Death Whisper nodded, then blinked in an oddly human gesture that made me shudder.

“We remember.”

I narrowed my eyes. That was something to think about later if I wasn’t dead.

The golem joined me at the Engine, then flexed a ragged, mummified hand toward the glowing glass jars. Each gnarled finger looked like woven rope wrapped around driftwood. Wind tugged at its countless ragged parts, like shredded skin, which made standing near it an effort of willpower.

I flinched as more hot stones tumbled from the Arcane Gate. It felt like time was sifting through my fingers like sand.

Then, the jars rattled. This time not from the storm or the falling pieces of the Gate.

I pressed the back of my hand to my lips again. The taste of blood and brine hadn’t improved.

“How much of you remembers music?”

A pause. Its ribcage expanded. A wet, hollow inhalation.

“All of it. All of us.”

The Death Whisper’s jagged teeth were short, like the broken stones of a reef. Its jaw was inhuman and looked too wide, too imprecise.

“We lived as conscripts. We died at sea, and again in the books.”

Its right hand hovered near the Engine’s overheated edge, immune to the scalding air. My gut threatened to rebel again at the rolling smell of boiled sewage that assaulted my nose.

I coughed then peeled open the Codex. Wet pages stuck together or bled ink, but Tristam’s instructions made a perverse sense.

His notes listed frequencies, ratios of liquid to glass, along with more disturbing things like the ‘humble arithmetic of the departed’. I breathed out a bitter laugh.

“Nothing like having a sense of humor when you’re an evil bastard,” I murmured.

The more I read, the deeper I frowned in concern. I chanced a glance back at Lysander.

He was hunched on the deck of the ruined barge, surrounded by the golden sphere of light. He clutched at two glowing light sculptures of Arcane Gates, each as tall as he was, trying to shove them together.

It hadn’t worked, but the Gates hadn’t separated any more, either. His jaw worked, murmuring some sea chant I couldn’t hear. Sweat traced lines down his dark face.

“We’re running out of time, Señor,” I muttered to the Death Whisper. “If I guide you, can you tune the jars? Change the fluids?”

The Death Whisper tilted its head again, like it heard me through layers of thick fog, maybe even time.

"Tell us," it rasped.

I nodded as I thumbed the weathered page but also pulled down old memories of alchemical mixtures.

“All right. The jars, and their tones, correspond to intervals between notes as much as they amplify or bleed off Etherwave from the Gate. Ratio of potion to the vibrating glass is what matters. That’s the key.”

“Intervals,” the Death Whisper repeated, as if that word was a flavor it hadn’t tasted in centuries.

I used the Codex as a rough guide, then went off formula immediately. One by one, I pointed at the jars, directing the Death Whisper what to turn, how much to drain. Several times, I had to reach deeper into the Engine than my skin wanted. Blisters started to rise on my skin.

"First jar,” I grunted. “Drain it a quarter, twist left.”

The Death Whisper peered in close, then miraculously obeyed. Brown, sickly liquid sluiced into a crusted catch-basin when the golem tilted it. Then, it turned the jar as instructed once it set it upright.

Suddenly, I heard a sound shift. It was soft, under the wind and storm, but there. The jar glowed a faint sapphire blue.

Excited, I moved between the jars, spitting out numbers and measurements at a rapid pace.

“Next two? Half-drain, turn one-fifth. Leave the fourth.”

So on it went, sweat and light rain streaming down my face. I tried to ignore the mild groans of pain from Lysander on the barge. Skaldi and Ari were there, but they weren’t navigators, and couldn’t help.

Finally, a resonance gathered. A hum I felt inside my jaw quickly rattled my teeth. The jars, now realigned, vibrated on their own, playing out a song that seemed to harmonize with the storm.

“It’s working,” I murmured. “I think… it’s working.”

To my surprise, the Death Whisper hummed along. It was a hellish, ugly attempt at a baritone scraped over rough stone. In front of us, the Arcane Engine itself started to shake.

I glanced at the Codex to determine what, if anything, was next, then squeezed my eyes shut.

The scream. It needed to scream, and I realized what that meant.

An imbalance. It needed a sharp, unreliable imbalance.

My vision turned black at the edges, fraying like old cloth. The world tilted sideways as I felt lightheaded.

The Death Whisper caught me by the arm and pulled me upright. No words, just action. Waiting.

“Right. On my mark, crack the last jar in line,” I called out over the rising howl. “Not all the way, just a hairline split. Enough to let it shriek.”

I glanced at the Death Whisper, then at the last jar.

“Now!”

Sebastian let out a whining yelp, then yanked on my trouser leg with his teeth. Meanwhile, the Death Whisper’s rough hand seized the stained, yellowed jar and flexed.

A sharp crack split the glass, webbing it with fractures.

The Engine howled, its ‘song’ reaching a frantic crescendo, while I saw threads of golden Etherwave Arcana pour in from Lysander’s direction behind me.

Wind slammed at me, but I clutched the Codex and stood my ground. My heart stuttered, knowing damn well the warning words anyone learns when dealing with the Etherwave Arcana and what people call ‘magic’.

“Magic always comes with a price,” I wheezed.

The jar screamed as it shattered. A crack sliced through the Arcane Engine like a knife.

Then my world became nothing but the pure, blinding heart of a sun.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

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Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Trapped in the lower decks of the sinking barge, Pedro confronts the murderous wood wraith, Lucas Argall. The battle raged across the barge, nearly tearing it apart. In the end, a combination of direct sunlight and drawing too much power from the Etherwave completely destroyed the wood wraith. But Pedro didn’t come away unscathed. Now, infected with the same petrification illness he discovered a cure for, he has to climb over to the Arcane Gate itself to stop Tristam Greenholm’s last foul touch of corruption… the mysterious Arcane Engine…

Aug 8, 1722. Standing on the Arcane Gate’s granite base. Knocking at Death’s door, and hearing a knock back…

I dropped to my hands and knees on the seaweed-slick rock, gasping for air. A wave of nausea slammed through my stomach.

My gut clenched. I vomited hard. It was sour bile with a little blood. Then I spat, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and blinked away tears.

“Potions never taste better the second time around,” I complained, throat raw.

Wood crackled as the infection flared again. Pain shot through my left arm while waves broke against the Arcane Gate’s granite base around me. Sea spray was everywhere.

It wasn’t easy to stand. That entire gray stone base was slick with rotten seaweed and brine. Whitecaps slapped us like we deserved it. The storm winds howled, delighted to have two more victims.

I felt hollowed out, lightheaded, but not done. That’s when I noticed I’d cut my hand on the rocks. It was just more pain layered on pain. Then the infection flared, clawing at me, but I was still bleeding red—not amber resin.

“Just put one foot in front of the other,” I murmured, then forced myself to stand. Sebastian barked in agreement.

My legs kept moving after the rest wanted to give up. It wasn’t willpower, but a bitter elixir of guilt and desperation, trying to set things right.

Beside me, Sebastian scrabbled for solid footing, claws clicking against the stone. Desperate and determined in his own gargoyle way, so I wouldn’t face this alone. Together until the end.

“Come on, Sebastian. It’s right ahead.”

Over the wind, Sebastian whined, low in his throat. I guessed he felt what I did. An itch behind my eyes and at the base of my skull, along with a tightness in my chest. A sense that something impossibly ancient next to us was awake and furious.

The last few yards felt like forever, but we crossed the wet rocks to the Arcane Engine nestled against the Gate. I knelt down heavily for a better look.

It wasn’t some mythical carved statue with glowing eyes. This was actually something even worse. A device of brass, bone, and quartz, but not clockwork like I knew it. This Arcane Engine looked more like an abused wooden sea chest whose maker had a morbid fondness for bone and brass.

Bits of bleached whale and other scrimshawed bones lined corners and seams. What wasn’t bone had been layered in light tan leather and tarnished brass rivets. Black resin had been used to patch ugly cracks edged with the singed remains of lightning strikes. A large, tarnished steel latch kept the lid closed.

Gears peeked out from gaps in the chest’s bloated wood slats. Some were on the lid, others along the sides. They glistened with a dark, reddish oil that I suspected might have been something far worse.

I remembered the conversation with Renwick in my shop days ago. One where he explained sailors ‘sent to the engine’ never returned. Suddenly, I didn’t want to guess about where the bones, leather, and oil came from.

“It’s a pirate’s pet abomination, or an engineer’s fever dream of the damned,” I murmured. “How do I stop this? Open it? What is it even doing?”

Just then, the storm winds receded. Behind the moan of wind, I heard the muffled sound of countless small gearworks, the crackle of power, and what sounded like stone being chiseled. I glanced at the gate, then at the Arcane Engine, and quickly reached for the latch.

It moved, but the lid didn’t. At least not until I found a thumb-sized knob hidden behind the latch strike plate. I turned the knob, and every visible gear came to terrible life, chattering like dozens of metal teeth. Gears turned, then slid like elaborate puzzle pieces.

I held still, braced for something to hiss and explode. But instead, the gears abruptly aligned. With a soft click, slide, and snapping sound, the chest’s lid opened a sliver.

Quickly, I caught the edge with my fingers and pulled. It shifted only a few inches. Steam hissed out, thick and sour, reeking of hot sewage.

With a frustrated sigh, I gripped the lid with both hands, putting my full weight behind it. The chest creaked in protest. I winced immediately from fresh pain as more skin on my left hand steadily turned into split wood.

“All right, what do we have?” I grunted with a glare at the chest.

Sebastian pressed in close against my leg, gargoyle tail lashing the air like a whip. His horned head cocked as if listening to a distant sound. After a second, he hissed furiously at the chest.

I didn’t blame him at all.

All at once, the stink of boiled rot and burnt copper flooded out so fast, my eyes watered. I coughed and wiped away tears while I peered inside. The smell was so dense, it ignored the storm that tried to blow it out to sea.

“Dios mío,” I coughed.

Inside was an alchemical mess, but at least it finally explained why the Codex Luminari contained so many mechanical and alchemical designs. This Arcane Engine was an elaborate combination of alchemical stills, a Hauksbee battery, and a deranged engraver’s tool.

Row after row of tiny, interlocking gears, some of quartz, others of shell, or bone, drove the entire thing. They meshed together in clusters like barnacles on a hull at regular intervals along a trio of metal rods. Those drilled and chiseled into the Arcane Gate itself, carving navigation symbols and alchemy formulas into the base, or grinding rock to powder.

That enchanted stone powder was conveyed to a series of distilling pots. Containers heated by a cluster of glass jars filled with a shimmering liquid. It was the most elaborate Hauksbee battery I’d ever seen. The silver-blue blood of Etherwave power literally pumped from the Gate itself like an open wound.

Now, it wasn’t hard to figure out what this was doing. I recognized those carved formulas. They were symbols rumored to be tied to resurrecting the dead. I shook my head, then coughed again against the rotten stench.

“This is how they’re opening a portal to the land of the dead.”

Another wave of pain shot through me. I grabbed my left arm and nearly doubled over. Heat boiled out of the chest like a blast furnace. I wasn’t sure if my sweat was from what I’d drunk or the heat.

“The Hauksbee jars must be storing power pulled from the Gate but also from what’s boiling in those alchemy stills. If I can disconnect just a part of this, that drill will stop, and so will what’s being done to the Gate.”

I tried to reach inside slowly, but the heat was too much. Even my coat sleeve smoked.

“There has to be another way,” I murmured.

Wind whipped around me like a mad ghost. I looked over my shoulder at Lysander. He had the Arcane Gate stable for now. But I could see he was losing the struggle. I glanced toward the Silk Duchess where the battle had died down, then at Lysander, and finally at the Arcane Engine.

“He needs one of those gear-laden portal platforms to ground out the excess Etherwave power.”

I scowled at the Arcane Engine. Not that it cared. It sat boiling out searing heat, eating at the Arcane Gate, practically breathing like some hell-born parasite. Then I scratched Sebastian behind the horns.

“We need to solve one problem with the other,” I said to him as much as to me, looking around the gray rocks. “Where did I drop the Codex?”

Sebastian found it before I did and dragged the battered book over to me. I leafed through the pages with their lurid details about necrotic formulas and rituals until I found Tristam’s designs for this devilish Arcane Engine. It didn’t take long to find the passage I wanted.

“Of course, disconnect the chisels, but the Hauksbee jars have to be tuned? Did I read that right?”

Tension gnawed at the back of my head while I read the passage again.

“Tuned. Musically, like ‘singing glasses’. This is tuned by sound.”

My eyes cut back to the glowing jars in the searing hot Engine. I skimmed the passages again, then glanced over at Lysander. The idea made sense, even if it might burn me alive. That sent me back to searching the Codex for a way to bleed off the heat.

“There has to be a way to touch those jars,” I muttered, flipping pages so fast I nearly tore them out.

Then I stopped on a page adorned with a familiar, horrific diagram of a thin and ragged figure, barely even human.

A Death Whisper.

Just like the kind I’d fought too many of, and never wanted to see again. I grunted as my stomach rebelled again, threatening to bend me over in another wave of violent nausea.

I didn’t want to create one of those nightmares. Especially given what Renwick had said, they needed a living spirit. I swapped an uneasy glance with Sebastian, who whimpered back at me.

“It’s what we have,” I rasped in a tight, brittle voice.

I pulled out the vial with the last of the ink I used on the barge, along with a broken bit of wood. Then I flipped to a blank page in the Codex and scribbled a slightly altered version of the Death Whisper ritual.

Sebastian whined at me one more time, and I scratched behind his horns. He gently butted his head against my hand.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be over soon. It has to.”

Then, I slammed my open palm onto the page hard enough that there was a sharp crack. Blood from the cut on my hand mingled with the hastily scrawled formulas in an ink just waiting for a spark of power. I wiped a tear from my eye, took a deep breath, then sang against the wind.

“I’m a privateer of the sea, of the waves and wind. With my ship and crew, I sail the ocean without fear…”

Green-white ghostfire exploded to life around my right hand. At the same moment, I felt the Etherwave Arcana rush to my aid. It flowed down through the Arcane Gate, then into me, like a torrent of water breaking through a dam.

Drops of fresh ink bled up from the page to dance in the air in front of my eyes. Every formula glimmered and rippled while a dark shadow of ink and blood stained the entire page. Sebastian’s whimper was swallowed by the wind.

“I just hope this Death Whisper listens.”

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: With Sebastian by his side, Pedro stands his ground in a fight for his life against the spectral necromancer that had possessed the Codex. In the end, Pedro takes a gamble that the ghost of Tristam Greenholm is still trapped, not quite free from the ancient curse. After realizing what the mystic anchor page was really for, he quickly inks one of his own. This imprisons Tristam once more. But Pedro’s trouble’s are not done. That leaves the murderous wraith, Lucas Argall, still roaming the barge, looking for blood…

Aug 8, 1722. Aboard the ruined pirate barge off Port Royal, dueling for my life with a madman…

My alchemy worked as intended. That is to say, I vanished into the murky gray illusion, nothing more than a lethal puff of fog. It amplified my voice, lightly mesmerizing anyone who looked my way.

But it didn’t keep me from getting hurt.

I watched Lucas’s eyes dance in horror while I melted into mist. But it was my laugh that got him moving. Quickly, in a panic-driven rush, he closed the gap, and looked around. I backed away, but there wasn’t much room on the ship’s lower deck.

“Where are you?” he screamed, eyes bright with rage.

Lucas swung wildly. I slipped aside, but his staff still clipped me.

A sharp, stabbing pain tore into my left hand like a dozen needles. Despite the ache, I clenched my jaw, and kept quiet while I darted around behind the madman. Sebastian followed my lead.

What I know of a wood wraith, any wraith, I could put in a thimble. But I knew wraiths were infectious. A brief look at my hand told me everything. The skin around the red welt where I’d been hit had already cracked at the edges and hardened like bark.

I was infected, slowly turning to wood.

“You’re still here,” Lucas growled while he swatted the fog twice more. “I know you are! Show yourself!”

A part of me wondered how much more abuse I could take. Would I make it back in time to get the real cure that I had ironically invented?

The answer was obvious. I had to.

So, I shoved those thoughts aside and focused on staying alive.

Quick and quiet, I pulled the last two vials of my poisoned, half-working petrify cure from my belt. I poured one along my blade until it dripped a sickly green. The other? That one I drank down in one swallow followed by a healing elixir, then fought the urge to vomit.

I never lied about the tainted potion. It had a mild dose of the real cure. At least enough to work for a few minutes.

But the rum and scorpion peppers I mixed in made it burn off fast, then let the infection run wild. The concentrated bloodroot I added? That was just herbal revenge. I just never realized, it would be for me.

Lucas turned fast when the potion corks hit the deck, then jerked when I buried two inches of poisoned steel in his gut. The wraith sputtered, wide-eyed, then clawed at my face. I knocked his hand aside, careful to keep the sleeve of my long coat between his hand and my skin.

“Well, hello there, Señor,” I said with a devilish smirk that I didn’t quite feel. “I’m right here.”

I withdrew my sword and stabbed twice more in quick succession. Lucas sputtered and jerked with each hit. We separated, the wraith glaring raw hate as the alchemical fog swallowed me again. Amber-resin blood flowed in thick rivers down his midsection.

“Clever alchemy, Doctor,” Lucas wheezed. “Your own invention? Let me show you one of mine.”

His staff exploded in blue-white flames. Quick as a snake, he lashed out with his weapon. Spectral fire burned a line through my fog, parting it like a sharp knife. His staff slammed against the deck, and the barge shuddered in its death throes.

I darted back in shock, even as Sebastian spit hot tar into the wraith’s face. Lucas scraped the steaming mess from his face and swung twice at Sebastian. My gargoyle danced aside both times, then retreated through the withering fog.

It became a tango of death. He swung, I side-stepped, the fog thinned, then we warily circled each other. My only cover evaporated from the assault of the wraith’s enchantment.

Lucas healed each time I stabbed him. But, undead or not, the rules of enchantments remained the same. First, magical power can heal a wound, but the body remembers it should be in pain. Second?

Using the Etherwave Arcana, what some call magic? It always comes with a price. The Etherwave gives, but it also takes. Sunlight suddenly flashed overhead once, then twice, as the clouds parted overhead.

A desperate idea sprang to mind.

The last of my fog vanished, and I swapped glares with Lucas from ten feet away. All around us, the barge cracked and groaned, pounded to death by the sea, and unhinged power that bled from the Arcane Gate.

“You don’t look so good, Doctor,” Lucas sneered as he winced from another new stab I’d put in his side.

I dragged a shaking hand across my face to wipe away sweat. It stank of poison and death.

“That would make two of us, you lunatic.”

Lucas laughed. It sounded like wood grating against itself. But his withered face looked gray, as the tainted mixture started to take hold.

His eyes studied me for a moment, then he lunged. I dodged aside a bit too slow, as the bloodroot continued to torture me, even as the half-cure tried to help. But I still parried, turning aside the wraith’s flaming staff before it touched me.

“I see you’re petrifying, Doctor,” Lucas growled. “No cure, just a slow death.”

A cough rattled my chest, but I kept my sword on guard, pulling on a smirk. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sebastian stalk Lucas from behind on silent claws.

“Are you sure?” I asked in a raspy voice.

I raised the now-empty vial that had held the partial cure where he could see it. Then, I turned my left hand so he could see the wooden cracks in my skin slowly turning back to flesh.

“Maybe it’s just no cure for you, Señor.“

The wraith’s eyes went round and wide before he yelled in wordless rage. He charged, but Sebastian struck. First was a slash at the wraith’s coat that tripped him. Second was another spit of hot tar to the side of the face when Lucas looked back in alarm.

He tripped and fell to the deck. Even as he hit with a thud, Lucas yanked down more power from the Etherwave, then more still. Each time, he hurled spectral bolts of fire at either myself or Sebastian.

Sebastian, nimble as always, darted aside before he took to the air and shot towards me.

I used the Codex as a poor man’s buckler to slap and block the blasts of fire. Each one hit the Codex, and the book absorbed it like a sponge in a burst of yellow-white light.

Exhausted, sweating my life out, I backed away until I was directly under the hole to the deck above. I risked taking my eyes off Lucas to glance at the storm-tossed sky.

Wall clouds swirled like a foul soup overhead, but a break had formed. Sunlight glimmered down in sharp beams like fingers reaching for the sea.

The Arcane Gate that towered over us, shook like a mountain ready to shed an avalanche. Raw, white power fell in bright rivers of light while smoldering, broken stones tumbled into the sea.

Suddenly, my vision went blurry as the world seemed to slide sideways.

“What in…?”

Above and outside, I watched the Arcane Gate split in two.

The massive, abused archway remained where it was, but now it looked like a second Gate was trying to push out of the first. Cracked, gray-granite rock split open like overripe melons. Dark obsidian spikes speared through the stone, framed by what could only be countless bones.

Those cracked, white bones framed every crack, crevasse, and fissure. In between was dark packed soil, smeared with greasy stains that seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat.

It was like watching the mismatched skeleton of a mythical titan push itself out of a grave all at once. All the while, a tattered veil of mist stretched between the two, like pale spiderwebs pulled too thin.

Then, in the middle of the archway, I saw a bleak landscape.

It was cast in shades of black, gray, and deep sea blue that mirrored the world. Ragged, ruined ships crewed by bloated dead crews, floated on greasy waves. In the distance, along a broken, gray shore, shadowy specters of half-people silently gathered.

A fleet of the dead moving to flood the world of the living.

Lucas slammed into me when mysterious golden lines of power wrapped around the split Arcane Gate. I hit the deck, air knocked out of my lungs as Lucas pinned me down with a shaking, withered hand.

“You have a cure, don’t you? Not this sewage you tried to poison me with! A formula you’ve written somewhere!” he screamed. “I’ll go through you, your friends, your loved ones, until I get what I want!”

He hammered at my face. I managed to block the blows, but it was a near thing. Before he could try again, I fought back with a quick right jab. I was rewarded with a sharp, wet crack, and a line of amber resin trickled from his broken nose.

“You’ll never get that!” I snapped back. “You’ve murdered more than enough people!”

Lucas yelped in pain as mystic flames from my hand tried to turn the wraith into a flaming pyre. It didn’t take, and before I could get off the deck, he grabbed me by the collar, then bashed my head backwards against the wood.

Sebastian clawed and bit Lucas, but only ripped away chunks of rotten cloth. It earned him a kick to the muzzle that sent him tumbling across the deck.

“Sebastian!” I coughed.

Stars exploded in my eyes as my vision swam in sickly waves. My stomach churned in reply between the pain in my head and the tainted cure I drank a moment ago.

Then the sun split through the clouds over us. Golden beams of light speared down, even as the storm rotated in the sky like a gray whirlpool of destruction. Lucas had me by the throat then, slowly choking the air from me.

What little I knew of wraiths was as much rumor as truth. But all the tall tales mentioned wraiths despite the sun. Memories flashed across my eyes of seeing Lucas in a long coat, skin mostly covered. The only time he didn’t care was when the clouds were so thick, they blotted out the sun.

Except now, a few fingers of sunlight had broken through the storm to brush the lower deck of the dying barge.

I grabbed Lucas by the collar and neck, then shoved with everything I had. He was still weak from the poison, which cost him both his balance and leverage against me. We rolled across the deck while he drew on the Etherwave to craft another spell.

Wraith or not, the strain in his body was obvious. His hands shook as he stole power from the Etherwave, more spectral fire curling around his fingers. But a strange glow filled his eyes, like an out-of-control forest fire.

The Etherwave Arcana was about to collect its price for everything it had given Lucas. Take it all at once.

He clawed at my face with burning fingers, but I rolled us into the sun a second before he touched me. The instant that the golden light touched him, Lucas let go of my collar. His screams could’ve shattered glass.

I scrambled away on all fours, then scooped up an angry and snarling Sebastian in my arms. By the time we reached the nearest bulkhead, Lucas had stopped screaming. I curled around Sebastian to protect both of us as best I could.

No more than ten feet away, the wraith had frozen into a driftwood statue. Then with a quick shudder, he exploded as the Etherwave Arcana shattered him like glass.

A foul stench of burned rot held onto the air with a death grip while wood rained around us. The barge lurched heavily. Abused planks snapped, then pulled back from the keel. Seawater rushed in like a dozen fountains underneath us.

“Come on, Sebastian, time to go.”

I set him down and located the Codex. It had fallen nearby and, miraculously, survived the fight. Part of me wanted to leave it, let the sea take it. But something whispered I still needed that book.

We scaled a ragged ladder to what remained of the upper deck. I saw Ari, Skaldi, and Lysander were bloody, bruised, but alive. None of them looked infected, but we had a larger problem to deal with.

Lysander had used his skills with the Arcana to connect with the Arcane Gate. Sweat poured over his dark face while he struggled to force the broken Gate together. But right then and there on the barge, he lacked a portal platform to ground him against that power. So he was failing, starting to die.

My stomach churned, but I fought back the nausea, looking around for a way to help my friend. I didn’t see a portal platform, but I saw something else more important. The last piece of this evil puzzle.

There nestled at the foot of the Arcane Gate, sat an Arcane Engine. A rare, pulsing device made of bone, wood, and metal that was attached to the Gate like a foul blister. I could feel it churn. That was the source of the curse that wanted to break the Arcane Gate apart.

“No. I didn’t come this far to watch it all sink now.”

I drank down my last healing elixir, then stumbled off the barge toward the Arcane Engine and the heart of the storm.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Chasing Pedro boards the pirate barge to stop this nightmare once and for all. But the going is rough, and the seas are choppy. While they caught Lucas Argall off guard, the murderer wasn’t alone. Unfortunately he wasn’t about to start the ritual, it had already started. The insane necromancer behind it all, Tristam Greenholm was being summoned back to unlife. Working fast, the group splits up, with Pedro dealing with Tristam and the others stalling Lucas. Pedro has a rough time of it, until he gets a little unexpected, and ferocious help…

Aug 8, 1722. Aboard the ruined pirate barge off Port Royal. Nearly swimming with the sharks…

Sebastian slammed into Tristam like an irate harpoon. Claws and teeth ripped into the necromancer like a savage whirlwind.

Tristam shrieked. The magic flames around his hands shredded away as he threw his arms over his face. With him distracted, I yanked my sword free of its scabbard, then rushed forward.

Before I got close, he backhanded Sebastian across the jowls with a fist, sending him tumbling to the deck.

“Damn beast!”

The necromancer turned on me with a glare. Sickly greenish-black vapors curled off his fingers as I felt him draw down the Etherwave Arcana. A second later, the acrid smoke erupted into spectral green fire. He lashed out with a burning hand as I closed the distance between us.

Morowen told me almost nothing could destroy the Codex. I hoped that story had been true.

It was.

The instant that the Codex touched the flames, it soaked them in like a dry sponge. Its cover was still steaming when I bashed the book across Tristam’s jaw. His head snapped to the side before he stumbled against that solid haze of dark fog surrounding us.

I glanced at the Codex, the fog, then narrowed my eyes at Tristam.

“You’re not free yet, are you?” I murmured.

Wide-eyed, Tristam lunged for my throat or the book, maybe both. Instead, he met my sword when I rammed it through his undead guts.

I shoved him off my blade with a shoulder, pushing him back against that boiling, foggy wall of darkness. He stood up and started to pull down more power when Sebastian spat at him.

The gargoyle’s spit-tar splattered across Tristam’s face, while stray tendrils of it smeared over part of those rotten dragonfly wings. Tristam fell backwards again, then to my surprise, was stuck to that hazy mystic boundary. That was something I’d think about later.

Now tarred in place, I got my first real look at Tristam Greenholm. I really hoped it would be my last.

The necromancer was a twisted mockery of his thayan ancestry. Pasty, drawn skin was stretched over a too-thin body. He looked like every pallid, nightmarish drawing of a vampire come to unlife. Fangs? I had no idea, but his eyes were solid black, just like his ragged, torn dragonfly wings. His ratty clothes hung loose and threadbare, out of style by twenty years.

Last was where I’d hit him with the graveyard syrup. That had made a line of burn scars over his sunken face.

“What are you?” I asked, horrified.

Tristam hissed back like a furious, maligned snake. I raised my sword, now decorated with a dark ichor from when I’d stabbed him, and backed up.

“Give it to me!” he spat.

Those ragged thayan wings tore like tissue as Tristam ripped himself loose of the tar. Once free, he reached again, skeletal hands clawing for both myself and the Codex.

I side-stepped and slashed, cutting away more of those ragged wings. The necromancer growled, but another hot blurt of tar from Sebastian stopped him in his tracks. I bolted for the edge of the hellish haze.

“Sebastian!” I called.

He raced over the wooden deck toward me in a scramble of manic claws. Tristam recovered, nearly flying at us like every bad myth of a vampire taken shape.

Icy cold fingers lightly brushed along my neck like the tender caress of Death itself. I shuddered, ducked, then half-turned for a quick swipe behind me. It wasn’t a serious cut, but I still connected.

Tristam howled, falling to the deck with a thump while sporting a new, dark charcoal slice along his neck that he didn’t seem to notice.

I ran for the ghostly wall of dark haze, betting on a guess that Tristam couldn’t follow me. Behind me, he got to his feet in a half-crouch, like a deranged predator. He charged even as I dove for the swirl of sooty fog.

That slam of power from before hit all at once and wrapped around me like a weighted net. I curled to my side, shoulder first, as the deadly enchantment draining my life tried to keep me there. Invisible threads with countless hooks tugged at my heart, trying to steal the air from my lungs.

Suddenly, I was through, still clutching the Codex even as the sword slipped from my hand.

I hit the deck sideways and bit back a yell when I landed on my left shoulder. Needles of pain traced a manic path along my arm between back and fingertips. I groaned, holding my arm.

All at once, Sebastian was there to help. He immediately braced against my good shoulder and applied a sandpaper tongue and wet nose to my face. I coughed out a rasping, dry chuckle.

“Yes, thank you, Sebastian. I’m alive.”

Quick as I could, I forced myself up and rolled to my feet. After that, I scooped up my sword.

Behind us, I saw the shadowy apparition of Tristam Greenholm pound spectral fists against that clouded mystic barrier. He screamed, but I couldn’t hear a word over the wind and sea.

I glanced at Sebastian, who barked at me furiously.

“He’s not a ghost, Sebastian.” I shook my head. “Tristam is something else. An actual vampire? A revenant? I don’t know. This is a problem for a fully trained wavebinder. I’m just an alchemist.”

Sebastian scratched the deck with his claws, then huffed at me.

I sighed, looked at my sword, then at Tristam. At the other end of the barge, Lysander and the others were in a hard fight against Lucas and the last of his tree-skeletons. My friends were winning, but only just, and it showed.

“All I know are potions, poisons, and cures,” I murmured. “They’ll have to do.”

I tensed as a cough wracked my chest while ghostfire flared around my hand. Once it stopped, I quickly tucked the Codex under my arm, pulling the last vials of graveyard syrup and undead repellent off my belt. Calculations ran through my head like a waterfall of numbers and ingredients.

“They should mix fine and last long enough on my blade to stab Tristam a few times. Maybe it’ll act like a…”

“No,” said a now familiar soft, deep voice in my mind. “You hold the anchor. His anchor. Bind what cannot die.”

I shook my head, well past worrying that I looked addled for talking to myself or the fire on my hand.

“What?”

I drank in another breath of salt-smoke air. Something nearby was on fire other than me.

“His anchor?” I echoed thickly.

Then the words sank in past the pain. His anchor. Tristam Greenholm’s anchor. That Codex page wasn’t just some scribbled formula and elemental symbols to anchor that misguided ritual.

It was a specific anchor for him, and I’d stolen it.

“He’s tethered to that book because of what Morowen did and what he did, but I have his anchor.” I nodded. “I stole it by writing on the page, expanding what was there.”

An idea swirled in my mind even as I reached for my satchel. But it wasn’t there. A cold realization shot through me.

“Damn. I left it aboard the Duchess.” I blew out a hot sigh. “There’s no time to get it, I’ll need to improvise. I’ll need ink to draw a new anchor in the Codex based on what I remember.”

Nothing nearby looked helpful, until my eyes settled on the rough ring of dark dust on the deck that held Tristam captive. Sea swells crashed up and over the listing barge, splashing against that dust, smearing the deck with a greasy sheen.

“Ink. That’s ink,” I snapped.

Sheathing my sword, I raced for the circle, Sebastian on my heels. I stayed outside it this time, but close enough to reach it. Past the thin, sooty fog, Tristam beat his fists against the mystic wall, screaming incoherent rage.

The strange symbols still slithered like wild snakes in a hypnotic pattern. Beyond those, lay the ragged ink dust ring. My eyes snapped up to Tristam, then back to the ink. The panicked look on his face told me he knew what I was about to do. Desperately, the man stepped back, slamming fire enchantments against the sooty, ink boundary.

It held, but for how long was anyone’s guess. I’d fallen across that edge once, which may have weakened it.

“Watch him, Sebastian,” I said gravely. “If he sticks even one undead finger out of that fog, tear it off.”

Sebastian turned in a quick crouch, snarling at Tristam. The apparition didn’t look worried, only more frantic.

I set the Codex on the deck, opened to a blank page, then pulled out three vials. One was graveyard syrup, another was the undead repellent, and the third was empty. I carefully scooped a small amount of the ink dust, then mixed it with the two potions. Green fluid turned brown, then a shimmering black.

“Do I say anything?” I asked aloud. “Maybe it’s more what I write than what I say?”

Nothing answered beyond the roar of the sea, howl of wind, and the distant clash of nearby fighting. So, I went with what I knew.

“I’m a privateer of the sea, of the waves and wind…” I hummed softly.

A soft rush of the Etherwave Arcana flowed through me in reply.

Quickly, I snatched up a nearby finger of wood, a casualty of Ari’s recent fight against the tree-skeletons. I shook my makeshift ink mixture once more, dipped in the twig, and redrew the anchor page as best I could from memory.

From symbol to formula, I hastily recreated that page, or most of it. I replaced parts I suspected might help Tristam with my own designs. They were desperate, untried calculations and formulas that I half prayed would work. While I wrote, a strange glowing blue mist rose from the words, reaching toward Tristam.

Sebastian suddenly barked. I looked up to see the fog fading, like mist under a morning sun. Tristam grinned savagely, then charged. Frantically, I inscribed the last words at the bottom of the page.

“With this anchor lies Tristan Greenholm, bound by ink, flame, and surest will.”

Tristam yelled as he grabbed my coat, hands burning with more spectral green flames. I knocked his hand away, snatching up the Codex to defend myself.

Suddenly, wet ink shimmered. The letters burst to life, bright as a lighthouse beam. A blast of thunder rolled overhead as the purest white light I’d ever seen exploded off that page.

The blanket of white light snapped around Tristam in an instant. Glowing chains of lightning locked around him, trapping him before he touched me again. Then, with a blinding pop, those chains yanked him bodily into the book. He became nothing more than a lurid, chained illustration along the corner of the page.

After that, the Codex flew out of my hands onto the deck. The cover snapped closed like a spring trap with a crack of sharp thunder. A gentle steam issued up from between the pages.

Then, before my eyes, a symbol I didn’t recognize burned itself into the cover. It was a thin circle, and inside it was what could’ve been a letter ‘A’, or perhaps the stylized shape of an Arcane Gate. That emblem glowed once with a soft yellow-white light, then faded away.

I sat down on the deck, wracked with exhaustion and pain. Sebastian insistently bumped my leg with his horned head.

“We’re not done, I know,” I gasped.

A scream, ragged with rage, split the air the instant I climbed to my feet.

“What have you done?”

It was Lucas Argall.

I snatched up the Codex and reached for whatever potion I had left or my sword. It didn’t matter which, as the barge’s abused deck finally surrendered.

Wooden planks gave way with a groan underneath me and anyone nearby. I fell to the lower deck with Sebastian, while wreckage avalanched around us. My gargoyle scurried to safety in a scramble of claws and a flurry of wings. I covered my face, rolling out of the way.

By the time I stood up, Lucas had dropped to the lower deck with us. The wood wraith stood barely ten feet away, rage smeared across his mummified face. He still carried that gnarled, gray wooden staff, only now it was painted with a dash of blood at one end.

I quickly glanced up through the hole to the deck above, but I couldn’t see the others. All I heard was distant shouts and possibly a fight, nothing more. Overhead, more cracks ran through the Arcane Gate. A wall of storm clouds swirled overhead, stabbing lightning against the mystic arch.

“That was my last chance to be cured!” Lucas snarled. “I’ll kill you!”

“I’m sure you’ll try, Señor,” I replied with a small, tired smirk.

Lucas darted forward, but I was already on the move. I was nearly out of potions, but I still had a trick or two up my sleeve. Quick as a wink, I snatched a vial off my belt filled with a boiling, gray mist, then popped off the cork.

Smoke poured from the vial in a raging torrent. It billowed up and out, hungry to swallow the air. Gray clouds boiled around me as a dark grin spread over my face.

I melted into the rising fog with a deep, echoing laugh.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Chasing down the pirates with the fake cure, the Silk Duchess appears just off the Arcane Gate at Port Royal, catching the pirates by surprise. Captain Elara Blackwater gives the order to fire, but the battle is still desperate as the Silk Duchess is outgunned. During the fight, Pedro spies the source of the problem past the pirates. Lucas Argall is on a barge near the Arcane Gate. In a desperate move, Pedro, along with Lysander, Skaldi and Ari, board the barge to try and stop this once and for all…

Aug 8, 1722. At the Port Royal Arcane Gate, dancing on the edge of my grave…

I was subtle as a kick to the head when I swung down on a rope to the death-stained barge. After all, I had slammed a boot heel across Lucas Argall’s jaw when I arrived, knocking him away from the Codex.

Bloody screams and the shouts of the battle chased after me, fading back into the smoke while I landed in a deep crouch. Lucas crumpled to the deck, eyes rolling in pain, while he clutched his battered mouth. Amber, resin-like blood oozed between his fingers. He’d recover, but it’d take time.

With a wet, garbled scream of anger, he scrambled out of reach for the ship’s bow. Lysander and the others dropped down next to me a second later.

The sea boiled around the barge, a cloudy, agitated soup of gray-green brine mixed with the dark blue water. Gray-black wisps of putrid mist clung to wood, hair, and more. It was raw, untapped death magic whispering from the Etherwave Arcana. The power slid over my bare skin with a lover’s touch, even as it tried to suck the air out of my chest.

I drank in the scent of salt air and decay while I stood. A sharp cough later, I caught Lysander’s eyes, then glanced at Ari and Skaldi.

“Watch that one and stay out of his reach,” I said quickly with a nod toward Lucas. “His touch is poison. Also? Wood wraith or no, he’s also an Archbinder.”

“Well, shit,” Skaldi rumbled, sounding almost like his brother Durner.

Ari paled, while Lysander looked stoic.

The battered wooden boxes with the fake cure were still aboard. I turned one over, then scooped up the last few vials before handing them out.

“Use this. It’s poisonous to him. While it won’t kill him, it will slow him down. Don’t be shy about using it.”

Lysander eyed the fluid, then quickly coated his short sword with it until the blade turned sickly green.

“What about you? The Codex?”

I nodded, hand itching to draw my sword to join my friends. But not this time. This required a more complicated solution.

“Yes, keep him busy while I try to stop what Lucas was trying to start.” I met their eyes. “Hurry. He heals, but not fast. Watch yourselves, my friends.”

Then the barge suddenly lurched up under our feet, as if a wave had punched the keel.

“Look out!” I yelled, shoving Lysander aside.

Dark wooden deck planks rippled like brackish, splintery sewage water along the barge. We scattered, but the violent torrent was fast, crashing into us like an angry tide. Lysander stumbled out of its path, while Ari took flight in a flutter of wings. Skaldi and I weren’t so lucky. The warped boards hit us full-on, metal nails lashing out like crude pistol shots.

Skaldi dropped into a crouch, using his natural, squat grimling bulk to hold ground. I also knelt, but yanked my long coat over my face. We avoided the nails, but the planks were another story. They hit us like a hammer. We fell hard, slammed backwards across the deck.

The wave of wood passed. I staggered to my feet, shaking my head to clear away blurry vision. A new bruise warmed my forearm.

“Wood. Of course,” I murmured. “Naturally, a wood wraith can control wood, and we’re standing on a wooden ship.”

Skaldi fared better than I did. The blue and rust-haired grimling gave me a quick nod that told me he was battered but not out. He stood, yanking his faded dark green waistcoat straight, then scooped up his axe with an ugly scowl.

A crack of wood and a rasping growl snapped our attention sharply to the bow. Lucas was back on his feet, eyes blazing.

“I gave you a chance, Doctor,” Lucas wheezed, voice like rough sand.

The wraith wiped amber blood from his lips then rubbed at his once-broken, mummified jaw.

“You could have joined me, joined us, in changing the world. One last chance, Doctor. Send your minions away. Join us, or die.”

Lucas stood, hunched like a feral predator, at the ship’s bow, eyes bright with burning hate and deranged hope. Overall, he looked about as he had in Westmere. Just an impossibly bone-thin man, wearing a ragged green and brown hooded long coat over tattered stylish clothes.

But this time his hood was tossed back, showing his full, terrifying face. The man’s skin resembled paper-thin, poorly sanded wood, like a skeleton wearing a mummified skin-suit. Past the undead trappings, he still resembled his brother, Joshua, right down to the sandy hair and deep, watery blue eyes.

I shot a glare at him, taking a deep breath to steady my fraying patience.

“No.”

The word snapped out like a whip crack. I packed the conversation from Westmere in that word, tying it up with a bow of final determination. Lucas’ blue eyes turned ice cold.

“Then die,” the wraith growled, a chilly smirk on his lips.

“You first, Señor,” I replied, tipping my tricorn hat.

Lucas flung out a withered hand at us, and the air bristled with corrupted Etherwave power running wild. Deck planks rippled again like a sickly sludge before they rose upright. The wind howled as sharp cracking sounds flooded the air.

In the time to breathe twice, wooden planks twisted, split, then reformed into spindly tree-skeletons complete with ragged claws. They rushed at us in a manic clatter of dry, dead branches, eager for blood, desperate to slice through clothes, skin, anything in reach.

I could almost taste the corrupted enchantment, rancid as old cheese. Lucas caught us by surprise once, but not twice.

“You get the book, Pedro. We’ll hold him off,” Lysander called over the wind.

He darted around an animated murder-tree then rushed for the bow. Nearby, Ari and Skaldi exchanged a nod as they fanned out, corralling the skeletons between them. Skaldi put his axe to good use, turning skeleton-trees to kindling. Ari darted to one side, then the other. But being thayan, above was always an option.

She shot into the air, dragonfly wings a blur, before she dove at the nearest skeleton. Several quick chops later, tree-skeleton parts clattered to the deck. Black smoke coiled off the severed, warped wood, as if she’d beaten a foul spirit out of them.

At the bow, Lucas Argall rubbed his hands with a feral grin. Dark burns, like hell’s own tattoos, crawled over his face, with a death-lust in his bright eyes. The wraith slapped his hands together before yanking them apart. A knotted, soot-streaked staff of petrified wood grew into twisted life between his hands.

The bastard was actually enjoying himself.

Lucas lunged and blocked Lysander’s cut, then swung for my friend’s head. Inhuman undead speed or not, Lysander gracefully danced aside, avoiding a crushed skull.

The rest of what happened with that fight was a mystery, since I was busy trying not to die.

I darted around one of the tree-skeletons, racing for the middle of the barge and the Codex. It was right where I remembered, perched on a maniac’s pedestal of ruined crates, surrounded by those slithering, sooty alchemist symbols. That same dark haze still covered it like a mound.

Only now, it had stopped moving.

By the time I reached the symbols, the haze had condensed into a dark, shadowy silhouette of a man with the ragged memory of thayan wings. Its eyes burned like red coals in a starless night of choking soot. I reached for my sword, but thought better of it. That wasn’t my strong suit, and I was tired of getting stabbed.

“Tristam Greenholm, I presume?” I asked casually, reaching for my potions.

“Yes!” he snarled, voice like a hollow grave. “I know you, thief. You stole a page from my Codex.”

Morowen’s former lover turned attempted killer, blew out an icy breath, probably from habit of once being alive.

“I can smell the kelp stench of the sea hag on you,” he hissed, making my spine shiver. “You’re one of Morowen’s tools, here to ruin my great work.”

“Your insane plan, you mean?”

I kept my tone casual, even though my heart hammered at my ribs. Tristam had to be centuries old, and I had no idea how I understood him. I blamed it on the necromantic magic wrapped around the barge like a diseased shawl. Before he ranted at me about his ‘great work’, I cut him off. Especially since I felt I’d get only one chance at my own insane plan.

“You’re right, Señor, I do know Morowen,” I snapped back with a dark smirk. “She sends her regards and hopes you rot in hell!”

I darted between the sigils, avoiding them all. With a free hand, I popped the cork from a vial and tossed a purified mix of garlic and St. John’s Wart at Tristam. He shrieked, stepping back as the repellent hit him. It would only last a moment, but I hoped that would be enough.

Then I breached the charcoal-black circle of grime and realized too late what I’d walked into. A wall of shimmering power slammed into me. I suddenly realized I’d been wrong. Lucas wasn’t about to start the ritual — he’d already started it.

A strange, twisted energy filled the air, like living lightning looking for a victim. As for Tristam? He was regenerating into a withered walking corpse, still connected to the damn Codex. The necromancer was feeding off the Arcane Gate like a vampire.

“Dios mío!” I gasped, my eyes drawn to the Gate.

Cracks ran along the massive structure. Dark, jagged veins of destruction stretched from base to top. Pallid mist oozed from every fissure. Where there wasn’t mist, there were ghastly white skeletal and ghostly fingers, working to snap the Gate piece by piece. Through the widest gaps, I saw a bleak, ruined gray landscape. Easily a twisted and blasted mirror of our own.

“My work must continue!” Tristam screamed, rushing forward.

“No!” I yelled as I dove for the Codex.

We reached it at the same time, each of us with a hand on the book. Tristam screamed like a banshee and clawed at my face. I ducked before I lost an eye.

In a fear-induced rush, I desperately snatched a potion from a belt loop, popping the cork. With a smooth motion, I soaked Tristam’s face and arms in a thick, lime green fluid. He spat out a scream from the depths of his rotten soul as the graveyard syrup did its work.

Tristam recoiled, clawing at his undead skin, while the syrup boiled him like hot acid. The sharp stench from the gray steam assaulted my nose, making my eyes water. He let go of the Codex, and I snatched it off the pedestal. But I stepped back too quickly and tripped. Off balance, I stumbled to one knee right onto the slithering dark symbols outside the circle.

I screamed as dark power drove burning spikes right through me.

In that moment, the primal power of the Arcane Gate pulsed through me and the ritual, all to feed the burning reanimated corpse of Tristam Greenholm. It was magic that no one could or should tamper with. It was as if I were trying to swallow raw lightning hurled from a thunderstorm.

Somewhere, Tristam laughed with a ragged cough while I collapsed to the deck. The symbols swarmed over me like a nest of stinging ants. The world slipped sideways, falling away, a loose mix of memories and fatigue as smoke curled out of my mouth, draining away my life.

“I… I’m sorry,” I breathed low, apologizing to my friends, my crew, and Elara for dragging them into this horror.

“Oh, this,” the Tristam rasped with a dark laugh. “This is what I needed. You taste delightful. Lucas has served me well. Just perfect. Goodbye, thief. It’s over.”

A sharp pain stabbed my heart. I felt myself spasm, as if my body wasn’t even mine to control.

Suddenly, a bright, hot warmth burned in my hand while anger smudged my thoughts.

With deliberate effort, I slapped a hand to the deck. The sharp crack sounded loud enough to break stone. I pushed to my feet while ghostfire burned over my hand, dripping like molten, green-white liquid, eager to chase the corrupt symbols like a feral cat. In my left hand, a charcoal steam rose from the Codex.

I sucked in a ragged breath.

“No, Señor.”

The sound of my voice shocked me. I sounded ragged, raw, and just done. It was deeper with an echo, as if someone else, far away, spoke with me.

“I may not have stopped your ritual, Señor, but oh no. We are just getting started.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.

“After all, I gave my word to my captain.”

We faced each other, silent as the calm eye of a hurricane. He tensed. I flexed the fingers of my right hand. The Codex Luminari pulsed angrily in my grip.

“You don’t have a chance,” Tristam sneered. “You’re alone.”

The wind shifted, sharp with the wet promise of rain. Overhead, I heard the whisper of leathery wings beat against the breeze, then a low hiss like an omen.

I let a sly smirk drift over my face, slow as the morning sunrise.

“Not quite, Señor.”

Blue-white corpse fire exploded from the necromancer’s hands.

I moved, hand flashing for the vials along my belt.

Tristam never noticed the bobcat-sized tumble of purple freckled leathery wings, claws, and anger until it was too late.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

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Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: After brewing up the bait, Pedro, Lysander, and the others set the trap for Lucas Argall and his pirate allies. Pirates who eventually take the bait. But a dropped word or two hints at greater problems, and the eventual mad plan of the wood wraith… destroy an Arcane Gate no matter the devastation that might cause. Quick to stop them, Pedro and the crew of the Silk Duchess hurry off into unknown waters to stop a disaster…

Aug 8, 1722. Off the coast of Port Royal, Jamaica. Sailing through the gates of hell…

In a flash of power, we snapped through the Arcane Gate, expecting a fight. What we got was a private little war.

The world dropped out from underneath us before the Silk Duchess slammed down onto whitecaps and storm-tossed waves. Saltwater roared over the deck as we turned hard, cannons creaking ferally against their breech ropes.

“Fire!”

Elara’s shout cut the air like a hot saber. The deck lurched, cannon thundering out a broadside. Smoke belched over the sea like an angry dragon’s breath. Cannon shot tore over the waves, iron fists racing for the pirates.

Our broadside hammered the sloop’s foredeck and bashed into her bowsprit. Wood splinters erupted like a furious geyser. Men screamed as waves broke over the railing. Next to the sloop, the Rising Eel lurched hard, timbers shrieking, while she took her own black eye.

“Reload! Those pirates won’t sink themselves!”

Durner’s craggy voice was a peal of thunder across the deck. Gun crews raced to comply. The Silk Duchess crested another wave, then plowed ahead.

Behind us, Lysander’s Arcane Gate collapsed with a furious roar, winking out of existence. It gave the air a sudden sharp smell of spent magic.

Across the waves, the Rising Eel’s crew came alive, stung from the hit. Sails dropped, catching the strong wind. Beside her, the smaller black-sailed sloop lurched forward, still in the fight. Past them both, a mottled, battered wooden cargo barge floated next to Port Royal’s natural Arcane Gate.

Lysander’s timing with the gate had been perfect. The pirates weren’t ready for a fight, but had unloaded the bait. I saw the boxes sitting on that barge.

Sea spray from shattered whitecaps jumped over the deck, spattering everyone like a sideways storm. The tang of burnt powder mixed with scents of mild terror and eager excitement, sprinkled with brine.

I clutched the gunwale until my knuckles turned dead white. The tattoos on my right hand pulsed and glimmered, eager for a fight like everyone else. I wasn’t much different.

Dryden Storm had a lot to answer for, but I was focused on the greater of the two evils. The one I knew was the real problem.

“Where the hell are you, Lucas?” I murmured angrily, wiping the sea spray from my face.

A silent tug pulled at me, seductive and insistent. It was like dark silken spider webs picked at my heart, drawing my eyes to that barge. Then a devious siren’s song of death magic quietly reached my ears over the battle.

“The barge.” I nodded. “That’s where you are.”

I squinted at it while the pirate ships got underway. The barge rode low in the water, too low for the open sea. Its type was better suited for shoreline work. Battered and old, it’d seen better days. It was a miracle that thing had survived sailing to the Arcane Gate.

Finally, I spotted Lucas. He was the sole occupant on the barge, vomiting his stomach out. The shadow of a familiar overturned box of green potions lay beside him. Elixirs with enough graveyard syrup to quiet a city-sized necropolis, with a little spiced rum and hot peppers to give it that little kick.

Too bad he couldn’t hold down his rum or the graveyard syrup.

“Durner!” I yelled. “The wraith! He’s aboard the barge!”

The grimling Master Gunner’s rust-red beard split into a bright grin of violence.

“Oh really? More for the fish!”

Then he was off, shouting orders to the cannon crews.

I glanced from the barge to the Gate.

Arcane Gates are basically a force of nature. Something like a contained hurricane that hated everything. Ones, like what Lysander or other navigators created, were temporary, lasting minutes. Navigators could, and did, close them. If not, they collapsed on their own as the world expelled the magical invasion.

A natural Arcane Gate was something else entirely.

They were the first thing to appear in 1712. Deep, primal power given shape and function, but condemned to live in specific locations across the world’s oceans and seas. All of them anchored in place with each side of their arch rooted in a tiny rocky granite island.

Navigators alone could unlock them, but natural Gates never collapsed. Instead, they just hid from view until they sensed nearby ships. At which time, they would appear, even if they still needed to be opened.

I lost sight of both wood wraith and barge when the Rising Eel blocked it from view. The Eel dropped her gunports, stabbing the air with rage and iron. I ducked, pulling my tricorn hat low, shielding my eyes.

Pirate iron slammed into our deck, exploding wood in a storm of dying timbers. Splinters lanced out, eager for blood. Two cannons shattered while a snapped yardarm sailed out to sea. Shouts and screams of the crew filled the air thicker than old blood.

I bandaged who I could, then raced up the short steps to the helm. Anywhere to get a better look at Lucas and his barge. I nearly jumped out of my skin when Lysander materialized out of the powder smoke beside me.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Lucas.”

I said the name like a curse coated in rotten meat. At that moment, the Duchess turned hard to port, rigging aching for release, as we returned fire.

Our shots slammed against the Eel, knocking her askew. Shattered wood and nails were a sudden storm of death aboard the brigantine, breaking rigging and crew alike. A smoldering cannon broke loose, slipping out a new hole for the sea as an afterthought.

While the Duchess and Eel circled each other in a dance of death, the barge edged into view. Past the smoke, the old hauler was intact, still moored to the Gate. I slammed a fist on the railing.

“One good broadside into that barge could end this, or most of it,” I said, waving a hand in frustration in that direction.

Lysander scowled through the smoke. Two shots from the half-shattered, black-sailed sloop whistled overhead, missing our rigging by a foot. The navigator glanced between our cannons and the barge.

“We’ve turned too much. Nothing has a clear shot.” He shook his head bitterly. “If I judge Elara’s course, we’ll cut straight, then turn hard-a-starboard. That’ll put the barge to our port, just below our cannons.”

The Duchess spit iron again, this time at the black-sailed sloop. Broken, wet timber belched up and out as the small ship’s waterline vanished. The sloop almost collapsed in on itself while the sea slowly claimed her.

“That’s one!” Durner roared and our crew cheered.

I didn’t feel like celebrating.

“Clear and reload!” he called out. The order echoed down the line with crisp precision.

Then an idea hit me.

Ship battles weren’t constant blood and thunder. They were duels. Deadly dances of timing, distance, and misdirection.

Right then? Neither the Duchess nor the Rising Eel were ready, since the angles were all wrong. That would change in minutes as both ships rushed to be the first to fire.

“Cannons aren’t the only way to solve this,” I said, eyeing the bow of the Duchess, her rigging, then the barge.

Lysander followed my gaze, reading me far better than I liked, then swore under his breath, slapping the railing.

“A boarding action? On that barge? Now? Compass and coin, Pedro, do you just enjoy dancing on a grave’s edge? You’ll die before you get there.”

I scowled as repair crews scrambled around us, securing tattered rigging, knocked loose from the previous volley.

“No, I won’t. Listen.”

I pointed between the Silk Duchess and the barge.

“Our cannons won’t be able to hit the barge, but I could swing aboard. The Duchess will shield me from anyone aboard the Eel with a long rifle. Once on the barge, I ruin the ritual, Codex, maybe even Lucas. All of it. End the nightmare.”

Lysander’s mouth pulled into a thin line. I could tell he hated this idea, but he also saw the meat of it.

“This is insane,” he said in a brittle voice, rubbing his eyes. “I’m also insane, because it makes a kind of desperate sense.”

He glared at the Rising Eel while her crew frantically made what repairs they could. The brigantine turned, trying to catch the wind. On the barge, Lucas pushed to his knees, trying to get to his feet.

“Lysander, we’ll only get one chance at this,” I said firmly. “Lucas shook off a shot to the throat, so he’ll shake off those potions. I doubt he’ll fall for this twice.”

“Elara’s going to hate this,” Lysander groaned.

Given the brief lull in the battle, Elara had swept down from the helm in a mad blur of dragonfly-like wings to the deck. Her captain’s coat was now unbuttoned, singed, with two new smoking holes along the hemline. The cream-cotton shirt she wore was stained with a little blood. None of it hers.

She had rushed over to help pull a trapped crewman to safety, or safe enough to get him bandaged.

I locked eyes with her, and she froze. The wind caught loose strands of hair from her chestnut braid, tossing them about in a wild flurry. A hard flicker touched her jade-gold eyes before she side-eyed that battered barge, then me.

If Lysander could sometimes read me like a book, Elara had me memorized.

She took one last check on the two bruised crewmen, then turned on her heel, storming over to us. Mouth pulled into a complicated line, she planted her boots, snatching me close by my collar. I nearly stumbled off my feet.

“Asa mvur,” she said in a low, hard voice, barely audible over the chaos. “If you die, I’ll find a way to bring you back, then murder you proper. We clear?”

A lopsided grin tugged at my face.

“For you, querida?” My grin widened. “Crystal.”

There was more, but it was said with a look. Memories of a bloody battlefield, mud-stained bandages, and too many spells from the Etherwave rolled between us. She glanced at Lysander from the corner of her eye.

“That goes double for anyone with him.”

Never a fool, Lysander touched a hand to his forehead.

“Understood, Captain.”

With a last silent look to me, along with words we didn’t say out loud, she let go. It was completing a ritual we’d performed a dozen times before.

In the end, she was the captain of the Silk Duchess. I was just an alchemist. We both knew what we had to do.

Elara barked orders in rapid succession like a series of rifle shots on an icy day. Like always, her confidence alone painted a fresh coat of polished resolve on the crew.

At the same time, I ran to the port side with Lysander, ducking errant bits of cord and sail. Physical pain in my left shoulder gave way to a bright burn of worry. There wasn’t time to think, only to just keep moving.

Minutes passed like seconds. A half attempt at a broadside from the Rising Eel bounced off our hull. Our reply was better, cracking timber above her waterline.

Off to port, the old weathered barge was still moored to the Gate. Sure enough, at the center, sat the Codex resting on a cobbled together pedestal of former crates. But it wasn’t just sitting quietly.

That book breathed with a dark power.

Soot-stained symbols traced around those crates writhed in the sun. A light haze, like an angry shadow, paced around the book. It reminded me of a wild animal caged too long. Finally, whispering black smoke curled off the Codex pages, rich with dark promise.

Next to the barge, the Arcane Gate loomed impossibly large. Each glowing rune, compass mark, and other symbols that lined the massive arch looked carved by a crazed titan with a ragged chisel.

I felt it staring down at me expectantly, primal magic churning along its length. But mostly the Gate waited. Watching. Wary.

Lucas, having heaved even the faintest memory of a meal to the deck, stared hate at me. I gave back double. He was five yards, if that, from the Codex.

Elara’s sudden shout snapped the tension, shooting ice through my soul.

“They’re coming in!” she bellowed, yanking her glowing ghost blade free of its scabbard. “Prepare for boarders!”

Somehow, the Rising Eel was right there on us. Ropes with grappling hooks flooded the sky. Some missed, others hooked the Duchess, and a dire few hooked crewmates.

Captain Storm was the first across. Elara met him as soon as the pirate’s boots touched our deck, swords crossing in an ugly clash of steel. Lysander grabbed me on the shoulder, while Ari and Skaldi raced over to join my mad gambit.

“Now or never!” Lysander yelled.

The tattoos on my hand burst to life the instant I grabbed the rope to swing over to the barge.

“Yes, Doctor,” the mysterious voice whispered out of those flames. “It’s now or never…”

Over on the barge, Lucas shoved himself to his feet, stumbling for the Codex. Dark mist swirled around his hands.

I looked back at the Duchess, my friends, the crew, and finally Elara. Below me, the waves churned, boiling like a watery abyss of whitecap and salt spray.

With a resigned sigh, I stepped off the side into that quiet, empty space between heaven and hell.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Rest and recovery is never easy, but Pedro manages that back at his alchemy shop in Kingston. With a little help from Primrose Stewart he repairs his shop from the recent assault. At the same time, also works out a dubious plan to turn the tables on Captain Dryden Storm and the murderous Lucas Argall. That is, provided they take the bait…

Aug 8, 1722. Kingston, Jamaica. Following the bait, but feeling a little baited in return…

I had the potions ready in an hour. The trap was set in the warehouse after that.

Everything else was about spreading rumors concerning a working cure for the ‘petrify murder plague’. That dubious title that the broadsheets had recently settled on for Lucas Argall’s murder spree in Kingston.

Soon enough, word of the cure had spread along with Garvin Hall’s astounding recovery. It, and the boy, were the talk of Kingston. After that, all we needed to do was wait.

It was a lesson in patience across four tense days, especially for me. I was done taking hits from Dryden Storm and Lucas Argall, and wanted to give some back.

But those four days gave us time to rest and bandage our wounds. We patched up who and what we could in that time, including the Silk Duchess. She wasn’t back to full fighting shape, but it was a near thing. It felt like all of us, including the Duchess, were itching for another run at Dryden Storm and Lucas Argall.

“Another quiet morning on watch,” I murmured, hands stuffed in a new brown long coat. “At least it’s quiet so far.”

“It’s too quiet and this morning weather isn’t helping,” Lysander replied.

In the distance, a hint of sunlight woke the horizon with a lover’s kiss, making the sea blush in reply. A sigh of gray-white early morning mist traveled over the water like a hushed promise, rolling in over Kingston’s outer bay.

I watched the tendrils of that cool morning mist dance along the waves, wrapping its ghostly arms around ships at anchor. It covered them with a soft embrace, like the fond memory of a blanket. Nearby, the steady roll of the dark sea sent waves lapping against both damp shore and empty, wet wooden docks. The air tasted salty with the tang of rotten kelp scattered along the water’s edge.

Our warehouse with the potions sat at the far eastern end of Harbor Street where it crossed Lower East Street. Oddly enough, it was close to where Lucas had been killing people. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Lysander fidgeted in the doorway of an abandoned livery stable next to me, giving it a dubious look. Brown paint flaked off old wood, split and cracked from both sun and salty air. Mildew played freely inside, fed by long rotting hay, apples, and forgotten dried manure shoveled into a corner. Feeble, yellow-white light from a nearby street lantern caught the thin sheen of nervous perspiration on his dark, olive-tan complexion.

“Pedro, are you sure we couldn’t just be inside the old livery? Maybe up in the loft?”

I raised an eyebrow at him before I glanced through the half-open door next to us. Thieves had broken off the rusted lock some time ago and the owner never replaced it. I shook my head, turning back to watch the warehouse across the road.

“As sure as yesterday, but go ahead. That ladder looked a bit rotten, but you’ll probably make it up there fine.” I gently raised my left arm a little, still in its sling. “There’s no way I’d manage it with this.”

Lysander gave the moldy, dark ladder a longing look. But eventually, he let out a resigned sigh and remained where he was.

“How are you healing, by the way?” he asked. “Getting stabbed in the shoulder twice by a cutlass isn’t a small thing. Most lose the arm.”

I shrugged with my good shoulder.

“It was close. Storm nearly ran me through on that second thrust. But Elara and I had healing potions. It took all I had with me to get the bleeding under control and repair the cut to something manageable. I’ve a few stitches still there, and an elixir I took for infection the next morning helped keep that problem at bay.”

A sigh tumbled out of me as I gently rubbed at my left shoulder. The stitches itched, ever so slightly.

“Lucky I’m right handed, so I can fight with a sword if I have to,” I admitted ruefully. “But it’s still awkward. Then there’s the pain. Healing potions never really dull that, even after the wound’s healed and the stitches are gone.”

I leaned against the stained, tan wooden crates, eyes searching the silent, dark warehouse across the road from us.

“They’ll come for it today,“ I murmured.

“You sure?” Lysander asked.

I nodded toward a nearby dock, still draped in deep black and gray morning shadows. A longboat with five sailors hunched over the oars, silently slipped through the water. Wet oars glimmered in the half-light, rich with malicious promise. Those sailors were silent, but I could just make out the shape of flintlock pistols and swords.

“Positive,” I whispered. Carefully, I waved a hand to Ari and Durner, hidden on the other side of the warehouse. After that, I moved deeper into the shadows with Lysander.

The longboat bumped lightly against the dock, before four of the sailors in dark clothes eased out. They raced along the wet planks through the light fog for our warehouse. I glanced at Lysander, who raised his eyebrows with a smirk.

“This just might be them,” he hissed.

It was.

The pirates were in and out in minutes, loaded down with two boxes of what I hoped was the fake cure. We had stored other cargo around them, just to sell the ruse.

Once back in the longboat, the pirates rowed for the bay. Lysander and I eased out of the livery, slipping across to meet with Ari and Durner.

“Did you hear anything?” I quickly asked. “We were too far back from the warehouse.”

Durner nodded, but he didn’t look happy. Which was, honestly, practically normal for him, but this time here was a harder edge to his burning copper eyes.

“We did,” he replied in his usual craggy voice. “They were mostly cursing the new lock. But one was downright scared over getting skinned alive by Cap’n Storm. Seems they needed to be back within a few hours for the ritual.”

Lysander looked alarmed.

“Ritual? They can’t be thinking of putting another town to the torch.”

“No idea,” Ari replied sternly, fluttering her dragonfly wings irritably. “But whatever is happening, they’re doing it today, in a few hours.”

“It could be that ritual needs to be done at a certain time,” I mused. “Probably has to do with the Codex. Why at a certain time, escapes me.”

Something about that idea stuck in the back of my mind. It was like a splinter worrying the end of my finger. Scowling, I let my thoughts churn on that while I waved to the others.

“In any case, they have the boxes. Let’s get back to the Duchess so we can follow.”

We hurried up Lower East Street, then along Harbor to keep from being seen. After that, we ran to a waiting longboat from the Silk Duchess several docks away. Once away from the shore, we tried to keep pace with the pirates, but not draw attention to ourselves. We were partway back to the Duchess when my thoughts settled on a likely conclusion.

“Whatever ritual Lucas has cooked can’t be close to Kingston,” I explained. “It would be aboard the Rising Eel at the least, and we’ve not seen her at anchor in the bay.”

“That being the case, that lot won’t row out to sea,” Durner rumbled. “I mean they could, but if they’re expected back at a certain time, rowing a longboat won’t do. They’ll need something faster.”

My thoughts were sprinting faster than I could catch them in words.

“That means there’s a small ship waiting.” I frowned, squinting into the fog. “Something quick and small to get them to the Eel. Lysander, is Elara’s tracing dust still on those boxes?”

The navigator closed his eyes, humming a soft tune under his breath while he traced a circle on the palm of his right hand. A soft blue light flowed into the flat drawing of a compass like a tattoo. Lysander opened his eyes, holding up his hand. The compass spun, then went still, pointing a glowing blue arrowhead toward the pirates.

“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “I feel the pull.”

Since I couldn’t row because of my shoulder, I looked to starboard. Past the dark water, through the thinning fog, stretched the brown, bleak, sandy shoreline east of Kingston. It was mostly undeveloped land and scrub trees, save for the local hospital and a few houses close to the water.

“Are they just headed down the shoreline?” Ari asked while rowing.

All of that land was owned by one Robert Dukinfield. A member of the Jamaican Assembly and former slave owner nearly lynched when magic returned like a tidal wave in 1712. He was also an arrogant British scoundrel.

Dukinfield and I weren’t on the best of terms. But I knew him well enough that he’d never tolerate ‘filthy magic’ on his lands. Especially since he regularly sent armed hunters to make sure that ‘filthy magic’ didn’t happen.

Wavebinders had learned to avoid the place if they wanted to keep their skin intact.

“No. That’s Señor Robert Dukinfield’s land,” I muttered harshly. “He’d never let a ritual go on there, no matter who was creating it.” My voice turned bitter. “He has a deep grudge against any sort of wavebinder.”

I left off the part where he hated alchemists, too. But we alchemists were a ‘necessary evil’ in his eyes.

“Then where the hells are they headed?” Durner growled.

We had our answer by the time we reached the Silk Duchess.

Out of sight of Kingston bay, I spotted a black-sailed sloop anchored past a small thumb of land to the far east of Kingston. Smaller than the Duchess, she was a sleek, trim craft with only one mast. Also, sloops were agile and fast, especially near coastlines.

By the time I painfully climbed aboard the Silk Duchess, the pirates had already moved their stolen cargo and set sail.

“Lysander!” I called out over the scramble of the crew around us, then pointed out the sloop.

He joined me at the bow, squinting at the black-sailed ship.

“That’ll do it. Sloop’s are fast. If Captain Storm isn’t much farther out than Port Royal, they’ll get there quick enough. Easily before us.”

He shrugged.

“On time? Can’t say. It depends on how fast they were told to get back. Now, if that sloop has a portal platform?”

He shot me a worried look from the corner of his eye, pursing his lips.

“An Arcane Gate would be enough power to get them there in a blink.”

That stirred an idea in my head I’d been trying to pin down for days. Icy fear prickled at my nerves.

Power. Raw, primal power.

Suddenly, I had a very nasty idea of where the ritual was being held. What exact insane thing Lucas was about to try this time. The tattoos on my right hand flared for a brief second in response.

Across the water, a faint glimmer of golden light formed into a round ball on the deck of the sloop. I thought I could feel the light crackle of arcane power drawn down from the Etherwave Arcana across my skin.

“They’re opening an Arcane Gate,” Lysander snapped.

“That’s it!” I ran for my cabin in the stern.

The Codex page in my satchel might have the calculations I needed to confirm this horrible theory. Aches rattled through my joints, especially my shoulder. I hissed from the nagging pain, but ignored it. There was worse about to happen.

“What is?” Lysander called out. “Pedro!”

I stopped partway across the deck and fixed Lysander with a haunted look.

“How Lucas is going to get the power for this insane ritual of his. What he’s going to break down to get it,” I said with a scowl. “It’s a wild guess, but damn if it doesn’t feel horribly right.”

I gestured to the sloop and the first stirrings of an Arcane Gate appearing near the small pirate ship. Already, she’d started to come about for their temporary Gate.

“He’s planning to somehow wreck the natural Arcane Gate off Port Royal to steal its power. Maybe even shatter it to pieces so he can rip away the veil between life and death.”

Lysander scrubbed his hands over his face.

“Pedro, if he does that,” he shook his head, “God, if he does that to a Gate… I’m not sure what would happen. Those pirates could be burned to pieces, but the Gate could also erupt.”

“Yes,” I snapped, words clawing at my throat. “It also means he might turn loose every nightmare from free roaming ghosts, specters to the drowned dead. Maybe even worse to devour the living. I’m not sure how we’d stop them.”

My frown deepened as I shook my head.

“We need to get to Port Royal’s Arcane Gate.”

I spun to face Elara at the helm. Her frown said she’d heard the entire conversation.

“Captain…”

“I heard,” she replied, cutting me off.

In my mind’s eye, I saw legions of the damned crawling out the sea. Undead horrors painting Kingston in sheets of blood.

Elara punched the railing with a fist, then took a breath, eyes blazing.

“Lysander! Open a Gate!”

She punched the railing again. The Duchess seemed to creak back with eager anticipation.

“Durner! Call to quarters! I want those cannons manned and ready! I’m done with subtle. Let’s send a monster to hell.”

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Cannons ripped the sky as the Rising Eel took aim at the Silk Duchess. Worn, battered, but defiant, Pedro, Elara, Lysander and crew pulled together. Not just to give Captain Storm and the Rising Eel a hard black eye, but to forge a narrow escape for Kingston. An escape to buy themselves time to regroup, rest, and plan their next moves…

Aug 4, 1722. Brewed Gambit Alchemy Shop, Kingston, Jamaica. Brewing up plans and skullduggery…

I wasn’t laughing two days later as I started brewing for the day.

“Even my aches have aches,” I murmured. “If any of them would just stay in one place twice in a row, I’d attack them with liniment.”

They didn’t, so I didn’t. Instead, I rolled up my sleeves, brushed off my rumpled vest, then focused on the work and what needed to be done.

Bright morning sunlight filtered through yellow stained windows. Occasional dust motes danced with steam while light spread from wall to brown weathered wall. My dark wood and gray tile worktable, once clear, was thick with papers, my journal, inkwell, and a wide collection of ingredients.

White-tan spindly roots, bright petals, metal shavings and more stood guard in jars. Light floral scents mingled with earthy notes of cinnamon, dirt, and more dubious dried ingredients. Some even originated from a graveyard.

“This has to be it,” I murmured, rewriting previous measurements in my journal. “The color and consistency look right, and even the stain experiments agree.”

I rubbed tired eyes, then studied the boiling pots and alchemy still in my fireplace.

Memories of cannon fire echoed in my mind, along with Lucas’ snide speech back in Westmere. I stood my mental ground, running calculations again to reproduce parts of Lucas’ necrotic potion. At least the parts I needed, and not poison myself in the process.

So far, I’d not been attacked by these potions yet, or at least, not today. Fortunately, Elara had made sure I wasn’t alone while I worked. I also suspected some ulterior motives, such as making sure I didn’t run off and do something rash. Well, do something rash again, anyway.

A blue-trimmed white cup filled with steaming tea appeared in a soft clatter by my elbow on the worktable. Next to it was a white porcelain plate with a warm buttered biscuit. Scents of soothing lemongrass drifted lazily from the cup.

“I have a tea serving set?” I asked, with an astonished expression at both the teacup and plate.

“Yes,” Primrose Stewart replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “In that disheveled pantry where you hid them.”

Today, the young woman’s hair was pulled up into the same no-nonsense chestnut bun she wore while working in Joshua Argall’s bookshop. She wore a white cotton apron over her soft, spring-green dress. The apron was already stained by the odd potion ingredient.

“Now, drink up, and eat your biscuit, Doctor.” She stepped back, then shot me a sharp look, shaking a finger at me. “Also! Drink that graveyard syrup medicine of yours. Captain’s orders.”

“Of course, Señorita. Thank you,” I replied with a thin smile.

With a nod, Primrose dusted her hands on the apron, then hurried away. I just knew she was about to attack some cluttered section of my shop until it surrendered.

“It’s like watching a typhoon of organization blow through,” I murmured.

After another sip of tea, I glanced at the bubbling pots and hot copper alchemy still in the fireplace. Scents of stale lime, abused lavender, and something that wanted to be cinnamon and pine hovered in the air.

“Good enough,” I decided, pulling over a tan cotton stretch of cloth. “Time for a stain test.”

I heard Primrose return before I saw her, boots clipping efficiently across the wooden plank floors. This time, she was armed with a leather-bound ledger, long feather duster, and a face of proper iron nerve. Never in my life had I met anyone who wielded ledgers with such military precision.

Quickly, I took a wide-eyed sip of tea to bolster my resolve.

“You missed a dose,” she said firmly.

The ledger landed on the worktable with a thump. She flipped through the dated entries before tapping her finger on yesterday’s date. Then she fixed me in place with a narrowed frown.

“I just noticed a potion bottle missing from the drying rack, Doctor. You’re doing exactly what Captain Blackwater warned me you’d do,” she declared in a flat voice.

“Hm,” I said weakly in my defense. “What?”

She ignored me.

“Please tell me you’ve saved some of that new batch for yourself? That it isn’t just for your…” she wiggled a hand at the boiling pots “… experiment?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Cure and Bait, Señorita.” A sigh fell out of me to the floor. “A stable cure for Garvin Hall, and bait for a very bad man.”

Her expression didn’t waver one inch, so I gave in first.

“Señorita…” I began, trying not to roll my eyes or let aches and fatigue talk for me.

“Primrose is fine,” she replied evenly.

“Yes, Primrose,” I corrected. “I promise I’ve saved some for me. That’s what is in the smaller pot tucked next to the still. I didn’t take yesterday’s dose because I was distracted over getting the measurements correct for young Garvin.” Then I shrugged with my best, innocent smile. “We doctors make horrible patients.”

She slowly raised an eyebrow at me without a word. So, I reached over to a nearby shelf that hadn’t been invaded in the name of organization, and grabbed yesterday’s glass bottle of graveyard syrup. I pulled the cork, downing the green elixir in one drink.

After a customary grimace over the flavor of despair and toad sweat, I corked the bottle. Primrose scooped it up the instant I set it down. After that, she marked the date and time in the ledger.

“I’ll scrub that and put it with the others to dry,” she replied briskly.

I shook my head, glancing around my shop.

Despite my complaints, it looked better. My shop was the most presentable it had been in, well, for at least a year.

“Primrose? If I may? I know Elara… Captain Blackwater… arranged for you to be here, making sure I didn’t get up to mischief.”

She dusted her hands on her apron again, then inclined her head.

“Yes, true. Why?”

I raised my eyebrows as I leaned against a nearby chair.

“Even you must admit, your current employer has been a bit… dubious… in his business arrangements?” I replied carefully. “Such as his brother murdering people, the shop attack and all? So, I was wondering, what would you say to giving your notice to Joshua Argall, then take up full-time employment here? Work as my assistant?”

For a second she stiffened, then faltered.

“I…” Primrose glanced down and made a valiant pretense to check her notes. “Well, that is…”

“A proper position,” I repeated. “Employment. Not watching me like a hawk to make sure I don’t experiment on myself.”

I waved a hand at my alchemy shop.

“We can even do a trial run,” I offered with a smile, tilting my head slightly.

“You organize this shop better than I could, and haven’t turned up your nose at even the most dubious ingredients in the pantry. To be honest, you’re probably twice as capable as I am in keeping this place, and myself, from burning to a crisp.”

Primrose frowned, concern and concentration mixed across her face.

“Doctor, I’m not an alchemist,” she blurted out before losing her words.

I waved a hand at the objection.

“Primrose, you know what work I do as a privateer with Elara, Lysander, and the others. There are times I need to be away from here for days. If you were here, I wouldn’t have to close the shop. You could take orders, and I’d teach you how to make the more routine potions people ask for.”

The young lady was quiet for a long moment, staring at her ledger, before she replied.

“The bookshop isn’t safe,” she admitted softly. “Wasn’t entirely before, but then really wasn’t safe at all.”

Her brown eyes locked onto my hand, where the tattoos glimmered eerily.

“You’ve your own monsters here, Doctor, but I feel more confident about facing those, if they appear.”

Seconds crawled by until the air felt thick with anticipation. Finally, she thrust out a hand to me.

“You have a deal, Doctor. I’ll send notice to Mr. Argall, telling him I resign for safety reasons. He honestly didn’t need much of my help, anyway.” She cleared her throat while we shook hands. “But if this shop burns, I’m billing you for my ledgers.”

I laughed so hard my ribs hurt.

“Fair terms, Señorita. Welcome aboard.”

Primrose squinted suspiciously at the bubbling pots, then back to me.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

Her voice dropped a note, almost like admitting heresy.

“This plan of yours… this ‘bait’?” she shook her head. “It sounds like madness. What’s your real plan? If you lure Lucas Argall out with the potion, then what? Didn’t he nearly kill you before?”

I leaned over and brushed a hand over the boiling liquid, wafting the scents to me. The lime had mostly devoured the lavender, but the cinnamon was still lying in wait to hug the remains in an unholy embrace.

“Honestly? It’s a bit of a privateer’s gambit,” I admitted. “He desperately wanted me to help him with an addled scheme to ‘kill death’. If he murders me, I can’t help him. But I know he’s not above killing anyone else.”

I leaned back against the chair, giving the ceiling a pensive expression.

“So, we spread word about the cure for Garvin. Kingston’s city watch will keep the boy and his family safe, and really, I don’t want to bring that monster here. His pet pirates have caused enough problems.”

We both gave the last few piles of broken glass in the shop a perturbed glare. Primrose had swept those up, but not taken the remains to the nearby glassworks.

“Yes. I’ve noticed they tend to make trouble,” she said dryly.

I smirked.

“So, instead, we lure him to a different place,” I explained. “Yesterday, Elara offered me a warehouse she uses occasionally. The idea is to set the potion bait there, ready for the taking. Which I’m almost positive Lucas Argall will send Captain Storm and his crew to steal.”

Primrose narrowed her eyes. I could almost see her thoughts churning.

“That sounds risky,” she said uneasily, fiddling with her ledger. “You could lose his trail. Is there a way to follow these crates? Boxes?”

I nodded and crossed my arms.

“Yes, a few. Elara has some enchanted dust she uses that helps Lysander track cargo if it’s stolen. That will be on there,” I said. “More than that, we’ll have several eyes watching anything leaving that warehouse.”

Primrose nodded sagely.

“I see,” she admitted. “The pirates will have to use longboats, or barges, won’t they? They can’t use their actual ship, because people would notice and raise the alarm. But Captain Blackwater’s ship is anchored here at Kingston.”

“True! Despite the fact that the Silk Duchess needs repairs, we can still outpace a barge or longboat,” I replied with a grin before my expression faltered.

“But this isn’t foolproof. Lucas is trying to pull together a staggering amount of power for a ritual. It’s part of why he’s murdering people.”

I shook my head with a sigh.

“We’ll have to move quickly once the potions are stolen. I’m convinced Lucas’ condition is in the way of his ritual. He needs the cure, and we can’t let him take it, or complete the ritual. But the pirates will take the cure to where Lucas is, which I suspect is where this ritual needs to happen.”

“Why not use a fake potion?” Primrose asked wisely.

“It’ll be partially a fake,” I admitted. “Just enough of a cure that it might work for Lucas and pass inspection as enchanted.”

“Also, so long as he’s distracted with this ‘cure’,” I continued, “that will give us time to catch Captain Storm and the rest off guard.” I gave her a tired shrug. “Time enough to get at the Codex Luminari and destroy it once and for all. That Codex is the root of the problem. Rip that out, the rest should wither.”

“How?” she asked.

“I’m not positive yet,” I admitted, glancing at my potions in progress. “But I’ve an interesting idea…”

It was also a dangerous idea that I wasn’t too sure anyone would agree with. But first, we needed to set that trap.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

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Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Back aboard the Silk Duchess, Pedro gamble with an untried mix of medicines and mystical potions pays off. The young boy lives and Pedro unexpectedly discovers what may be what he’s been looking for… bait to lure out Captain Storm and Lucas Argall into a potential trap. But before that plan can be put into motion, the Duchess is ambushed by the last person they needed to face, the pirate Captain Dryden Storm and his ship, the Rising Eel…

Aug 2, 1722. Aboard the Silk Duchess, when hell came to call…

A short, faint whistle was the only warning I had that things had just turned ugly. I dove aside, careful of my sore left arm, and promptly knocked two of the Duchess’ crew to the deck.

The ship’s railing exploded behind me into a storm of charred splinters as a small cannonball tore through it like dry paper. Dust strangled the air, while charred bits of wood battered at us like a hellish hail.

Some skittered across the deck, others pelted the nearby crew, and the rest collided against my wool long coat. A litany of new bruises along my back complained at the abuse.

“Maldita sea,” I grumbled wearily under my breath, swallowing the pain.

Sadly, my coat gave its life for the three of us. The gray wool was ripped, and I could feel the heat from blackened holes. I yanked the ragged long coat off with a gasp as my shoulder flared hot with pain. Somehow, the sling around my left arm was still intact.

My coat wasn’t the only thing battered. Of the two sailors I’d knocked flat, one was pale and trembling with a bleeding welt across his tanned forehead from stray splinters. The other, a young thayan woman with copper-gold eyes and short black hair, scrambled upright and lunged for my shirt.

“Down, doctor!” she hissed. Her dragonfly-like wings snapped open in alarm while she yanked me to the deck. I didn’t argue.

We crashed onto the wet wood next to the still-stunned young human man with the curly brown hair. Another cannon shot split the air where my head had been a second before.

The iron ball smashed off part of a yardarm, cascading chunks of wood and shredded sailcloth onto the deck. A tangle of that wood and tarred line trapped a few of the unlucky crew on that side of the ship.

“Fucking hells!” the young man next to me wailed, hazel eyes round as saucers while he looked behind me.

I shook my head, ears ringing, pain from my shoulder dragging me down. But I still managed to look back in time to see stray bits of lightning. It danced off the shattered wood and metal bolts of the Silk Duchess in a race for open air.

“Mierda,” I swore, then punched the wooden deck.

Above us, Elara’s voice was like an avenging angel, cutting through the chaos as precise as a sharp razor.

“Hard to port!” she howled. “Gunners! Make ready! I want that ship sent to the nine hells! Where’s my Arcane Gate?”

Lysander hauled himself up the ladder from below decks. Quickly, he scrambled for the steps to the quarterdeck, and the bronze-colored metal platform bolted there.

“Coming, Captain!” he shouted as he ran. “Keep her on this course!”

“It’s the Rising Eel!” I called out to Elara. “Storm’s ship! She’s using a lightning cannon, Captain! Not standard shot!”

On the quarterdeck, Elara gave me a quick nod, her jade eyes flashing with concern.

“Do what you can!” she shouted back, her thayan dragonfly wings fanned out for balance near the helm. Setting her jaw, she fixed her eyes back to the Silk Duchess and her crew.

Sucking in a painful breath of air, I crawled over to the soot-stained young man. Quickly, I yanked out a handkerchief, then pressed it to the sailor’s bloody forehead.

“Press here,” I said, drinking down acrid air while I guided the young man’s trembling hand to the head wound.

He nodded, then promptly vomited onto the deck. I waved two of the nearest crew over.

“Get him below! I’ll see to him when I can,” I ordered.

Then I turned on the thayan sailor next to me. Dressed in plain, soot-covered clothes, the worst she’d suffered was a line of bruises along her right arm. Ari Fairhill, if I remembered her name right. She’d signed up only a month ago.

“Señorita! Go to my cabin. The one with the gargoyle,” I told her. “There’s a small leather case there. Bring it to me. Don’t drop a single bottle!”

Ari nodded, racing off. I stood, ducked a flailing length of halyard, then turned for the port side cannons. I barely managed a few steps before I almost collided with Durner, who acted as the Master Gunner aboard the Duchess.

“Sling’s loose, Pedro,” he grunted, nodding at my healing shoulder. I reached over and tugged the knot tighter, using my free hand and teeth.

We flinched as another shot tore over us. The mizzen mast rattled from the near miss.

Ari raced back with my dark leather pouch. I flipped open the lid and three vials inside it glowed a gleeful orange-red, promising rich violence in my name.

Durner shot me a quizzical look with a raised eyebrow.

“Lysander needs time to drag open a Gate,” I growled through pain-clenched teeth. “We need to hit the Eel now. Give her something to think about!”

The grimling’s rust-red beard split into a toothy, savage grin that flashed into his copper eyes. He jerked his chin to the nearest cannon, and the head-sized iron balls stacked next to it like fruit.

“We owe them a punch in the nose for Westmere,“ he rumbled in his craggy voice. “Give them bastards something they’ll remember!”

I hurried to the cannon and its small crew. A young bunch, younger than me by a good six years, were scared, but determined to do their duty. They looked up, startled, as I hurried toward them.

“Wait!” I ordered as they reached for the first iron ball.

Healing shoulder numb from terror and abused by motion, I leaned against the cannon for support. Fortunately, they hadn’t fired it yet. I flipped open the leather pouch once more. Orange-red potions greeted me with their gleeful, malicious glow.

“I call it ‘Heartsfire’,” I explained quickly, pulling out the vials one at a time.

The glowing liquid hissed like angry fire snakes, eager to burn the world. I smeared the potion over the first four balls. As soon as liquid touched iron, the metal shivered in eager anticipation, then turned reddish-black, like Hell’s own fist.

I nodded to the gun crew.

“Now,” I said and pointed at the Eel. “Aim for that spot with the lightning. It’s a lightning cannon.”

The young crew worked with smooth precision. Durner’s relentless practice drills showing through in the crew’s clockwork-like motions.

“Mr. Terrason!” Elara yelled. “Get that ship out of my sea!”

“Aye!” Durner roared like an avalanche. “You heard the captain! Make ready!”

The Rising Eel was nimble, but she wasn’t a schooner. Neither was she rigged for tight, fast turns like the Duchess. We turned hard, port side cannons loaded briskly.

“Aim!”

Across the waves, crew scrambled over the Eel like angry ants on an anthill. They tried to turn, desperate to match us, bringing their guns to bear. But they just couldn’t catch enough wind. Two cannons on the Eel belched smoke, stabbing the air with fire.

Shots blasted across our quarterdeck. Railing blew out in all directions and the ship’s pilot, Angus MacFerson, was thrown from the helm. Bleeding and battered, he struggled to rise. The ship’s wheel was still intact.

Elara lunged for the helm, gripping the wheel in both hands like she might strangle Hell itself.

“For Westmere! Fire!” she yelled in a war cry, her jade eyes blazing.

The orders echoed along the line, and cannons tore the sky. I kept my eye on one in particular. That cannon’s shot roared out, red and eager for blood. Exhausted, bloody, I drew in a deep breath, then quietly sang my shanty as I extended my good, shaking, right hand toward that cannon shot.

“I’m a privateer of the sea, of the waves and wind…”

Instantly, the power of the Etherwave Arcana rushed through me, then out to the potion-covered cannonball. What once was red, turned searing white with a comet’s tail.

The now charged shot streaked over, slamming into the Rising Eel like a hammer of heaven. Storm’s ship listed sideways, rearing up like a wild horse, desperate to buck her crew into the sea. White flames belched skyward on impact, eliminating the lightning cannon and two others, along with their gunners.

Those same white flames then chewed on the pirate’s sails and rigging. I watched while her crew worked like mad to put out the enchanted flames.

I turned away, stumbling for the quarterdeck to see after Angus while wiping blood from my nose.

“There’s your time, Lysander,” I murmured, running at my best exhausted, fast limp. “Open the Gate.” The last came out like a prayer.

Once I hauled myself up the ladder, I ran through sheer willpower, then dropped next to Angus. The black-haired Scotsman was bleeding out a dozen cuts from shattered wood, but luck and heaven had saved him from worse.

Meanwhile, to my right, on the brass-bronze platform covered in nautical arcane symbols, Lysander had started his work.

Etherwave energy rippled up from the round metal dais, surrounding him in a golden wire globe of magical light. Yellow clouds shaped like landmasses and more drifted over its surface.

Inside the globe, Lysander reached for the nearest golden cloud and stretched it out. The surrounding view changed to show the Silk Duchess, the Rising Eel, and the island of Jamaica.

Lysander then thrust both hands into the glowing clouds, pulling out a man-sized arch. A mystical Arcane Gate. Outside the ship, just a little off port, storm clouds boiled to life as the real thing suddenly appeared.

A ribbed arch of thunder and livid light appeared in a crackling haze. It was as if a finger from heaven reached down to scribble an arch made of storm light and enchanted marble pulled out of the water. It rose 400 feet or more, taller than any terror of the sea, higher than St. Paul’s Cathedral. The arch towered over everything like an enchanted mountain.

The surrounding air seethed, resentful at the intrusion. It was a slice of sky, both vivid and wrong. The thing looked impossible, but was still so very real, dripping with power. Rain fell upward, distorting the Gate’s boundary.

On the dais, inside that golden globe of light, Lysander’s face was sweat-slick. He shoved a hand against the magical image of the gate, tapping strange runes and compass markings along its face. After that, he leaned in to grab a pair of glowing doors, pulling them open with his very being, arms shaking.

I could almost hear the creak of wood as the magic resisted. But Lysander bent it to his will, muscles tight.

“Hold the heading,” he shouted. “If we even shear the mast, we’re all dead!”

Elara clutched the wheel so hard, her knuckles turned white, staring down the Gate like facing a demon.

“I have it!” she yelled back. “Get it open! We need to Gate-jump!”

The Eel fired again, wild with fury to catch its prey. One shot hit us, two missed. The Duchess lurched from the blow, but still tore forward, battered but not beaten. Determined to be free.

I focused on Angus, ripping strips of cloth from my shirt as makeshift bandages. Then I pulled out an emergency healing potion from my leather bag. He drank, and a healthy color painfully returned as the enchantment did its work.

Then, I felt a charge brush over me like a heavy veil. A pulse in the air like a celestial heartbeat. I looked up in time to see the peaceful, storm-free waters off Kingston ahead of us. It was a sharp contrast to the gray thunderstorm and boiling sea.

Our bow touched the shimmering, watery image of Kingston at the center of the Arcane Gate. The world suddenly stretched into a blur of light and sound.

Then we were through.

On the dais, Lysander shoved the glowing doors closed. Magic fought back, crackling with resistance. The navigator pushed harder, jaw set. Slowly, the magic gave way to muscle and will.

Behind us, the view of the Rising Eel and storm-tossed waters squeezed shut. Then the watery portrait vanished in a blast of pure, white light when the Arcane Gate closed behind us.

I never saw what came next. Exhausted beyond my limit, I collapsed onto the deck. Crew shouted and ran around me, but I just lay still and breathed in the warm, salty air. Somewhere in the distance, I heard sea birds complain irritably at our intrusion.

We made it through.

By God’s grace and a navigator’s skill, we had made it through.

Slowly, a light drizzle of rain fell while I heard the rumble of the Arcane Gate returning to the sea. The tiny drops were a tranquil kiss of Nature herself, promising us peace. At least, peace, for now.

As for me? I just closed my eyes and laughed out loud in relief.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: After confronting Lucas Argall, Pedro and the others survive to reach the Silk Duchess. But while they escaped Lucas and Captain Storm, the wood wraith’s effect is still felt. A survivor is dying of a strange infection, one that petrifies him. Pedro works quickly, using a desperate gamble on a hasty mixture of three wildly different potions to save a young man’s life. An act that may have far reaching consequences…

Aug 2, 1722. Aboard the Silk Duchess, forward cargo hold. Absolutely dancing around death…

The soft crackle of abused wood faded to nothing as Garvin’s arm slowly stopped turning into ragged driftwood. A tiny sprig pushed its way out just above the boy’s wound. Carefully, I pulled out my folding knife, then turned over one of the oval green leaves.

“Alive and healthy,” I murmured. A confused ramble of theories suddenly rolled around in my head. Nothing I could easily repeat out loud.

It was a perfectly healthy little plant. No gray spot of decay, or even a hint of greasy black tendrils reaching for my knife. That it had grown out of the boy’s arm was unsettling, but nothing about this was normal. I let out the breath I’d been holding that entire time while I put away my folding knife.

To be honest, I was as shocked as anyone down in the cargo hold that it worked. I really thought for a moment that I might’ve accidentally found a new and unspeakable way to poison someone. Alchemists are mentored by assassins in our first year of apprenticeship, after all.

“Señor? Señora? We’ll need to watch Garvin’s wound for a few days. Just to make sure this infection isn’t spreading,” I told Garvin’s parents, swallowing the last of my nerves about the potion. “But, so far, I think this mixture may have done the trick. I’ll brew up another batch. He’ll probably need to drink some once a day. Try to keep his arm dry.”

Hugs and tears came in waves after that, with both parents almost too overjoyed to string words together. The air smelled of old salt, damp canvas, and best of all, relief.

This was fine by me, as exhaustion had slipped up to ambush me when I wasn’t looking. I fought down a yawn that rattled my bandaged shoulder, then got to my feet and left the forward hold.

Lysander caught up to me before I was even ten paces away.

“Pedro? Was that your last… what do you call it?” he asked.

“That green potion? Graveyard syrup,” I replied, rubbing my eyes. “Yes, it was the last dose I had on me.”

The Silk Duchess rocked and bobbed through the waves, cutting her way forward. Her planks flexed and groaned while she sailed, wooden bones creaking, irritated over the storm.

I couldn’t hear the hammer of rain against the wooden deck overhead, so I trusted the storm hadn’t returned. We dodged and sidestepped crew, hammocks, or both while we worked our way to the stern.

“How long will it take to make another mix of that potion for the boy?” Lysander asked. “From what you said, it sounded like he’d need a daily dose.”

“An hour, maybe two. The graveyard syrup alone isn’t easy to make,” I explained, then shook my head. “But it’s all a guess. I’m treating it like an infection, as if Garvin got too close to Lucas Argall and got clawed for it. I just wish I knew why it infects some victims quickly, and others, like Garvin, slowly.”

“Maybe it’s the wound?” Lysander offered. “A shallow wound means it takes more time for whatever this is to take hold?”

That idea stirred up plenty of thoughts. Some of them were actually good. Well, mostly good. I squinted at Lysander.

“You may have something there. If that’s true, then this is more like a venom or a poison.” Tired or not, I managed a little smirk. “I know how to work with those.”

We stepped aside as far as the crowded space below decks allowed to let four crew members move past us for their hammocks. They had just come down from above, dripping with rain and exhaustion.

Crew space, or space of any kind, was a premium aboard ship. Calling it crowded was an understatement. Most of the crew lived below decks with a hammock or nook fixed to the hull, not unlike a pantry shelf for people.

“One of those ingredients was that necrotic nightmare from the warehouse,” I explained, while we continued. “I’ve an idea how Lucas made that, but I’m not entirely sure. So, I’ll need to experiment a little. Hopefully, I won’t poison myself.”

There was also the part where necrotic elixirs could corrupt the maker. Turning them into twisted depths of evil and all of that. I left that part out. It just didn’t feel like the right time to bring it up.

“Will it be enough to last the trip back to Kingston?” he asked.

I couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, I stayed fixed on the narrow path through the Duchess. What I didn’t say was that I barely had enough ingredients to make more graveyard syrup for one person, let alone two.

“Just enough if you open an Arcane Gate for us to outside Kingston. Outside the harbor,” I said over my shoulder as I grabbed the ladder to the deck above.

“Though, I might can make it stretch if we have to sail back the long way.” An almost inaudible sigh spilled out of me. “Either way, once back, I’ll get what I need from my shop to make a large batch for the boy.”

Lysander must’ve caught the part I didn’t say, since his eyebrows bunched in a hard scowl across his dark, olive-skinned face.

“What about for you?” he asked solemnly, eyes stern.

“I’ll manage,” I replied, then started up the ladder.

Lysander grabbed my shoulder before I took a step.

“Like hell you will,” he snapped. “I know what that means coming from you. Have you taken any of that green syrup today to stave off the killing curse?”

I didn’t answer for a good four seconds, jaw tight. This wasn’t a conversation I needed to have right then. To be honest, I wasn’t sure any conversation about that topic was a good idea at all.

“No,” I replied, voice a little harder than I intended. “The boy needs it more.”

Lysander’s grip tightened when I tried to climb the ladder.

“Pedro! You’re not stalking your way out of this one,” he said. “Elara said you were struggling over drinking the cure.”

“It isn’t a cure, and this isn’t the time, Lysander,” I shouted.

“Oh yes, it is!”

I spun around to scowl at him, and he matched me glare for glare. Anger bubbled up inside me like a bitter fountain of bile.

“The boy might have died!”

“He didn’t!” Lysander yelled back. “But if you die, then who can mix the medicine the boy needs? Damn it, Pedro. It’s like you’re trying to kill yourself. You could make a new batch of that potion, and then what? What if he needs more and you die from that curse?”

I started to turn away, jaw set, but Lysander pulled me back around.

“Use your head,” he continued sharply. “Treat yourself first, then the boy. What’s gotten into you?”

A dozen thoughts crowded my head, each one competing for attention. I pinched the bridge of my nose, then took a long breath. The scent of stale sweat, canvas, and other ship smells I didn’t want to identify helped me sort my words out.

Deep inside, my anger burned so hot, I thought the Duchess might catch fire. But in truth, I wasn’t angry at Lysander. I was angry at me.

Everything inside me wanted to rant at him that I felt responsible. That when we first got the warrant for the job, I didn’t research the Codex enough, as if I even could, to know that it was this dangerous. That every death so far was somehow my fault through all this.

But I didn’t say any of that. Mostly because I knew that it wasn’t entirely true, even if I wanted to take the blame.

“Mierda,” I swore bitterly before I glanced away a moment.

“I’m a doctor,” I said. “An alchemist. I try to save lives.” My words had dipped down into a light growl. “But right now? I’m doing a terrible job of that. Lucas and his pet pirate are cutting a bloody swath through people like a scythe cutting through stalks of innocent wheat.”

Lysander squeezed my shoulder, mouth pulled into a complicated line.

“Just remember that when you try to save lives, you’re included on that list, my friend,” he said in a low voice.

I nodded, then drew in a shuddering breath. It had been a really long day.

“Those bastards still stay a step ahead of us,” I explained, or maybe complained. “We need bait. Good bait. Something to lure them out. Not money, but something they don’t have.”

“Like a cure? At least something they think is one?” Lysander raised an eyebrow at me as a slightly devious smirk blossomed over his face.

There are times I miss the obvious. It happens. Then there are times the obvious is dancing in front of me wearing colorful silk veils, slapping me with a wet rag. This felt like the latter.

I scrubbed a hand down my face.

“Now I know I’m exhausted,” I murmured, rolling my eyes skyward. “Yes, like a cure. Just like that damn elixir I threw together.”

Lysander patted me on the back with a grin.

“Go get some rest, Pedro,” he said. “Then brew up enough for you and Garvin. We’ll figure out the rest later. I’ll get to work on opening that Arcane Gate.”

I nodded, then started up the ladder.

Once on deck, things got far more interesting than potions, or me being too exhausted to have functional common sense.

“Ship inbound! No flag!” shouted a lookout.

Uneasy conversation rolled through the crew like a wave. No flag often meant only one thing… pirates. I only knew of one pirate that was close enough to be a problem.

Captain Dryden Storm.

That’s when I heard the roar of a cannon as it fired in the distance.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Caught between fire and undead fury, Pedro confronts Lucas Argall at last. The wavebinder, now wood wraith, suggests a hellish deal: where Pedro would join forces with Lucas to free the cursed spirit in the Codex, then rip away Death itself. An act that might turn loose unimagined undead horrors in the process. Pedro refuses as his allies come to his aid, but like with every decision, every action, it can come with a cost…

Aug 2, 1722. Off the coast of Jamaica, and the dead village of Westmere, aboard the Silk Duchess. Facing down angry storms and death…

It was hard to say which hurt worse, the running fight for freedom through Westmere, or the people we lost along the way.

I stumbled away from the last longboat from the village, then slumped against the damp railing. The Silk Duchess leaped among the waves, riding them with a desperate precision. All around us, rain fell in sheets driven sideways by the wind, slapping anyone still on deck.

Both the storm and overexertion aggravated my shoulder wound. Needles of hot pain stabbed along my back, which was almost a distraction from the light headache. Deck crews rushed by in their canvas waxcloth coats to secure longboat and rigging. Others helped the Duchess fight back against the storm. The ship’s wood frame creaked in anger, as if snarling at the weather.

Meanwhile, the sea grabbed for everyone with watery claws. Waves crashed against the schooner, spilling over the railing to kiss the stained deck planks with each greedy attempt. It was like the sea herself churned, eager to drown anyone nearby as the price for passage.

“That’s the last from Westmere, Cap’n!” Durner’s craggy voice boomed to my right, cutting through the thunderstorm.

“Understood!” Elara barked over the wind, boots planted, back straight against the driving rain. “Secure that longboat! We don’t need it thrashing the Duchess!”

I started to help, but Durner stopped me quick. He pointed at my shoulder with a stern look, then shook his head. With a resigned nod, I resumed my perch against the railing. Below decks would have been safer, but my tiny cabin felt miles away, even though it was a few feet.

Elara stalked the deck midships close to me, wings fluttering with anxiety. The deck crew scurried around her in a hive of frantic activity while she scowled at the rolling sea and churning thunderclouds with hard jade eyes. Quick as a wink, she scaled the ladder to the helm and took up position beside the ship’s pilot.

“Storm’s getting worse!” She yelled. “Get the last of the survivors below with the others! Move!”

The ship lurched drunkenly to port, and I latched onto the chestnut stained railing with an iron grip. Once the Duchess righted, I pushed off with a hard groan, then turned toward my cabin.

“Small victories,” I murmured, then wiped rain and other moisture from my face. “But still, how many of the villagers did we lose? How many of our own crew?”

My thoughts burned hot over the events of the past hour. Recent memories had become a haze of blood, fire and fury, wrapped in a ragged wool blanket of loss.

“This has to stop,” I said with a hard sigh. “If I could just find the next step Lucas and Storm are going to take, we could get ahead of them.”

My footsteps echoed dully against the damp wooden deck planks hammered by the rain. It was a marching drumbeat for my thoughts.

“That or bait.” I pulled my mouth into a tight line. “Bait. If I had the right bait, we could lure the wood wraith out. Lure both Storm and Lucas out.” I shook my head, bitter thoughts crowding me. “I don’t know nearly enough about dealing with a wood wraith.”

I turned to face Westmere over the water one last time, drawn by an uneasy feeling that the storm hadn’t swept everything out to sea.

Lightning ripped the clouds, covering the shoreline in a wash of bright white light. Three of the six Death Whispers stood together, a pace back from the rolling surf, mouths stretched wide in grotesque screams. Hasty funeral pyres dotted the landscape behind them.

Those we couldn’t bury, we tried to burn to keep them away from Lucas. Withering flames scattered damp orange light against the sun-bleached and peeling paint of blues, greens, and soft grays of the buildings.

As for the Death Whispers, we’d burned two of the others, and I suspected the one Durner tossed down the well was still there. Those three on the shore steamed as if the rain burned them like acid. Rotten pieces dribbled to the wet beach with a messy splat.

“Renwick mentioned that.” I narrowed my eyes. “Death Whispers can handle some water, but not a lot. It’s something to remember. At least they won’t walk under the ocean after us.”

I adjusted the soaked sling on my left arm until the sharp ache turned dull. Then I pushed through the driving rain and exhaustion for my cabin in the stern. I almost made it when someone grabbed my arm.

Instinctively, I reached for the last few vials at my belt, eyes wide, snarling. Lysander stepped back, hands up in a peaceful gesture.

“Pedro! Hold! It’s me!” he said sharply.

“Lysander… saints and devils…” Anything else I might say collapsed under the weight of a ragged sigh.

“I’m sorry, Pedro, but you’re needed,” he explained quickly. “It’s one of the survivors. A young man. He’s… Pedro, he’s dying. Slowly petrifying.”

“What? Where?” I replied with a ragged snarl. Anger instantly swapped places with exhaustion, throwing it overboard.

Lysander led me on a fast run through the rain, then down a hatch to the schooner’s narrow spaces below deck. We darted and dodged between crew, hammocks, and other spaces to the forward hold. It was one of the two places large enough to store anything, including drenched and battered survivors of a madman.

We came to a fast stop in a knot of villagers lit by battered lanterns. An older couple knelt down on makeshift bedding next to a young human man, really only a boy that wasn’t quite an adult. I wasn’t sure he was old enough to shave. His condition made me want to beat Lucas with a fireplace poker until the wood wraith was only haunted kindling.

I knelt down to check the boy’s health other than the obvious.

Thin and wiry, he had a healthy tan from his life under the Caribbean sun. Light brown hair was drenched with rain and possibly sweat. His clothes were ragged and torn, littered with signs he had gotten too close to something with claws. I suspected Lucas Argall, given the state of the boy’s arm. It had started to petrify into wood outward from a shallow claw mark just above his elbow.

“What’s your name?” I asked as gently as my abused throat allowed.

“Garvin,” the boy whimpered in a small, pained voice. “Garvin Hall, sir.”

I checked his eyes, then studied the wound. Panic screamed in my mind. What could I even do? Is there anything to do but make him comfortable in his last moments? I frowned and shoved those thoughts aside, diving into the work.

“It’s good to meet you, Garvin. I’m Doctor Pedro Sangre. An alchemist,” I replied.

“Doctor? I’m his mother, Felicity. Felicity Hall.” She was an older, matronly woman with gray shot through her light brown hair. “Is… is my boy going to be all right?” she asked in a trembling voice, moisture at the corner of her eyes. ”What’s wrong with him?”

The panic threatened to come back. I clenched my jaw, then shoved it away again. Before I could say a word, I felt a throb of reassuring heat from the tattoos on my hand. There wasn’t a whisper, just a feeling. Then, somehow, I felt the fatigue and exhaustion drain out of me, like water over stone. Gently, my head cleared, at least enough for this.

My eyes darted to Garvin’s mother, then at what I assumed was his father. I took a long breath, then let it out slow.

“Señora? Garvin’s been infected,” I explained carefully, leaving out so very much to not scare them. After a frown, I leaned down to study the wound and the petrification.

The skin wasn’t petrifying like I’d seen before. It wasn’t that fast, but it wasn’t slow either. This acted like an infection, a horrid venom, or fast acting gangrene. Healing potions could stop either, and if that failed, usually the limb was amputated. I decided on the first approach, even while my mind considered the second.

“Take this,” I said, pulling one of my deep crimson healing potions from a belt loop. “It’s a healing elixir.”

I put a hand behind the boy’s head, ignoring the pain in my hurt shoulder, then held the vial to his lips. He drank desperately. Immediately, I stared at the wound and the petrified skin.

It didn’t heal to normal skin, but the petrification did slow ever so slightly. Inside, I latched on to that thought. This could be cured, just not with healing elixirs. Those only delayed death, not prevented it.

“Delayed,” I murmured. “Quieted. Purified.”

I took off my tricorn hat, then ran a hand through my damp black hair. A desperate idea echoed in my mind like a deep toll of a bell. There wasn’t any logic behind it, just a guess. A strong guess based on observations.

“Señor? Señora?” I said quickly to Garvin’s parents. “This only slows the problem, not cure it. Still, I’ve an idea that could help. It’s risky and may not work. But I think it could be worth the risk.”

Felicity exchanged a fragile, wide-eyed look with her husband. Eyes damp, Garvin’s father nodded at me.

“Do what you think’s best, doctor.” His deep voice was thick with desperate emotion. “We’ve lost our home. Please help us not lose our only son.”

“So you both know, this could get worse,” I explained in a solemn voice, feeling a sadness haunt my eyes. “He could die faster. Petrify completely.” I glanced away a moment before I locked eyes with them both. “He could become… something else.”

Felicity put a hand on my arm in the sling.

“Doctor, please,” she said, eyes pleading.

Their look was a stab to my heart, but it put some needed steel into my spine. I made a mental note to carry a fireplace poker along for the next time we caught up with Lucas Argall. Then I pulled the potion of graveyard syrup, the bitter mix that kept my curse at bay, from my belt. It was my last vial until I had time to make more. Then I grabbed another healing potion.

“Lysander,” I said, voice hard as stone while I pulled the corks. “Go to my cabin and get for me whatever’s left of Lucas’ potion I found at the warehouse.”

The navigator recognized the vials in my hand, then pierced me with a hard look like I’d lost my mind.

“Pedro…”

Muffled thunder rolled around outside, like rocks rolling down a hill. I set my jaw, then shook my head.

“Damn it, Lysander, do it,” I ordered. “Go! We don’t have time to talk it out!”

Pain blossomed from my shoulder, but subsided when I adjusted my sling again. I lifted the vial of graveyard syrup in my other hand, eyes fixed on the cursed tattoos there. Lysander raced back in a moment later with only a little of Lucas Argall’s necrotic recovery potion in a small jar.

Tears streamed down Garvin’s cheeks. He whimpered as the petrification started up his arm again.

After a deep breath, I emptied the vials into the jar. My eyes were fixed on the tattoos across my right hand.

“Spirit, ghost, or other,” I whispered under my breath. “It’s time we meet in the middle.”

Then I cleared my throat and sang in a low voice.

“I’m a privateer of the sea, of the waves and wind…”

Green-white flames erupted up around my hand and engulfed the mixture in the jar. Abruptly, I felt the silent, golden power and presence of the Etherwave Arcana rush to my exhausted aid. I knew this might backfire, because all magic comes with a price. But, I had to try.

“Of course, Doctor,” a low voice whispered in my mind.

I swirled the mixed potions until they blended into an elixir the color of fresh-turned grave dirt. Then I put the edge of the jar to the boy’s lips. Silently, I offered a bargain of every ounce of my battered soul that this wouldn’t be his last drink on Earth.

Garvin drank. Thunder rolled again, and I held my breath with a small shudder.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: A shore party from the Silk Duchess puts ashore at the mysterious, and possibly doomed village of Westmere. Pedro is the first to jump onto shore and run into town, but finds a village of the dead. Worse, far more than one villager has been petrified. Many more have been murdered. Worst of all, they find Lucas Argall and Dryden Storm still in the village and that the whole thing may have been a trap…

Aug 2, 1722. Fishing village of Westmere. Facing a wooden devil and his devilish bargain…

Shouts and screams of the nearby fighting echoed through my soul, while Lucas Argall’s voice grated like a dull spoon dragged across a slate.

Never have I wanted to stab someone so badly in my entire life.

“No deals, Señor,” I growled, then turned away to free Durner from the enchanted ropes.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Doctor.”

It was the smug tone in Lucas’ voice that made me stop. He had something up his sleeve. I turned back to face him with a bitter glare. That smug tone was also spread over his face with a thin, superior smile.

I clenched my right hand and nearly shattered the glass vial I held. Ghostfire played over my fist and vial, bright and eager. Bottled frustration coiled inside me. Wounded shoulder or not, I stalked toward Lucas. Thunder rolled in the storm clouds overhead.

“Lunatic!” I snapped. “Stop this!”

“Ah ah,” Lucas chided, wagging a gloved finger at me.

Something about his manner made me hesitate. That or the fact I was about to charge at a wood wraith who, if the stories were true, could wither a victim with a touch. At least something like that.

Still, the shouts and yells of pain from far behind me almost made me not care and charge at Lucas anyway.

The wood wraith strolled a few steps closer, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Dire amusement twinkled in his burning coal eyes.

“I’ve worked far too hard to get you into this dead town, Doctor,” Lucas said with a casual, meaningless wave at Westmere. “So the last thing I want is to see some idiot with more sword than sense run you through. I should know, since I’ve a lot of those idiots at my disposal.”

Lucas nodded past the gray stone well toward the pitched battle over by the blue and gray houses near the beach.

“Besides, your Captain Blackwater seems to have things well in hand. Magnificent swordswoman and captain. She might even turn the tables on Storm and send him running.”

Lucas replaced his smirk for something a bit more feral. I fought down the urge to slam a fist across his nose. This wasn’t the time. Not yet.

“That is, if I don’t set my Death Whispers loose on her and your crew here ashore.”

I drew a long, slow breath. Whether it was to steady my nerves or my temper, I wasn’t sure. Lucas gestured past me, and I decided to glance that way over my wounded shoulder.

The six Death Whispers were clustered together outside the pitched battle between the pirates and my crewmates. It was like watching a pack of ragged undead dogs eager to run into a fight, desperate to tear everything to shreds. I could almost see them strain at an invisible leash.

“Mierda,” I swore under my breath between my clenched teeth.

Past the Death Whispers, Lysander and Elara had regrouped with the rest of the shore crew. They had retreated with the wounded into a nearby, two story blue-trimmed house, and barricaded themselves inside.

On one hand, if Storm and his pirates were distracted, my crew could make it to the longboats at the beach and escape. But the pirates were already trying to find a way inside. Pistol shot, and too few pirates, frustrated Storm’s attempts.

“So Señor, Dryden Storm and his crew are disposable?” I gave Lucas a sideways glance.

The wraith shrugged.

“I use what’s at hand.”

It was a bloody stalemate. If this was a game of chess, that might have been ‘check’, but not ‘checkmate’. Not yet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Durner slowly wriggle free of one of the enchanted ropes. He gave me a quick solemn nod while he worked, trying to avoid attention.

I subtly inclined my head in return, then sighed after a deep breath to cover it up. The taste of rain was on the air from the forward edge of the coming storm, sharp and electric with anticipation. I glared at Lucas. The wraith hadn’t seemed to notice Durner in the least.

“So all this? For what?” I snapped with a quick gesture at Westmere. “Bait for me, or another failed attempt to power your arcane engine? Another failed summoning?”

The wraith wasn’t bothered in the slightest. He just shrugged.

“Oh, you’ve been paying attention. Very good. You know the rules, Doctor. The law of balance,” Lucas explained casually. “All magic from the Etherwave comes with a price. I’m just trying to pay it. Only, this one is rather steep. I probably need something larger than a town, or even a city.”

Shouts and clangs of metal on the other side of Westmere made me twitch. My crewmates, my friends, were fighting for their lives while I was stuck talking to a monster.

“Call them off, Señor,” I snapped. “Both your horrors and Storm’s cutthroats. Then we’ll talk.”

“No,” he mused in that bone-on-wood rasp. “I don’t think so.”

Lucas slowly shook a gloved finger at me again. That feral smile still spread across his rotten wooden lips. The two pirates with him, honor guard at best given Lucas was a wraith, looked more uncomfortable with each second. I wasn’t sure what bothered them more, Lucas, my hand being on fire, or something else entirely.

“You’re a very hard man to kill, you know?” the wood wraith said casually. “Your companions didn’t worry me, but you did. You might read the Codex Luminari, and I couldn’t have that. So, I hoped that the corrupted Bindweaver Curse would kill you in hours, maybe a day.”

“I’m hard to kill, Señor,” I growled.

He nodded, then slowly paced in front of me.

“Oh, I noticed. I didn’t expect you to be so resourceful.” Lucas gestured to the ghostfire around my hand. “Neither did I expect Captain Storm’s trapped trinket to latch onto you, either. It took some doing to convince the captain to just ruin your shoulder, instead of gut you in the warehouse.”

He knew we visited the warehouse. We had been set up from the start.

That fact shot a cold chill through my spine, but I fought down the shudder. What else did this monster already know? A part of me wondered if the posturing was to cover up that he knew less than he let on. I didn’t rise to his gloating, but set my jaw and glared.

Lucas paused in his pacing with a disappointed expression.

“Now, Doctor, don’t be like that. I’m past trying to kill you. You’re far too interesting. We’re both men of learning, yet here you are swimming in foul waters, playing with pirates and privateers. Come now, we’re above that.”

“He’s stalling,” whispered the voice in my mind, the one I suspected was inside the ghostfire.

I silently agreed with it and felt a brief pulse of warmth back.

Behind me, I could hear flintlock fire and the clash of metal. Each second, every sound, felt like a new needle in my skin. A cold breeze raced off the sea, while the first splatter of rain fell. But I needed to stall to give Durner a little more time.

“What do you want, Señor?” I asked bitterly, emphasizing each word.

“Oh, nothing much,” Lucas replied with a casual wave and another of those feral grins. “Just the Codex page, and you.”

“Me?”

His smile widened, and I felt a sudden urge to bathe.

“Yes, you, Doctor,” Lucas repeated. “You must’ve discovered my humble attempts at potion brewing in the warehouse. I did have to leave in a hurry,” he sighed regretfully.

“No matter what else I am, I’m a master wavebinder. A spellcaster. But you!” He gestured at me with both hands. “You, my good Doctor, are a true alchemist.”

“You want me to fix your potion,” I guessed aloud as I narrowed my eyes at him.

The man waggled his finger at me again, pacing near his bodyguards.

“But of course,” Lucas replied, voice as smooth as slime. “Give me the Codex page. Let me put it back in the book, then free Tristam Greenholm. Between his knowledge of the Codex Luminari, my skill in channeling the Etherwave Arcana, and your mastery of potions, we can change the world.”

The wraith’s voice had dropped to an unholy whisper.

“Erase the disease of death itself.”

Lucas stopped in front of his bodyguards, turned to face me, then gestured at himself.

“Even cure this,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “In return, I call off Storm and his pirates, and dissolve the Death Whispers. All of it. Then once all this is over, and we’ve succeeded, you never set foot in my affairs again.”

A whisper of movement caught the corner of my eye.

Just to my left, I noticed Durner slip free of the last enchanted rope. He held them close against his chest with the pretense of being bound. Thirty feet beyond that, Lysander crouched behind a barrel with Elara’s flintlock pistol. Sweat gleamed along his dark cheeks, cutting streaks in marred smudges of soot.

How he escaped the house, and Storm’s pirates, I’ve no idea. But I was so glad, I nearly cheered.

“If I refuse?” I asked carefully, raising my eyebrows.

In a blink, Lucas yanked off his right glove, then slapped each of his bodyguards in the chest. Both men tried to back away, but barely managed a step. They screamed, but their voices drowned in the sound of cracking wood. In seconds, they petrified in place, clothes and all.

“Simple. Your friends die, then I have you ripped apart.”

Then a pistol’s lead shot punched Lucas in the throat the instant after he pulled on his glove and glanced up. Amber, resin-like blood, coated his throat.

Shock exploded on the wood wraith’s face. He tried to talk, yell, anything, but his throat was too savaged to work. At least, it was for the moment. Wood wraiths had a nasty habit of being diabolically durable, even from a mortal wound.

Lightning flashed, and the rain fell harder. We might only have minutes before Lucas healed.

Durner was on his feet in an instant, recovered his own flintlock and fired at the wood wraith. The shot went high and to the right, but still slammed into the monster’s shoulder. Lucas staggered back, hate boiling in his glowing orange eyes.

Nearby, the six Death Whispers turned toward us and charged, but Durner met them halfway. Even though he stood four foot six, he was three times stronger than anyone I knew. Brass veins glowed under the lightning, and his copper eyes flashed hot as he lunged.

The gearwright hauled the lead Death Whisper into the air, then slammed it against the rest. Some fell, others darted aside.

Over by the house, I realized how Lysander got free. Somehow, Elara and Lysander had led Storm and his pirates on a fool’s errand through the house. While the pirates invaded the building, Elara led our crew out through a root cellar door, partially obscured by sand grass. I saw her wave her glowing ghost blade at me.

That lone pirate who stood guard over that door never stood a chance.

“Tell Elara!” I shouted to Durner and Lysander over the thunder. “Get everyone and the captives to the longboats!”

“What about Storm?” Durner roared back in a craggy voice, grabbing another Death Whisper to pitch it down the town well. Then he jabbed a calloused finger at Lucas Argall. “What about that?”

“Leave Lucas Argall to me,” I snapped, then smashed my vial on the ground.

Fog boiled up between myself and the wraith like ghostly claws greedy for air.

I locked eyes with the wood wraith.

“No deals, Señor!” I snapped. “You can keep your devil’s bargain. I’ve made enough on my own.”

A grin brushed my face as I tugged at my tricorn hat, singing in a low voice to call down the magic.

“I’m a privateer of the sea, of the waves and wind, with my ship and crew, I sail the ocean without fear…”

The Etherwave Arcana’s power replied before I barely finished the verse, then roared through me like a wave.

Lucas tried to scream in rage, but I clouded his mind. We vanished into mist before his eyes.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Pedro wakes up aboard the Silk Duchess, recovering from his near death experience in the rented warehouse. Quietly, he mourns the loss of Renwick, then discusses the strange voice with Lysander, who suggests it may be a spirit. Lysander then breaks the news to Pedro, that they’re approaching another fishing village that may have fallen victim to Dryden Storm and Lucas Argall. Against everyone’s better judgement, Pedro demands to go ashore to look for survivors…

Aug 2, 1722. East of Kingston, at the tiny fishing village of Westmere. Stepping ashore to find the face of evil…

I jumped from the longboat the second it brushed limestone white sand. Seawater sloshed around my boots as I half-ran for the dry beach. Behind me, the others pulled the longboat ashore, then hurried to catch up.

White sand gave way to hard-packed dirt and a weathered wooden footpath into the village. Stray nets and bits of fishing gear littered the ground along the way.

“Not a good sign,” I murmured, running faster.

Sinister storm clouds had rolled in as the Silk Duchess dropped anchor. The promise of fresh rain still rode the wind, and those marble-gray storm clouds hung over the village of Westmere like a burial shroud.

I stopped in my tracks once I reached the edge of town.

“We’re too late,” I murmured in dismay.

A headache nudged at the back of my neck while a breeze stirred my gray long coat. The wind hinted at misery, like lost souls begging to be seen.

Elara, Durner, Lysander, and the rest joined me. The sight of Westmere stunned them nearly silent as well.

“Cor,” a gunner’s mate swore under his breath.

“Exactly,” I replied softly. “I’m surprised there isn’t a kelpwitch here to gather up the lost memories.”

Lysander shook his head slightly.

“If only,” he said with a shadowed frown on his dark face. “We could ask her what happened.”

“I think we know already,” Durner said in a craggy voice. “I don’t like a bit of it. Feels like we’re walking on a grave, or into a trap.”

“I’d take the former, not the latter,” Elara added.

“Hm, I’m for neither,” the rust-haired gearwright replied.

Silence fell on us like a wet wool blanket that smelled twice as rotten. Slowly, as one, we eased into town. No one spoke, or wanted to, for fear of insulting the dead.

Westmere didn’t look that old, but Mother Nature hadn’t been entirely kind. Caribbean sun and rain had done their brutal work. The town’s buildings stood as motionless as gray wooden tombstones, but with peeling paint. Fortunately, none were on fire, but they also weren’t the only thing standing.

Scattered across the dusty, grass-littered streets were the occasional withered wooden statues of people. It was some of the villagers, or really, victims.

It was only a petrified handful scattered between a well and the edge of town. Each one was trapped in mid-run with frozen screams of terror on their face.

“I see four,” I muttered to the others, or maybe just to myself. No one replied.

The sight of even that many petrified people was jarring. It felt like a ferocious wave of fear had rolled down the street, then crashed into us like an angry surf. Another gust of light warm wind from played through the nearby grass with ghost children we couldn’t see, but imagined.

Worse than the statues, in some horrific comparison, lay the bloody bodies of the dead. There were quite a few of those. Blood seemed to be pooled everywhere in the grass. A knot of emotion rose in my throat, trying to strangle me.

I shivered, and my headache throbbed along with my shoulder.

The tension shattered like thin glass when Elara softly cleared her throat.

“All right,” she spat, voice clipped. “We need to get busy, and be quick about it. If this was done by Captain Storm and his cutthroats, they’ve not been gone long. Blood’s too fresh.”

Elara glanced around at the lot of us.

“Skaldi? Signal the Duchess, we need work crews over here to bury the dead. They deserve that much,” the captain said in a somber tone.

“Aye.” Skaldi’s deep voice was thick with emotion. “On it.”

“Pedro?” Elara said sharply.

I interrupted before she sent me back to the Duchess.

“I’ll look for survivors in town,” I said, my own words clipped and tight. “Then I’ll check the petrified. Maybe there’s something I can do.”

“Be careful,” she emphasized, then added, “Durner? Go with him.”

The rust-haired grimling with the fire-copper eyes gave her a curt nod.

“I’ll be with him,” he rumbled in a craggy tone.

I started to object, but the sharp edge of concern in her jade eyes brought me up short. She was worried, and so was I. We all were.

Instead of words, I gave her a small smile I hoped was reassuring. A silent promise that I’d try to be careful. Elara inclined her head, just a fraction of an inch, to tell me she understood.

“The rest of you! Look lively!” The captain said. “I need sentries watching for Storm’s ghost ship, and some to help gather the bodies!”

It was slow, grim work. For Durner and I, it was a long half-hour walk through the village of the dead. We checked each body and statue we found, barely saying more than two words to each other. Soon, we simply ran out of words.

Finally, Durner broke the deafening silence first.

“It’s like a bloody graveyard where the statues stare at you,” he rumbled uneasily. The brass veins along his tanned skin glimmered softly from tension.

“True, but I’m not sure they’re staring at us,” I replied.

With a hand on my sword, I glanced through an open door to a woodcutter’s shop. The owner was inside, as wooden as his wares. Yet one more statue.

That made five.

It was five too many.

I eased inside. That petrified soul was in no better shape than the others we’d found. But that also bothered me.

“If the attack was so recent, why do all the petrified victims look like they’ve been weathering for years?” I mused.

Durner glanced inside, then glowered at the petrified woodcutter.

“Hm. Weathering don’t work that fast,” he stated.

“No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. Something didn’t fit, and it nagged at me.

Still, I clenched my jaw and moved on for the town well.

Durner had checked the powder and shot in his flintlock pistol for the tenth time in as many minutes by the time we got there.

Two wooden statues stood south of the old stone well, while four bloody, cut up fishermen lay dead to the north. Blood splashed over the gray granite well stones had started to turn brown in the sun. My skin crawled as I rubbed the side of my head to chase back the headache.

Seven. That brought the total statues to seven. I’d lost count of how many had been cut down.

Durner knelt by the bodies and tapped a forgotten short sword with his pistol.

“Hm,” he rumbled thoughtfully. “They were making a last stand. Facing down something from in town, not the shoreline.”

I rubbed my eyes.

“That fits with the statues. They were all running from something in town.”

A gust of wind rushed in off the waterfront, then stirred the loose sand and dirt around us. I rubbed my nose with a frown as anger tore loose from deep inside me.

“Why do this?” I snapped. “It didn’t work last time! Why again?”

Durner shook his head sadly and shrugged. I didn’t have an answer either.

“I’ll check the statues,” I said, mouth pulled into a sour line.

The gearwright nodded, the set to checking the dead fishermen for anything more that could help us.

I stalked over to the pair of statues with a sigh.

Neither one looked older than twenty. The young woman was human, and the man with her was thayan. She was taller, maybe five foot ten, and her young man was a few inches shorter.

They were entirely wood, from skin to hair and clothes. Wood that had splintered like old, weathered driftwood. They had held hands the moment the petrification claimed them. My eyes lingered on that for a long moment.

“How can I undo this?” I murmured. Using my folding knife, I picked at the wood that used to be their clothing. It flaked away like powder.

That’s when I saw the tiny twig attached to the young man’s sleeve. My breath hitched. I knew that twig.

It was the same sort of tiny tree limb I saw in the warehouse. One that the potion created. It had the same shape and leaves, right down to the decay. I didn’t touch it, in case it might try to grab me.

“Mierda,” I swore. “He’s experimenting with cures,” I said bitterly. “I just know it in my bones. He’s dying from this petrification disease. So he infects others, then tries to cure them.”

A terrible thought occurred to me.

“What if Lucas is having Storm’s crew cut down any resistance to get at the ones he wants to experiment on?”

I ran a hand through my dark hair, blowing out a sigh through clenched teeth.

“This wasn’t a massacre.” I fought down a shudder. “He’s harvesting people.”

I felt a warm burst of heat, almost fire, from the tattoos on my hand. That didn’t go well with my headache.

“You’re more right than you know,” Durner snapped.

I spun around toward him.

Durner had moved from where I’d left him. Instead of by the bodies, he was a few steps away, kneeling in the dirt. He gestured to the dead fishermen.

“Those were buying time to let others escape.” He shook his head, tapping a calloused finger against the ground. “Didn’t work, though. Lots of tracks here. Two got dragged off, and another ten were marched off in a tight knot.”

I frowned sharply.

“To where?”

Brass veins in Durner’s skin flared forge-hot as he nodded to a large, bone-pale stone building at the far side of the town square. A black brick chimney stabbed at the sky.

“Over there, to that smokehouse,” His voice growled, rich with menace, copper eyes hard. “These tracks aren’t that old, maybe a couple of hours.”

Thoughts snapped into place like well-fitting gears. I glanced around wide-eyed while a spark of greenish-white fire ran along my hand tattoos.

“He’s nearby!” hissed that deep voice inside my head. It was so loud it hurt. I realized too late that was the source of my headache.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a faint finger of smoke curl up from the smokehouse chimney.

“Maldita sea! They’re still here,” I snapped.

Durner jumped to his feet, pistol in hand, and glanced around in alarm. I cupped a hand to the side of my mouth.

“It’s a trap!” I shouted at the top of my lungs to the others scattered across Westmere. We were easy prey.

The second I yelled, Captain Storm and his pirates boiled out from buildings lining the town square, swords and pistols drawn. Six Death whispers screamed their way into view with them from behind a granary.

A cold knot turned over in my stomach. Elara and I barely managed three at Morowen’s home.

Durner fired and dropped a pirate dead into the dirt. There wasn’t time to reload his flintlock, so he turned it around to use it like a hammer while he drew his cutlass.

“This is bad, Pedro,” he rumbled in a tight voice. “We’re too spread out! They’ll cut us down like wheat!”

I grabbed for my sword, but thought better of it. Instead, I tugged my tricorn hat low, then snatched a vial from a belt loop.

“Then let’s give them something to think about!”

There was more than one way to fight.

I hurled the vial at the closest pirates and murmured a quiet sea shanty. The Etherwave Arcana rushed to my aid. I focused on the vial, forcing power into the potion. The vial hit the ground and exploded in a wagon-sized ball of fire. Pirates flew to either side like rag dolls.

The remaining pirates ran past the fire as they charged in, but not at us. They broke into small groups to run right at our shipmates. Steel hit steel, while pistols and screams shook the air. Even Captain Storm avoided us, but the ugly glare he shot me spoke volumes.

This wasn’t his choice. He was following orders.

A lone figure followed the mob’s wake, escorted by two burly pirates. The man was painfully thin, even bone thin by anyone’s standards. He wore a ragged brown and green hooded long coat. Matching gloves covered his frail, thin hands. All the rest of his clothes, from cotton shirt to blue trousers, were as ruined at his coat.

The newcomer had his hood pulled up over his head against the sun. What little light made it past showed a face made of rotten wood, but pliable as soft skin.

A pair of spectacles perched on his emaciated nose. Orange hellish eyes, like burning coals in a forge, peered out from behind that glass with a bemused, predatory gleam. A stained Archbinder’s pin glimmered from the lapel of his black vest.

Despite all that, I still saw the resemblance to his brother, Joshua Argall.

“Lucas Argall,” I said in a brittle voice and inclined my head.

I tensed. All this time, I’d been chasing wood wraith. It would’ve been safer to kiss a siren, or even a vampire.

A sinister smile slid over his withered, wooden lips. He tapped his walking staff of twisted driftwood wrapped by rotten sailcloth against the ground.

I felt the magic faster than I could move. It snapped around Durner like a glowing ghostly rope, and dragged him to the ground.

Greenish-white flames burst to life around my right hand. I snatched a glass vial out of my belt in a flash. Lucas raised a hand before I tossed it.

“Ah, Doctor Sangre.” The wraith’s voice was chilly and smooth despite the faint, dry rasp behind it. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

His eyes flicked to my burning hand, then met my glare.

“Ghostfire?” Lucas chuckled with the sound of bone scraping wood. “Delightful.”

I narrowed my eyes and slowly tightened my grip on the vial of rolling gray smoke.

Lucas tilted his head slightly, as if amused.

“Let’s talk about a little bargain, Doctor. Before your companions and crew become a casualty.”

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

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Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Pedro, collects a sample of a mysterious potion found in Joshua Argall’s warehouse only to discover this necrotic death potion may grant life, or at least a passing resemblance for a time. But, no sooner has he recovered a sample, than Renwick raises the alarm. Captain Storm arrives with crew at his back to ruin the warehouse and anyone in it. Elara, Primrose, and a badly wounded Pedro manage to escape when Renwick gives his undead existence to buy them time…

Aug 2, 1722. Somewhere east of Kingston, aboard the Silk Duchess. The safest port we had available…

“Somehow, I’m still not dead,” I said to the wooden ceiling over my bunk. The ceiling didn’t offer any comment. So I yawned, pulling myself awake.

Morning sunlight poured through the cabin’s narrow window, lighting the occasional dust motes over the table. Muffled shouts and calls of the crew working on deck filled the air. Seawater kissed the ship’s hull with a sloppy slurp while the Silk Duchess pressed on through the waves. They were a comfortable, reassuring sound of normal, and right then, I needed that.

I thought about my alchemy shop and how it looked when we reached it after the warehouse. That hurt almost as bad as my shoulder.

“At least Sebastian found a cabinet to hide in,” I murmured.

Visions of shattered potions and burned recipe books danced in my head. I groaned softly before I shoved the thoughts aside.

“Get up,” I told myself with a sigh. “You’ve things to do, like taming a necrotic nightmare in a bottle.”

That seemed like a reasonable and good thing to do until I sat up. At which point, my body reminded me of all the abuse I’d put it through. It wasn’t feeling very forgiving, and let me know with a broadside of sharp aches. My shoulder? It was another story.

Sebastian then jumped onto the bunk, and also me. It didn’t help.

“Good morning, Sebastian,” I wheezed, then scratched between his horns. He replied with the usual purr that resembled a soft rumble of rocks in a barrel. After a moment, I pushed him onto my bunk, where he grumbled but curled up to nap.

Carefully, I reached for my bag on the nearby tiny table, bathed in the morning sunlight. I rummaged inside until I produced two glass vials of potions, one a dull red and the other green. I downed them both, one right after the other. A dual swig of raspberry-flavored healing potion and graveyard syrup.

I called the combined flavor ‘raspberry despair’. At least it wasn’t toad sweat. That was, in my opinion, a small improvement.

The healing elixir did its work, as a dull warmth drove off the chorus of aches. Gently, I rubbed the bandages around my left shoulder. I grimaced. Healing elixirs had repaired some of the damage, but there was a lot more healing to go. Once I changed into fresh clothes, I ran a hand through my hair when something moved in my bag.

It was the Codex anchor page. For a moment, it looked like the faded letters shifted slightly.

“Renwick?” I said in surprise, then snatched up the page and unfolded it.

Nothing. No burst of fog, smell of brine, before the man’s ghost appeared next to me. A dull, heavy feeling sank in my chest.

“I’m sorry, Renwick,” I murmured with a sigh. “I should’ve never asked you to keep watch.”

The fight in the warehouse roared back through my head. I pinched my eyebrows in a dismayed, sad grimace. I’m trained to heal people, help them. This time I failed. Dryden Storm had stabbed Renwick. Gutted him like a fish, really. I saw him bleed. How does a ghost bleed?

I shook my head. How is it even possible to murder a ghost? To make them bleed? A ghost blade, like Elara’s, can’t even do that.

A knock on the cabin door battered down my thoughts to kindling.

“Yes?” I called.

Lysander pushed open the door, with the usual smirk that bordered a grin on his dark, weathered face.

“You’re up! Good. I thought you might be. How’s the shoulder?” he asked while he stepped inside.

With Lysander in the cabin with me, the little room almost seemed claustrophobic. Lysander was a lean man, but ship cabins weren’t known for space. He sat down in the room’s sole, small chair across from me. Sebastian immediately left the bunk and accosted him for attention with a wiggle.

I touched my left shoulder, then gingerly moved it in careful circles. At least, until I felt a twinge of pain.

“Hurts, but the elixir is doing its job. I’ve been able to move it since last night. So I doubt I’ll lose the shoulder,” I explained as I slipped my left arm into a blue, cotton cloth sling. “But I’m not about to arm wrestle anytime soon. If I’m very lucky, I might even get full use back and only have a scar. But I won’t hold my breath on that.”

Lysander replied with a deep chuckle.

“You wouldn’t be the first in our line of work with a scarred limb. Just think of it as a tattoo with a better story!” His laughter faded as he pursed his lips with a serious expression. “I’m sorry about your shop.”

I sighed.

“So am I, my friend. Señorita Stewart was far too kind to take on cleaning the mess. I hope she’ll be fine.”

Lysander shrugged. “I’m sure she will be. You told the city watch, and they’ll check in on her. Also, you know, Buttons and his street rats will keep an eye on her, too.”

“Yes,” I replied. “They will. Seeing what Dryden and his crew did to my workshop hurt almost as much as getting stabbed. Renwick dying to save us?” I shook my head at a loss for words. “All just to find the damn Codex page.”

“I’d say Storm was looking for both you and the page,” Lysander countered, then crossed his arms. Sebastian huffed, then returned to the bunk for a nap. “It fits with his rant at the warehouse.”

I shrugged with my good shoulder.

“Maybe.” Then I rubbed my face. “I’m wondering if there’s more to it for Storm, though.”

I gestured wearily at the Codex page.

“Yes, he’s cursed to protect the book. Demanding I return it fits with what Lyra said about the Bindweaver’s Curse.” I scowled at Lysander. “But that last bit in the warehouse? About me trying to ‘steal’ the curse or whatever that was? I just feel that was about his amulet.”

Lysander leaned back to hook an arm around the back of the chair with a thoughtful look.

“Could his amulet have anything to do with the Codex? Another trinket made by that Tristam Greenholm who made the book?”

I shook my head a little. Then I remembered that voice I’d heard more than once when my hand’s been on fire. I frowned, eyebrows knitted, wrestling with the thought.

“Maybe? But not entirely.”

For some reason, that felt right. I didn’t know how I knew that, just that I did.

“There’s far more to it than just some trinket tied to a necromantic book,” I added.

Lysander arched a curious eyebrow at me. I sighed, then rubbed the bridge of my nose. This wasn’t a conversation I had been looking forward to, but I needed to tell someone.

I started with the moment that we freed Renwick from that Death Whisper and explained about the voice. From there, I told Lysander about the murmurs and half-understood words in my mind every time the tattoos and my hand burned. This even included the feeling of a presence next to me in the warehouse when Storm attacked me.

It was a lot, and once I was done, it sounded addled even to me. To Lysander’s credit, he wasn’t suspicious or judgmental. He took it in stride.

“A voice?” he said. It wasn’t so much a question as it was a thoughtful statement. “It’s talked to you. Have you tried talking back?”

I stared at him like he’d lost his mind. Then again, I worried I had. I just wasn’t sure.

“What? So, you mean like another ghost?”

Lysander shook his head.

“Not ghosts. Spirits, Pedro. I’m talking about nature spirits. When I was a boy, the elders told me all about nature spirits, and how they sometimes talk to people.” He shrugged at me. “Given everything that’s come from Otherworld, why not nature spirits? At least a few, anyway? They could’ve survived to make it to Earth.”

“A lost Otherworld nature spirit?” I said thoughtfully. “Like a water nymph?“ Then my mind went to darker places of murderous oak trees that ate people alive. “Even say, a roblón?”

Lysander’s only reply was another solemn shrug.

I glanced down at the floor and frowned in thought. The fight with Captain Storm in the warehouse came to mind.

“Storm accused me of trying to steal the curse. His amulet even dimmed when I felt that presence next to me. Before that, both Lyra and Morowen said the Bindweaver’s Curse was altered. Knotted up with some sort of magic that drains victims.”

I squinted at Lysander with a suspicious look.

“This is a bit of a guess. But what if this spirit is trapped in Storm’s amulet, and it’s part of what’s corrupted the Bindweaver’s Curse?”

“Which would, in a way, make it tied to the Codex, wouldn’t it?” Lysander asked. “Almost like a fish in a net, trapped by this Tristam Greenholm who wrote the book in the first place?”

Aches flared out of my left shoulder, and I rubbed at it absently before I waved a hand at the Codex page.

“Señor Greenholm was also stupid enough to try to murder a sea hag for her power,” I replied. “So trapping a nature spirit would fit.” I pursed my lips again with a frown. “It could just be coincidence, too.”

Lysander leaned back a little in the tiny wooden chair.

“So, that bit of potion you collected in the warehouse? Just what is it?”

I sighed and rubbed my bandaged shoulder again.

“It’s in the galley. Last I checked, there’s a scent of old nightshade, what looks like powdered bone, bits of fool’s gold, even some resurrection fern.” I shook my head. “It’s very bad mix, my friend. Very dark. It’s like a fast poison that would kill you and heal you at the same time.”

As I described the properties of the elixir, Lysander’s eyebrows climbed higher on his forehead, eyes wide.

“It kills you while it heals you?” he said slowly when I finished. “So either you’re a very pretty corpse, or it’s a race which gets you first, the poison or healing?”

I nodded slightly.

“Yes, something like that. I’m running it through a distillery I cobbled together. It should be broken completely down in an hour. I’ll know more about it then.”

We both fell quiet. The soft sounds of wind in the sails, creaking wood, and the muffled lap of water against the hull kept us company. This was broken up by the occasional voices of the crew on deck while they went about their work. I broke the soothing quiet first.

“When we set out from Kingston, Elara set course for those locations on the warehouse map. Are we still headed that way?” I asked. “How close are we?”

Lysander’s expression turned grim.

“Close enough to see. I’d say we’ll drop anchor in an hour.”

“But?” I added suspiciously as I narrowed my eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

His mouth pulled into a tight line. “The location?” He hesitated for a heartbeat. “It’s for another fishing village.”

That hesitation sent an ice spider crawling up and down my spine. I suddenly had a thousand questions, but I kept quiet. Instead, I nodded a little.

“Go on,” I said while tension sank claws into my shoulders.

“A lookout was able to get a quick look ahead at the village with a spyglass,” Lysander continued, voice thick with emotion. “Nothing’s moving there. Not even the animals.”

I lowered my head for a moment, then glared at Lysander.

“Maldita sea,” I murmured. “When do we go ashore?”

“We?” Lysander repeated. “Pedro, you’re going nowhere with that shoulder. You’re staying aboard.”

Frustration and anger bubbled up from deep inside my chest. It wasn’t Lysander’s fault, but it came out before I could throw a rope around it.

“Like hell I will!” I snapped. “Lysander, I can’t just sit here while there could be survivors that need help!” Anger got the better of me. Slowly, I clenched and unclenched my right hand while I felt the heat and fire build inside. “I’m going.”

We locked eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment. Lysander blinked first, then sighed.

“All right,” he replied. “Elara is going to be furious.”

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Pedro and Elara accompany Miss Primrose Stewart, Joshua Argall’s assistant, to Argall’s rented warehouse. They find signs someone has been living there, and possibly brewing up necrotic alchemy among the crates. Drops of a strange blue and gold elixir hint at death magic, while a locked door reveals more disturbing evidence. Hints that connect it to the local murders. Worried the camp’s owner might return Pedro prepares to collect a sample of the death potion while he sends Renwick, the ghost haunting the Codex page, to keep watch…

July 30, 1722. Still in Joshua Argall’s rented warehouse. I doubt his rental contract covered this…

A haunted echo of Renwick’s footsteps chased after him while he vanished into the warehouse.

I frantically patted myself down for an empty vial, then finally discovered one in the bottom of my shoulder bag. Carefully, I knelt down next to the broken tube. It was copper and curved in such a way that I was almost sure it had been part of a worm tube condenser from a still. Dangerous droplets oozed down, thick and syrupy, testing both my nerves and patience.

While the trickle pooled into the vial, I studied the campsite. Elara had found the remains of a burned map. The stove was the obvious choice where the rest of the map had gone. Alchemy notes as well, unless Lucas took those with him.

“I’ll need to search that,” I murmured. “There could be more map, or some discarded notes on this potion.”

The broken remains of the still were a mess. There was the condenser tube, but the main pot? Long gone. I saw a bent tube on the floor that might have been a Lyne arm. More evidence of a former alchemy still. Anything else was blankets, tin cup, cooking pot, and an old wooden chair.

Finally, I was rewarded with a teaspoon’s worth of the blue and gold death potion. That would have to do.

“You found something.”

Elara had returned from the hallway with Primrose in tow. Neither looked happy, but the latter looked more rattled than before.

I corked the vial, then stashed it deep in my bag for safekeeping. At least I hoped it was safe. If not, my notebook might go necrotic and try to eat me.

“Yes. A necrotic potion.” I made a sour face. “It could just be a very eager plant stimulant, but I think it’s actually meant to try and raise the dead.”

Elara sucked in a sharp breath at that while a deep scowl lined her face and her wings buzzed a little. Her people, like any thayans, had a long history with magic and the Etherwave Arcana. Death magic? That was worse than murder, in their opinion. Beyond that, Elara had some unpleasant personal history with the topic as well.

“Exactly.” I waved a hand at the campsite. “My guess? Lucas Argall was trying to cure himself. Though I’ve a bad feeling something else happened. What’s down the hall?”

“Another way out to an alley. Also? Nothing good.” She rested her hands on her flintlock pistol. “There’s a pile of bloody hemp rope in there with bits of bark.”

“It looked rather fresh,” Primrose said in a thin, brittle voice, face pale as a sheet. “Fresh as such things would go, anyway. I’ve seen bloodstains a’plenty on napkins when I worked as a housekeeper. Those stains can’t be more than a day or two old.”

“Two days?” I glanced down at the floor, then over at Elara. “Wait… the dead dockworker?”

My right hand suddenly pulsed with heat. I thought I saw a flicker of green-white light from the corner of my eye, but it vanished before I was sure.

“Doctor!”

Renwick’s haunted shout from the stacks cut through the conversation like a hot knife. I had hoped sending a lookout would buy us time. Sadly, it only gave us a few seconds.

A gang of six armed men, pirates by the tattered look of them, stormed out of the warehouse stacks with alarming speed. Most brandished cutlass and dagger, but two drew flintlock pistols. Renwick ambushed one, diving onto him, which made the pirate misfire, screaming in sudden terror from the ghostly hug. The second pirate aimed and fired at me.

I was lucky. At close range, a flintlock could punch a hole right through someone. But the pirate’s aim was off, and the lead shot sang past my left cheek to savage the wooden wall behind me.

On my right, Elara drew and fired her flintlock in one motion. The pistol belched smoke and stabbed flame at a pirate, who jerked as the lead shot knocked him flat. Her clockwork pistol could reload twice if she got the chance.

Sadly, she didn’t. Three other pirates rushed at her, swords at the ready.

Three became two when Primrose let out a war cry worthy of a panicked banshee. She smashed a wooden crate lid over a pirate’s head. He crumpled to the floor like soggy laundry.

No sooner had he hit the floor, than Primrose brandished her makeshift club with a wild expression for another target. The next nearest pirate backed off, wanting none of that.

Motion to my left caught my attention. I grabbed my sword and turned just before a cutlass stabbed me in the left shoulder through my long coat. The white-hot pain yanked both air and a yell from my throat. I staggered back, trying to pull myself off the blade.

It was Captain Dryden Storm.

I gulped down air, drowning in pain, and glared at Storm. He slammed a fist across my jaw, then stabbed again. Same shoulder, only deeper.

A yell ripped out of me as I fell back against the warehouse wall. I gripped my bloody left shoulder out of instinct and tried to move sideways out of the captain’s reach. Storm just chuckled while a sickly glowing green vapor billowed out from the squirrel skull around his neck.

“You’re sticking your nose where it don’t belong, Doctor,” Storm snarled at me in a devious, aristocratic voice. “You should’ve gone to find the book, like I told you. But, you didn’t.”

He twisted his bloody cutlass, the point still aimed at me.

“So now, Doctor? You had your chance. I think I’ll have your life as payment.”

“You’re welcome to try,” I hissed back between clenched teeth.

Storm lunged for my throat. I sidestepped as I threw a vial from my belt. The vial landed first.

Glass shattered against his chest. Fog billowed out to swallow the air, and Storm stabbed at nothing. The captain yelled in a rage before he was grabbed by a coughing fit.

Pain shot needles through me with each step. My vision blurred, and I nearly fell over, but I managed to keep on my feet. I hissed out in agony through clenched teeth while I drew my sword.

The instant my blade cleared the scabbard, greenish-white fire erupted over my hand. Those cursed tattoos on my skin writhed with life. A warm fire washed through me like hot water.

It wasn’t just the heat of the fight. Something was suddenly there, next to me, watching. For just a moment, a deep voice whispered in the back of my mind. Before I understood the words, they were gone, but the warm feeling never left.

I pushed through the pain and off the warehouse wall to head for the door by Elara and Primrose. One of Storm’s pirate crew burst through the fog and was on me before I took a step.

The man slashed, and I parried, then stepped aside. My head pounded slightly from the effort, but the pain in my shoulder seemed far away and muted. The pirate stepped in with a thrust, but I knocked away his sword, then rammed my elbow against the side of his jaw. He dropped like a stone.

I felt that same warmth suddenly pour along my arm. A soft heat that soothed my pain. It didn’t remove it, but made it more manageable for the moment.

Then Captain Storm barreled out of the fog at me with blood in his eye. He slashed. I stepped back, and my head throbbed. Our swords crossed once, then twice. Each time, the fire around my hand flashed bright, as if it wanted to climb my blade. With each parry, every cut, I took a step closer to the door and freedom.

Somewhere to the side, I heard voices, shouts, cries of alarm. I couldn’t spare a glance. If I did, Storm would’ve run me through. I was an alchemist, fairly skilled with a sword. But Captain Storm was a corsair, a true swordsman, and it showed.

But while I blocked, and the ghostfire blazed, Storm’s amulet dimmed. It didn’t go out, but after a few seconds, I realized it wasn’t nearly as bright as before. The captain chanced a look at his skull amulet, then shot a glare at me to curl steel.

“So, you think you’ll break the curse? Think you might steal it from me before the strain of it kills you, Doctor?” he snarled, hate boiling in his voice. “Think again!”

Before I could raise my sword, he slammed a fist against the bloody mess of my shoulder. A yell tore out of my throat while I collapsed against the warehouse wall. The greenish-white fire sputtered, not quite dying out, as I tripped and fell to the floor.

Storm thrust at me with a wicked snarl. I raised my sword a second too late.

But the blow never hit.

Just before the captain’s cutlass ended my life, a figure rushed in between us. The cutlass stabbed deep, almost all the way through, then stuck. There was a sharp wheeze and gasp of sudden pain.

It was Renwick. Somehow, in all the curses and twisted necrotic magic, he was solid enough to be stabbed in my place.

I watched, frozen, in complete horror.

Renwick clutched at the captain’s coat, quickly looking over his shoulder at me. Agony was painted across his ghostly face.

“Get out while you can, Doctor!” he yelled.

I struggled to my feet, stunned, not sure what I was seeing. Elara shoved the last pirate off her sword, running to help me with fire and panic in her eyes.

How could this even happen? I had no idea. Renwick was a ghost. My thoughts spun like a whirlpool, unable to get any footing.

One thing was certain. From the look on his face, Dryden Storm wasn’t surprised. He had done this, been in this moment right here, before. Murdering someone who was already dead.

“Miserable rat!” Storm snapped at Renwick.

The ghost tightened his grip, while a trickle of ghostly blood showed at the corner of his mouth.

“Shut it!” the sailor spit back. “I know you can feel the curse like I can! You can’t have that page back for your wart of a master. You can’t!” Renwick trembled. “Doctor Sangre has changed the page, made it his own. He’s the owner of it now, not that madman, Lucas Argall!”

Captain Storm growled like a feral dog and tried to shove the ghost loose, but Renwick held on.

“Oh no. This is for my crewmates you murdered! I stand with the Doctor and his crew, not yours,” Renwick spit out again. “You’ll have to go through me to get that page, even though you know you can’t touch it! I’m bound to protect the page by the same curse that forces you to protect the rest of that damn Codex!”

“No,” I protested with a wheeze and tried to help Renwick.

“Stop!” Elara hissed in my ear, pulling me away to the door, then down the hallway. “There’s nothing we can do. Storm’s dead men are also starting to move, bathed in that green fog or whatever it is.”

I was too tired to struggle, but I tried anyway. Elara still half-dragged me along as Primrose yanked open the door to the outside.

“Asa mvur! Listen to me!” she snapped while we staggered into the alley. “I don’t at all understand what’s happening, but there’s nothing we can do about this. Renwick, for whatever reason, gave us a chance. Don’t waste it!”

Suddenly, a man’s scream of agony echoed loud enough inside the warehouse that I thought the windows would shatter. I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt my strength ebb. The tattoos on my hand slid just an inch, and the flames burned low.

“Let’s go,” I murmured.

Failure tasted bitter in my mouth. Renwick’s screams faded away as we ran.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

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Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: Pedro confided in Elara his theories and ideas over the Codex Luminari, along with ideas he debated with Renwick. In return, Elara shares her own thoughts and what she and the others discovered… that Joshua Argall has a dying brother named Lucas, who may be a wavebinder gone rogue! More important, Elara tracked down Joshua Argall’s warehouse to find a mysterious map with key clues to where Lucas and Captain Storm might strike next. Now, they return to the warehouse to take a closer look at a squatter’s camp inside it, and a mysterious locked door that might provide more answers than questions…

July 30, 1722. Bennington Warehouses a block from the Kingston docks. For some reason, I’m always there at night…

Keys rattled like a broken alarm bell while we unlocked the warehouse door. One lock click later, and I gladly left the alley and its wandering shadows behind. Prowling around dark murder alleys at night had become an alarming habit.

“The broadsheets reported the murders have been happening all along the street outside,” Miss Primrose Stewart said nervously. “I told Mr. Argall this warehouse wasn’t a good idea, but he insisted he got a good deal.”

Her eyes cut toward the yellow, smudge-stained windows just past the forest of crates. Pale, sickly moonlight slithered in around the stains.

“I’m not certain how good a deal it really was,” she admitted to us with a rueful look.

Miss Stewart had mostly recovered from the Death Whisper attack the other day. But while she hid it well, she was still a bit jumpy. I didn’t blame her one bit, given the shrieking things lived almost rent free in my nightmares.

She wore a modest powder-blue dress, sleeves and hem smudged with a little dust. We’d interrupted her cleaning the bookshop for reopening to drag her into our dubious warehouse adventure.

Primrose cast a weary, nervous glance at the looming stacks of crates around us. Walkways wound between those stacks like narrow paths through a madman’s maze. She shoved a loose strand of her light chestnut hair behind an ear with a trembling hand. A sigh slipped out of her a moment later.

Elara gave me a slightly concerned look, then put a comforting arm around the younger woman. Quietly, she whispered a reassuring word or two that I didn’t quite make out. Primrose nodded, then straightened her spine.

“Those pots and blankets and all are this way,” Primrose told us in a thin voice. “It’s unthinkable that Mr. Argall allowed this, or never told me he had a brother! But now I understand why he didn’t want me helping him with the inventory here.”

On the way to get Primrose’s help with the warehouse, Elara and I debated how much the young woman knew. Did she know about her employer’s true interest in the Codex or about Lucas Argall, Joshua’s brother? Did the bookseller keep his assistant in the dark about it all?

We never quite settled that debate. At least, not until now.

Primrose suddenly paused and fretted over a small box out of place among the forest of head-high stacked crates. How she knew that on sight, was beyond me. Most likely it was the cryptic number system on the crates. Probably one of the many reasons I never opened a bookshop. Alchemy was complicated enough.

With great, concerned care, she moved the small box to a stack on her left, then hurried on ahead of us. I squinted at the numbers on a crate until Elara tugged at my arm to haul me along.

“I don’t think this is an act,” I whispered to Elara. “She was shocked and terrified in the shop when Señor Argall was attacked. I really think he kept her in the dark about all this.”

The captain’s eyebrows knitted together in a mildly skeptical look. We watched Primrose fret over yet another box.

“I think I’m finally convinced,” Elara said at last, lips pulled into a tight line. “I suppose all of this has me jumping at shadows. Though I do think the neatness in the bookshop was her doing.”

Primrose once more moved another small box of books. Then, after some consideration, turned the box until its label aligned with the others.

“Easily,” I replied. “She’d either have a heart attack or a field day in my workshop.”

“Heart attack,” Elara replied with a smirk.

We hurried down a winding path through the warehouse. Just before I felt hopelessly lost, we reached a small clearing between the crates.

It was just as Elara described. A small campsite with worn gray wool blankets, an iron stove, battered copper pot, tin cup, and more. The fact anyone cooked in here without getting caught screamed that Joshua knew exactly who lived here.

There was also the mysterious locked door on the far side of the squatter’s camp. It was a simple wooden door with a modest brass lock. The door was as old and weathered as the warehouse, but its lock was clearly newer. Both were sturdy, which was a must for any warehouse in Kingston.

“More storage?” I suggested in a low voice as I gestured to the door.

“To another alley outside?” Elara countered with a shrug.

Primrose didn’t pay us any attention, instead she focused on the campsite. The fact it existed didn’t sit well with her. She wrung her hands, then started forward to obviously clean.

“Señorita?” I said quickly. “Before you get started, could we take a closer look? We can always help you straighten up after.”

Primrose nodded hastily, then backed away only to be scooped up by Elara, who asked about the locked door. A quick use of a key later, the ladies were past the door and into a hallway beyond. I was far too occupied with the tin cup, broken tubes, and the iron stove.

I squatted down next to the stove. It wasn’t something I expected to see, much less in the back of a warehouse.

Iron stoves were rare, but this one matched others I’d seen before. It was little more than a battered iron box near a window. Filthy, with sinister scorch marks inside, and a pile of charred paper and wood on the bottom.

Near the top, someone had rigged a space for a wide-bottomed pot and tubing. The pot was missing, but there was still a pair of savagely broken copper tubes held in place. Even the baffles inside the stove were altered, to allow more careful control over the heat.

I recognized the adjustment. It was the same kind I had made in the fireplace for my workshop.

The idea was to draw more heat off the flames, directing it as evenly as possible while distilling. That is, if the potion even needed to be distilled, and not simply boiled like soup. I preferred the latter. There was less chance of steam-related explosions.

“An alchemy still,” I murmured.

I tapped the metal tube. It rocked a little in the singed metal bracket on top of the stove.

“Whoever you are, you’ve been trying to brew something delicate.”

Just then, a drop of dark blue fluid with gold specks trickled to the floor. The instant it hit, the wooden planks turned a healthy green, then quickly sprouted a tiny tree limb with three leaves. I stared at it, wide-eyed.

“Just what were you brewing?” I murmured. “The planks are dead wood…”

A thought hit me like a hammer to the head.

“No. No, it can’t be.”

I quickly knelt down next to the tiny plant and pulled out my folding knife. Cold anticipation slithered like winter slush down my spine while I worried over what that potion really was. I touched the blade to the stem, then a leaf.

Both were firm and healthy, as if it had spouted from a living tree. Then I turned over a leaf and winced.

“Mierda,” I swore under my breath.

Where the top of the leaf was healthy, the underside was not. Black spore balls and gray blotched of decay riddled the plant.

Suddenly, one of the black spores lashed out with a tiny sticky vine for my knife blade. I jerked my hand away as a second, then a third, tendril followed the first. They were grasping, reaching, with a raw, quivering need. As soon as I was out of reach, they retreated to underneath the leaf.

I jumped back and nearly tripped over the stove. The urge to stomp a boot heel onto the twisted plant was overwhelming.

Once I put my knife away, I pinched the bridge of my nose. My heartbeat slowly returned to normal, and I shoved a hand into my bag. Renwick materialized in a blast of briny fog a second after I opened the Codex page.

The ghost blinked, glanced around, then crossed his arms, giving me a skeptical look.

“You look like something just took a year off your life,” he said. “What happened?”

I raked a hand through my hair while I tried to calm my nerves.

“Necrotic potion,” I explained, then waved a hand at the tiny tree limb, then the stove. The tiny leaves chose that moment to turn black and curl in on themselves. Renwick grimaced, and I rubbed my right hand when it grew warm for a moment.

“Check the door and windows,” I told him. “Whoever left this will be back to destroy it. Keep watch while I find a way to collect what’s left.”

Renwick nodded, but stopped just as he started to turn away.

“If it’s dangerous, why keep it?”

“To know what kind,” I replied. “If it’s what I think it is, then I’ve a guess that Lucas Argall was the one staying here.”

“What about that young lady? Miss Stewart? I’m liable to scare a fright into her if I shout,” he added.

I shook my head, quickly searching my bag, then belt loops, for an empty vial.

“Can’t be helped,” I replied. “We’ll just have to explain, and apologize, later. Go!”

“Going!” The ghost dashed off into the forest of crates.

For more about Legends of the Privateers, Hoist the Colors, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. If you’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors.

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.