The Vampire & Her Witch Chapter 1643: Summoned from the Sea

Baron Breton Stackpole stood on the pitching deck of the Otter, clutching his cloak against the biting, winter wind. He cursed for the seventh time since noon that he had chosen to make the voyage on Trident’s Tears instead.

The Otter was a well-made vessel, boasting a deep draft and a mast sufficiently tall for both a mainsail and a topsail. She was large enough to accommodate his family and knights for short journeys where cargo space was not a primary concern. Ordinarily, in spring or summer, the Otter could complete the journey from Stackpole Isle to Blackwell Bay in half a day, even factoring in stops at Kettle and Breaker Isles to collect the knights guarding the approach to Blackwell Bay.

However, this was neither spring nor summer. Even setting sail before dawn had barely afforded Baron Breton enough time for the crossing, provided the seas remained calm and the clear weather persisted.

He had repeatedly convinced himself that taking the Otter was a kindness to his men. A single-masted cog required a crew of fewer than twenty, whereas the formidable Trident’s Tears never sailed with fewer than fifty rowers per side, and twice that number to achieve optimal speed.

The summons from Count Rhys instructed him to come, bringing every other knight descended from the First Crew and any others he could trust with his life. Nevertheless, the summons also made it clear that they were being called for a council, not for war.

There was no need to muster all his fighting men as one would for combating pirate fleets. Besides, he mused, scratching the rough beard that was now more gray than brown, his days of charging across boarding planks with a sword in hand and fire in his eyes had long since passed.

Unfortunately for Breton, the morning weather had not held, and a succession of winter squalls had rendered approaching Breaker Isle from the east nearly impossible. They were compelled to circle around to the isle’s southern shore and dispatch a dinghy to fetch Sir Abel Crosse, rather than collecting him from his own village’s docks.

With a hundred oars propelling them, the Baron's most treasured dromon would never have been so easily buffeted, but the Otter was susceptible to the sudden swells and unpredictable winds that the mighty warship could withstand. Now, however, there was no recourse but to offer his apologies to his liege lord for the delayed arrival and hope the count would not commence his council without him.

"Won’t be long now, my Lord," the master of the Otter called out as the ship finally rounded the harbor's point, revealing the dazzling jewel of Blackwell City nestled against the sheltered shore. "Half the beacons are out from the storm, my Lord, but there’s plenty enough to steer by, and we’ll have you ashore before the moon rises above the cliffs."

"Take your time and keep her steady, Master Till," Breton yelled back above the roar of the wind and the crashing spray. "Being late is embarrassing, aye, but colliding with another lord’s ship is far worse. We're docking at Blackwell Manor’s pier under the watchful eyes of the count’s own men. Let's not bring shame upon the Stackpole Isles with our seamanship."

"You heard the Baron," Master Till bellowed to his crew. "Furl the topsail and bring her in slowly. Hands to the port side and ropes ready…"

Breton relinquished the task to the master and his crew. Though he held the title of Baron, only one person could command the ship, and at that moment, he was merely a passenger. On the Trident’s Tears, he might have directed the approach himself, but aboard the Otter, it was best to entrust the work to the ship’s seasoned master.

Furthermore, now that they had entered the harbor, Breton’s attention was captivated by numerous other sights.

The harbor teemed with vessels, most with their sails tightly furled against the harsh winter elements. A few small boats navigated the harbor, but without the lanterns adorning their bows and masts, Breton would have overlooked them entirely in the darkness of the night.

"Black sails," he murmured, observing a small cutter with a single triangular sail glide past the Otter's stern. "Black sails and a dark hull," he added, noting how the lantern light shimmered on the water's surface, failing completely to illuminate the details of the small vessel's hull.

Most men would dismiss it as a mere oddity, but Baron Breton was not most men. He was the Lord of the Stackpole Isles, and more significantly, he was the direct descendant of Baron Dolyn Stackpole. Or, as his ancestor was known before his embrace of respectability, Tightstrings Dolyn, the Purser of the Black Tide.

Breton’s ancestor was infamous for his ruthless protection of the crew’s profit share. For many years, shipboard life offered few comforts due to Dolyn’s refusal to indulge extravagantly, even when the Black Tide experienced a streak of good fortune. Conversely, Phylip’s crew never suffered hunger during lean times, as there was always ample treasure set aside.

These tales had been passed down through generations of Stackpoles serving as the Blackwell’s vassals, even predating their acquisition of noble titles and associated lands. During the era of Tightstrings Dolyn, the captain he served was not Count Phylip Blackwell, but rather Captain Phylip Blacksails, the Lord of the Ebbing Tide.

Spotting a single ship with black sails might have been mere coincidence. However, as they ventured deeper into the harbor, passing the whaling fleet and merchant vessels adorned with multiple masts and two or even three sails each, Breton observed an increasing number of ships bearing black sails fixed to their spars. Others appeared to have removed their sails entirely, as if dispatching every piece of canvas for repairs simultaneously, or perhaps awaiting their own dark sails.

By the time they reached the docks designated for the Count’s personal fleet and those with matters concerning the manor, Breton’s initial mild curiosity regarding the antiquated appearance had escalated into genuine apprehension as he tallied the black-sailed vessels at anchor.

Yet, it was not solely the quantity of ships that captured his attention, but also the numerous dromons resting quietly in their berths. These warships were outfitted for battle, resembling fleets poised to set sail with the morning tide. They carried sufficient lit lanterns to reveal not only a night watch of sailors but also upwards of two dozen soldiers aboard each vessel.

Coupled with the recent rumors of a blue flame igniting on the Isle of the Drowned, it was evident to Breton that this summons was far from ordinary.

The Blackwell Court had yet to convene, and Count Rhys was already making a significant declaration. This would not be a moment for squabbles over wine, unlike the disputes among the landbound lords. The ship’s captain had raised the flag and sounded the drums to summon his crew.

The time had come to fall in line. The sole uncertainty was the destination to which their captain was leading them…