The Vampire & Her Witch

It didn’t take long for Sir Prudici to clear the halls and station his men at the far ends of the corridors leading to the Great Hall, and as much as Rhys wanted to give Breton time to enjoy a hot meal after coming in from the cold, he’d run out of time.

Baron Domenec Hender wasn’t the only one who’d started putting the pieces together. More and more of the conversations taking place at the lower tables had begun to turn from casual reunion to serious speculation, and the more people speculated, the more fears and worries were bred in their hearts and minds. The reality of their situation would be hard enough to face, and the truth was more fantastical than anything they could conjure. Better to focus on those than flounder in the choppy waters of rumors and wild ideas.

Rhys pushed back from the table and stood, gazing out over the men gathered in the great hall. Five barons. Nearly fifty knights. More than five dozen descendants of the First Crew spanning nearly every craft and trade in Blackwell County. All here tonight to answer the call.

A hush fell over the hall as more and more eyes fell on Count Rhys, but their lord said nothing. Instead, he raised his right fist and thumped his chest in a slow, steady beat like the rowing oars of the ship.

-thump-

-thump-

-thump-

For a moment, no one moved. At the lower tables, several of the tradesmen looked at each other in confusion, but the knights in the hall all went still at the sight of their lord standing and beating his chest.

Baron Breton Stackpole was the first to join Rhys in standing, and as he stood, he followed Rhys’s motions, striking his chest with a rhythmic -thump.-

”So it really has come to this,” Baron Amren Dalais said as he stood to join Rhys and Breton. His hand moved on its own, striking his chest with a solid, heavy -thump- that contained none of the turmoil in his heart. His ancestor, Austor The Slug, had commanded the oar deck of the Black Tide, and if there was one man in this hall who knew the purpose and the power of a drumbeat, it was Amren Dalais.

”I told you,” Baron Domenec Hender said as he slowly climbed to his feet. His joints were old and stiff, and his body had lost much of the strength of his youth, but his hand was sure and steady as he joined the others, matching Rhys’s steady beat.

By the time Barons Cir Recarde and Mervyn Stormwarden had stood, they’d already been joined by more than two dozen knights, and the sound of fists striking chests echoed off the ancient stone walls that had borne witness to generations of Blackwell lords and heroes.

-THUMP-

-THUMP-

-THUMP-

From the knights, it spread to the tradesmen and the rest of the commoners until the entire hall stood resolutely with their lord, and the rhythmic sound of fists striking chests echoed to the rafters.

-THUMP!-

-THUMP!-

-THUMP-

Once every man was standing, Rhys stopped holding his hands up high overhead in a call for silence.

”I am Rhys,” he said in a voice filled with power beyond the strength of his lungs. The pearl earring he wore in one ear gleamed in the light of the hall’s whale oil lamps as he borrowed a measure of its strength to speak with a voice that could be heard from stem to stern of the mightiest ship in his fleet in the fiercest of storms.

”I am Rhys, Lord of the Black Sails, and tonight, I beat the drums of war!”

Several people in the hall glanced at each other uncertainly as Rhys used the ancient form of his title. He didn’t announce himself as ’Rhys, Count of Blackwell’ but as ’Rhys, Lord of the Black Sails.’

No one had used that title since Oisin Blackwell, who had given up the independence of the Nation of Black Sails to join the newly founded Kingdom of Gaal. Ever since then, they had been Blackwells, and the term ’Black Sails’ had faded from memory in almost every household in the County.

”We stand with you!” Baron Mervyn responded in a loud, booming voice that came close to matching Rhys’s echoing tone. But when he spoke again, there was a thread of uncertainty that robbed his voice of half its power. ”But who is our enemy, my Lord? And when do we sail against them?”

Baron Mervyn and all of the lords and knights of Blackwell were well aware of the Holy War brewing in Lothian. Come spring, ships would begin crossing the sea from the old country carrying hundreds, and even thousands of men who had taken up arms in the name of their faith and the opportunity to forge a new life in the new world.

The county had been preparing for several years to take part in the Holy War, but most of their support would be operational. Holy Warriors crossing the sea would leave their original ships behind, boarding Blackwell river boats to make the journey to DuCoumont, where they would be forced to disembark, traveling overland through Otker Canyon to reach Lothian March and the frontier where the war against the Eldritch would be fought.

It was likely that several Blackwell knights and soldiers would join the tide of Holy Warriors fighting in Lothian. Lady Ashlynn had married Lord Owain Lothian after all, and for that reason alone, hundreds of men would set sail to support their lady in her new home.

But Rhys wasn’t calling on them to join in the Holy War early... or at least, Baron Mervyn and the other lords doubted he was, especially if he was calling himself ’Lord of the Black Sails.’ That was a title that could never be used by a man fighting beside the forces of the Church. So, who were they fighting?

”We are at war with half the world, my friend,” Rhys said solemnly. ”With the old countries and the new, with the Church and the Crown. We’re surrounded by foes on all sides,” he said, provoking a wave of gasps from across the hall.

”We’ve been at war for nearly nine months now,” Rhys added. ”And it’s my fault, because at the start of everything, I took the wrong side...”