The Vampire & Her Witch

”The Witchwood Fleet still sleeps in the caves of Broken Bow Isle. Is it time for them to set sail again and take back what was always ours?”

Baron Stackpole’s words provoked a fresh wave of mutters and whispers, particularly among the common folk in the Great Hall.

The Witchwood Fleet was a legend, one deliberately lost to time. Those ships had been built for a war that seemed like it would never come, at the end of an era. None had ever sailed to war or belched fire upon the sea. Instead, they lay in wait in the caves of Broken Bow Isle, surrounded by shipwrecks and the ghosts of years gone by.

Among the people of Blackwell, there were legends of a ’Ghost Fleet’ or of Phylip’s Lost Fleet. From time to time, treasure seekers ventured out among the isles, searching for signs of the mysterious fleet. In the markets, every now and then, you could even find men selling maps that claimed to show the way to Phylip’s hidden treasures and the final resting place of the Black Tide.

Like all tall tales of the sea, there was a bit of truth at the center of the mystery, but the truth of these ships wasn’t one that most would want to hear.

”We’re not ready for the Witchwood Fleet,” Rhys said, shaking his head at Breton before picking up his doublet and slipping it back on.

”I received a very brief lesson from the Witch of Deep Currents,” Rhys explained with a light chuckle as he picked up a pitcher of water from the table. He held a hand out over the pitcher. ”Water, turn and swirl, by the motion of my hand,” he commanded while slowly moving his hand in a circle.

”This is the limit of what I can do after several days of practice,” Rhys said as he slowly raised his hand. For a moment, it looked like nothing was happening, but then, once his hand had moved a few inches upwards, a swirling spout of water, resembling a dust devil, rose up out of the water pitcher.

Some people sitting at the lower tables moved back instinctively before they could force themselves to be still. Others leaned forward in awe at the demonstration of a form of power clearly different from the miracles of the Church.

A few at the tables occupied by knights began to imagine Lord Rhys’s demonstration on a much larger scale and what would happen if he could form a whirlpool beneath the bow of a ship. Even if he could only target the small boats used to ferry boarding parties from one ship to another, the result could still doom an entire cutter full of men who would never even have a chance to draw their swords!

”With time, and practice, we can learn the forgotten songs,” Rhys said slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration. ”But I am not Phylip. He was the Witch of Ebbing Tides. He could draw upon the strength of the waves themselves and weave that power through his ship. We must limit ourselves to the power of our own flesh and blood, and we risk death if we draw too much,” he said, flicking his hand and allowing the waterspout to fall back into the pitcher with a quiet -plop.-

”Lady Esselk’ti was very clear in the warnings she gave me,” Rhys said, looking first at his barons and then the knights, many of whom were obviously thinking about what they could do with the sort of power Rhys had just demonstrated.

Most importantly, however, he took a long, searching look at the people who had drawn back in fear, seeking the look he’d seen so often from Maela when the Blackwell distrust of the Church rubbed up against the bedrock of her faith.

It was hard to imagine any zealots among the descendants of the First Crew, but life had a way of changing people, and Rhys had seen firsthand how the Church could exploit a tragedy like a lost loved one or a stillborn child to sink its claws into a person’s heart.

He didn’t see any of the pale-faced sweating that so often accompanied a crisis of faith, nor the tight fists and narrowed eyes of a zealot’s hatred for all things Eldritch, but many people still shifted uncomfortably, especially when he mentioned the cost of sorcery.

”We must respect this ancient power the same way we respect the sea herself,” Rhys said in the hopes of making it more familiar. ”Any man who thinks his vessel is stronger than tempests and tides will be taught a harsh lesson by the world’s most uncaring mistress, and sorcery is no different. We are like children in rowboats,” he said, giving his honest assessment of where matters stood.

”The Witchwood Fleet will set sail someday soon,” Rhys promised. ”All children grow up eventually, and we will gain control of the fleet either because we mastered sorcery, or because we receive my daughter’s help. She’s the Mother of Trees after all,” he said with a proud smile. ”Her predecessor gifted us the trees that became the Witchwood Fleet. If anyone can help us unlock their tremendous strength, I’m certain that she can.”

”Then do we sail upriver?” Baron Domenec asked. ”No ship in the fleet can traverse the rapids of the Luath through Otker Canyon, but we can make for DuCoumont at dawn and...”

”No, not yet,” Rhys interrupted. ”I want to, more than you can imagine,” he said with a heavy sigh. ”But winter is harsh in Lothian. Storms of snow and hail blanket the land, and nothing much moves until the thaw in spring. Even if we sailed west, we’d face a slow and tedious slog across the whole of Lothian March to meet her in the Vale of Mists.”

”Worst of all, if we move against the Lothians directly, now, then we leave the gate open behind us for the Holy Warriors to come as reinforcements for the Lothian lords. So, as much as I want to rush to her side, before I do, we have to shut the gate behind us, and for that, we’ll need allies.”

”The Eldritch?” Baron Mervyn asked. ”Are there any who would come to fight beside us? Or some hidden away to the south, close enough to court as allies?”

”No,” Rhys said firmly. ”I refuse to reach out to the Eldritch until we’ve struck the first blow ourselves. Any negotiations we have with the nearest Eldritch nations or clans will benefit greatly from a demonstration of our resolve. Any conversation before we’ve proven ourselves with our deeds will only flounder in fear while they worry about whether or not we’re drawing them into a trap.”

”If not the Eldritch to the south or the forces Lady Ashlynn has allied with, then whom do we seek as allies?” Baron Domenec asked, tugging at his white beard as he tried to think about who else would stand with them against the Crown and the Church. ”You can’t be thinking...”

”I’m afraid I am, old friend,” Rhys said solemnly. ”We need to buy time to prepare. Time to learn sorcery and pull the Witchwood Fleet from the berths where it slumbers. Time to produce vast quantities of Floating Fire for our dromons and our forts. Time to reach out to Ashlynn and align our efforts with hers.”

”But the Holy Warriors will begin arriving from across the sea in just two or three months,” Rhys said. ”It’s not enough time to build up our own forces for a war on all sides, but we don’t have to fight an open war yet. Our first priority should be to stop as many of the Church’s ships from safely crossing the sea as we can.”

”Men who never reach our shores can’t threaten Ashlynn while she fights the Lothians, and they can’t infest our cities or our isles to become a serpent at our breast,” Rhys said. ”For that kind of work, can you think of better allies than the ones we’ll find among the pirate fleets?”