Another lesson came with the rowing. A particularly harsh lesson, pertaining to why no sane man raided in winter. The answer was simple. It was a thoroughly miserable affair. The cold was one thing, especially this far North, but the wet was another. Putting the two together created a harsh hell.
Throughout it all, Blackbeard continued to stand on the ship's prow, staring off into the horizon. Vol didn't know what he thought he could see. The rest of them couldn't see anything. A thick fog had fallen with the coming of night, and it was almost impossible to tell where they were going.
But in his hand, Blackbeard held a compass, embedded with a purple crystal of the likes Vol had never seen. The man seemed to put more faith in that device than priests put in the Gods.
"Not long," he said shortly. He'd said that a few times by now. It didn't mean much to the men.
