Howard Robert Ervin. The pool of the black one

Wind-blown wrack
Follow the ships that come not back.
Sancha, once of Kordava, yawned daintily, stretched her supple limbs luxuriously, and composed herself
more comfortably on the ermine-fringed silk spread on the carack's poop-deck. That the crew watched
her with burning interest from waist and forecastle she was lazily aware, just as she was also aware that
her short silk kirtle veiled little of her voluptuous contours from their eager eyes. Wherefore she smiled
insolently and prepared to snatch a few more winks before the sun, which was just thrusting his golden
disk above the ocean, should dazzle her eyes.
But at that instant a sound reached her ears unlike the creaking of timbers, thrum of cordage and lap of
waves. She sat up, her gaze fixed on the rail, over which, to her amazement, a dripping figure clambered.
Her dark eyes opened wide, her red lips parted in an O of surprize. The intruder was a stranger to her.
Water ran in rivulets from his great shoulders and down his heavy arms. His single garment-a pair of
bright crimson silk breeks-was soaking wet, as was his broad gold-buckled girdle and the sheathed
sword it supported. As he stood at the rail, the rising sun etched him like a great bronze statue. He ran his
fingers through his streaming black mane, and his blue eyes lit as they rested on the girl.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "Whence did you come?"
He made a gesture toward the sea that took in a whole quarter of the compass...