“Ranald’s balls,” Emmaline goggled as she came down from the deck to find the slaughter in the hold. “They butchered these poor people rather than let them free…” 

Neither Markus, the elves, nor the few surviving prisoners bothered to contradict her mistaken assumption. Blood oozed from the wounds, though it didn’t flow as freely as it might have had the wounds not been partially cauterized by fire. Emmaline had covered her naked chest by the simple expedient of taking a second cloak and wrapping it around her front, binding the two garments in place with a short length of rope. There was a slight jingling as she moved. A cynical person might have thought she had looted the fallen elves of any coins they carried and tucked them down her improvised tunic.

“Can we set sail, they might come back at any moment,” Emmaline fretted as Markus pushed past her. The high elves tried to follow suit, but Emmaline, in no mood to be pushed around, pivoted and blocked them. One of the elves bounced off her rump as she turned and followed Markus up the narrow companion way.

“We are aground,” Markus told her in a tone that suggested he was working to suppress a ‘you idiot’ at the end of the sentence.

“The dark ones will have laid a sea anchor,” one of the elves called past Emmaline.

“In case one of our vessels chanced upon them if nothing else. We might be able to use it to haul ourselves off,” the elf explained. As the reached the deck Emmaline saw that he was right. A dark hauser of rope ran from a capstan at the rear, sinking down to vanish into the water.

“Do you think they will return before high tide?” Emmaline asked. One of the elves shrugged.

“It depends on whether they have done with their sport,” he told her, noble face twisting with distaste. Markus scowled and stared out to see, licking his lips as he tasted the wind. 

“Probably three or four more hours before the tide is in enough to float us,” Makrus declared.

“Do you think the three of you can drag us into the water?” Emmaline asked.

“Put your backs into it!” Emmaline encouraged as she sat on the railing, eating an apple she had found in one of the holds. Markus and the pair of elves paused to glare at her, though none of them suggested that she help. With a silent will they braced themselves against the capstan bars and heaved. The ship groaned and then shifted another six inches, scrapping the gravel beach as the keel slid and then bit again.

“Well don’t stop once you have momentum on your side,” Emmaline chastised as she chewed the delicious flesh of the fruit. Evil degenerates they might be, but the Dark Elves certainly ate well while at sea. The sweating males paused and one of the elves, Indrin he said his name was, muttered something in his own language that made the other elf laugh.

“The tide will be at the hull in another twenty minutes,” Markus said, resting his forearms on his bar. The remaining slaves had remained in their hold, unwilling to join the attempted escape no matter what threats Emmaline had leveled at them. It wasn’t, she thought, that they didn’t believe her, just that they were far more scared of what the Dark Elves would do when they took back the ship. Emmaline gave serious thought to at least driving them into the forest so that they didn’t weigh the ship down, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to send them to certain death in such a fashion.

“Perhaps we can… Asuryan burn them,” Idrin cursed and he bared his teeth. A dozen dark elves were emerging from the forest edge, laughing as they drove a pair of raggedly dressed slaves ahead of them with whips of what looked like thorny vines. Two more elves led a dwarf by a catchpole that was fastened around his neck. Emmaline hopped down, placing timber between herself and the approaching elves.

“If we can hold them off for twenty minutes…” Markus began. One of the Dark Elves shouted something to the ship in his own language. Perhaps wondering where the sentries were. Emmaline walked down the deck, crossing over to put more distance between her and the approaching foes. Idrin shouted something back at them. All the elves stopped, the slaves forgotten. One of the dark elves shouted in alarm and a moment later crossbow quarrels were thumping into the hull. Emmaline squeaked and ran the last few feet to the large bolt thrower. She hauled it round to face towards the elves who were already rushing towards the ship. One of them shouted in alarm and threw himself flat. Emmaline pulled the lever and the strange device spat out a half dozen bolts one of the elves dropped, a quarrel in his neck, another fell cursing with a shattered leg. To Emmaline’s amazement the dwarf grabbed the catchpole and broke it in half, tugging the startled elf off his feet. He grabbed the splintered end and drove it twice into the downed elf’s face. The first blow shattered the creatures proud nose, the second punched the thin bone at the back of its eyesocket into its brain. The dwarf roared at the other two bloodied slaves but both were cowering prostrate on the ground. 

“Run!” Emmaline shouted, though the Dwarf needed no encouragement, he raced across the beach at a lumbering trot, as fast as his stout legs could carry him. One of the dark elves lifted his cross bow to slay the escaping dwarf but Emmaline bleated a word and thick choking smoke blossomed around the would be marksman. A bolt flew from the oily mess, tore a gash in the dwarfs shoulder and vanished into the sea. Markus stood up and fired his own captured crossbow, though if he struck anything Emmaline didn’t see it. The dwarf pounded up the plank then turned and kicked it away.

“The capstan!” Emmaline shouted, making a wild gesture with her free hand. A quarrel slammed into the bolt thrower a few inches from her hand and she yelped and threw herself to the deck. The dwarf took hold of the capstan and heaved. He was nearly as broad as Markus was tall and his muscles were immense. The corded up and bunched as he heaved. With a titanic scraping sound the hull began to drag across the gravel. Markus and the two elves jumped to their own bars and added their strength and a moment later Emmaline felt the water beneath them as the were afloat. The ship began to pick up speed as it moved towards its anchor.

“Cut the line, get that lateen around!” Markus was shouting. Fortunately both elves seemed to know something of sailing. Emmaline pulled her knife free and cut the line to the anchor in three quick strikes. The lateen sail slapped in the wind for a moment before the elves hauled the boom into place and it billowed out, beginning to drive them out to sea. Markus had made it to the tiller where he crouched down for cover against the crossbow bolts and elven curses that were hurled at his departing back. Indrin’s friend, whose name Emmaline hadn’t caught, took a step towards the dwarf. A fist the size of a ham caught the elf across the jaw and dropped him to the deck.

“These are friendly elves,” Emmaline shouted in alarm. The dwarf spit a gobbet of phlem and blood into the ocean.

“Nay soouch thing lass,” he glowered, glaring at Idrin who was keeping a safe distance.