"Rifle!" Markus cried, sheathing his accursed sword and racing across the deck, ragged cloak flying. He called for it again, and Sketti came out of the hold with an old flintlock in hand. Markus lifted his hand even as the dwarf chucked it at Markus. They had no doubt confiscated and taken most arms, but a few had been kept hidden by the meticulous quartermaster. If you wanted something hidden or found, you got a dwarf. Their eyes could see imperfections in stone impeccably, but they could use their eyes in a similar vein when it came to timber and steel, though perhaps to a lesser extent.

Markus raced up the aft-castle as the Hammer rocked from the virulent waves, the barrel of the rifle flipping into his other waiting hand as he hefted the weapon.

"Loaded and ready!" The dwarf bellow from the deck, but Markus didn't need to be informed. A wind rushed by him, spraying droplets of water across hid dark mane of hair. His body nor his aim were moved, closing one eye as he lowered the other to level with the iron sights. The dark sorceress was swiftly fading away, though he could tell she wished to catch up even without her steed. Thunder rumbled across the turbulent seascape, and Markus waited with bated patience as the ship rocked from another wave. A fell voice rose in the air, and men wailed as they heard another spell about to be unleashed. Markus merely breathed out and in, still as stone.

Lightning raked across the sky, and as the thunder followed, so did the rifle shot. Smoke mingled with the smell of sweat and sea water, and as the light faded across the sky, Markus saw the figure of the sorceress suddenly plummet towards the waves. He kept his eye on the horizon for another moment, but he could see naught but darkness and the silhouette of the jagged, druchii spires that threatened to pierce the clouds.

Emmaline had climbed the steps, blowing bits of her golden hair out of her face, looking at him in bewilderment. "The spell...did you hit her? From this dista-aaaOOMMM"

Markus had thrown the rifle to the floor of the deck, grabbed Emmaline and pulled her in to a kiss that was filled with the celebratory energy of a man that had escaped desperation. He pulled away from her, but still held her in his arms. He didn't specify, but he was thinking of her work on the chain and the death of the pegasus. "I knew I kept you around for some reason." He said with a fierce grin, and then his eyes went down to her heaving chest. "One of the reasons, anyway. Good job, Emma."

"What now, Captain!?" Sketti called up, and Markus, holding Emmaline, was now overlooking the whole crew on the deck, watching him fervently. The pirate squeezed his woman to him with one arm, and in the other he unsheathed his black sword as lightning wreathed the sky.

"Onto to the orient, lads! We'll stop at the next isle and forage for food, then to Ind and all the plunder of their forgotten gods!"

Two Weeks Later

"This is crazy, its un'atural 'ain 'it?" Carlos demanded. He was a big man, a former Marienburg stevedore who still had the odd clipped accent of the lower class of the great merchant entrepot. Emmaline, sitting on a nearby rock, was inclined to agree. The Hammer lay at anchor in the shallow bay with most of her crew ashore. They had escaped the clutches of the dark elves, several sails had been spotted in pursuit, but the violent storm had provided cover. Markus had turned them south and held the heading, confounding the elves reasonable assumption that they would run for Ulthan or the Old World. Instead he had brought them here, to this shallow bay with its sparsely wooded hinterland. It was, she was told and isthmus, though she was only vaguely aware of what that was. Markus, Sketti and the two elves had talked incessantly for days, discussing the lead that Van Robert's had on them and the impossibility of making it up before the trade winds changed or some such nautical nonsense.

The solution was, apparently, simple. If they couldn't beat Van Roberts around the continent, then they would have to go over it. Under Sketti's direction the crew were engaged in clear cutting the sparsely wooded plain infront of them. Trees were felled, shorn of branches, and then laid a few feet apart to form rollers. A rough corridor was forming, that would mark the voyage of the hammer across seven miles of plain to the head waters of a river which would take her to the eastern sea. It seemed an impossible task, but Sketti assured them it was possible and as it was the only practical method of beating Van Roberts, it was necessary. Markus was yelling at the crew as they fastened great hawsers of anchor cable around the largest surviving trees. Other crew members were busy unloading guns, ballast and supplies, transferring them to sleds that could be hauled more easily. Anything that could lighten the ship was being hauled by hand to reduce the chances of her breaking her back or becoming hopelessly mired far from the ocean. For her own part Emmaline was standing before one of their former cannons, creatively convinced to take the form of a cauldron for her current purpose. A reeking brew of seaweed bubbled in it, heated by a constant fire fueled by the branches shorn from trees. Every ten minutes or so she skimmed a gallon or so of grease off the top into water barrels donated for the purpose. Crew men took the grease and spread it on the first score of rollers with mops, making them glisten in the morning sun.

"Alright!" Markus called, "We are ready. Begin!"

Out on the Hammer the Capstan's began to turn. Slowly the hawsers raised out of the water, pulling taught. Everyone had paused in their labors to watch. Emmaline could here the distant thrum of a shanty.

"Roll and go! Roll and go!"

With infinite slowness the ship approached the shore. Crewmen, neck deep in water held the first few rollers in place, the prow forcing them under the water and down to the gravel bottom. The Hammer juddered and came to a halt.

"Pump me boys, pump her dry!"

With shuddering groans the ship continued to move, slowly sliding up onto the beach, the making tide following her along as far as she could go.

"Down to hell and up to the sky!"

The ship slid up and out of the water completely, seeming to pick up a little speed as solid ground and greased rollers got under neath her.

"Bend your backs and break your bones!"

Lesser cables were run to other trees, hauling side ways to keep the great vessel straight. This had to be repeated every fifty feet or so, but so far between Markus and Sketti they were keeping it going. Emmaline had imagined they would use the sails for motive force but Markus had explained this was impossible, the balance was too delicate to allow for such unpredictable things as wind.

"We're just a thousand miles from home!"

With the slow majesty of the avalanche the ship began to move across the plain. It was less than a walking pace, and men grabbed rollers which had been passed over and hauled them to the front of the line to be reused.

"I will be buggered," Emmaline breathed. This might just be crazy enough to work.

"Elngraz deb!" Sketti muttured, if one could call it that. Every word he said was close to a shout so the men could hear his dissatisfaction. Even yelling khazalid, they could feel his pleasure or his anger at the inflection. "Put yer back into it, Robert! Krunk Umgi!"

Out of the surf came Markus and those men that had been handpicked to push the ship out of the deep, rising like the spirit of Luthor Harkon himself. Water trickled down his matted black hair and his nose, but his eyes never wavered, ever forward as his men shoved with him. It wasn't until he felt sand without the splash of water did he glance to his left, seeing Emmaline gaping at the sight of the ship rolling over the ground. A handful of men heaved the last log, running it to the fore of the line as the others kept The Hammer moving inexorably forward. Morgan oversaw the movement of supplies, patting them men on the backs and giving them encouraging words as they set the barrels and crates on the hastily made sleds.

"Mister Jones!" Markus called, and one of the younger fellows helping categorize the stores ran over to take over Markus's labors, tossing him his drucchi sword and his brace of pistols. The captain caught them with ease, strapping them to his soaked leathers and belts with a few quick tugs, before unsheathing his sword. He had begun to sport a light goatee, but even with his drenched clothing and his lack of grooming, he still looked a far sight less philistine than his men; a longsword amongst hammers.

"Steady now!" He cried, lifting his sword. The men groaned in unison as the ship made its way past the undulating sand. Even with Sketti's technical genius and Markus's leadership, it was a precarious thing. The plains were a much better prospect than dense jungle, but even with the dotted copses of trees and shrubs, they were hopelessly exposed. Above them, the sun peeked through the clouds like a jealous lover, the storm having made the sky a smattering of intermingling grey and blue. Markus bellowed: "Steady all! Push!"

He thrust his sword high in the air, the gleaming black metal a sign of his deadly reputation. The men heaved, grunting with exertion. Markus was not sure if they could make it seven sigmar-damned miles, but he was not going to voice that concern. He moved forward, stalking past Emmaline just a few short meters away. The blonde hurried to meet him, still eyeing the ship every now and again. "You were right." She admitted. "I can't believe it's working."

"Keep away from it in case it falls," he whispered to her. She blinked incredulously, opening her mouth to speak before realizing he had not stopped. She stumbled over a shrub and did her best to catch up. Markus began pointing to various men who were finishing their loading tasks, telling them to grab cutlasses and axes to help clear the way. Markus took his blade, and with his men began to move aside any stone or cut a swathe through whatever vegetation might pause The Hammer's slow advance.

Halfdan was at the bow of the ship; a morale booster for the men behind, huge muscles bulging as he pushed with all his might. The two elves, Idrin and Sulandar, were with Markus. Their eyes and grace helped them clear the way like a pair of flowing scythes. Sketti was too short to help push, but he pulled a heavy cart of supplies like a harnessed bulldog over the barren terrain, keeping an eye on the ship as he moved. Every now and then he would drop it and move a log to give the haulers a break. The men were taller, with longer legs, but a dwarf had thrice the stamina of most men. He moved like the organic machine he was.

After an hour, perhaps two, Markus wiped the sweat from his brow. If he had to guess, they seemed about halfway. He noticed there was naught but the wind and grunting around them, and men began to complain loudly. He cleared his throat. "Calder!"

An old salt from Hochland, who pulled a cart with a few other men, looked up at him. Markus jerked his head to the ship, Clader knowing the sign well. The gnarled man cleared his throat, and raised his head as he pulled.

"Now we are ready to sail for the horn! Weigh! Hey! Roll, and go! Our boots and our clothes, boys, are all in the pawn! To be rollickin' randy, dandy, oh!" He sang, his voice rising to tenor, leaving behind the gravel and piercing into the gifted voice of a man far younger.

"Heave a' ho! Heave a'way! Weigh! Hey! Roll and Go!" The men answered in unison, their voices rising. Markus nodded, satisfied in the complaints being drowned out. It was a hard day, but at the pace they were going, it was very possible they were going to make it. At his side, Emmaline had kept pace with him, though 'keeping pace' was tantamount to her walking leisurely and pointing out small saplings and stones for Markus to remove, shielding her eyes from the sun with her fair hand when it decided to show itself. It was only when Markus smacked her backside with the flat of his blade that she started to help, albeit reluctantly.

It was just a half a mile forward, as they passed a large boulder embedded in the soft earth, when Emmaline sighed with exaggerated frustration. As she batted her fringe out of her eyes, she caught a glimpse of movement to the south. She blinked, the figure disappearing behind a small collection of trees, if something had been there at all. Pursing her lips, she went back to cutting up dried shrubs with a keen knife, before she felt a strange tingle in her sense. The faint, residual feeling of a distant wind of magic. It was devoid of life, smelling almost like ash, though it was not her nose that felt the sensation. She peered up again, and that time she knew she saw something slink away into the gently rolling landscape.

"Markus?" She said, and he turned from his work to look to her. She pointed southward, and when he gave her a confused look, she pointed more emphatically. Concern spread in her face, and the captain rose up with pantherish grace. He strode over to her, eyes on the southern undergrowth, not blinking. For a moment, he saw nothing. But then he felt what she felt, his arcane skill lesser than hers but still present, and then moments later, he saw it. His eyes widened.

"Steady men!" He yelled, hefting his sword and taking a pistol out of his baldric, cocking the blackpowder weapon. He barked at the men with him. "Indrin, Sulandar, Hoch, Fernando! All o' you!" Eight heads lifted up. "Look alive!"

"Ghouls!" Frankfurt wailed from the ship-line, his usually gruff demeanor giving way to superstitious horror as the enemy that stalked them finally chose to show themselves. Out of the trees and shrubbery, mottled and grey things loped into view on long limbs, making terrible gains of distance in the span of a few short seconds. Their faces shorn of skin, with gaping mouths of sharp, broken teeth, two dozen of the abominations sprinted at them on all fours like skinned wolves. Bones protruding from their backs, they were a grisly sight, even for the rough men of The Hammer. Markus had read of them in Dolmann's Studies of the Occult. Though tainted by dark magic and cursed by cannibalism, they were technically alive, still. They were men, twisted into corrupt forms after eating their own until it formed them into loathesome things valued by necromancers as attack dogs. What they were doing here was a question he would ask himself once he had given them a permanent death.

Markus glanced at the men rolling the ship, seeing them with wide eyes and fear on their faces. If the ghouls reached them, the ship would not only halt, but fall onto the plains and moor it permanently. Morgan and Sketti came to that conclusion just as Markus did, Morgan crying for them men to keep going as Sketti dropped his reigns and hooked a spear-hook onto his brass arm, before lifting a scattergun in his true hand.

It would have been smarter to remain where they were, set themselves up and fire in a roughly constructed line of pistoliers, riflemen, and crossbowmen. But that would give an easy opening for those ghouls that did survive to reach the ship and the exposed crew. So Markus decided a different plan, one Emmaline saw without him having to explain. He brandished his blade and screamed, drawing the attention of the charging crypt ghouls. "Come on, you bastards!" Before glancing at his men. "For Gold and golden women!"

"Gold and golden women!" His men cried as Markus charged forward, and at the sight, they followed their captain quickly. The elves did not give a battle cry, instead gliding forward silently with their keen blades as the pack of ghouls wheeled like a flock of birds towards Markus, garnering their ravenous attention. There was a horrible screech and a warble of inhuman sounds before the squad of pirates opened fire, and blackpowder smoke plumed just before the two groups collided in a maelstrom of steel and claws on the plains of the isthmus.

Emmaline ran back towards the ship waving her arms and screaming. The sound of combat echoed around. Swords crunched into flesh, men screamed and ghouls howled. The cacophony spread, monkeys chittered and flights of brightly colored birds burst from the trees to the relative safety of the sky. By the time she reached the ship the men hauling it were beginning to slack on the cables. Unfortunately the men on the starboard watch, closer to the action, were doing so faster than there companions to port. The result was that the ship was already beginning to turn on her greased runners, and within a few seconds was likely to capsize.

“Keep pulling!” she screamed, grabbing the nearest crew member and shoving him back towards a rope he had just abandoned. The crewman snarled and lifted a fist to strike at her, then saw who it was and thought better of it

“What is happening?” he demanded, his hand on his cutlass and his eyes towards the sounds of the fighting.

“The ship is going to fall over if you dont…” there was a sudden grinding sound. Emmaline eeped and bolted back towards Markus as the ship began to tip over on its wooden rollers. It seemed slow at first, but accelerated as men screamed and ran from the ropes. A great shadow came down over Emmaline and she felt a pang of despair as she realised she wasn't going to make it. Uselessly she covered her head as thousands of pounds of wood smashed down atop her with a sound like the world ending.

Death took longer than Emmaline imagined. So long in fact that she opened one eye to see what was keeping it. To her surprise she was very much still alive. Against all odds the falling ship had come down in just such a way that one of the open gun ports had passed her through the hull. Timber all around her groaned and she shuddered to think of what had happened to the rigging, not to mention the members of the crew who hadn’t run fast enough. She was very lucky that all the guns and stores had already been unloaded or she would have been smashed to paste regardless. There was enough light that she could clamber along to the waist of the ship. The gratings were gone and she could see along the length of the mainmast now laying horizontal on the ground. All around her were the cries of wounded and dying men, some partially crushed, other torn by flying ropes or showers of splinters. And if all that wasn’t bad enough there were still ghouls out there.

“Great.” Emmaline sighed.

The ghouls fought with savagery only greenskins or daemons could match, frothing at the mouth and rending with their elongated claws. They scrambled over one another to get at the corsairs, leaping like hellish frogs and screeching a pale wail into the air. What was most horrifying was that, despite the bestial nature, Markus could see the men they had once been. If one had been given a bath, their claws and teeth filed, and they had been clothed, they could almost be human. It was unnerving, and if Markus were a more charitable man he would have felt a twinge of anguish at his fellow man for devolving into such a state, or philosophically question what was it that truly made a human being?

Fortunately, he didn't bleeding care one way or another. Men, elf, dwarf, everyone was a bastard, and he would kill anyone that got in thrice-damned his way.

"Muere bastardo!" Fernando cried, weaving through the pack with his rapier, skewering and dancing out of the way of sweeping talons. He was one of the few on his crew that Markus would have had to work for to beat in a sword fight. Beside him, Bernard the deckhand cut down a ghoul with a number of hacks from his cutlass, only for another to tackle him, bloodily tearing his throat out on the grass. The elves weaved with their blades in unison, monsters nearly catching them every few moments, only to be scant inches from cutting the high ones before they slipped away. Eckard was cut across the arm by a clawed hand, but the ghoul's head exploded in viscera as Sketti entered the fray with his smoking pistol. Halfdan would have been an easy target for the ghouls, for his big body would have made it hard for him to dodge poisoned claws, but he bore a torn door as a shield and shoved the ghouls with his immense strength, brutalizing two of them with his axe. The battle took only a minute, perhaps a minute and a half, and when the last ghoul was bludgeoned into the ground by Sketti's brass appendage, that was when the creaking of the ship became evident.

Markus turned, and watched his prized possession keel over with the distant, sluggish inevitability of a landslide. He saw his men running from The Hammer's bulk as ropes snapped. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of a blonde head disappearing beneath the rubble, utterly crushed. He took a step toward the crashing craft, frustration and rage on his face. The loss of his ship and the apparent loss of his lover dragged out a loud roar of: "No! NO! NOOOOO!"

He did not even count the casualties, though later Morgan would report five dead, one wounded, and four survivors from the battle. Instead, Markus sprinted toward the fallen ship, his eyes drinking in every splintered piece of wood, every crumbled layer of timber, his very freedom wrecked on this worthless spit of land on the ass-end of the world. Morgan cried for men to get away from the ship in case its integrity was truly compromised. He saw Markus coming, and his relief at Markus's survival was shortlived when he waved for him to stop. "Captain, yer woman... she tried to save the- wait, lad!" Markus only now realizing he was charging straight ahead, too close to what would be an enormous hazard.

"Captain wait!" The old seadog implored him, but he didn't listen. With a knife in his teeth, he took hold of a fallen line and began pulling himself up the vertical deck, even before the dust had settled. The ship gave a familiar creak under his feet, which was a good sign. The balustrade had mostly held, even on the port side. The mast hadn't snapped, though it did look damaged. Gingerly, he pulled himself up to the cargo hatch, took his knife and elbowed his way until his ass rested on the lip of it.

"I'll be damned," Markus breathed, shaking his head in utter incredulity. Not only was the majority of the ship's innards intact but less than a dozen feet below him, standing in the center of a gunpost was his lover, the fiery golden agent of chaos herself. "Emma, how the hells are you still alive?" His voice betrayed he was pleased, despite the callous question.

"Can you just get me out of here!" She demanded, waving her arms. He shook his head in disbelief. He did not know if she was a blessing or a curse. But whatever she was, she was his woman. He looked around to make sure nothing was about to crumble, and then tied the rope to his waist, flipping the dagger to an off-hand grip. He swung himself down, lowering his body close enough for her to grab.

"You good?" He asked her as she wrapped her arms around him. She nodded, and he couldn't help but give a grin, before he carried her back up, using the sturdy dagger to help in the climb like a pick. "We'll get you some chocolates when we can, love."

"And rum." She said.

"Aye, that too." He replied.

Rum and chocolate both helped but neither the cocoa bean or juice of sugar cane could do much about the ship. The Hammer lay on her side, scantlings and broken rigging scattered in all directions. It was a blessing that the cannons and supplies had been unloaded to lighten the ship otherwise the tons of loose metal careening about might have smashed her to pieces.

“We can raise her cap’n,” Sketti declared as they sat beneath the shadow of the hull around their camp fire. Exhausted and dispirited sailors sat at their own fires, though a fair number were forming a perimeter around the ship, insurance it was to be hoped against another ghoul attack. Markus arched any eyebrow at the first mate, though it must have been what he wanted to hear.

“Be no different than carreen’er,” Sketti insisted stubbornly. Emmaline had seen the ship careened once before, where the Hammer was run up on a beach so the barnacles and sea weed could be scraped from her bottom. One of her few contributions to the ship had been to work an enchantment that prevented ship worms and sea weed from taking hold.

“When you are careening you have the incoming tide to float her Sketti,” Markus said, not quite contradicting the prickly dwarf but making a good point.

“RANALD’S BALLS!” Emmaline screamed as she leaped to her feet. Less than five feet away stood a creature out of nightmare. It was perhaps Sketti’s height though reptilian in aspect, its head was long and narrow like the iguanas Emmaline had seen at the imperial zoo. Surely no iguana had such intelligence in it’s large glassy eyes, nor did they walk upright. A great crest surmounted its head and it rose and fell in time with the inflation of its throat. The skin of the thing looked black in the firelight, though it was probably a very dark green in the sun. Patches of it’s bare hide had been covered with red ochre and small charms of obsidian or some other dark stone hung from a gold torc around its neck. It carried a staff, or perhaps a spear in one hand, a leather bag of some kind tied around the end with braided rope.

“Cccallm yoursssselves,” the thing croaked as Markus leaped to his feet and whipped his sword up almost as fast as they eye could follow, his boot striking a timber and spraying sparks up into the tropical dark.

“Ssemmaline,” the creature hissed and the word alone paused Markus all but mid thrust. There was a moment of frozen silence broken only by the crackling of the damp firewood.

“What did you say?” Emmaline asked, voice shrill and more than a little worried she was going out of her mind. The creature cocked its head at her in a disturbing alien gesture.

“Your ssscoming isss foretold, Ssemmaline,” the creature said. Emmaline became aware of the huge effort the lizard was exerting to make it’s vocal cords produce the human sounds, braids of tough muscle vibrating in its neck. Markus touched the tip of his sword to the things breast bone.

“Ok, what do you want with her?” Markus asked, his voice deceptively calm, like a sea in which the swell was building. If the lizardman was afraid he didn’t show it.

“Nossssing… ssshe issss a problem wherever ssshe goess.,” the lizard replied.

“Hey!” Emmaline objected. Sketti snorted and Markus’ lip quirked upwards.

“Ssshe bearsss the mark of the…” the lizard man made a sound that none of them could translate. The lizard lifted a taloned hand and pointed at Emmaline. By now a gaggle of sailors armed and nervous was gathering, though none seemed willing to move to violence without Markus order. Emmaline looked down at herself, then raised an arm on which the strange tattoo she had picked up in Estillea seemed to write.

“Yesssss it isss time,” the lizard replied, averting his eyes from the tattoo as though it shone a bright light. Emmaline covered the tattoo with the sleeve of her tunic feeling oddly subconscious.

“Time for what?” she demanded angrily.

“A sstrade,” the creature replied, unperturbed or simply not noticing Emmaline’s anger.

“A trade?” Emmaline suggested with an arched eyebrow. The lizard man nodded, the charms on his golden collar jingling slightly as he did so.

“You will recover the idolsss that were ssstolen by the dead that do not die,” the lizard hissed, making a vague gesture to the north with his spear/staff.

“And what do we get?” Markus asked, prodding the creature with the point of his sword.

“We will get your sssship to the sssunset sssea,” the creature replied, making a broad gesture to point towards the west. Emmaline glanced at the half destroyed hammer skeptically.

“Who is we?” she asked. Rather than responding the creature leaned back, stretching to its full height and extending his crest. He let out a weird series of hooting hisses that echoed off the nearby hull. A moment later the same cry came from the darkness, dozens or hundreds of cries that stifled the caws of native birds and rustled the jungle all around.