As night fell, Caitlyn and Dreighton were awakened to eat.  The captain told Fawnlum’s party to go first, in the galley space in the hold.  Steadying themselves as they climbed below decks, guided by the swaying lights of the lanterns, they let the ship’s cook serve their stew and soft-tack.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” the cook said, “but the crew will be coming down to eat after you’re done.  I’d have my galley cleared for the next line, if y’please.”

“That’s no problem,” Fawnlum replied.  “We’ll take this above.”

“Will y’be through with the dishes by then?  Others will be needin’em, y’know.”

The captain suddenly appeared, quickly descending the stairs, and taking a bottle from behind the cook’s divided door.  “Oi!  Have some Marlot-Gann.  It’s a fine wine made in southwest Calador.”

Fawnlum watched him, observing how the swaying lights of the lamps reflected weirdly off the plates of his gauntlet, as if they gave a hint of his change in manner.

“Captain, we don’t drink unless our host does so with us.”

His eyes did not twitch, but they darted, ever so subtly, taking a quick valuation of her comrades.

“That’s all right, lass.  You’re guests, and you’ll do well with a bit o’this to settle your stomachs, and get yourselves a good night’s sleep.”

No taskmaster as he, would dismiss able bodies lounging off, while the hard-working crew toiled above.  She was about to speak, when a voice, muffled but desperate, called out, “Don’t drink it!”

The barbarians were suddenly quiet and listening.  Fawnlum looked for the source of the call.

“Don’t worry about that,” Quanou said.  “Got a peller locked in the brig.  He’s sleeping it off.”

“I thought that door led to storage.”

“Both are back there.  Now,” he said, pouring a cup.  “Drink up before the aroma fades.”

“I don’t think so.”

The mood changed, like the sudden quiet in the presence of dark clouds before a storm.

“Now, girl, that ain’t polite.”

Through the corner of her eye, she could see one other crewman who had come below.  And he was holding stock-still.  The poised air coming off both was nearly palpable.

The call came again.

“I think we’ll take the ‘peller’s’ advice,” she said, from under heavy brows.

“You want this the hard way girl, fine by me!”

The rest of the crew suddenly poured into the galley, fore and aft, as Quanou’s cutlass flashed out of its scabbard.

Fawnlum was on him in a second, and his quick move parried her first attack.

As her comrades drew steel, she forced him back toward the aft of the ship.

“Well-chosen, Sienna!” she called above the ensuing din.

The pitching of the ship was to the crew’s advantage, as was their greater number.  The reassurance was written on Quanou’s face, as Fawnlum saw his eyes watching the battle over her shoulder.

She smiled in return, meeting his quick slashes and countering them.

He kept trying to work her saber to the side, to open her up for a flanking attack by another crewman, like a good swordsman should.  His frustration was as visible as an orc’s scowl, as Halrick barreled through and removed that crewman.

When his next parry pushed at her blade, she helped it along, sweeping it far to her left and opening him up.  He poised his left arm, preparing to punch with the gauntlet.

On the chance the thing might have some magical power, she struck his cutlass instead of his body, sending it to the deck.   Her right leg snapped out, and kicked his left arm wide.  She cut high instead of straight in, and chopped through his left arm at the elbow, leaving the gauntlet and the limb inside to join the dropped cutlass at his feet.

He wailed as he fell to his knees, and grabbed a thin scarf from around his neck, tying it around the stump in an improvised tourniquet.

Somewhere behind her, Fawnlum heard the impact of a weapon on flesh, as another crewman screamed his last.

Narrow-eyed and breathing through clenched teeth, Quanou winced as two other crewmen – Frout and the cook – were unceremoniously shoved down beside him.

Then suddenly, the only sounds were the creaking of the ship, and the squeaking of the lanterns on their rusty rings.

“Halrick,” Fawnlum asked, “how many more up above?”

“Sienna and Caitlyn are checking,” the big man replied.

“Good.  Dreighton, get that door open.”

Dreighton, for lack of a key, used a pry-bar to force the lock apart, then threw the bolt.

Then Sienna returned.  “We caught one up above.  He’s dead now.”

“Fawnlum,” Dreighton called.

She turned from the beaten villains, and stepped through the threshold.  And she beheld people, tied and gagged and held in cramped iron cages.

The individual she most quickly noticed was a young man wearing facial wounds, with his gag pushed aside.

The girls’ manner of dress Fawnlum had seen before, in the alehouses of Rijult.

The other people wore a foreign style of clothing.

“Hulloh,” the tall boy said with a slow drawl.  To be expected, Fawnlum surmised, considering the cuts on his lips and cheeks under his crude bandages.  His right ear was cut, as if by broken glass, and only the lower lobe remained.

Some of the other people – four men, five women and three children – started mumbling at her furiously.

“Greetings and well met,” she told the ruddy-haired youth.  She gripped one of the bars and examined the lock.  “As soon as we find the keys, we’ll get you out.”

“Right here!”  Caitlyn chirped.  “Compliments of the captain’s cabin.”