Someone shouted from the rigging, and Klâtäs craned his head to search the night ahead.
“What is it?” Welstiel asked.
“The elf ship . . . come fast . . . we are seen!”
Welstiel looked out past the prow. “Put men on the ballistae. Now!”
Leesil roused from half-sleep as Magiere thrashed against him. She rolled toward the narrow bunk’s edge, and he tried to grab for her, but she slipped over to the floor.
“Magiere?”
He pushed up onto one elbow, trying to come fully awake in the dim light.
Magiere crouched on all fours. Both of them were fully clothed, since they had to share a cabin with Wynn and Chap. Amber light glinted in her black hair hanging around her face—and she was panting.
Had she been dreaming again? Perhaps another nightmare?
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
He clutched blindly for the lantern or whatever light Wynn had forgotten to put out, but he couldn’t get a grip on it.
“Leesil . . . ?” Magiere whispered, and started to lift her head.
With a frustrated grunt, Leesil sat up and reached out. The light didn’t come from a lantern.
At the head of the long bunk ledge, he saw the topaz amulet Magiere had given him. It glowed softly.
Leesil sucked in a harsh breath and looked at Magiere.
Yellow light exposed her pale features through the tendrils of her hair. Her irises were blacker than the room’s shadows.
An eerie wail rang out from somewhere in the ship.
“Chap?” Leesil said, but Chap wasn’t in the room—and neither was Wynn. “Oh, dead deities!”
Magiere scrambled up, snatched her falchion, and jerked open the cabin door.
“Where are they?” Leesil growled. “And how could an undead get on board?”
She didn’t answer and ran out as he snatched up the amulet and pulled its loop over his head. He grabbed one of his winged blades, but with no time to strap it on, he threw aside the sheath and raced out.
Running, he caught up to Magiere as she slammed the hatch door with her palm. Its latch shattered, and they both burst onto the deck at the ship’s seaward side.
The crew raced about purposefully. Several of them strung longbows and shouldered quivers. But Leesil saw no sign of a conflict or fight.
“Wynn?” he shouted, and then spotted her before his call faded.
She ran toward him with Osha close behind as they rounded the cargo grate. She skidded to a stop before the shore-side forward hatch.
“Leesil . . . Magiere? I was coming for you.” Wynn whirled, pointing ahead. “Undead . . . another ship ahead . . . Chap sensed undead and ran up the forecastle!”
Magiere leaped to the cargo grate’s edge, running past Wynn, and Leesil heard Chap cut loose another shuddering howl. Several elven crew members cast frightened glances toward the bow as the sound spread over the deck.
Leesil started to follow but stopped short when Sgäile appeared from the other forward hatch. He was struggling to pull on his tunic. All around, crew scrambled as the hkomas shouted over Chap’s howls. Sgäile twisted about in the commotion, pausing to listen to elven voices. He grabbed for Leesil as he stepped in beside Osha.
“The ship will need a wide berth,” he said. “The hkomas will head seaward to bypass the other vessel. Be ready to assist as needed.”
“No,” Wynn said quickly. “The other ship turned out to sea. We are closing for a look.”
“What?” Sgäile asked in open surprise. “If it is Ylladon, that is folly! This is not a fighting vessel.”
Chap’s howls waned, and Leesil stepped back to peer up into the forecastle. The dog hung upon the forward rail-wall with Magiere.
“Show me!” she growled, her voice nearly lost in the noise on deck.
Chap stretched his head out as far as he could. Magiere leaned over the dog to follow his sightline.
“What is that?” Sgäile whispered.
Leesil glanced at him in confusion and found both Osha and Sgäile staring at him. No, rather, at his chest. He looked down once to the soft yellow glow of the amulet.
“Magiere gave it to me,” he said, frustrated by the distraction. “It glows when we’re near an undead.”
“That is why Chap is howling,” Wynn added urgently. “He wants to hunt . . . because he senses an undead. And it is on that other ship!”
Sgäile exhaled sharply, as if overwhelmed.
Two pairs of elven sailors thumped up the aft hatchway. One set carried a tall, stout wooden stand, while the other hauled a long heavier bulk wrapped in canvas. They trotted along the seaward rail-wall and up onto the aftcastle.
One pair set the stand on the aftcastle’s seaward side, and the second pair mounted the canvas bulk on top. When they ripped off the covering, the first two lifted a broad steel bow, and then locked it down across the mounted stock of a ballista.
Two more crewmen ran past Leesil for the forecastle and its shoreward side.
“It appears the hkomas made extra preparations for this journey,” Sgäile said and glanced to Osha. “There are also swimmers in the heart-room.”
Osha’s long face went slack as he looked toward the stern.
Before Leesil asked what this meant, both anmaglâhk headed up the forecastle stairs. Leesil grabbed Wynn’s small hand to follow.
Magiere and Chap still hung upon the bow, peering intently out to sea. Chap ceased howling but fidgeted anxiously, and Magiere’s irises were so fully black it was hard to tell if they were focused on anything in the dark. But when Leesil looked ahead, his own gaze locked on the ship.
He’d assumed the other ship was still a good distance off, but its square sails clearly caught the moonlight. The vessel aimed a course to pass on the elven ship’s seaward side—then it veered.
Wynn’s hand tightened on Leesil’s fingers. “They are coming straight at us!”
Chane hauled the two bound elven women onto the deck by their hand shackles. The adult one was as tall as himself, though her slender build seemed as fragile as her younger companion. Neither had struggled when he pulled them from the hidden cell, but both jerked back as they emerged on the dark deck.
Even without light, they saw the feral monks hovering about. The bodies of the two slaughtered sailors were gone, but the curly-haired feral licked at the blood running upon the deck. The younger elf’s voice filled with breathy panic as she said something to the elder.
Chane’s anxiety for Wynn began to grow.
Sailors prepared ballistae under the watchful eyes of the hungry ferals. Men pulled off tarps and cocked back cable strings with cranks on the heavy weapons’ stocks. Each ballista swiveled upon a tall stand mounted to the deck and all pointed forward along the ship’s course. Quarrels the length of Chane’s body were slid into place, their long steel heads wrapped in oil-soaked cloth.
Two more sailors came from below, carrying buckets of glowing coals.
“Keep those covered until we are ready to fire,” Welstiel called, and Klâtäs echoed his command to the crew.
Welstiel trotted along the deck, weaving between the crew and his crouching ferals. He grabbed the shackles of the adult female out of Chane’s grip.
“Bring the other,” he ordered and passed by.
“This is too risky!” Chane hissed, holding his ground with his own captive. “What if Wynn—or your precious Magiere—is hit by a burning sail as it falls?”
Welstiel ignored him and shoved his captive toward the prow. He turned and called out to the helmsman, “How soon can we fire?”
Chane turned as well.
The captain’s body was gone, likely thrown overboard, and Klâtäs held the wheel tightly in both hands. His face was as rigid and white as his knuckles.
“When closer,” the helmsman shouted back. “We first fire at deck side. Cause fear and running. Keep elves busy and slowed.”
“No!” Chane shouted. “You might kill anyone on that side of the ship.”
Again, both Welstiel and the helmsman ignored him, and Chane charged after Welstiel, dragging his young captive.
Welstiel removed his captive’s lower shackles and tied a rope end around her ankles. She struggled only at the last, until he grabbed her by the throat. Welstiel shoved, and the woman toppled over the side. The younger one in Chane’s grip cried out in horror.
“What are you doing?” he snarled.
Welstiel held the rope pulled taut in his hands, and Chane peered over the ship’s side. The elven woman dangled upside down, halfway above the dark water rushing past the hull.
“Take the rope,” Welstiel ordered. “Now!”
Chane grabbed it with his free hand, and Welstiel whirled and slapped the smaller female across her temple.
She fell, and Chane released her manacles to keep control of the rope. The young one hit the deck in a half-conscious flop, eyes rolling. Chane was more concerned with whatever Welstiel had planned and tied the rope off on the bow’s rail. Welstiel grabbed a dangling lantern from its hook and handed it to him.
“When I tell you, open its shutter and hang it over the side, so all can see the woman dangling there. We need an instant of shock on that elven ship to give us an advantage. When I give the order, cut the rope.”
Chane suddenly understood, but it gave him no ease regarding Wynn’s safety.
“Watch the helm,” Welstiel ordered, and then closed his eyes.
He sank cross-legged in the bow and wrapped his left hand over his right, closing it tightly upon the ring on his right middle finger. He began thrumming a soft chant.
Chane crouched behind the rail, feeling lost as he clutched the lantern and rope.
Welstiel focused his will upon the ring.
Klâtäs had implied that they would need to be close for the ballistae’s quarrels to succeed. This meant bringing himself and his followers very near Magiere and Chap. With so many undead aboard, their collective presence would not escape either of those two’s heightened awareness.
The ring’s power hid Welstiel and those he “touched” from anything but mundane senses, but now he required more from it. Once before, he had expanded its influence to smother Ubâd’s spirit-sight, as the old one held Magiere captive. Now he had to hide any undead’s presence on this vessel from Chap and Magiere’s unnatural awareness for as long as possible.
He chanted quietly and felt the ring’s sphere of influence twinge through his flesh—spreading, growing, and enveloping the whole ship.
Chane felt a strange tingle pass over him, as if his skin had gone numb for an instant.
He had no idea what Welstiel was doing. His thoughts wrestled for a way out of this situation before Wynn was placed in danger again. If the helmsman ordered a shot at the deck, Wynn might be killed—unless the elven captain had ordered all passengers below. And then she might be trapped once the ship began to burn.
Welstiel sat with eyes closed, hands clenched together, and a hum in his throat—and a cold notion entered Chane’s panicked thoughts.
All he need do was draw his sword and cleave off Welstiel’s head. The unleashed ferals would ravage the ship, and Chane might jump overboard amid the chaos.
But what if some of the sailors managed to survive? What if the elves attacked, seeing one of their own dangling from the ship’s rail? What if the ferals panicked and fled amid the fire and quarrels, as the Ylladon crew responded in defense?
And no matter what, Wynn was still trapped in the middle.
Welstiel’s interest in keeping Magiere alive, forcing her aground, meant giving the elven crew time to abandon ship—and Wynn along with them.
The half-conscious young elf lying on the deck moaned softly.
Chane held his place, ready to open the lantern.
Magiere locked her eyes on the approaching vessel, its moonlit sails bright in her night sight. It came straight at her, but not quickly enough, and the hunger burning in her belly began to rise into her throat.
Someone shouted, and amid that string of Elvish, Magiere heard Sgäile’s longer elven name.
“The hkomas orders us below,” he said. “I do not think that wise, but we should leave the forecastle, so the crew may function freely.”
Magiere glanced back and saw the hkomas standing near the aftcastle’s steps. When her gaze locked with his, he went still as he studied her. His head cocked suspiciously.
“Magiere . . . ,” Leesil began, and then stopped as Sgäile sighed in resignation.
Magiere’s awareness of them was smothered beneath hunger and the memories of a falchion in her hand and headless corpses at her feet, their black fluids running from her blade.
She had felt this before—but never so strongly. Whatever was coming on that ship, it overwhelmed her and nearly severed her self-control. But the need to hunt was a welcome relief against the pull to go south that plagued her.