She could slaughter what was on that vessel without holding back. She wanted—needed—that release. Her fingernails began to harden, and her teeth ached as they pressed her clenched jaws apart. She tried to force it down, keep it suppressed and hidden until she needed it.
And her hunger suddenly vanished.
Magiere teetered, suddenly faint at its loss.
Chap shifted frantically with a pained yelp.
“What?” Leesil snapped.
The soft light around Magiere vanished, and she looked to the topaz amulet hanging upon Leesil’s chest.
The stone was dead and lifeless.
Magiere’s stomach turned and shriveled at the loss of promised release as she stared back at the oncoming vessel.
Chap’s foreclaws ground upon the rail-wall as he strained to peer more closely at the ship. He had felt the undead—as certain of their presence as of his own breath.
Where had they gone?
Though the ship still came at them, he sensed nothing upon it. This was not possible. He had not been wrong.
But the same thing had happened to him once before, in the streets of Venjètz. He had been running down an undead with Magiere and Leesil, and then his prey suddenly vanished—just like now.
Chap snarled in frustration, and Magiere slammed both her hands on the rail.
“No,” she whispered, her voice pained. “No . . . no . . . no!”
Chap slipped into her thoughts and saw her rising memories of hunting . . . memories with far too much longing, close to lust. Someone shouted in Elvish from the rigging.
“It veers again!”
Light flashed on the waters ahead.
Chap slipped from Magiere’s mind as he saw the oncoming ship. Its prow aimed to pass close on the elven vessel’s seaward side. The light came from one bright spot near its bow.
“What is that?” asked Leesil, pointing out over the rail.
Chap’s eyes adjusted and he saw . . . her.
An open lantern illuminated a tall elven woman dangling inverted over the other ship’s near side. A rope cinched around her ankles suspended her with long hanging hair trailing in the rushing water. Half the elven crew ran to the seaward side as the other vessel began to pass.
“Hard to starboard!” the hkomas shouted. “Do not let them round our stern!”
Chap bolted around the seaward ballista and its crew to stand at the forecastle’s stairs. Below on the deck, several elves began uncoiling rope with grappling hooks. Magiere passed him by, leaping down to the deck as she tried to keep the passing ship in her sightline. Sgäile moved to follow, but Leesil grabbed his arm.
“No, they’re baiting you! They want you to rush in!”
The ships drew so close that Chap heard a voice shouting upon the other vessel. Sgäile jerked free of Leesil’s grip.
“They have one of our people!” Sgäile shouted. “We do not abandon our own.”
Chap’s awareness suddenly sharpened—as if he were surrounded by undead.
All the voices around him muted in his ears. He shook inside with the need to hunt. Before he could search for the source of his returned drive, the rope on the other vessel’s prow went slack.
The elven woman fell into the sea and vanished beneath the water.
Chap barely heard Sgäile’s anguished cry.
Fire arced into the night from the Ylladon ship, rising in trajectories toward the elven vessel’s sails. Magiere lunged for the deck’s rail, shoving elves out of her way.
As the first burning shaft hit, panic flooded Chap’s mind.
All he could do was howl, as he searched frantically for his charges—and some means to get them out of harm’s way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Magiere rushed the rail-wall, bile rising from her stomach and burning her throat. She barely saw the elven woman strike the water; all her senses were focused upon the presence of undead. Someone behind her cried out in anguish, and Sgäile appeared beside her.
She had to jump, swim, do whatever it took to reach that other ship. She had to hunt.
Chap’s howl rose above the commotion, and a volley of fire arced in the night sky from the other ship.
Magiere’s rage burned hotter at the sight, and she lifted one leg over the rail-wall.
Something snagged her breeches leg and heaved. Her grounded foot slid, and her back slammed flat on the deck. She rolled over wildly, and there was Chap with his ears laid back, blocking her way to the rail-wall. Sgäile looked down at her, his expression unreadable. Someone shouted in Elvish, and he lifted his gaze up and past her.
The voice was vaguely familiar. Was it Osha?
Sgäile locked eyes with Magiere for a breath, and then he dove over the side, vanishing from sight. Magiere lunged up to follow him, to reach that ship . . .
Chap charged straight at her, snapping and snarling. He was one with her, alike in the hunt, yet he turned on her? Magiere snarled back at him.
The sky above ignited with fire and light.
Magiere flinched, shielding her tearing eyes as she raised them. A long metal spear with a flaming head slid down the mainsail, leaving a burning trail in its wake. It slammed point first into the deck.
A cracking impact shuddered through the deck, and Magiere lost her footing, buckling to one knee. Yellow light burned her eyes as fire scattered from the spear’s head. She threw herself toward the aft, rolling away, but when she came up, her rage vanished.
Chap bolted the other way, toward the forecastle. He dodged droplets of flaming oil falling like burning rain.
Magiere tried to scream his name, but it didn’t come clearly through her elongated teeth.
He arced around to the ship’s shoreward side, but with the fire spreading on the deck between them, Magiere wasn’t certain if he’d been burned. She took a breath and coughed as smoke filled her lungs.
What was happening? Where were Leesil and Wynn?
The hkomas shouted loudly over the din. Magiere snapped her head up at the crack of the forward elven ballista. A thrum of bowstrings sounded all around her as a flight of arrows arced toward the other vessel.
Welstiel pulled himself up the rail of the Ylladon ship, worn and drained from widening the influence of his ring. He had barely spread its reach long enough to get close to the elven vessel. When the first volley of burning ballista spears launched, his concentration had snapped, but now it did not matter.
Magiere had more to concentrate on than the presence of undeads.
Two burning lances cut along the shimmering elven sails, instantly spreading fire. The third went long, and its light snuffed in the sea. A fourth hit the hull at the waterline and fizzled out, but it remained embedded.
Welstiel faltered.
Had he gone too far? Had he put Magiere in too much danger, or could she still get clear and make it to shore?
A loud double crack rang out from the other ship.
Welstiel saw two heavy spears with long heads arcing straight toward his vessel. He dashed along the deck but only made midship before one hit—and Klâtäs screamed.
The ballista spear slammed through the wheel, and the helmsman vanished amid shattering wood. Welstiel skidded to halt and looked back to the prow.
The younger elven female tried to push herself up, staring dumbly about. Sailors at the ballistae abandoned their stations, running for cover. Two leaped over the seaward rail and disappeared. And then Chane raced past Welstiel toward the stern.
What was that fool doing now?
Chane was almost to the aft when another ballista spear struck. It shattered the rail two steps behind him. He stumbled and fell, sliding along the deck amid scattering wood shards. The ferals went mad, screaming as they raced wildly about.
One pair of Ylladon crewmen kept their wits and fired the shoreward ballistae again. Another blaze of fire arced toward the elven ship. Then the pair crouched and took up oil-filled glass balls on long leather cords.
Welstiel had not noticed these before. The crewmen lit rags tied to the globes and began whirling them to sling toward their enemies. Welstiel charged them, panicked over Magiere’s safety.
The engagement was not playing out how he had envisioned. But he was not quick enough, and the crewmen released their whirling glass balls.
Welstiel watched their small flames rise and then fall through the night air. The deck shuddered hard beneath his feet as another elven quarrel struck the hull somewhere below the rail. He ducked in against the rail as a rain of arrows fell around him, and he never saw the oil globes strike.
Running and shouting and screaming surrounded him as everything fell into chaos.
Sabel rushed by toward the bow, almost scrambling on all fours, and Welstiel snatched her by the arm.
“Get the others,” he commanded. “Go below for our gear. Hurry!”
The terror did not leave her eyes, but she scrambled for the aft hatch.
They had to abandon ship, and Welstiel hoped Magiere would do the same.
Salt water closed over Sgäile’s head, and icy cold spread through his muscles. He kicked for the surface, still doubting his actions.
He had sworn guardianship to Léshil and his companions. His first duty was to protect them, and the ship was on fire. But when he saw the elven woman vanish into the sea, his heart seemed to stop.
He was Anmaglâhk, sworn to protect his people. He could not let her die.
Sgäile broke the sea’s rolling surface and gasped for air, but in his mind, he kept seeing Magiere’s face up on the deck.
Eyes black, lost in vicious madness—the same monster that had attacked his caste in Cuirin’nên’a’s glade. Even though he had sworn guardianship, his first instinct had been to kill her. Then he saw Wynn and Léshil on the deck’s far side, dodging falling pieces of the burning sails.
Osha ran for them, shouting. “Go! I will protect them!”
And Sgäile had jumped.
The sea swells made it hard to search. Everything was beyond his control but the woman who had been dropped to her death. He only hoped she had stayed calm enough to flatten herself and float until he could find her.
Wynn gasped for air and coughed amid the growing smoke. Terrifying sights and sounds drove away reason, and all she could see was the horror of the burning ship.
A living ship.
Some of the crew tried to douse the fire with buckets of seawater, but spattered oil and falling sails kept feeding the flames.
And then Sgäile jumped overboard.
Wynn looked frantically about. Magiere knelt on the deck’s far side beyond the cargo grate, but she couldn’t see Chap anywhere. Elven crew ran about amid the flames, and a sizzling crackle sounded from up in the rigging.
And Leesil’s shout carried to Wynn over the noise. “Magiere! Get out of there!”
He bolted toward Magiere, and Wynn saw the burning foremast crack midway up. It began to topple.
“Leesil, stop!” she screamed out.
He leaped the cargo gate. Rigging and shredded sails tore away under the falling mast as it slammed down on the deck’s center—and Leesil vanished from sight.
“Leesil!” Wynn cried out.
Two sudden impacts, like shattering glass, struck somewhere on the deck, and a wall of flame erupted around the fallen mast. Droplets of ignited oil splashed up like fiery fountains and scattered everywhere.
Wynn twisted away, swatting at burning oil spots on her cloak. In one flailing spin, she saw Osha.
He ran along the shoreside rail-wall, the glint of a stiletto in his hand. Before Wynn knew what was happening, he ducked and drove his shoulder into her chest. His arm coiled around her as the breath was crushed from her lungs.
Wynn gasped for air as her feet left the deck. Over Osha’s back, she saw a long pillar of fire rolling from the deck’s center toward the rail-wall— toward her.
The whole ship swirled away as she slammed down hard, sliding across the deck beneath Osha. She felt him roll, curling himself around her, until they slid to a stop.
And that rolling column of fire—the fallen foremast—crashed against the rail-wall where she and Osha had been an instant before.
Osha lurched up on his knees and slashed down at her with his stiletto. She barely flinched before the blade split the side of her cloak’s collar. He ripped it off of her, nearly flipping her over on her face, and grabbed her by the arm. As he pulled her up, they both looked frantically about.
The crew had abandoned any attempt to control the flames. A visceral scream, like a great cat in anger, broke over the fire’s crackle. Before it had even faded, Osha shouted.
“Léshil!”
Wynn saw Leesil half-crouched on the cargo grate’s far side, surrounded by fire. Magiere clawed at the flames, trying to reach him. Her eyes were black disks as tears ran down her snarling face. The grate burned too wildly around Leesil, as did the forecastle and deck between him and the aft. Even the far rail-wall was ablaze. He ducked low, shielding his face and eyes as he twisted about.