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 Klatas 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 Klatas 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.

Klatas 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 Ubad'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 Sgaile'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 Sgaile 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.

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 Venjetz. He had been running down an undead with Magiere and Leesil, and then his prey suddenly vanished-just like now.