But not for long.
The two Mazikeen, silent as always, were in grim combat with Jezi-Baba, but the witch was far more ancient and powerful than they. Golden light like a summer dawn glowed around them as the Mazikeen commanded the earth to rise up around her. Deep roots of ancient trees burst through the stone stage and wrapped around Jezi-Baba, but an instant later they began to blacken and die, and fell away from her robes like cobwebs brushed aside.
She grabbed one of the Mazikeen around the throat and the same thing happened to him. His flesh withered and blackened and fell away to ash, the robe crumbling in her hands. The witch cackled and moved after the other Mazikeen. He cast a spell that lanced her eyes with that golden light and she shrieked and staggered back, hands over her hideous face.
But Frost feared it would not last.
The Manticore was wounded, half its face ripped away into a grotesque grin, flaps of flesh hanging down. Some of its teeth were broken, thanks to Chorti’s metal claws. But now Chorti was down and the Manticore raked talons across his chest. The monster leaped on top of him, opened his massive jaws with their hundreds of teeth, and was about to snap his head off.
The Grindylow reached them just in time. Grin wrapped his long arms around the Manticore’s head and pulled the creature off of Chorti, lifted it up, and hurled it with incredible strength at the rows of stone seats around the stage. The Manticore hit with an audible crack, but in a moment it moved, bones still cracking, resetting themselves, and it was up, beginning to stalk toward them again.
“Go back, all of you!” Frost commanded, struggling to rise. “Back through the Veil, back to Perinthia! Now!”
Blue Jay helped haul him to his feet. The trickster’s eyes were dark and cold. “Are you out of your mind? We don’t stand a chance in the city!”
Frost grimaced in pain. “The Hunters are here. All that waits for us there are the damned birds.”
“How can you-”
“We don’t have time to argue,” Frost said, as another Peryton rode the winds, diving toward them out of the sky. “Cross the border! Go back!”
Even as Blue Jay turned, the air blurring around him, mystic wings shearing the wind and the spirit, keeping the Peryton at bay, Frost shouted to all of the others, repeating the command over and over. One by one he saw them step through shimmering early evening light, moving out of this world and through the Veil, into the one beside it.
Only when they all were gone did he slip through the border himself. His last glimpse of the Akrai was of the Manticore and several Perytons rushing toward him, blood on claws and teeth, death in their eyes. Blue Jay spun into a blur that disappeared, winking out completely.
Then the winter man crossed over, leaving the Hunters behind.
But the hunt would only be more savage, more determined now. The Myth Hunters had spilled their blood. The had the taste and the scent.
That was all right with Frost.
He was sick of running.
CHAPTER 11
O liver ought to have been fascinated by the castle of Otranto. Every archway and window drew the eye. On many walls there hung elaborate tapestries that would have made him catch his breath in admiration on another day. When guards came to fetch them from the rooms where they had been brought to wash and rest, they were marched past massive double doors that opened into a vast library at least two stories high. He could not see far enough into the room to determine if it rose even higher. In an alcove in the corridor that led to King Hunyadi’s presentation room, there were two glass cases in which illuminated manuscripts were on display.
But none of this provided more than a passing moment’s distraction. Exhaustion had wormed its way into Oliver’s bones. Until now, desperation and adrenaline had conspired to keep him going, but as he and Kitsune were brought before the king, he felt only tired and resigned.
His fate was at hand. He had done all that he could to influence it, but what happened next was no longer in his control. If it ever had been.
They were not bound, nor were they prodded with weapons as they were escorted to the Presentation Room, but there was no doubt they were prisoners. The guards seared them with hate-filled eyes and Oliver fought the temptation to challenge their bitterness. After all, any of the king’s men who had been slain on the road or within the castle walls today had been victims of their own belligerence. Oliver and Kitsune had been protecting their own lives. But he was not fool enough to speak such thoughts aloud.
He had been allowed to keep the Sword of Hunyadi-an exceedingly generous gesture on the part of the king, he thought-but he had no illusions that it would save his life.
Whatever his expectations had been, the Presentation Room defied them. It was an enormous chamber in some far-flung corner of the castle that must, from the outside, have seemed a strange peninsula thrust out from the main structure. Within, it resembled nothing so much as a narrow church, with airy, vaulted ceilings, and towering, stained glass windows on three sides. Their full glory could not be appreciated after dark, with the moonlight casting a dull glow upon them from without and row upon row of candles spreading light within. There were wall sconces and oil lamps as well, but the candles were the primary light source and they cast a warm, golden brilliance throughout the chamber.
The ocean-myth motif of the mosaic around the main doors of the castle was carried through to the Presentation Room. Other mosaics had been created between each window, and the stained glass imagery also illustrated the legends of the sea. There were mermaids and selkies, monstrous kraken, and other creatures he did not immediately recognize.
At the far end of the room, a single enormous chair sat upon a platform. Fish and serpents and tentacles had been carved into the mahogany arms and legs and back of the chair, and above it three vast stained glass windows had been placed to create a triptych of the sea god, Poseidon. Upon Poseidon’s head sat a golden crown whose arched points rose in the shape of waves.
King Hunyadi sat upon his chair-what passed for a throne in this room-and wore the very same crown. The Crown of Poseidon. Dozens of other people filled the room, gathered on either side of a long blue carpet that bisected the stone floor, but in the king’s presence they seemed invisible. There were armored guards and robed attendants, and nearest the king there were several servants in blue and green, obviously awaiting his instructions.
To the left of the king sat Hy’Bor, the Atlantean, his primary advisor. Despite the arrow that he had plucked from his chest at dusk, the sorcerer seemed in perfect health. He was pale, but that was apparently typical of his kind. He watched Oliver and Kitsune with his lips pressed tightly together and his eyes full of malevolence.
As they strode toward the platform with its high chair, Oliver heard Kitsune growl low in her throat. Nervous, he shot her a sidelong glance, wondering if she had finally snapped. Any threat to the king now and he was sure they would be executed on the spot. Perhaps right there on the three steps that led up to the platform. For that very reason, he had kept his hands clasped behind him as he walked, making certain that no one could claim he made a grab for the sword that hung in its scabbard at his side.
But Kitsune’s attention was not on the king at all. She sniffed the air and peered off to the right, toward a cluster of people Oliver presumed had gathered to plead for the king’s aid or intercession on some matter or another.
“Stop,” Oliver whispered.
The fox-woman glared at him, her eyes slits and one corner of her mouth lifted to reveal tiny, animal teeth. Oliver flinched at the ferocity of that glance.
“We have enemies here,” she rasped, voice so low that even he could barely hear.
The sergeant whose hand Oliver had broken stood just ahead to one side of the carpet. The man’s wrist was splinted and bandaged but he still seemed formidable. He frowned as he watched them whispering to one another, then raised his other hand.