“Kit,” Oliver began, warily.
Before Kitsune could reply, there came the shriek of stress on wood and metal and the main gates of the castle swung inward with great force. Framed in the massive gates, with the golden afternoon light streaming in behind them, were half a dozen of the fishermen Oliver had seen while riding toward the castle. They carried fishing poles and several lugged strings of hooked fish, the catch of the day. All of them were dressed in rugged clothing that had seen better days but there was an air about them that dispelled any suggestion of simple country folk.
The man in front had black hair and a neatly trimmed beard, both shot through with silver. His face was pitted with pockmarks, and though he was only a bit larger than Oliver, physically, he moved with such confidence and power that it seemed his mere presence might knock them all to the ground.
“Hy’Bor! What transpires here?” the fisherman shouted.
No one in the courtyard moved. Even the injured men, cradling broken bones or nursing wounds, ceased their self-ministrations.
The Atlantean had stopped chanting the moment the gates swung open. Now he stared at the newcomer, breathing heavily, fury dying like embers in his eyes. He plucked the arrow from his chest and a trickle of blood flowed out, staining his robe, before becoming a drizzle of clear liquid, and then ceasing altogether.
He wore a terrible sneer as he gestured toward Oliver and Kitsune. The soldiers around them flinched at this attention.
“Highness, we have an Intruder among us. You have sworn out a warrant for his death. Yet here he is, coming into your own castle disguised as a courier, undoubtedly to attempt to assassinate you.”
Oliver glanced back and forth between the two men. This was King Hunyadi? This fisherman? Yet despite his clothing, Oliver believed it immediately. The man carried himself like a king and those within the walls of the castle of Otranto froze in his presence, unwilling to do anything without his leave. The soldiers were on guard, ready to finish Oliver off, but they hesitated, waiting for the king to speak.
“Undoubtedly,” King Hunyadi said, but he arched an eyebrow and studied Oliver with open curiosity. When he saw Kitsune, his eyes narrowed and he nodded slowly as though he had deciphered the last line of a difficult riddle.
Hunyadi handed his fishing pole to one of his friends and left them standing by the gates. He strode toward Oliver and Kitsune. She shifted her bow so that the arrow was pointed directly at his heart, but the king neither slowed nor even seemed to notice her.
“You, Intruder, remind me of your name.”
“Oliver Bascombe, Your Highness.” He lowered his sword. The soldiers did not attack.
Hunyadi paused ten feet away, behaving as though he and Oliver were the only people in the courtyard. He crossed his arms, a bemused look upon his face. “Tell me, Oliver, why does a man beard the lion in its den? You’re aware of the death warrant I’ve placed upon you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you a lunatic, then, coming here?”
Oliver met his gaze evenly. He started toward the king, but he held up the sword in both hands as though to present it to him.
“No, Your Highness. Just an ordinary man. A man who does not wish to die. Once upon a time another such man came to you. His name was Professor David Koenig. You granted him a year to prove himself worthy of your trust, and when he earned that trust, you gave him this sword as a gift.”
A pair of soldiers stepped in to prevent him from reaching the king. Oliver knelt and laid it on the ground. He had made himself completely vulnerable now, but it was too late for fighting, in any case. His life was in the king’s hands.
“I remember,” Hunyadi said. He uncrossed his arms and stepped nearer, staring down at the sword. “How do you come by it?”
Oliver looked up at him. “Professor Koenig gave me this sword so that you might see it and remember, and look kindly upon me as I ask you for the same boon you granted him. One year, to prove myself worthy of your trust. He gave me this gift moments before he was murdered by the Hunters who are abroad in the Two Kingdoms, exterminating the Borderkind.”
Hunyadi nodded slowly. “You may pick up the sword. Sheathe it.”
The Atlantean stormed toward them. “Your Highness, you cannot trust the man! He is an Intruder, and he travels with a Borderkind witch.” He gestured around the courtyard. “Some of your men are badly injured. Bascombe came disguised as a courier, who is in all probability dead, murdered by his hand, or her claws. They are your enemies.”
The king considered this.
“With all due respect, sir, we are not your enemies. We are simply trying to stay alive,” Oliver told him.
Hunyadi walked over to Kitsune. All throughout this exchange she had held her bow up, arrow pointed at his heart. Now he approached until the tip of the arrow touched the rough cotton of his shirt. Kitsune’s jade eyes gleamed in the shadows beneath her hood. The king reached out with both hands and slipped the hood down to reveal her face.
“You are Kitsune,” the king said, and it was not a question. “Your legend is a favorite of mine. The tale sings of your beauty, but you are beyond all expectation.”
“Thank you, Highness,” Kitsune said, revealing rows of tiny, jagged teeth.
“Your companion asks for my trust. Will you not give me yours?”
In the fading light, with evening beginning to fall upon the castle, Kitsune released the bowstring slowly and then let bow and arrow fall to the ground. She inclined her head in the tiniest of bows.
“Make her swear fealty to you!” Hy’Bor cried desperately.
Hunyadi waved this away. “There is beauty in wild things, my friend. A beauty that is crushed by placing such demands upon it. I will not try to tame the wild.”
Oliver stood slowly and slid his sword into its scabbard.
King Hunyadi looked pointedly at his Atlantean advisor. “See to it that they have food and a place to wash off the grit of the road. Then bring them to my chambers.”
The shrieks of the Perytons filled the air above the Akrai, the ancient Greek theater that sat on the mountaintop above Siracusa. Like harpies, they descended upon the Borderkind gathered there on the ancient stone stage. The sound of their green-feathered wings beating the air was like thunder and they moved so swiftly that even Frost barely had time to react as the Hunters fell upon them.
One of the Perytons soared down from the sky and grabbed hold of him with fingers like knives. Frost smiled, full of hatred, and sent ice spreading up the Peryton’s arms, freezing its leathern flesh. White crystals of rime formed on its face.
Then the second one hit him from behind, driving its antlers into his back. The enormous prongs thrust into Frost’s body, cracking ice, plunging deep into his frigid form.
The winter man screamed.
With those hideously long razor fingers they began to tear at him. Frigid water spilled from his wounds and splashed on the Sicilian soil. The air was hot and humid, and the summer day waning fast.
He looked up, the white-blue mist of his eyes obscuring his vision, and saw the Peryton above him hiss and bare its fangs. He wondered if the venom they carried could kill him.
Frost did not want to know the answer.
His fist became a single long, tapered spike of ice and he punched it right through the Peryton’s chest, piercing skin and muscle and breaking bones. The icicle burst through the creature’s back. The other, the one behind him, continued to attack, carving chunks out of his body.
Frost weakened as his life spilled away.
Then someone called his name. He glanced up to see a blue blur in the waning light, spinning toward him. Blue Jay danced across the ancient stone stage where tragedy had once unfolded, the magical wings of the trickster whirring around him, half visible even to the eyes of his own kind.
With the slash of his wings, he decapitated the second Peryton. Its blood was sickly yellow-green. The Hunter’s head struck the ground, antlers impaled in the earth.
Frost lay on the ground, bleeding ice water, barely propped up on his arms. Blue Jay crouched by him.
“Help the others,” he rasped, cold mist rising from him as he tried to heal his wounds, freezing them over with a pass of his hands.
Blue Jay shook his head. “We don’t stand a chance. Look around.”
The winter man did. The Perytons filled the sky. Several of them pursued Cheval Bayard, who had reverted to her true form, and was attempting to flee. As Frost watched, Li rode his huge tiger after her and leaped into the air, spheres of fire leaping from his hands and enveloping one of the Perytons. Its wings burned a moment but the fire quickly died. They could not be killed that way. Still it veered off, feathers singed. The tiger reached Cheval and spun, roaring, protecting her, keeping the Perytons at bay for a moment.
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
Oliver 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.