Below, armies from numerous Underveil factions gathered. Just like Nikolai, they were helpless to do anything. Borya had put some kind of enchantment on the fortress that was like a force field bubble. Even arrows bounced off it.
Fydor, looking more unstable and nervous than Nikolai had ever seen him, was decked out in the typical Slayer black leather, but wore the king’s crown. His father’s crown. What should have been his crown if he hadn’t fucked everything up. Fingers twitching, the man he’d allowed to have power, stood on the platform only feet in front of Nikolai, staring down at the crowd while servants piled hay at the edges of the giant pile of wood.
He relaxed his head against the heavy pole. To his left, the wood elf whimpered and Elena, on his right, remained calm and stoic. Beyond her, his mother ascended the stairs to the top of the stone platform. At the sight of the queen being secured for execution, the angry shouts from the warriors in the field below became deafening.
“Have you had a vision as to how we escape?” he asked Elena.
“No.”
“Any visions at all after this?”
“Only the one I told you about at Vlad’s castle.”
Oh, yeah, the one where his mother was surrounded by flames. Fucking perfect.
Focus. Buying time was the ticket at this point. “So, Uncle. What do you think is going to happen when your protective bubble is gone?”
He shrugged.
“I know what will happen,” Nikolai said. “They will storm the castle and kill every living thing inside.”
Fydor pulled several vials from his pocket, selected one, and shoved the others back. His hands shook as he loosened the top and gulped the contents. “Borya will leave the protective spell in place then, of course.”
A volley of arrows soundlessly hit the magical barrier well over Nikolai’s head and fell away. “Then you will starve,” he said. “I warned you, though, didn’t I, Uncle? You are nothing but a puppet in his plan to create chaos and lift the Veil. And now, you’re not even going to live to see the chaos you have helped create.”
“Shut up!” Fydor yelled, pressing his palms to his head. “Light the fires.”
“Not yet,” Borya said, as he reached the top of the platform.
Nikolai clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to incite the sorcerer to hurt Elena as he picked his way over the piled wood, stopping right in front of her. She didn’t seem to notice and had a glazed look on her face. “Stop that!” he ordered.
She grinned. “Would you prefer I sing out loud?” At the top of her lungs, she belted,“When I dance, they call me Macarena, and the boys they say que estoy buena!”
With the back of his hand, he struck her across the face, and Nikolai roared, straining against his chains.
But instead of crying or showing fear, she simply started singing again. “Hey! Macarena, M-M-Macarena, M-M-Macarena.”
The sorcerer, still clutching his staff, wrapped his other hand around her throat. Nikolai, unable to look away, nearly vomited at the prospect of watching his mate die. And his child. He swallowed the lump of dread in his throat and prayed they lit the fire soon if the bastard killed her.
“What’s up, Borya? You don’t like to dance?” she said. Nikolai held his breath as her face went red from the constriction of her throat. “Do it,” she squeaked out. “It beats the hell out of being barbecue.”
With a growl, he released her. Nikolai gave a silent shout of gratitude as fear’s choke hold on his heart lessened.
She gulped air. “Chicken.”
“Light the fires,” he ordered the Slayers surrounding the platform after he had cleared the wood and straw.
Nikolai noticed their hesitation. Slayers never hesitated or disobeyed orders, yet none made a move to light the stack of wood.
Fydor held his arms out, and the crowd below shouted in anger.
“God help you, Uncle, when that protection spell is lifted. You’ll wish you had a death as easy as mine. I imagine the elves will enjoy torturing you for centuries, maybe millennia, depending on Aksel’s fate.”
Fear flashed across his uncle’s features, something Slayers never allowed. Good, his will was cracking. Now, if only the bubble keeping the warriors out would crack.
The overwhelming roar from the furious mob below rang in Elena’s ears.
Speak, King Fydor,” Borya urged from the bottom of the platform stairs.
Still singing in her head, Elena caught her breath and straightened up, relieving the bite of the chains. At least Borya had backed off, leaving the show to Fydor, who seemed pretty strung out. She was disappointed Fydor hadn’t taken the poison when he chugged the elixir earlier. Not that it would have stopped the execution, necessarily, but at least the bastard would be dead.
Fydor held one arm up, palm out, and the mob below fell silent.
“A puppet,” Nik called to his uncle. “He’s pulled your strings, and now you must say what he directs.”
“This is the beginning of a new era for the Underveil. We will rise together to the power we deserve.”