As soon as Moros vanished from his view, Apollo turned and sped down the corridor. Doom would likely be seeking another way to get to him, and the last thing the Shining Son wanted was a repeat of his recent predicament. He moved with careful swiftness, walking instead of running, with bow at the ready. He ignored the fire that had begun licking up the walls behind him, turning to char and ash what had so recently been tasteful opulence.
He came out into another room, smaller than the ballroom he’d just left, but still quite large. It looked to be some kind of sitting room, appointed with a few settees, a small chandelier, and a number of plush rugs and carpets. The room, aside from some meandering smoke and a few inquisitive tendrils of flame, was relatively intact thus far.
It made him nervous.
He moved into the room, covering the nearest exit, glancing to each path that led into the room. He was about to move across to the next hallway when the braying of dogs snapped his head around to the doorway on the far wall. Moros was pulling out all the stops, it seemed, and making a mockery of his sister in the process.
He halted where he was, waiting for the first of the defiled creatures to find him. He didn’t wait long; the first of the rottweilers padded out into the sitting room. Its teeth glistened with slaver, revealed to the combination of electric and fire light by its immediate growl. It charged, letting out a single short bark, but found itself straightaway twitching on the floor. The arrow now sprouting from its craw tapped on the hardwood floor like a telegraph operator, from the creature’s twitching.
Three more appeared from the same entry; they did not pause to show challenge, as had the first, but advanced immediately, fanning out in an attempt to flank him. An arrow flashed; one of the rabid beasts fell stone dead. Another blew through a second dog’s torso with enough force to pin it to the wall on the other side. Even he, however, was not fast enough to peg the third before it was nearly on him. The arrow was nocked, but he couldn’t get the bow to a proper firing angle.
He took a step back, onto the rug. His foot plunged through the material and sent him hurtling backwards into the pit, while bow and arrow went skittering off to the side of the room. By sheer luck, the dog that was mid-pounce as he tottered backward flew over him and sailed down into the pit. He twisted, using his finely honed reflexes to bend forward, hands snaking out to grab the edge before he fell too far.
By the time he’d scrambled out, he’d wasted precious minutes, and the longer he stayed in one room, the clearer, and easier, a target he would become.