Blood Oath (The Darkest Drae Book 1)(68)

His face twisted, and I crossed my arms over my face as he whipped me again.

The threat was worth a shot. He must be a bit sour over the chamber pot thing. Maybe I’d try the garden hoe trick on him and see if it worked. Even since my being a Phaetyn was revealed, Jotun had taken extra precautions not to come in contact with my blood. It’s probably why he was using the whip and not his gloved fists.

We turned right as we reached the vineyards and entered the infertile fields of Zone Eight for the day. I took off my boots and socks and squished my toes into the ground. Carrots. The answer came to me unbidden. Sure enough, a quick search confirmed there were a few green and yellow carrot tops scattered about the pale dirt. The fronds were limp and weak.

I set to work, going between the nearest water source—which was a well between the two zones—and the Quota Field I was working on today. Jotun stood halfway in the middle of the six fields I had to lug water between, monitoring my progress. When I had to pass him, I gave him a wide berth. The king had taken all my usual “helpers,” and by the time the sun was high in the sky, I’d only watered a third of the fields with my Phaetyn juice super fertilizer because of the distance to the well. Whenever I bent down to fill another bucket with water, I cast my gaze over the surrounding rolling hills, searching for my friends, wishing for my escape.

How would Cal do it?

When would he do it?

As the sun began to sink in the sky and I reached the last row of the carrot field, I gave a weary sigh and dusted my hands. Clearly, today wasn’t the day. I wondered if the sight of Irrik in the sky had scared them off. Waiting until the king had stopped his hunt would be wise, but how long would that take? Weeks? Months? Would there be a rebellion left by the time he was done?

I trudged back across the six fields, past Jotun with my empty pail, keeping more than a dozen feet between us so he didn’t add to the wounds on my back. They’d healed hours ago, but the muscles still ached, and I had no doubt the back of my sleeping shift was a bloody, tattered mess. I set my bucket on the ground and lowered the pail down into the well, covertly checking that Jotun was still three fields away. I didn’t trust him; he could easily sneak up on me when my guard was down. Pulling up the pail from the well with a muffled groan, I tipped the water into my bucket, taking the opportunity to lean against the well’s rocky wall for a brief rest. Taking a few breaths, I blinked at the blurry surface. I’d need to get a drink of the nectar before my next pass. My fatigue was starting to affect my vision again. I rubbed a “clean” part of my hand over my eyes and knelt to sip from the bucket.

The surface of the water rippled.

I frowned and peered at the ground. Tiny granules of dirt were shuddering. As I watched, they began to jump around, and I could feel the reverberation in my feet.

I raise my head as a pounding noise sounded in the distance. Forgetting my pail, I straightened, stomach leaping into my mouth. I scanned the horizon in a circle. In my periphery, I noticed Jotun standing several fields over and doing the same.

Now the smaller stones were joining the surrounding dirt, shaking and bouncing off the ground.

Then I saw them.

I covered my mouth with both hands as I stared past Jotun at the waves of rebels pouring over the rolling hill just by the field I’d worked that day. At the front . . .

“Arnik!” I gasped. This was it. They’d come for me!

Between me and my freedom with the rebels stood six fields, and, more importantly, the Druman Jotun was in the middle. Anger flashed across his face, and he ran toward me.

The bucket tipped back into the well, and my pulse pounded in my ears as I searched the ground for a weapon.

Several rocks were in the dirt, and I scrambled to find one I could use. My palm scraped against the sharp edge of a stone, and I tugged it free of the dirt. The rough edge came to a wicked point, and I pressed the tip into my palm until my skin broke and my blood covered the edge of the black stone. The rebels had just reached the far side of the carrot field. Jotun was far ahead of them, and fast. He covered twice the ground they did in the same time. Half Drae. He’d be able to cart me away over his shoulder before the rebels even reached me.

His eyes were blazing with a wild edge, and I knew he’d read my intention to resist. I dug my toes into the ground and got ready to throw myself to the side. The roar of the rebels, at least two hundred of them, made my heart thunder, and their courage pulsed with each beat. They were here for me. I would do this.

This was my chance. Tyr’s chance. Ty’s chance.

Jotun’s arms pumped by his sides as he drew closer. Twenty feet, ten feet . . .

His hand blurred, and my eyes widened as the leather of his whip sliced toward me. I’d forgotten about his whip. I raised a hand in front of my eyes and shouted as pain burned across my forearm a second later. I dove to the side, some part of me remembering to get out of his trajectory despite the pain.

Rolling in a cloud of dust, I gasped and opened my eyes even as I jumped to my feet. But Jotun had stopped, still ten feet away from me. I glanced down and saw the end of his whip wrapped about my forearm, the other end in the dirt.

He lunged for the loose end, and I yanked my arm back, drawing the end to me. Jotun straightened with a growl and came for me.

I wasn’t fast enough to use the whip.

The air whooshed out of me as he dropped his shoulder and bouldered into my stomach. We crashed to the ground with a force that had me seeing stars. Still clutching the rock in one hand, I wiped at my face with the other. My blood dripped onto my shift, and as Jotun drew his gloved fist back to deal a blow that would certainly finish me, his gaze took in all the blood, and he hesitated.