Rebel Spring (Falling Kingdoms #2)(110)

Magnus stood there for a few silent moments, staring down at his mother’s killer while Aron’s blood began to pool by his left boot. His glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling of the tent.

Just as Magnus had expected, there was no true victory in this death. Only emptiness.

But he now knew the truth. He’d never felt such hate before in his entire life. Hate for a man he’d always looked up to, even if he didn’t agree with every one of his decisions; a man who wasn’t weak, who did what he needed to do, who achieved power and glory with violence, intimidation, intelligence, and brute strength.

Once Magnus had aspired to be exactly like his father.

No more.





CHAPTER 32


JONAS



PAELSIA



The rebels made camp a mile from the line of tents by the Blood Road, not daring to light a fire. They watched and waited, staying huddled as a group for warmth, until the sun began to breach the gigantic mountains. Even the golden hawk that seemed to follow Jonas everywhere perched in the forest of brittle, leafless trees, waiting along with them.

“What is she?” he whispered to himself, looking up at her. “What does she want with us? With me?”

The hawk gave no answers. Instead, she flew away moments before they were ready to put their plan into action.

Jonas gave the order to move, and as silently as shadows, the forty-seven rebels spread out and entered the camp in their search for Magnus and Xanthus. Since there was no way for so many to stick together during the attack, the plan was to meet at a designated spot three hours’ journey from here at nightfall.

They had their targets. They knew their task. Nothing would distract them. And anyone who got in their way would die.

If all went perfectly, no one would even know they’d been there.

Then again, Jonas never expected this to go perfectly. He was prepared for obstacles. And so were his rebels.

Only minutes after their entry into the camp, a warning sounded out.

And then it was madness.

Guards began to spill from their tents and stations, swords in hand. Lysandra nocked arrow after arrow into her bow, letting them go like a predator lying in the shadows, silent death catching her marks precisely in the throat or chest.

“Go now while you can,” she commanded Jonas as he fought off a guard, “and if you find Lord Aron before I do, kill him—and make it hurt.”

The promise of blood—of the vengeance he’d craved for so long—fueled him like nothing else. He slammed the guard in the throat with his forearm and the guard dropped to the ground, unconscious. “Good luck, Lys. If this goes badly, I’ll see you and Brion in the everafter.”

“You really think that’s where any of us are headed?” She actually gave him a grin, baring straight white teeth, her face lit by the golden glow of the dawn. It jarred him to realize that Brion had been right—this girl was absolutely gorgeous. “I’ll see you in the darklands, Agallon. Save a demon or two for me.”

She held his gaze for only a moment longer before slipping away from him without another word.

And Jonas went hunting for his prey amidst the confusion and turmoil. His main targets were Magnus and the road engineer, but he hoped to find Aron as well. Now Aron had Brion’s as well as Tomas’s death to answer for in blood.

He glanced into each tent he passed, roughly fighting off anyone he came across. And almost too easily the guards went down. They were so used to lording over weaponless and weakened slaves in this private, secluded location that they hadn’t been prepared for an attack of this magnitude at the crack of dawn—nearly fifty rebels ready to do whatever it took to gain an advantage against the king who would enslave their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers.

Jonas wiped a spray of blood from his face and continued on. He pushed open the next tent flap, and his gaze fell on someone he recognized immediately.

Aron Lagaris lay sleeping on the ground. Rage lit within him at the memory of this bastard killing his friend. Killing his brother.

“That drunk last night, were you?” Jonas snarled. “Wake up. I want you to know that I’m the one who ends your life.”

He took another step, entering fully into the tent, now frowning. Aron’s eyes were open and staring. The front of his shirt was stained with blood—blood that soaked into the dirt floor.

The realization hit him hard. Aron was already dead.

Someone grabbed him from behind, a strong arm crushing his throat.

“You think Paelsian scum like you can attack us so easily, that we won’t be able to kill every last one of you?” It was a guard, a large one with bad breath. “Think again, rebel.”

Jonas arched his blade upward, but the guard caught his wrist, wrenching it to the side to break the bone with a sharp crack. Jonas roared in pain and lost his concentration for a split second.

That was all it took.

The guard brought his own blade down, sinking it straight into Jonas’s heart.

Then he yanked out the blade and shoved Jonas forward. Jonas stumbled to the ground hard, only a few feet from Aron. He looked up, gasping, his vision swirling. The guard was a hulking black silhouette surrounded by morning light.

He wiped the blood off his hands. “You honestly thought you could stop us with your little group of savages? Gonna go kill me a few more before breakfast.” He was laughing as he left the tent.