Rebel Spring (Falling Kingdoms #2)(32)

“What are you doing here?” Vara whispered.

The area was as crowded as a small city and buzzing with activity. Everywhere Lysandra looked there were piles of wood and rock as tall as cottages. Dotted along the edges of the road were large tents where the Limerian guards could take breaks and step out of the harsh sunlight.

Lysandra pulled Vara behind one of these tents to shield them from a nearby guard. “Where’s Gregor?” When the girl didn’t reply, she shook her. “Where is he?”

“I—I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

Lysandra’s heart twisted. “When did you see him last?”

“In the village—when they descended upon us.” Her voice broke and her eyes welled with tears. “Lysandra, so many are dead!”

It was only confirmation of what she already knew was true. “How many still live?”

“I don’t know. You shouldn’t be here! They might capture you too!” She bit her bottom lip, frowning. “But . . . but you’re a good fighter—I know this. You can help us.”

“Help you? With what?”

“Our escape.” Vara nodded firmly, but Lysandra noticed there was a strange, unhinged look in her eyes. “It was already supposed to happen. I’m only waiting for the sign. You’re the sign. You must be. It’s time for us to free ourselves.”

“What are you talking about? Is there really a plan for escape?” It lightened Lysandra’s heart to think that her people would be planning a revolt here, even against so much armed opposition. Jonas had been right about one thing—attacking a place with so many guards would lead to many, many deaths of rebels and slaves alike. And certainly no guarantee of victory.

Most Paelsians accepted life as it was handed to them, believing that fate and destiny were unchangeable. Jonas was one of the few she’d met who had something inside him—something that defied this belief. This certainty shone through his very skin, and she knew it was what had singled him out as a leader. Jonas was a leader. He believed that destiny wasn’t to be accepted with head bowed; it was to be challenged at every turn.

That Vara, too, wanted to break free was a sign that there was a chance for others to do the same.

“I dreamed it would be me,” Vara whispered. “That I would kill them all.”

She turned and Lysandra winced to see the red lash wounds on the girl’s back. What remained of her dress was in tatters.

Still, there was something very wrong about the way Vara spoke. “Of course you will. They will die for what they’ve done, I promise you that.”

Vara glanced over her shoulder and gave Lysandra a big grin that sent a shiver down her spine. “Watch me.”

“Watch—watch what? Vara, what are you talking about?”

Picking up a mid-weight, jagged rock from the ground, Vara began walking directly toward a guard. Lysandra’s heart began pounding wildly. What was she doing?

“Sir . . .” Vara said.

“What is it?” The guard looked at her.

Without hesitation, she smashed the rock into the guard’s face. He let out a pained roar as his nose and teeth were crushed by the force of it. She crouched over him when he fell to the ground and continued to beat him with the stone, over and over until there was little left of his face but red pulp.

Lysandra looked on from the edge of the tent, horrified, as other guards shouted out an alarm. They rushed toward the assault, pushing past other workers, swords drawn.

There was no hesitation as one guard thrust his sword through Vara’s side, straight through to the other side, and she let out a piercing scream, losing her grip on the bloody rock as she fell to her side on the ground. Dead within moments.

Lysandra clamped her hand down over her mouth to keep from making a sound, but a strangled cry escaped her throat. Other slaves were not so quiet. Many began to wail and scream at the sight of the blood, the dead guard, the dead girl.

An older man with thick muscles and a heavy beard roared out in fury. Lysandra took only an instant to recognize him as Vara’s father. He ran toward the guards and took hold of a guard’s sword, wrenching it from his grip. He struck quickly and brutally, severing the guard’s head where he stood.

In mere moments, three dozen Paelsians joined the fight in an attempt to kill as many guards as they could—with rocks, with chisels, with their bare hands and teeth. Other slaves stood back, looking on with fear and shock etched into their faces.

A swarm of new guards approached at a run. One raised his arm to bring his whip down upon a young boy, but then the guard staggered backward. With wide eyes, the guard looked down at the arrow that had sunk into his chest, just below his shoulder. His gaze shot to Lysandra.

When he opened his mouth to yell, to point her out to the other guards as a target, another arrow impaled his right eye socket. He fell to the ground without uttering a sound.

The first arrow had been from Lysandra’s bow. Her already callused fingers felt raw from the speed with which she’d nocked an arrow and let it fly.

But the second . . .

Brion and Jonas swiftly moved toward her. Jonas let free another arrow aimed toward an approaching guard, catching him in the throat.

“Get her,” Jonas barked.

Brion didn’t argue. He grabbed Lysandra and threw her over his shoulder. She was shaking violently and couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t see straight.