“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 hour’s 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 did hope 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.
Jonas’s chest bloomed with agonizing, searing pain. His life bled out onto the tent floor, oozing bright red, sliding across the ground to mingle with that of Aron’s.
“Brion . . .” Jonas’s throat was thick, his eyes burning. A memory—his and Brion’s childhood, running through the vineyard, stealing sweet, plump grapes, and being chased by Jonas’s angry father, who’d—so unlike his son—accepted his destiny without a fight, who’d always followed the rules set forth by Chief Basilius, even when these same rules left his family’s bellies empty.
Catching up to the always rebellious Tomas, who laughed at their antics—Tomas, who never followed a single rule in his life unless he made it himself. And Felicia, his bossy sister, who just stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head and warning Jonas that he’d get in trouble one day for not toeing the line. Felicia was strong—strong enough to survive without him. Strong like their mother had been before the wasting disease had taken her. Jonas had heard rumors that Cleo’s sister had died of a similar ailment.