Falling Kingdoms (Falling Kingdoms 1)

The boy smiled, but then the expression faded away and his eyes glazed over.

Jonas sat there a moment longer before getting to his feet. He let out a roar of anger into the skies above at the unfairness that a boy so young had to die tonight to help the King of Blood claim Auranos.

And the Paelsians—including himself!—were helping him every step of the way, baring their throats to their enemy’s blade in the process—sacrificing their very futures.

The boy’s death made it all unutterably clear to Jonas. There were no guarantees that King Gaius would hold true to any promises he’d made. He had the numbers. His army was vast and trained. Paelsia was there as nothing more than cannon fodder.

He needed to fall back and talk to the chief. Immediately. Clutching his blades, he turned from the boy—to be met with an arm covered by a spiked gauntlet slashing toward him. It missed his face by barely an inch as he spun out of the way. It was an Auranian who’d lost much of his armor apart from his breastplate. His ugly face was slashed, his hair matted with blood. Someone had attempted to slash his throat, but he’d gotten away before the blade had left more than an angry-looking scratch.

“Saying goodbye to your little brother?” The knight smirked. One of his front teeth had been knocked out. “That’s what you get when you try to mess with us. You get my sword through your guts. And you’re next, savage.”

Fury burned inside Jonas. The knight attacked, slicing his sword through the air—clashing with Jonas’s blades hard enough to rattle his teeth. The sound of a steel-tipped arrow zipped ripped through the air inches away from his ear, catching a nearby Paelsian soldier in the back of the leg. He fell to the ground, screaming.

The Auranian knight had been trained for this, but he was already injured from hours of fighting. His fatigue was Jonas’s only advantage.

“You’re going to lose,” the knight hissed. “And you’re going to die. We should have put you out of your misery years ago—your entire goddess-forsaken land. You should be thanking us for stomping you out like the filthy cockroaches you are.”

Jonas didn’t care if he was called a cockroach. They were resilient, strong, and resourceful creatures. It beat being called a savage. But he really didn’t like being told he was going to lose.

“You’re wrong. Our misery is over. But yours has just begun.”

Jonas threw all of his body weight toward the knight, taking him down to the ground hard. Throwing his blades to the side, he wrenched the knight’s sword out of his hands and pressed it against his throat.

“Surrender,” Jonas growled.

“Never. I fight for my king and kingdom. I won’t rest till every last one of you filthy savages is dead.”

Suddenly, there was a knife in the knight’s hand. Jonas felt the bite of pain as it pierced his side. Before it could burrow too deep, he rolled away, grabbing hold of the sword with both hands.

With every remaining piece of his strength, Jonas brought the sword down on the knight’s unprotected throat. The head flew away from the rest of the body. He wiped the spray of blood from his eyes with his sleeve.

He staggered to his feet and, in pain, fought his way back across the field, across the river that now ran with blood under the night sky. Hot, thick blood ran down his own side from his wounds, but he kept moving forward. Or...backward.

Through the thick curtain of forest to the other side, where the city of tents had been created. Hundreds milled about in the medical area—injured, dying. Wails of pain and misery met his ears.

Jonas kept moving, his legs weak. Finally he reached his destination—the chief’s tent. These tents—supplied by the Limerians—were larger than any Paelsian cottage he’d ever seen. This was where the elite rested and took their meals, which were lavishly prepared by dedicated cooks and servants.

While eleven-year-old boys fought and died in battle two miles away.

Basilius’s guards recognized Jonas despite his covering of fresh blood—his own and that of those he’d killed—so they didn’t protest when he pushed through the flap leading into the expansive, furnished tent. Bile rose in Jonas’s throat to see such luxury after what he’d just experienced for the last half day.

“Jonas!” the chief exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Please, come in! Join me!”

Exhaustion and pain made him stumble as he walked. He feared his knees would give out completely. The chief’s gaze went to his injured side and over his face, noting his wounds. “Medic!”

With only a word, a man approached and pulled at Jonas’s shirt to inspect his wounds. A chair was suddenly behind him and he sat down hard. It was a good thing since he’d become very dizzy and disoriented. His skin was cold and clammy. The world suddenly appeared dim at the edges. He worked hard to breathe normally and regain his strength.

The medic worked on him, swiftly cleaning and bandaging the wounds.

“So tell me,” the chief said with a big smile. “How goes the battle?”

“Haven’t you been meditating all this time? I thought maybe you could see us through the eyes of birds.” He wasn’t sure why he said this. A child’s story, he vaguely recalled. One his mother believed.

The chief nodded, his smile staying right where it was. “It’s a gift I wish I had. Perhaps it’s one I’ll develop in the coming years.”

“I wanted to talk to you personally,” Jonas forced out. He worried about Brion now, feeling guilt about leaving the battlefield before the siege had been successful. He’d lost sight of his friend early in the battle. Brion could be out there dying, with no one to protect him in case an Auranian came by to finish him off. Or an errant arrow pierced his defenseless flesh.

With Tomas gone, Brion was as close to a brother as Jonas had.