Rebel Spring (Falling Kingdoms 2)
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.”
o;Is it something in the blood of all Auranians that they’re so quick to believe my father’s lies?”
Tears now spilled from Aron’s eyes, the sight of which sickened Magnus. “Pull yourself together, you pathetic fool. This is no way for a kingsliege to behave.”
“Forgive me, your highness. I am so, so sorry for what I did.”
The fire within Magnus at the knowledge that this vapid peacock had been the murderer of his mother, that he’d had helped the king frame another and kept the truth of any of it from Magnus, receded slightly. Killing Aron in wine-fueled vengeance would give him as little satisfaction as squashing a cockroach.
“We will take this matter up with my father when we return to the palace.”
His father had much to answer for. He lowered his sword to his side and turned away toward the flap of the tent.
In the reflection of a silver goblet, he saw Aron lunge at his back, the dagger still clutched in his raised hand.
Magnus turned. He deflected the blade with his left forearm and with his right hand thrust his sword through Aron’s chest.
The boy hung there, impaled, his eyes wide, and he stared at Magnus as if surprised. Such an expression on one who had fully meant to kill him only angered Magnus further. He twisted the blade and Aron let out a tormented cry, the sound of a dying animal, before the life finally left his eyes. With a sharp yank, Magnus pulled out the blade and the lord dropped bonelessly to the ground.
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.