Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(82)

She kept low to the ground so as not to bring attention to herself and backed away from the throng. At the bottom of the hill, a stream overflowed its banks. Trees dotted the ground, offering cover as she made her way to the barn. Most of the refugees were focused on their family members or the injured. Her retreat went unnoticed until a sharp face shot in her direction, as if drawn by a magnet.

Rozyl crouched on the ground in conversation with two other women. Jasminda froze, just steps from cover. She glanced at the nearest group of soldiers, arguing among themselves, not paying attention to the scattered refugees. Rozyl followed her gaze, then turned back to Jasminda. The two locked eyes for a long moment before the other woman dropped her head, silently giving consent.

Jasminda darted behind the tree, hiding just as the soldiers dispersed. The men took up places around the perimeter of the refugees and herded them into a tighter group. Visually marking her path, she searched for the fastest way to move from her current position to new cover.

A scream tore through the air, rippling chills across her skin. One soldier broke through a cluster of refugees, dragging a child with him. Her breath caught at Osar’s wriggling form being dragged by his collar.

The soldier holding Osar tugged him along until they reached the lieutenant in charge. A line of refugees trailed behind them.

“This one bewitched me!” the soldier shouted in Elsiran.

One bedraggled woman wailed in Lagrimari, “Leave him alone! Leave the boy alone!” She was working herself into a frenzy. Others tried to calm her, but she brushed off their aid. Jasminda recognized her as Timmyn’s mother. The poor thing had already seen her son shot, the threat of violence to another child must have pushed her over the edge.

“What is the problem, Sergeant?” the lieutenant asked.

“Sir, this vermin spawn performed his enchantment on me. I . . . I felt a strangeness befall me. Some unnatural thing.” The sergeant shook Osar in anger, and Timmyn’s mother lunged toward them.

Another soldier pulled his weapon, training it on her. “Keep back!”

She screamed for them to let the boy go.

“What is she saying? Where’s the one that can translate?” the lieutenant barked. To Osar he said, “What have you done, boy? What vileness have you brought upon us?”

Gerda approached, her presence calming many of the refugees, though Timmyn’s mother grew even more hysterical. “All the boy’s done is heal your soldier,” Gerda said.

The lieutenant drew his own pistol, not understanding her words. “Get back. All of you get back!”

Other soldiers mobilized, drawing their firearms on the refugees. From behind her tree, Jasminda watched in horror. Rozyl stood at the edge of the group, her stance defiant. She darted a glance to where Jasminda hid before snapping back to the soldiers.

Cold logic told her there was no better time to go. The attention of the soldiers was fixed on the refugees. There would not be another opportunity. But the image of Timmyn, flat on the ground, blood pooling on his shirt, would not leave Jasminda. If someone was shot this time . . . Were there any Earthsingers not drained from helping the others?

Her brain knew the caldera was more important than the lives of a few refugees, but could she stand by and watch a potential massacre just to keep it safe? The mother screamed again, thrusting Jasminda from her daze.

She rose and started back toward the others.

Escape would have to wait.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


“There is too much interference, sir.” The communications officer flipped a switch, testing yet another connection.

“What kind of interference?” Jack said, peering over the man’s shoulder.

“It’s very unusual, but we’re not able to contact any unit east of the Old Wall.” Static could be heard from the man’s headset.

“So the entire northeastern sector of the country is radio silent?”

“Yes, sir. No telephones, two-ways, or cable communication is operational. They’re just silent.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s almost as if this were intentional.”

The officer looked up startled. “Well, yes, sir. It could be.”

Jack did the math in his head. The caravan was too far along for vehicles to catch up with it, and there was no way for him to contact anyone who could get Jasminda to safety. Panic threatened, but he beat it back through force of will.

Dusk had fallen, bringing with it rain from the east that pelted the city mercilessly.

He banged his fist on the table, and the young officer jumped.

“Blast it! I would need wings to get to her now,” Jack murmured, then stopped short. His gaze rose to the ceiling.

The airship.

Alariq’s pride and joy. And the cause of his death.

It was risky, too risky to even be contemplating, but what was the alternative? Jasminda trapped in Lagrimar? Forced to work in the mines or the harems or worse. She could be killed. He could not save the hundreds of refugees, much as he wanted to, but the life of one woman, the woman most precious to him, could he not even save her?

The airship was the only way to get to the border fast enough—maybe even beat the caravan that had left hours earlier. However, it was this precise situation, flying in a thunderstorm, that had killed his brother. Jack had called Alariq foolish . . . Who was the fool now?