Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

“That smells good now, doesn’t it?” Unar said from inside.

“Feck off, mate,” Pymsyn shouted from the outer room. Unar grinned and stared at Jasminda’s backside as she bent to retrieve something from the oven. Jack gritted his teeth and tried to catch her eye again, but she refused to look to the window.

“Stewed greens,” she sang out with false cheer, while her face contorted in barely contained rage. “Ready in a minute.”

Wargi passed out the plates and straightened the silverware. Jasminda pulled down a stack of bowls from the cupboard and stirred the greens again, readying to serve them.

Jack was out of time. He had to do something.

“Shining brightly, coast to hill,

Her beauty waning never.

Elsira lives on by our will.

Elsira is forever.”

All chatter inside the house stopped as Jack’s voice rang out, singing the Elsiran National Anthem in his native tongue. He’d stepped away from the window and could no longer see inside but guessed his outburst would have the desired effect. He rushed into the second verse, modifying the original lyrics to suit his need, knowing the soldiers would not understand the words.

“They’re ordered to eat in two shifts.

You must not give them poison.

Or they’ll discover what you’ve done.

Find a way to destroy it.”

The last words were barely out before Ginko and Pymsyn rushed onto the porch, fists swinging. They cursed his traitorous soul for having the nerve to sing his foul anthem and pummeled him to the floor. Their anger was real, but the severity of the blows paled in comparison to what he’d suffered when he’d first been discovered. A few days of rest and relaxation had turned the men soft.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Jack wheezed out in Lagrimari as the two stepped back. Then a foot to his midsection stole his breath. A kick to the head stole his consciousness.

He woke to
the murmur of Earthsong ebbing away his pain. Night had fallen, and the call of birds kept time with the pounding in his head. A cool hand slid across his forehead and he pressed into the touch.

“I was right. You
are
mad.” Her voice was as soft as her skin, and he moaned slightly at the way both refreshed him.

He rolled to his back and took a deep breath. It was too dark to see her face, especially with one of his eyes nearly swollen shut, but her presence, here and alive, soothed him.

“What happened to the greens?” he said. His lower lip was numb, making it hard to speak.

“I accidentally emptied a bottle of vinegar into them.” Her silhouette shrugged. “They had to make do with the potatoes.”

He exhaled, releasing tension from his entire aching body.

“Thank you,” she said. Her hands moved, her two tiny ones holding one of his in their grasp.

“The men?” he whispered.

She sighed. “They discovered my father’s gin. They’re three noses into the still.”

He struggled up to a sitting position. Even with her healing treatment, he still felt every one of the blows he’d received.

“You’re a mess,” she said, and began wiping at his face with a rag. “Your rib’s broken again.”

“Nothing too serious, then.” He was able to fill his lungs with enough air to keep breathing—that was enough. “It was a good effort . . . the poison.”

“Not good enough. Sometimes I wish Earthsong could be used to . . .” She shook her head.

Jack shuddered. “We would have been wiped out a long time ago if Earthsong could kill. But . . . I've never understood . . . If you can see into the body in order to heal, why can't you . . .”

“Kill?” She shrugged, staring down at her hands. “Earthsong is pure life. Trying to cause harm in that way is like trying to swim up a waterfall. The energy doesn’t flow in that direction.”

Jack remained quiet, peering at the mountains. “How much longer will the storm last, do you think?”

A shifting of clouds revealed the moonlight, illuminating her pensive expression. “Another twenty-four hours or so.”

The glow of her skin made him lose his train of thought. She peered at him, concern clouding her face.

“I need to get back home,” he said.

She nodded. “Let me wrap your ribs.” She produced a bandage from the pocket of her dress and leaned toward him. Her fingers slid underneath his shirt, and he shivered at her touch. He focused on her scent enveloping him and bit back a wince as pain speared him with every pass of her hands around his abdomen. “The only way to the other side is through it.” She repeated his words back to him with a wink.

When she’d finished, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the railing. “I wish I could go through the mountain.”

“You’re still in no shape to travel.”

His lids flew open as he focused on the words she didn’t say. “
Is
there a way through the mountain? Darvyn mentioned tunnels in the north—does this range have them as well?”

She busied herself folding and refolding the rag she’d used on his face, not meeting his eyes.

“Jasminda.” He reached for her, stilling her hands. The contact shot through him just as strong as the hope her hesitation had inspired. “Please. You know what’s at stake.”

Her eyes softened for a moment as she threaded her fingers through his. His pain faded to the background as he watched her mouth move, beginning to form words, then thinking better of it.

“Sleep with the knife tonight. Nothing can be done until tomorrow.”

“Please—”

A crash sounded within the house, and the door slammed open. Jack drew back. Jasminda stood suddenly. The loss of contact burned his palms. Her expression held no trace of guilt, but a swaying, inebriated Tensyn narrowed his eyes at the both of them.

“You!” He pointed a shaking finger at Jack and lurched forward.

“Sergeant,” Jasminda said, injecting meekness into her voice. It sounded foreign and wrong on her tongue. “The spy’s injuries are not life threatening. He will live to meet the True Father’s justice. However”—she used her body to block Tensyn’s view of Jack—“another beating may kill him, and then Lagrimar would be deprived of the knowledge he holds.”

Tensyn’s hand went to his mustache, and he twirled the end, raking his gaze over Jasminda.

“Come,” she said, grabbing hold of his arm and turning him back toward the door. Jack leaned forward, unsure what he was going to do but unwilling to see her making nice with the man. She kicked his ankle gently before leading Tensyn away. “I think there’s a berry tart waiting for you. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

She spoke to the sergeant as she would a child, and Jack couldn’t make out the man’s slurred response. This time anger replaced the pain coursing through him. He was leaving tomorrow, and he was going to make bloody well sure Jasminda was safe, even if it meant taking her with him.

Jasminda’s sleep was
heavy with forbidden dreams. Moving versions of the pictures in the magazines she’d found long ago under her brothers’ mattresses. While she’d been ordering endless books from mail-order catalogs, the twins had been interested in a different sort of literature.

Her shock at the discovery had quickly turned to fascination at the pages of nude and proud women displaying themselves unselfconsciously. Teasingly hiding a breast behind a hand or shielding the apex of their legs with clever positioning. But some of the pictures, the ones burned into her mind, were of couples, men and women draped over one another, body parts aligning in ways that caused moisture to pool between her legs and her imagination to soar.

In the dream, the pages came alive, but she and Jack were the models. His lips glanced over hers in a soft caress. Flashes of sensation assaulted her as she chased the constantly changing visions, unable to hold on to one for long. His lithe body stretched out over her own. Her hands ran across his muscular chest, smooth skin warming her fingertips. Gripped in his powerful arms, she wrapped her legs around him, melting into his touch.

The dream died to the sound of tinkling wind chimes—the makeshift alarm she’d hung on her door. She came awake instantly, bypassing the bulk of the shotgun to grab for the knife she’d hidden under her pillow. This time she did not need Earthsong to sense ill intentions.

A figure loomed above her in the dark, and a beefy hand covered her mouth, stifling her scream. Fahl towered over her, reeking of gin. He was strong and had an iron grip on her face, pushing her back into the pillow. The hand holding her knife was stuck underneath her head, and Fahl’s other hand felt roughly for her nightgown and grabbed at the hem.

Jasminda kicked out, struggling, fighting with all her might, but Fahl was huge and heavy as he lay on top of her, fully immobilizing her. He eased up enough to continue pushing up her nightgown and then pawed at her thighs as she tried to clench them together.

The shotgun rolled off the bed, hitting the floor. Fahl chuckled when he saw it, launching a blast of alcohol-infused air into her face.

“Keep fighting, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s been months since I had any, and I don’t mind working for it a little.”

Jasminda stilled, unwilling to give this man anything he wanted. She hunted for an escape.

He fumbled with his trousers, pulling and tearing at them until his squiggly, limp penis emerged. He made a sound of disgust, then started stroking himself while pinning her down, one hand still over her mouth. Jasminda strained to see what was going on down there—and thanked the Queen he wasn’t making much progress.

Her plan with the ruaba leaf had been abandoned, but the terryroot was doing its job. Odorless and tasteless, her herb dictionary listed its use for “wives wanting some peace from their husbands.” Her mother had laughed heartily when a young Jasminda asked what that meant, telling the girl that she would find out when she was older. Since the soldiers had arrived, Jasminda had been liberally dosing their food with the herb.

Growling in frustration, Fahl kneeled up over her, angrily pulling on himself. Without his weight on top of her, Jasminda could now move her arm but didn’t know if she would be quick enough with the knife. The moment of indecision cost her when he stood suddenly, grabbing her by the hair and arm. She winced from the pain as he forced her down the stairs. Her side pressed against his giant chest, immobilizing her arm, but allowing just enough reach for her to slide the knife into her pocket.

“Ginko!” he whispered loudly. “Mate, where are you?”

An answering groan sounded from the living room. The door to one of the bedrooms hung open, revealing another soldier sprawled on the floor inside. Fahl pressed her onto the couch next to a groggy and very drunk Ginko.

“I’ve brought you a present, mate,” Fahl said. His pants were still sagging and his flaccid penis hung out shamelessly.

“Eh?” Ginko replied, peeling open his eyes. When he noticed Jasminda, his demeanor changed. “What about the sergeant?” he slurred.

“Fucker can’t hold his liquor.” Fahl grinned evilly, showing off his blackened, stinking teeth. “He’ll never know, and when he comes ’round, we can just say she run off.”

His grip loosened for a moment, and Jasminda tore free with a shout, lunging off the couch toward the kitchen, jumping over furniture in her way. But Fahl and Ginko surprised her with their speed, catching up to her quickly and slamming her down on the kitchen table. She pulled the knife from her pocket and swiped out, slicing through a fleshy arm. A corresponding yowl rang out from whichever of them she cut.

She screamed a war cry and lashed out again, but a hand pinned her arm like a vise before the knife met its target. A blow to her face rattled her senses before her legs were pinned, as well. She kicked and flailed with all her strength, but it felt like immovable rocks held her in place.

Ginko clutched her legs, nudging her nightgown up. Near her head, Fahl still pulled at himself futilely.

“Perhaps this will go better if I stuff it down your throat,” he said, releasing her arms to grab her hair and tilt her head back toward him. His grip was tight enough to make her vision blur, but she focused on her newly freed hands. A little closer and she’d be able to reach the two sensitive sacks behind his drooping manhood. She would rip off whatever she touched and bite off anything that came near her lips.

As Fahl drew closer and Ginko’s hands slid toward her panties, the back door crashed open. All movement stilled. Through watery eyes, she saw Jack standing in the doorway, the knife she’d hidden for him in his hand, his restraints dangling from one wrist. He leaped across the room and tackled Fahl, plunging the knife deep into the man’s belly. Ginko sprang away.

Jasminda crawled off the table and dropped to the ground. She blinked, clearing her vision, and rose to see Jack duck Ginko’s wide punch. The swing threw the soldier off-balance. He wobbled until Jack landed a vicious, crunching kick. Ginko crumpled, hitting his head with a loud
crack
on the kitchen counter before falling to the floor. Blood pooled around his head and he stared upward, unseeing.

Fahl, knife still lodged in his belly, had been leaning against the opposite counter, but when Ginko fell, he rushed Jack with a new burst of strength. He grasped Jack in a bear hug and wrapped his hands around Jack’s throat, squeezing. Jasminda screamed and ran toward the hulking man, climbing on his back. The fingers of one hand sunk deep into his greasy hair as she pulled back his head, then in one swift motion slit the man’s throat with the other, just as she’d do with a goat.

She jumped back and he fell, blood spurting everywhere, covering Jack with its spray. Heaving for breath, she barely registered a new presence in the room until it was gone.

“Wargi!” she said, taking off after him. Jack followed on her heels as she entered her parents’ old bedroom.

Wargi stood over the sergeant’s prone body, sprawled across her parents’ bed. His eyes, wide and wild, focused on the bloody knife in her grip. He shook with fear and made little hiccupping sounds. This boy was too young to have been in combat. Had he seen a man die before?