There’s one problem with that. “I’m not your wife.”
War smirks, his expression mocking me again. “Would you like me to prove my claim? I’d be more than happy to.” His words full of sexual undertones.
I readjust my grip on the dagger. “Get out of my tent.”
War studies me, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “Is this tent really yours though?” he asks.
No. Doesn’t change the fact that I want him out.
“Get out of this tent,” I correct.
“Or else?” He raises an eyebrow.
Isn’t that obvious enough?
I press the tip of his dagger a little deeper into his flesh. A dark line of blood drips down his throat.
War leans forward. “Brave little warrior, threatening me in my own camp.” His eyes search my face.
“How did you even find me?” I demand. There are thousands of residences in this place.
“I thought you wanted me gone from your tent,” he says. I sense his amusement.
“And yet you’re still here. So.”
“I can’t answer your question if you slit my throat.” He looks pointedly at the dagger.
I hesitate. Waking up to any man in my tent is what I would consider an open threat. Yet I have to admit that if War wanted to harm me in any manner, he probably would’ve done so by now, and no blade of mine would be able to stop him.
Finally, I lower the dagger.
He touches the blood at his throat, and I swear I see a whisper of a smile on his face. “This is my camp. There are no secrets here that can be kept from me.”
I eye him some more, my grip tightening on my dagger. “I’ve heard you can’t die,” I say.
“Is that why you haven’t tried to kill me yet?” That mocking tone is back in his voice.
Yes.
My silence is answer enough.
“Can you?” I press.
“Die?” War clarifies. “Of course I can.”
Damnit. Just when I lowered my blade too.
“I just have a tendency to not stay dead.”
I scrutinize him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He grabs a lit oil lamp I didn’t notice, then stands. “You’ll understand, eventually—along with everything else, aššatu.” Wife. “All you have to do is surrender.”
Casting me one final enigmatic look, War blows out the lamp, and then he’s gone like a phantom in the night.
Even though my city is gone and I’ve been captured, I’m expected to just go on with my life.
That’s clear enough the next morning when I wake up to the sound of general chatter outside my tent.
I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised. The same thing was expected of me the day after the horsemen’s Arrival. By now I’m an old hand at this.
I dress in my stained clothes. They’re still damp from yesterday, but God, it’s a lot more practical than the outfit I was given. Pulling on my boots, I step outside.
People lounge around their tents, chatting, laughing, drinking tea or coffee. This section of camp is filled mostly with women and children, and I’m shocked to see that several of them have their heads covered. I would’ve assumed that War would want us all to forsake our religion for his, but apparently not.
The air is still full of the smell of meat, and for a moment, all I can think of are the dead bodies that littered the ground when I entered Jerusalem yesterday. It smelled like meat then, too.
I follow the scent back to the clearing. This terrifying place seems to be where breakfast is served. My eyes move over the sheep being turned on a spit and the trays of fruit and nuts and bread that are spread out before me.
I wander over to the line for breakfast and try not to think about where all this food came from. Armies need to be fed, and one as big as this one … well, raiding cities would be the lesser of the atrocities they’ve committed.
By the time I’m at the front of the line, I spot a familiar face. The man from yesterday, the one who grabbed his crotch and pointed his blade at me, stands on the other side of the clearing, wearing a keffiyeh and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He runs his fingers through his short beard as he chats with the men around him. But his eyes are on me, and no matter how long I stare back at him, he won’t look away.
The weight of the dagger at my side is some small comfort.
I break eye contact first, grabbing my food and leaving the clearing.
I head to the edge of camp, finding a relatively quiet place to sit down and eat. As I do so, my eyes drift over the mountains that surround us.
It would be so easy to slip away unnoticed.
I pause, mid-chew, surreptitiously glancing along the outskirts of camp for any patrolling guards.
I don’t see any.
Setting my plate aside, I stand up. I have to fight the urge to look around me and check that no one’s noticed my behavior. That’s the quickest way to alert people you’re up to no good.
Casually, I begin walking away from camp, holding my breath as I do so. The seconds tick by, and the general buzz of camp life continues on, gradually fading away behind me.
I’m actually doing it.
It’s only when I’ve passed half a dozen trees, however, that I exhale my relief.
I did it.
That was easier than I thought it would—
“On pain of death, stop!”
Damnit.
I come to a halt, positive there’s an arrow aimed at my back.
Sure enough, when I turn around, a man is striding over to me, an arrow trained on my chest.
“All deserters face the executioner’s block,” he informs me.
I’ve been in a tight position more times than I’d like to admit. With the Muslim Brotherhood, with the Palestinian guard, with other raiders who caught me off guard. The key to getting out of these situations relatively unscathed was to have a convincing story and to follow Rule Two—stick to the truth.
“I make weapons,” I say quickly. Tamar had mentioned that the camp could use a weapons maker.
The soldier squints at me. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“I use the wood from trees in this area to make bows and arrows,” I say slowly, like this whole situation should be obvious.
“You expect me to believe you’re out here collecting some goddamn wood for weapons?”
To be fair, he has a point. I have no bag to collect branches, and my holstered dagger is hardly useful for chopping wood. I look like an escapee, not a worker.
“I cleared it with War.” The lie rushes out of me.
Immediate regret.
So much for sticking to the truth—I just threw that rule right out the window.
The soldier eyes me up and down, probably weighing the pros and cons of believing me versus not.
Finally, he comes to some sort of decision. “I don’t care who you cleared your activities with, if you want to live, you better get the fuck back to camp. Now.”
Giving the trees around me a final, parting look, I leave the brush, heading back to camp, an arrow trained on me the entire way there.
So much for escape.
There’s an order to this maze of a camp. It takes me the rest of the day to figure it out, but eventually I do.
The layout is broken into four quadrants. I live amongst the women and children in one of them. Another is cordoned off for the men and women who choose to live together. By far the biggest quadrant is the one dedicated to the men.
Then, of course, there’s War’s area.
All these quadrants of camp ring the clearing, which appears to be the heart of this place. And it’s a blackened heart at that.
Throughout the day, the drums pound intermittently, and I come to learn that these noises precede executions. Some are for petty theft, some are for captured deserters, one man was even sentenced to death for pissing into a comrade’s drink. Apparently that joke didn’t go over so well. And then there are some executio
ns that have no stated cause. I guess it doesn’t really matter in the end; War wants us all dead, he’ll just keep enough of us alive to help him achieve that goal.
You’d think that the sheer quantity of executions would make for a somber atmosphere—and maybe it does affect people on a more private level—but everywhere I look, men and women are moving about, chatting and carrying clothes or weaving sleeping pallets and baskets, and on and on.
Everyone seems to have tasks to complete. I can’t figure out if they’ve been given these duties or if they simply volunteer to help out, but there are people to cook, people to clean, people to guard, people to care for the horses, people to dig out latrines, and a hundred other tasks that are needed to keep this camp running like a well-oiled machine—not that any machines run smoothly anymore, oiled or not. But whatever. My point still stands.
I take it all in.
It seems so hopelessly normal. I don’t know how War does it. How he manages to get people to work together after they’ve lost everything at the hands of his army.
But not everything is normal. After all, there’s no indication that religion exists here. Granted, I’ve only been at camp for a day, so maybe I just need to be patient. However, so far there have been no calls for prayer and no public sermons. I haven’t seen anything that indicates which god—if any—these people believe in. The only signs of religion that I have seen are the few religious items that people wear on themselves. Other than that, it’s as though God doesn’t exist.
Which is so very ironic, considering our circumstances.
Eventually, I return to my tent. No one visits me or gives me any duties to perform around camp, and I only leave when food or nature calls.
The thunderous sound of hoof beats eventually draws me back outside. By then the sun is sinking in the sky, the heat from the day gradually cooling. Around me, other women leave their tents, glancing towards the sound.
“They’re coming,” I hear one of them murmur.
Around me, most of the people make their way towards the clearing. Curiosity pulls me along with them. I’ve barely arrived when dozens of mounted men cut through camp, kicking up dust and mowing down the shrubs in their way. Riding at the front is War himself. He and the rest of the riders are all drenched in blood.
Back from another invasion.
I hadn’t realized there were more people to kill; the army seemed to do a good enough job of it yesterday. It makes sense though. Jerusalem is large, and then there are the nearby satellite communities. I guess even a supernatural force like the horseman needs more than a day to wipe us all out.
The war drums start up again, the beat of them stirring the blood in my veins.
War charges into the clearing as people scramble to get out of his way, and I swallow at the sight of the blood-red beast he rides. His horse has barely slowed when War swings himself off his mount.
Behind him, other riders gallop into the clearing, each one wearing a red tie on their upper arm.
“Who are those men?” I ask a woman next to me.
“Phobos riders,” she says, briefly tearing her gaze away from them. “They’re War’s best soldiers.”
Which means they’re his best killers. I stare at them with new eyes as they circle the horseman before fanning out around him. When the last one has fallen into place, the drums cut out.
I have no idea what’s going on until the dust has settled a bit. Laying on the ground in front of them all is a bloody man.
He looks dead, the way he lays there, but after a minute or so, he picks himself up.
War doesn’t speak, just watches him rise to his feet. Once the man is standing on shaky legs, the horseman prowls towards him.
The crowd goes quiet as a phobos rider hops off his horse and steps forward. “This man, Elijah,” he says, gesturing to the nearly dead man, “was one of the Phobos, the warlord’s inner elite. Our warlord fed him, gave him shelter, trusted him. And what did he do to repay that kindness?” He pauses, his gaze sweeping the crowd. “He turned on our horseman and he turned on his fellow warriors!”
As if on cue, the people around me shout their outrage. I glance at them, shocked to see that many look legitimately angry. If they’re acting, they’re doing a very good job of it.
“As soon as battle began, Elijah started slaughtering his brothers-in-arms,” the speaker continues, all while War stares down Elijah, his eyes sharp as blades. “We lost many good men today.”
Still staring at Elijah, War reaches over his back and grasps the hilt of his enormous blade. The steel zings as it’s pulled from its scabbard.
I cringe at the sight of it, remembering my own close encounter. But instead of swinging it down on the man, War tosses the blade in front of him.
“Sunu uk. San suni, adas Susturu tıtuu üçüt huniştüü nunıtnuu utenin dukikdep nurun.” he says.
Take it. Prove that you are worthy enough to defy me, human.
Elijah is shaking, either from fear or from exhaustion, but he doesn’t look like he regrets his actions.
War backs away slowly. “San Tuduygu uturun teknirip, nik niygiziş üçüt hutişnüü nunıtnuu utenin dukikdep nurun.”
Prove that you are worthy enough to defy God Himself.
With that, the horseman turns, giving Elijah his back.
The bloody phobos rider waits a second or two, then scrambles for War’s blade. He hits his first snag when he picks up the sword. The weapon is clearly too heavy for him to wield; even with both hands on its hilt the sword sways in his grip.
My heart plummets at the sight. Here is a man who decided to kill the killers. I want him to stop this horseman once and for all. The realistic part of me knows there’s no chance of that. I’ve seen War’s strength. There is no beating him.
The horseman turns around, his hands bare. His red leather armor is splattered with blood, and his kohl-lined eyes are ferocious. He wears another blade on him, but even when his opponent begins to approach him, he doesn’t reach for it.
Elijah approaches, his face full of righteous anger. “You expected me to just watch as you slaughtered us?”
“Tuz utırtı juni şuur üçüt önüt dup atna üçüt ıtuuzı vokgon.”
You were content to do that for the last seventeen cities we passed through.
Seventeen? Seventeen?
Not sure I should be cheering this man on anymore …
He stumbles forward, his grip shaky, his body obviously exhausted from the day. He must know fighting is a lost cause, but that doesn’t stop him from running at War, hatred in his eyes.
The man is almost upon the horseman, the latter who stands very still. Elijah fights to lift the sword high enough to strike. War still doesn’t move.
“San sunin nupşırsunı suksugın tönörö ukvuyn.”
You cannot carry the weight of my task.
As if in challenge to War’s words, the phobos rider swings the blade. The horseman easily ducks under the blow, the gold coils in his hair glinting as they swing in the light.
Elijah stumbles forward, kicking up dust as he tries to regain control of the heavy weapon. It takes an agonizing several seconds for the phobos rider to turn around and face War once more.
The horseman is completely at ease, and yet I sense so much bridled power behind his relaxed stance.
“San Tuduydın urtin nüşütüü süstün eses,” he taunts.
You cannot understand God’s will.
With a yell, Elijah comes at him again, swinging War’s sword wildly. And again, the horseman sidesteps the attack. His opponent is panting, his arms shaking at the effort it takes to hold the horseman’s blade.
It’s almost painful to watch, and what makes it worse is that I’m rooting for Elijah. I might be the only one here who is.
War steps in close and grabs one of his opponent’s wrists. The move forces Elijah to lose the two-handed grip he had on the giant sword, and without that grip, the weapon sags in his hand.
The horseman leans
in close, his next words barely audible. “Sani övütün urtin nüşütügö süstün eses, vurok San senin öç nüşünön.”
You cannot understand His will, but you will understand my vengeance.
It happens almost too fast to follow. I hear something snap, then a scream. The man drops War’s sword, cradling his arm against his chest.
The warlord catches the massive weapon as it falls. He unsheathes his other smaller sword. For a split second the two men stare at each other. Then War scissors his blades across his opponent’s body.
Blood sprays, and part of the man’s body goes one way, the rest, another. It takes everything in me not to sick myself at the sight.
Around me, a cheer rises up from the crowd.
The world has gone mad.
Sheathing his swords, the horseman walks away, letting the rest of the camp close in and defile the body.
Not an hour later I’m called to the horseman’s tent.
I walk alongside several solemn-faced phobos riders, the men bracketing me in. For the first time since I arrived, I enter War’s section of camp.
Now that the raiding is over for the day, the phobos riders meander about the tents here, smoking hand rolled cigarettes and playing cards. A few of them watch me with interest, but most of them simply ignore the woman being brought to War’s tent.
It’s unmistakable which tent is the horseman’s. War’s home is set apart from the rest, and though the phobos riders’ accommodations are much larger than mine, War’s tent dwarves theirs. He’s made a canvas palace for himself, the place illuminated on the outside by smoking torchlights.
About a meter away from the tent flaps, the phobos riders break away from me to stand guard, leaving me alone at the threshold to War’s tent.
My heart beats fast in my chest. I’ve faced a decent amount of scary shit since the Arrival. You’d think I’d have some tolerance to it by now. But I don’t. I’m still afraid. I’m afraid of this place and what it does to people. I’m afraid of what the future holds. Most of all, I’m afraid of the horseman and what he wants with me, especially after watching him mercilessly butcher a man.
“Go in,” one of the phobos riders calls out.
Blowing out a breath, I step forward and enter.
War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 5