“Surrender?” I echo. “I already have.”
“You haven’t,” he insists.
Are you kidding me? He’s forced me to leave my life behind because it suited him. If that’s not surrender then I don’t know what is.
The more I stew on my thoughts, the more indignant I become.
“We’ve talked about how different you are and how difficult you are to understand, but we haven’t talked about me,” I finally say. “I don’t want you as a husband, and I don’t accept you, and whatever your god thinks he wants to do with me and the rest of the world, I will fight it with my every last breath.
“Oh, and I’m not surrendering anything to you, motherfucker.”
War gives a malevolent laugh, and despite myself, it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Fight all you want, wife. Battle is what I’m best at—and I assure you, you won’t win this one.”
The second day of riding is both more and less miserable than the first. More, because I still have to ride alongside War, and less, because Thunder has only tried to kick me once so far, and that’s an improvement from the three attempts he made yesterday.
My terrible sunburn also seems to be much better today—the skin only slightly tight and tender—and my saddle-sore thighs don’t ache nearly as much as I expected them to. I don’t know what witchcraft is responsible for this, but I’m not going to complain.
Today we leave the arid mountain range behind us, moving towards the flatter ground near the coast. The moment those rolling hills fall away, I feel bare. I’ve lived with the mountains my entire life. The wide, flat expanse of land that stretches out in front of me now is foreign and it makes me painfully homesick.
I’m really not going back. My heart squeezes a little at the thought, even as a strange sort of exhilaration takes hold. For years I had been trying to save up enough money to leave Jerusalem. And now I’ve truly left it.
Not that this part of New Palestine is much to look at. It’s nothing but swaths and swaths of yellowed grass, interrupted every now and then by a struggling patch of farmland. Every so often we pass a dilapidated building or a seemingly empty town, and maybe there are still people living here. It doesn’t look like War has laid waste to these places, but it’s all so very quiet.
“Are the people here already dead?” I ask.
It feels like they’re dead. Everything’s too still. Not even the wind stirs, like it’s already abandoned this place.
“Not yet,” he says ominously.
How is it feasible for War to stretch his reach this far? The cities he lays siege to, those I understand, but the houses that speckle these forgotten places—how does he get those?
He doesn’t say anything further, and I’m left with a horrible, gnawing worry that he and the other horsemen are truly unstoppable.
But they can be stopped, right? After all, another horseman came before War, and then, at some later time, he vanished.
“What happened to Pestilence?” I ask.
Quiet fear had settled into Jerusalem after the news came that a horseman of the apocalypse was spreading plague through North America. But then a short while later rumors erupted that Pestilence had disappeared. I don’t know if anyone truly believed that—that he’d disappeared, I mean. We’d been fooled by that explanation once before, when the horsemen first arrived.
But Pestilence hadn’t returned after all; War had come instead.
“The conqueror was vanquished,” War says.
“The conqueror?” I repeat. “You mean Pestilence?”
War inclines his head a little.
“I thought you were all immortal,” I say.
“I didn’t say my brother was dead.”
I narrow my eyes, studying War’s profile. How could a horseman be both alive and vanquished?
He glances over at me. “You carry trouble in your eyes, wife. Whatever you’re thinking, unthink it.”
“Tell me about him,” I say. “Pestilence.”
War is quiet for a long time. His kohl-lined eyes far too aware. “You want to know how Pestilence was stopped?”
Of course I do. I had no idea a horsemen could be stopped. A second later, War’s words truly register.
“So he was stopped?” I try to imagine Pestilence chained and immobilized, thwarted from his deadly task.
War settles himself deeper into his saddle. “That’s a story for another day, I’m afraid.” His words are final. “But wife,” he adds, “there is something you should know now.”
I raise my brows. Oh?
War flashes me a fierce look. “My brother failed. I will not.”
I think I’m supposed to be frightened by War’s words, but all I can think is that Pestilence failed. He failed at whatever he was supposed to do.
Shit. The horsemen really can be stopped.
War continues on, unaware of my thoughts. “Pestilence might’ve been a conqueror, but I don’t seek to conquer, savage woman, I seek to destroy.”
It’s late by the time we eventually stop. We’re not at the ocean, but from the few words War’s said on the subject, this expanse of land is where the entire army will set up camp when they arrive tomorrow.
Which means I only have to endure one more night of one-on-one time with War. The thought isn’t nearly so daunting as it was yesterday. Aside from cupping my face, he hasn’t so much as tried to touch me.
However, tonight War lays the pallets noticeably closer to each other. Close enough for us to reach out and hold hands from our respective beds—if we wanted to.
Like yesterday, War still gives me all the blankets, and I still feel guilty about it. I shouldn’t feel guilty. Going cold for one night is the least of what this fucker deserves.
But even once I slip under those blankets, the guilt still trickles its way in. Maybe especially then because the evening air already has a bite to it.
Don’t offer him a blanket, Miriam. Don’t do it. You extend that olive branch and you open the door to being something more than distant travel companions.
I bite my tongue until I no longer feel the urge to share my blankets.
War, for his part, looks completely at home on his threadbare pallet. He lays on his back, his hands behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles as he stares up at the stars. Again I envy his ease. He seems perfectly at home here, on this random patch of dirt—more at home than I feel, and I’ve lived on this earth a helluva lot longer than he has.
“So,” I begin.
He turns his head to me. “Yes?”
God, that deep voice. My core clenches at the sound of it.
“What were you doing before you were raiding cities?” I ask.
War glances back up at the stars. “I slept.”
Uh … “Where?”
“Here, on earth.”
His answer doesn’t make much sense to me, but then, not much else about him makes sense either—so far, what I’ve learned about him is that he can’t be killed, he doesn’t need food or water, and he doesn’t shit or piss like the rest of us.
I repeat: the horseman doesn’t shit or piss.
I’m telling you, he makes no sense.
War’s voice cuts through the night air. “While I slept, I dreamed. I could hear so many voices. So many things,” he murmurs.
I study his profile. So far, War has been haughty, possessive, silver-tongued, and terrifying. But this is the first time I’ve seen him like this. Full of his otherness. An eerie feeling creeps over me, like he might’ve just been about to spill the secrets of the universe.
He seems to shake himself. “But that is no matter.”
I stare at him for a little longer.
“Tomorrow my army will arrive here.”
“And things will go back to the way they were,” I say.
I imagine my tiny tent. I should feel relief that I’ll be able to put distance between us once more. Instead my stomach twists. I hadn’t realized how lonely I’ve been. You don’t really focus on thi
ngs like loneliness when you’re just trying to survive each day like I’d been in Jerusalem. But I had felt lonely. I’d felt it every night I fell asleep without my family and woke to silence.
And then War swept into my town and I stopped trying to survive. I opened my arms to death, and it was the horseman who kept me from that fate.
“Things don’t have to go back to the way they were, wife.”
Wife.
The horseman knows exactly how to bait me. I don’t want to be with him, but now I’ve remembered just what it’s like to be with someone. To have open, unvarnished conversations.
My throat works. “They must.”
Chapter 10
I wake in War’s arms.
I know it before I open my eyes—even before I fully shake off sleep. I’m far too warm, and I can feel his heavy limbs draped all over me as I lay on my side. Still, when I blink my eyes open, I’m not prepared for the reality of it.
My face is all but buried against his naked chest. I pull my head away a little. This close to him, all I can see is the crimson glow of his markings and endless olive skin.
How did this happen?
I glance down between us and—damnit, we’re on his pallet, not mine, which means I scooched over to him at some point in the night, sacrificing my blankets for his thin mat and thick muscles.
My eyes travel up, past the column of his throat, to what I can see of his face.
In sleep, War looks angelic—or, more appropriate, angelically demonic. All his sharp features have been blunted just a bit. He almost looks … at peace. His jaw isn’t so firm, his lips seem a touch more inviting, and now that I can’t see his dagger-like eyes, he’s not nearly so intimidating.
I stare at him for a long time before I remember myself.
Stop ogling a horseman of the apocalypse, Miriam.
I also need to get out from under him, stat. The last thing I want is for him to wake up to this, too.
War’s leg is thrown over mine, and his arm is draped over my side, hugging me to him. With a little effort, I manage to slip one leg, then the other, out from under his own. When I get to his arm, I try to push it off of me—try being the operative word.
My God, his arm weighs five billion kilos, and it is not giving up its hold on me.
I twist a little with the effort. This ogre.
“Wife.”
I take a steadying breath, staring at his chest. This is really what I didn’t want.
Slowly, my eyes move up to War’s. He’s so close I can see those flecks of gold in them. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips and a deep look of satisfaction.
“This is your fault,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows. “Is it?”
The horseman doesn’t bother pointing out that we’re on his flimsy excuse of a bed. He also doesn’t bother removing his arm from where it’s draped over me. Instead, his hand slides from my back to my ribcage, settling into the dip of my waist. I can tell he’s mapping out the contours of my body. He must like what he’s discovering because he looks annoyingly pleased.
His eyes are like honey when he says, “Stay with me, Miriam.” His hand flexes against my side. “Sleep in my tent. Make your weapons. Argue with me.”
I search his face. If only he knew just how tempting his words are to a lonely girl like me. And he asks it right as I’m guiltily basking in his arms. Touch is a luxury I’ve gone too long without.
But that’s what it is—a luxury. One I cannot afford, especially with this creature.
“No,” I say. Now that War’s awake, he’s back to looking fierce. It makes it easier to turn him down. “I’ll play along and let you call me your wife, but I’m never going to choose you of my own free will.”
War’s grip tightens against my waist. He pulls me in close. “Do you want to know a truth, Miriam? Humans make proclamations like that all the time. But their oaths are brittle and break with age. I’m not afraid of yours, but you should be afraid of mine for I will tell you this: you are my wife, you will surrender to me, and you will be mine in every sense of the word before I’ve destroyed the last of this world.”
Things have gone back to the way they were.
War is in his tent, I’m in mine, and there are now five thousand people that separate us.
We haven’t spoken since the horseman’s army arrived yesterday. He was swept away into talks with his phobos riders, undoubtedly strategizing the best way to kill off the next city they’ve set their sights on.
As for the rest of us, we’re all settling into this place like it’s a new pair of shoes. In my case, a very ill-fitting pair of shoes. But I guess that’s a personal problem at this point.
My tent and my things were returned to me yesterday, right down to the tattered romance novel and coffee set I inherited from the last poor soul who lived here.
Even my wood was returned to me. My wood. I thought for sure that would disappear.
I run my hands over a branch now. I’ve been putting off making weapons, but the itch to create has returned to my fingers.
I grab the canvas bag War gave me several days ago. Unceremoniously I turn it over and dump everything out.
I sift through my tools, looking for one to shave away bark. As I do so, my hand brushes against something that doesn’t belong. Pausing, I push away the tools and uncover a familiar metal frame.
Inside it is a picture of my mother, my father, my sister, and me.
A small sound slips out.
Grabbing the photo, I lift it reverently. There’s my family. My throat works as I run my thumb over my sister Lia’s dimpled face. She and my mother are younger here than I remember them—as am I. But this was the last family photo of all four of us. In it, my mother is alive, my father is alive, my sister is alive, and I am sitting amongst them all.
Getting this back is like getting a piece of myself back. Without it, I might’ve forgotten their faces.
I don’t realize I’m crying until a drop of water hits the glass.
Why would War pack this? Was it an accident? He doesn’t seem like the sentimental type. Or was it meant to be cruel? If it was, it missed its mark.
Outside my tent, I hear the rhythmic pounding of a drum—one, two, three times. I’ve started understanding the noises well enough to distinguish execution drumbeats from celebratory or battle drumbeats. This one heralds in some sort of announcement.
I take a stuttering breath, then carefully I set my family photo aside and leave my tent. Following the growing crowd of people, I make my way to the center of camp.
The layout here is just like it was at the last campsite, so I know exactly where to go; the setting may change, but the spaces don’t.
War is already in the clearing with his riders, standing on a makeshift dais so he can be seen. My breath catches at the sight of him. I don’t know what I feel, only that I feel something when I look at him.
He retrieved the photo of my family. That couldn’t have been anything other than intentional. I want to thank him, but the distance between us and the fearsome look on his face make him seem farther away from me than ever.
Once most of the camp has arrived, War steps forward, and the crowd quiets. He gives us all a long look, then he opens his mouth and speaks in that guttural tongue of his. “Etso, peo aduno vle vegki.”
The hairs along my arms rise.
Tomorrow, we head into battle.
Chapter 11
I sit in my tent, flipping War’s dagger over and over in my hands.
Surviving isn’t good enough.
It once was, hence my rules for surviving the apocalypse. But now the game is no longer just about survival. It can’t be. It’s about remaining decent during the true end of the world.
War wants us to fight—well, to be fair, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass whether I fight. He made that plain the day he took me. But most of the camp’s occupants are supposed to go into battle and kill just as their family and friends were killed. I don’t know how
many people here can stomach that, but I can’t. I can’t just stand by as innocent people get slaughtered.
I glance over at where I’ve propped up the photo of my family.
My hands still.
What if I spent my time in battle killing off this ungodly army?
Killing is a horrible, messy business. And killing War’s army is akin to a death sentence—if I get caught doing so. My idea isn’t all that wise or decent.
I also know I can’t simply sit around and watch the world burn.
My tent flaps are thrown open, and a phobos rider peers inside. “The warlord wishes to see you.”
My stomach clenches.
Re-holstering War’s dagger, I follow the rider out of the women’s quarter, the two of us making our way towards the horseman’s tent.
As we move through camp, I notice that weapons have been set out, and people are picking through them, finding which ones best suit them. I even see a child checking out a dagger. I shudder at the sight.
Among the cluster of people, I see the man from the first night who grabbed his crotch and pointed his dagger at me. He chats with a few other men, but their eyes follow me as I pass by. The crotch-grabber runs his tongue across his lower lip as he takes me in.
He hasn’t forgotten about me, which isn’t good.
This is one of the reasons why Rule Three—avoid notice—has made my list of guidelines to live by. When people notice you these days, it’s often for the wrong reasons. Too pretty, too wealthy, too vulnerable, too wounded, too sick, too stupid. You can become easy pickings for the wrong person.
I frown at the man and move on.
When War’s tent comes into sight, my heart begins to pound.
This is the first time the two of us will have talked since we traveled together, and my emotions are conflicted. The War I rode alongside was a halfway normal person. The War who manages this camp is a fearsome, conscienceless being.
And the truth is, I don’t even know the full extent of his power and cruelty, only that it’s capable of wiping out entire cities.
How much of New Palestine is gone? For that matter, how much of the lands east of New Palestine is gone?
War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 8