“There are things I still don’t understand,” he says, almost to himself.
War might not know it, but he’s captivating when he talks like this, as though he has one foot in this world and one foot in another.
“What sorts of things?” I ask.
“Loss,” he says. He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s one of the most common aspects of war, and yet I’ve never experienced it.”
“You better hope you never do,” I say, thinking of my family all over again.
Loss is a wound that never heals. Never never never. It scabs over, and for a time you can almost forget it’s there, but then something—a smell, a sound, a memory—will split that wound right open, and you’ll be reminded again that you’re not whole. That you’ll never fully be whole again.
“Tell me more about them,” War says. “Your family.”
My throat works. I don’t know if I have it in me to keep talking about them. But then my lips part and the words come pouring out.
“My father was the wisest man I knew,” I say. “But to be fair, I only knew him as a child, and when you’re a kid, adults in general seem very wise.” I search the sky, trying to remember more. “My dad was funny—really, really funny.” I smile as I say it. “He could make you laugh, usually at your own expense. It was okay, though, because he made fun of himself all the time too. He was good at celebrating everyone’s rough edges.
“And he was so … real.” There were many times when he’d talk to me as though I were an equal. “With some people, you can never get beneath the surface, you know?” I say, even though the horseman probably doesn’t know. “With my father, you always could.”
I try to hold onto his memory.
“I’ve forgotten his voice,” I admit. “That’s the most terrifying part of it all. I can’t remember the way he sounded. I can remember things he’s said, but not that.”
It’s quiet for several seconds. The horseman doesn’t say anything, he just strokes my hair.
“My mother was quiet but strong. I learned that after my father died when she suddenly had to singlehandedly take care of me and my sister. Her love was a fierce thing.”
I fall to silence.
“What happened to them?” War says.
I’ve already told him about how my father died. As for my mother and sister …
“There was an accident.”
The water rushes in—
I touch my throat. “That’s where I got this scar.” I can’t bring myself to share the rest of the story.
War’s hand stops stroking my hair. After a moment, his fingers move down the column of my throat. They pause when they get to the scar. His thumb smooths over the raised skin between my collarbones.
My own hand falls away from my throat, and I close my eyes against the feel of his fingertip.
“I’m sorry, wife,” the horseman says. “Your misfortune is my gain.”
My brows knit. That’s such an odd thing to say.
“What do you mean?” I ask, opening my eyes.
War’s lips brush my skin as he pulls me in close. “The day you received this scar is the day you became mine.”
Not all places look like they’ve been touched by the apocalypse.
There are the remote villages like the one we enter two days later that the modern world clearly swept past. These are the places where farmers still herd their livestock through the streets and the dogs are wild and the buildings use the same mudbrick architecture they have for the last thousand years.
These towns seem to have hardly felt the hit of the apocalypse, and they weathered it much more gracefully than my city did.
War and I enter the fishing village, which is hardly more than a few streets perched next to the Mediterranean Sea. As we pass through, a couple men sit outside of their homes, sipping Turkish coffee and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.
I stare at them in wonder. War and I pass through many towns, but almost all of them have already been visited by death.
Not this village. The people here are enjoying this day just as they would any other.
“What are you going to do with them?” I ask, my question punctuated by the clop of my horse’s footfalls.
“What I always do, wife.”
My stomach clenches at that. Riding next to War is suddenly, distinctly uncomfortable.
We’re drawing eyes to us the farther into town we get. I realized who War was shortly after I first saw him; I wonder now, as people stare, whether they are having the same realization I once did.
Or it could simply be that these days, no one trusts strangers, particularly strangers with giant fucking swords strapped to their backs.
“You don’t have to kill them, you know,” I say under my breath. “You could just skip this place. Just for the hell of it.”
“My wife and her soft heart,” War says. It sounds like a genuine compliment. “Would you really like that? For me to spare these people?”
Is he being serious?
I take in his merciless features.
Yes, I think he might actually be.
“I would,” I say, barely daring to believe it.
War stares at me for several seconds, and I hold his gaze, ignoring our growing audience.
Eventually he makes a sound at the back of his throat and focuses on the road again.
I don’t know what to make of that.
My hands clench the reins. I’m so tense—so, so tense. I keep waiting for War to withdraw his sword, to tell me that it was all a clever trick, but he doesn’t.
We pass through the village, then leave it behind us altogether. Only then do I fully release my breath. It’s not until the village is entirely out of sight, however, that I speak.
“You didn’t kill them,” I say, disbelieving.
“No,” War agrees. “I didn’t. I have dead for that.”
Beneath our feet, the ground quakes. It takes about a minute, but eventually I hear screams start up at our backs, and now I know exactly what’s become of that village.
Chapter 36
This time, when camp is established and the tents go up, mine is missing, along with the rest of my things.
I know who’s behind this.
I storm into War’s tent. “Where is it?” I demand.
The room is full of phobos riders, all of them pouring over yet another map of yet another town they’re going to ravage. They glance over at me.
Uzair, the one who caught me killing his comrade in Arish, frowns at me while Hussain, the only phobos rider who has been kind to me, gives me an unreadable look.
But it’s War’s ominous form that manages to eclipse everyone else. Today he looks particularly savage, with his arm guards on and his chest bare, his crimson tattoos glowing from where they wrap around his pecs.
“Wife.” The kohl lining his eyes is especially thick, and it makes him look very other.
“Where is my tent?” I demand.
“You’re standing in it.”
I narrow my gaze. “That is not what we agreed to.”
“I do not negotiate with humans,” War says.
My gaze sweeps across the room again, and I take in all the faces of War’s riders. Suddenly I understand.
In Arish, I made the horsemen look weak among his men. Now he’s reclaiming his authority—at my expense.
Right now nothing I say will derail him. That’s obvious from his expression alone. Anything else I say now will only serve to make me look weak and whiny, and already these riders seem to have a pretty low opinion of me.
Giving War a final, lingering look, I turn to leave.
The horseman can make me live with him, but he can’t force me to stick around during the day.
“Oh, Miriam,” the horseman calls out to me just as I reach the tent flaps. “One last thing: tomorrow, when we head into battle, you will be riding with me.”
The next morning I wake to the feel of War’s mouth trailing kisses over my shoulder. The room is d
imly lit by oil lamps. The two of us are naked, and I feel him hard against me.
His kisses move down my arm.
This is what I’ve feared about living with the horseman. How is a lonely girl like me supposed to fight this? It’s everything I’ve craved, and the devil next to me knows it.
“Surrender,” he whispers against my skin.
I stretch back against him. “You surrender.”
He groans, a hand gripping my hip. For a moment, he grinds into me. I feel him lean his forehead against my back, his breathing heavy. “I’m going to be damn near distracted today, imagining you right here, against me.”
Reluctantly, he gets up, and while I might hate who he is and the fact that he’s forced me to live with him, right now, I’m most upset that he’s left my side. How’s that for having your heart and your head at war with one another?
I really need my own fucking tent back.
“Come, wife,” War says. “It’s time to prepare for battle.”
The reminder sobers me up. More people are going to die today. First it was Jerusalem, then Ashdod, then Arish. Now, from the whispers in the air, it sounds like we’re attacking Port Said. I scrub my face, not ready to face another day of carnage.
Across the tent, War pulls on his black pants, and then his black shirt. This outfit of War’s is always the same, and it’s always in pristine condition in the morning, regardless of how mangled and bloody it might be the day before.
I grab my own shirt and pants, which aren’t nearly so clean, and I pull them on. I sit back down to lace up my boots, then I start donning my weaponry, starting with my bow and quiver.
“Why do you keep letting me ride into battle?” I ask him as I finish securing my quiver.
From his perspective, I can’t see any reason to let me keep joining the fight.
The horseman glances over at me from where he’s lacing up one of his leather greaves. “Why indeed?” he muses. “Would you prefer I chain you to our bed like the doting husband I am?”
“Only if you stayed with me,” I say, not missing a beat. I’m being half serious. If I could keep War from battle … but no, his army and his dead would just do the killing for him.
His eyes heat at that.
“You were made to tempt me, wife,” he says.
The horseman finishes lacing one greave and moves to the other. “You told me we’re to respect one another in a marriage.”
I … did. I’m surprised he remembers.
“You want to fight. This is me respecting your wishes.”
This is War’s version of respect? I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. He’s forced me to sleep in his tent—I mean, fuck respect right there—but he’s still going to allow me to fight in a battle that could get me killed because that’s the husbandly thing to do?
To be honest, it sounds very much like horseman logic.
“Besides,” War adds, unaware of my own thoughts, “you’re killing humans.”
“Not the ones you want dead,” I argue, securing my dagger to my side.
“I want them all dead,” he says. “You’re making my job easier.”
I stare at him for several seconds, and it’s like a grenade explodes in my mind.
I’m helping his cause.
Every single person I kill is one less person living on earth.
All thoughts of respect dissolve away as an acute sort of devastation sinks in. I sway a little on my feet, and for a moment, I think I’m going to be sick.
I assumed I was actually doing something useful.
War finishes putting on his armor and comes towards me. Outside the tent I can hear a few muffled footsteps as soldiers quietly leave their homes, readying themselves for a day of fighting.
“Ready?” he asks.
I almost say no. I’m still reeling from that revelation. The last thing I want right now is to play into the horseman’s hand by killing more people.
But then I remember those soldiers who liked to use raids as an opportunity to rape women or commit other atrocities. Someone still needs to keep them in line—War’s words be damned.
I nod to the horseman, and together we leave the tent.
This time, riding with War doesn’t feel comforting in the least. The horseman holds me close, but he feels remote. I have a horrible suspicion he’s taking his mind to that place where he kills.
The city comes into existence in stages—first with a few decrepit buildings, then several more, then rapidly the city fills itself out. Port Said butts right up against the Mediterranean Sea, every square kilometer of it tightly packed with building after building. At this early hour, the city is quiet, so terribly quiet.
My chest constricts. Only now am I beginning to realize what it truly means to be at the front of War’s army. I’ve only seen battle once it’s been raging for a time. I’ve never seen what ignites it. And now I’m having visions of War storming into homes and killing people right in their own beds.
“I need to get off,” I whisper.
If anything, War’s arm tightens on me.
“I need to get off,” I say louder.
The horseman utterly ignores me, but when I start to struggle, his grip becomes unyielding. I might as well be pinned in by a steel band.
War makes a clicking noise with his tongue, and Deimos begins to speed up until we’re hurtling forward at a gallop. My dark brown hair is whipping behind me, and the dagger holstered at my hip is bumping into my thigh over and over again.
“What are you doing—?” I’ve no sooner asked it then I start to see a couple figures come out of the darkness, weapons gripped in their hands as they stare at us. It takes a little longer to notice the uniforms in the darkness.
The Egyptian military.
One of them nocks an arrow into his bow, pointing it at us. “Stop and state your business,” he orders. The other soldier beside him likewise raises his bow.
War reaches behind his back, and I hear the ominous zing as he pulls his sword from its scabbard.
“Don’t, War,” I say, staring at the men as they begin to shout. “Please don’t.”
He ignores me.
In the next instant, an arrow comes whizzing by my face, so close I hear the hiss of it cutting through air.
All the while, War keeps galloping onward, heading straight towards the uniformed men. He leans to the side of his saddle, his enormous sword gripped in his hand. Another arrow whizzes by, this one hitting the horseman in the chest. I hiss in a breath.
And then War’s upon the men. He swings his sword, cutting a soldier down like he was swatting away a fly. I swallow my scream, even as I feel a few droplets of blood hit me.
The other Egyptian soldier turns on his heel and runs, shouting at the top of his lungs, “The horseman is here! War is here!”
I struggle against the warlord all over again, trying to get away.
“Stop it, Miriam,” he orders.
Um, fuck that.
“If I let you down now, the civilians will attack you—so might my riders if they don’t recognize you.”
That makes a certain amount of sense. I mean, when you’re at the front of the army entering a town to raid, the only person you have to avoid killing is the horseman himself. Everyone else is fair game.
War runs down another soldier, cleaving his head from his shoulders.
He’s not going to stop. He won’t ever stop.
I start fighting him in earnest, even as the shouts carry down the city and more uniformed men come running in our direction.
“Miriam.”
“Let me go.”
He doesn’t want to, I can feel it in his stubborn grip. Especially not now when people are starting to wander out of their houses and the Egyptian military unit is mobilizing.
“Damnit, Miriam.” He sheathes his sword. “I cannot protect you if you’re fighting me.”
I swivel around. “You can’t protect me at all right now.” As if to enunciate my point, another arrow whizzes b
y.
His eyes widen a little as he realizes probably for the first time that yeah, I might be right.
“You don’t get both me and your precious battle,” I say.
His jaw clenches, his eyes stormy.
Behind us, I hear an otherworldly sort of howling rise up.
I glance over War’s shoulder in time to see his phobos riders storming into the city, whooping and howling like animals as they descend.
The horseman looks behind him, following my gaze, and I use the distraction to shove off him.
“Wife!” he shouts after me. I slip off of Deimos and dart away, weaving into the darkness.
I don’t glance behind me, but I can hear the clatter of arrows and then the sound of War unsheathing his sword again.
“Miriam!”
Now people are beginning to leave their houses, and the screams are starting to catch on. The phobos riders thunder down the street, their howls becoming almost deafening, and I have to duck to avoid getting gouged by an axe-wielding rider.
“Miriam!” War’s voice rings out again, but I don’t dare tear my gaze away from the fighting to look at him.
Another phobos rider singles me out, breaking away from the group to hunt me down. Rapidly I grab an arrow and nock it. I release the string, letting the arrow fly. It misses the rider, but pierces the flesh of his mount. As I watch, the horse rears back, and the man falls off.
My hand itches to grab another arrow and finish the soldier off.
You’re making my job easier.
I curse under my breath and run.
Chapter 37
Find the aviaries.
If I can get there, maybe I can at least do some good.
Around me, dozens of flaming arrows are arcing through the sky. I never thought cities like Jerusalem or this one could burn. There’s nothing so obviously flammable about them. But now that this city is catching fire right before me, I notice that there are canvas awnings and lines of clothes and curtains and shrubbery and wooden carts and stalls and so many other flammable things that can catch fire. And as I run, they do.
People are beginning to swarm the streets as they try to escape. Children are crying—hell, grown men and women are crying—families are fleeing and it’s all so, so hopeless.
War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 24