War (The Four Horsemen Book 2)

by Laura Thalassa

I peer from that shell of a window. What I see takes my breath away.

  There must be hundreds of riders all squeezed onto the road, armed with knives and bows and swords and all other manner of weaponry.

  My heart begins to pound faster and faster, and yet I keep still, so still, afraid to even breathe too loudly.

  I wait for them to pass, but they keep coming, the riders followed by what look like foot soldiers, and those followed by horse-drawn carts.

  The longer I watch, the more riders pass me by, until it becomes clear that there aren’t merely hundreds of men, but thousands of them, all who follow in War’s wake.

  There’s only one reason this many armed men are traveling together.

  War isn’t simply riding into Jerusalem.

  He’s invading it.

  Chapter 2

  I wait until the entire army has passed through before I leave my hiding spot. I step out of the building on shaky feet, unsure what to do.

  I’m no saint. I’m no hero.

  I stare at that road heading west, in the direction opposite the army, and it looks awfully enticing.

  I glance in the other direction, towards where the army headed.

  My home.

  Leave, my mother’s voice says in my head, leave with the clothes on your back and never come back. Leave and save yourself.

  I make my way to the road, leaving behind the branches I chopped down. I glance both ways—west, away from the city, and east, back to Jerusalem.

  I rub my forehead. Goddamn but what should I do?

  I go over my survival code again: Bend the rules—but don’t break them. Stick to the truth. Avoid notice. Listen to your instincts. Be brave.

  Always be brave.

  Of course, these are the rules to staying alive. I don’t need the rules to know that going west will increase my survival odds while going east will lower them. It shouldn’t be a question at all—I should go west.

  But when I turn and start down the road, my feet don’t take me west.

  Instead I march back towards Jerusalem. Back to my house and the army and the horseman.

  Maybe it’s stupidity, or morbid curiosity.

  Or maybe the apocalypse hasn’t beaten the last bit of selflessness out of me after all.

  I’m still no saint.

  By the time I arrive in the city, the streets are already running red with blood.

  I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to cover up the sick smell of meat that tinges the air. I have to step around the bloody bodies that litter the streets. Many of the buildings are burning, and smoke and ash billow about me.

  In the distance I can hear people screaming, but right here, right where I’m walking, the people have already been killed off, and the silence seems to be a thing itself.

  Before New Palestine was New Palestine, Israel’s military drafted most of its citizens. Since my country’s civil war, there’s been no mandatory conscription, but most youths here learned to fight anyway. As I glance around at all the dead bodies, I realize none of that matters.

  For all the knowledge they may have on fighting and warfare, they’re still dead.

  Truly, what was I thinking, coming back here?

  My grip on my bow now tightens. I pull out an arrow and nock it.

  I shouldn’t even care to save these people. After everything the Muslims did to the Jews and the Jews did to the Muslims, and what everyone did to the Christians and the Druze and every other minority religious sect, you’d think I’d be happy to just let it all burn to the ground.

  All religions want the same thing—salvation. I can hear my father’s voice like an echo from the past. We’re all the same.

  I walk faster and faster through the streets, my weapon at the ready. The place has been swept through. More structures are on fire, more dead bodies lay scattered in the streets.

  I came too late. Too late for the city, and too late for the people.

  A few blocks more, and I start to see living people. People who are fleeing. A woman runs with her son in her arms. Ten meters behind her, a mounted man chases her down.

  I don’t even think before I raise my bow and fire off the arrow.

  It hits him square in the chest, the force of it knocking him off his horse.

  I glance over my shoulder in time to see the woman and her son duck into a building.

  At least they’re safe. But then, there are so many others who are fighting for their lives. I grab an arrow, nock it, and shoot. Grab, nock, shoot. Over and over. Some of my shots miss, but I feel a flush of satisfaction that I’m managing to pick off any of these invaders at all.

  I have to duck as I continue through the streets. People are leaning out their windows, throwing whatever items they can at this strange army. As I move I see a man get pushed off his balcony. He lands on a burning awning below. The last I hear of him are his screams.

  At some point, a few of the invading soldiers recognize that I’m a threat. One of them aims his own bow and arrow at me, but he’s on a horse, and his shot goes wide.

  Grab, nock, shoot.

  I hit him in the shoulder. Grab, nock, shoot. This time my arrow gets him in the eye.

  Need more arrows. And other weapons, for that matter.

  I make a break for my flat, which is several blocks away, whispering a prayer under my breath that I don’t run out of arrows before I get there. I have a dagger on me, but I’m no match for a bigger opponent, and most of these soldiers are just that—big opponents.

  It takes about thirty minutes to get to my place. I live in a condemned building—not that anyone’s going to tear it down anytime soon. It sustained some damage during the fighting a few years ago and most people moved as a result. I didn’t. Call me sentimental, but it’s where I grew up.

  When I get to it now, the entryway is on fire.

  Crap, why hadn’t I thought of this?

  I eye the structure. It’s mostly made out of stone, and besides the entrance, it looks alright. I chew the side of my lip.

  Making a decision, I dash inside. Not three seconds after I do, the overhang collapses, closing me in.

  Well shit. I’m going to have to either hop out of a window or else hope the ancient fire escape works.

  Once I’m inside, I dash up the stairs to my flat, coughing against the smoke.

  I slow when I catch sight of my apartment. The front door hangs ajar.

  Motherfucker. Someone else must’ve already had the same idea I had. People around here know I make weapons.

  I step inside, and the place is a mess. My workstation has been overturned. Along the shelves, the knives and swords and daggers, bows and quivers and maces and arrows I’d carefully stored have almost all been removed.

  I don’t pause to scavenge through them. Rushing to my bedroom, I lift up my mattress. Beneath it are dozens upon dozens of arrows and a spare dagger.

  Dropping my canvas bag to the floor, I scoop up the arrows and shove as many as I can into my quiver. Then I grab a sheathed dagger and quickly strap it to me.

  After I’ve armed myself, I head downstairs. Kicking in a door to one of the apartments I know is abandoned, I step inside. The windows here are mostly intact, and I have to grab a discarded chair and smash it against the glass for it to shatter.

  Knocking out the last shards, I step outside and run into the fray once more.

  It’s not until I’m just outside the Old City that I catch sight of War.

  And it’s him alright. I didn’t believe my eyes when I first saw him, but now, bathed in the blood of his victims, his eyes gleaming like onyx, there’s no way he could possibly be anyone else.

  He sits astride his horse in the middle of the road, his steed pawing the ground. The creature is just as fearsome as all the stories promised it would be.

  War surveys the carnage around him, looking far too pleased with the results.

  Nocking an arrow into my bow, I line the horseman up in my sights.

  Aim for the chest.
Anything else is too likely to miss altogether.

  War’s head snaps to me, almost as though he heard my intentions whispered on the wind.

  Shit.

  He takes in my weapon, then my face. War kicks his horse forward.

  I let the arrow fly, but it veers off, missing him entirely.

  Slinging my bow across my chest, I turn on my heel and take off, my arrows jiggling at my back.

  I glance over my shoulder. War is driving his steed forward, the horseman’s cruel gaze locked on me.

  I cut across the rubble where a building used to stand and head into the Old City.

  Please don’t twist an ankle, please don’t twist an ankle.

  Behind me I can hear the pounding of hooves, and I can practically feel the horseman’s menacing stare boring into my back.

  There are a dozen other people fighting and fleeing around me, but the horseman disregards all of them. I’m the only one he seems to have eyes for.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  It’s fitting, I suppose, that I would meet the horseman here, in this place that has seen millennia of strife and war. Jerusalem is full of just as much blood as it is soil.

  The hoof beats grow louder, closer.

  I don’t dare look back.

  Normally, there are always a few people who linger in the Old City, but right now, the place is utterly abandoned.

  Why did I think to come here? God can’t save me. Not when his spawn is too busy running me down.

  I hook a left and suddenly the Western Wall is looming next to me. I run alongside it, my eyes locking on the Dome of the Rock.

  If ever there was a time to believe in salvation, now would be it.

  I push my arms and legs, snaking back and forth so that the horseman can’t cut me down from behind.

  The mosque is so close I can make out the finer detailing along its walls, and—

  The entrance is shut.

  No.

  I keep running for it.

  Maybe it’s not locked. Maybe …

  I close the last few meters between me and it, grabbing the door handle.

  Locked.

  I want to scream. I can see the Foundation Stone in my mind’s eye, I can see the small hole that leads to the Well of Souls below. If there was ever a place that a horseman would need to respect the sanctity of, that would be it.

  I back away from the locked door and the columned archway. I back into the blinding sun.

  Behind me, the hoof beats come to a stop. The hairs along my forearms rise.

  I swivel around.

  War swings off his mount, and I stagger back at the sight of him.

  He’s huge. Taller than a normal man, and every centimeter of him is built like a warrior—broad shoulders, thick arms, lean waist and powerful legs. Even his face has the look of some tragic hero, his feral, masculine beauty only serving to make him appear more lethal.

  Almost casually, War pulls his sword out of the scabbard on his back. My eyes go to the massive blade. It gleams silver in the sunlight.

  How many deaths has that weapon delivered?

  But then another sight catches my eye. My gaze travels up War’s weapon to his hand. On each knuckle is a strange glyph that glows crimson.

  War begins to stride towards me, his red leather armor making soft noises as it rubs together, his golden hair adornments glinting in the sun. He looks less like a heavenly messenger and more like some pagan god of battle.

  Grabbing my bow, I nock an arrow.

  “Stay back,” I warn.

  The horseman ignores the command.

  God save me.

  I release it.

  It hits War in the shoulder, embedding into his leather armor. Without looking away from me, he grabs the arrowhead and yanks it out. It comes away bloody, and I have a moment of pride, knowing that my weapon made it past his armor.

  I reach behind me for another arrow, nock it, and let it fly. This one bounces harmlessly off of him, the angle of the hit all wrong.

  And now I’m out of distance.

  I only have time for one more shot before I need to switch weapons. I grab a final arrow, aim it, and release.

  It goes hopelessly wide.

  I drop my bow and quiver, my carefully collected arrows now spilling across the ground. My hand goes for one of my daggers.

  No match for that beast of a sword. I take another look at War’s enormous muscles, and there’s just no chance of me winning this.

  I swallow.

  I’m going to die.

  My hand tightens on my blade. I have to at least try to stop him.

  I begin to move, trying to place my back to the sun. War closes the last of the distance between us, not bothering to outmaneuver me. He doesn’t need any sort of advantage to cut me down, we both know it. And if the sun is irritating to him, he shows no sign of it.

  That’s about the moment when I realize that this isn’t actually going to be a fight. This is a lion swatting a mouse aside.

  Must’ve really pissed him off earlier.

  War lifts his sword, the sun making the blade shine blindingly bright.

  With one pounding sweep of his arm, War’s terrifying blade connects with my own much smaller one, knocking it out of my hand. I cry out at the impact; the force of the blow numbs my arms and drives me to my knees.

  I reach for my other blade, unholstering it. When the horseman steps forward, I swipe out at him, catching him in the calf.

  A line of blood wells from the wound. For an instant, I stare at it dumbly.

  Holy balls, I actually clipped him.

  War glances at the wound then his eyes move to me, and he laughs low and deep, the sound drawing out goosebumps along my skin.

  This fucker is downright terrifying.

  I scramble backwards, dagger clutched in hand, trying to get away from him as fast as possible. The horseman leisurely strolls after me, looking mildly entertained.

  I manage to get my feet under me and pull myself up.

  Run, my mother’s voice commands, but I’m petrified of turning my back on this man. I’d like to look death in the eye when it’s delivered.

  War steps forward and swings his blade again and I raise my dagger to meet the blow. Even knowing what’s coming, the numbing force of his hit is still a shock. I cry out at the impact, my weapon thrown once again from my hand. It clatters to the ground a meter away.

  I stumble back. The heel of my boot catches one of the arrows scattered across the ground, and I slip, falling hard on my ass.

  The horseman steps up to me, the sun illuminating his olive skin and lightening his eyes. He stares down at me, our gazes locking.

  I raise my chin defiantly, even though I’m afraid. My body trembles with my fear.

  The horseman lifts his blade.

  But he doesn’t end me right away. He stares at my face for a long time, long enough for me to wonder why he’s hesitating. War’s eyes drop to the hollow of my throat, and his sword wavers.

  What is he doing?

  My hand twitches with the need to touch my throat and feel the grisly scar that decorates it.

  War’s eyes travel back up to me. Now there’s something different about his expression, something that terrifies me in a whole new way.

  “Netet wā neterwej.”

  You are the one He sent me.

  I start at his voice. His words aren’t Hebrew or Arabic or Yiddish or English. He doesn’t speak any language I recognize … and yet I understand him as though he does.

  “Netet tayj ḥemet.”

  You are my wife.

  Chapter 3

  You are my wife.

  That statement doesn’t process. Nor does the fact that I can actually understand him.

  The horseman sheaths his sword, giving me a strange, fierce look.

  He’s not going to kill me.

  That does process. I lay in place for about two more seconds, and then I scuttle back again.

  I force myself to my feet as
War prowls after me, and now I do run.

  I bolt back the way I came, heading towards an exit out of the Old City. I don’t hear the horseman behind me, and foolishly I think that maybe he’s going to let me go.

  My hopes are dashed a minute later when I hear the menacing clack of his horse’s hooves against the stone pavement.

  Oh man, step one is some asshole claiming you’re his wife, and step two, shit suddenly gets real.

  The hoof beats close in on me just as they had earlier. Only this time I don’t think I can outrun them. My adrenaline is nearly spent.

  War’s horse is nearly upon me, and I swear I can feel its hot breath against my skin. Just when I think it’s going to trample me, something slams into my back.

  The air leaves my lungs as I pitch forward. But I don’t hit the ground. Instead, I’m scooped up and cleanly deposited onto the horse’s saddle.

  For several seconds I lay there, getting my bearings. Then I glance behind me, into the monster’s eyes.

  War is staring down at me, that strange expression still on his face. I feel myself quake under his gaze.

  This is a man made to be feared.

  And for several long moments, I am afraid. I am thoroughly terrified of this grim creature.

  But then good ol’ self-preservation kicks in.

  I begin struggling against him. “Let me go.”

  His response is to tighten the arm he has around my waist, his gaze moving to our surroundings.

  “Seriously,” I say, trying and failing to shake his ironclad hold. “I’m not your wife.”

  War’s eyes snap back to mine, and for a split second, he appears surprised.

  Maybe he doesn’t like the fact that I didn’t agree to this wife business, or maybe he didn’t realize I could understand him.

  Whatever it is, he recovers quickly enough, his surprise draining away from his features. He doesn’t respond to me, and he doesn’t release me, instead driving his horse onwards through the city.

  I struggle a little more against him, but it’s useless. His arm is like a manacle, shackling me to him.

  “What are you going to do with me?” I demand. I sound shockingly calm. I don’t feel calm. I feel frazzled and freaked out.

  Again, War doesn’t respond, though his grip tightens just a smidgen. Just enough to know exactly where his mind is.