Today War and I wander through camp, the horseman’s eyes drifting to the people who live here. Camp itself is an altogether different beast than it was only months ago. There’s much more laughter and far fewer weapons.
I don’t know whether War’s aware of the metamorphosis this place has gone through, or that he’s the one responsible for this change, but I know that I feel a lightness inside me every time I see how things have improved.
When War and I hit the outskirts of camp, he turns to me.
“I have something for you,” he admits.
I stop walking, raising my eyebrows. The horseman has given me a lot of things since we first met—a tent, clothing, food, weapons, heartache, carnage, some zombies, and a baby. I’m not entirely sure I want anything more from him.
The horseman pulls out a ring, and I furrow my brows, not understanding.
It’s not until War kneels—on both knees—that I realize what this is.
“Will you be my wife?” War asks.
I stare at him dumbfounded, my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest. “I already promised you I would.”
“But now I am asking you,” the horseman says, staring up at me from where he kneels. “No more deals between us, Miriam. I want this to truly be your choice.” He searches my eyes. “Will you be mine?”
I could say no.
For the first time, War is actually giving me an out in this relationship. Of course, it’s too late for me and my heart. And now he had to go and make himself a better man, a man worthy of saying yes to.
“Yes, War. Yes, I’ll be your wife.”
He smiles so brightly it crinkles the corners of his eyes, his teeth blindingly white against his olive skin.
The horseman gets up and, grabbing me around the waist, spins me in his arms. Laughing a little, I press a hand to his cheek and lean in to kiss his lips.
Once we stop spinning, War takes my hand and begins to slide the ring onto my finger.
“Where did you learn about proposals?” I ask, remembering how he knelt on both knees. It wasn’t quite what human men do, but it was close enough to know he picked it up from someone somewhere.
“I’m not completely ignorant of human ways, wife. Just mostly.” He gives me a sly smile.
His response has me grinning back. I can’t bear to look away from him. He’s enraptured me. But then my curiosity has me glancing down at my ring.
It’s gold, with a round ruby at its center. It’s the color of War’s armor and his glyphs and his steed—well, and blood too, but I’m ignoring that one.
The ring is too loose for my ring finger, so the horseman slips it on my middle finger, but then the ring is also too loose for that finger, so War moves it to my pointer finger, where it rests comfortably.
This isn’t quite human custom either, and I love it all the more for that fact. The two of us, after all, are not quite a normal couple—but we’re close enough.
“I love it,” I say.
War squeezes my hand. “I like my ring on your finger. My dagger looked good on you too, but this … this might be even better.”
“Tell me about God,” I say that night after I slip beneath our sheets. War’s ring is a comforting weight on my finger.
“Not ‘your God’?” War asks from where he sits sharpening a blade, his eyes heavy on me.
It had always been his God. Not mine.
I don’t know when that changed—maybe it was when War changed. Which is ironic, considering I’m derailing him from the holy commands he’s supposed to carry out.
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
I prop my head on my fist. “Everything.”
War laughs, setting his blade and whetstone aside. “Why don’t we start with your most pressing questions?”
“Only if you get in bed.”
The horseman’s eyes deepen with interest. He stands, removing his shirt. A minute later he slips into bed next to me, scooping my body over to his.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.” My stomach is finally starting to swell, making it hard for the two of us to line up flush against each other.
“What are your questions?”
I reach out and trace the glowing words on his chest. “What does this say?” I’ve never asked.
The horseman stares at me for a long time, and he seems like he’s deciding on something.
His lips part and he begins speaking in tongues. “Ejo auwep ag hettup ewiap ir eov sui wania ge Eziel. Vud pajivawatani datafakiup, ew kopiriv varitiwuv, wargep gegiwiorep vuap ag pe. Ew teggew kopirup fotagiduv yevawativ vifuw ew nideta eov, ew geirferav.”
The divine words wash over me like a wave, and I feel them as though they are living, breathing things. Holy things. My eyes prick because hearing them, I feel like I’ve just touched God, whatever and whoever God is.
I will be the blade of God and His judgment too. Under my guiding arm, mankind shall surrender their last breaths to me. I shall weigh men’s hearts even as I deliver them onward.
I can’t doubt that War is anything other than holy. Not after hearing that.
I’m still breathing shallowly when War reaches out, tracing my own crude marking at the base of my throat.
“I have something for you,” War says, interrupting my thoughts. He gets up from the bed and crosses the room, grabbing a small item from his trousers.
“You have something else for me?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
Two gifts in one day? That’s a dangerous precedent to set.
He comes back over. “I meant to give it to you earlier, but after I proposed …”
After he proposed, any additional gift would’ve gotten lost in the moment.
War gets into bed and opens his fist.
All I see at first is red thread, but that’s enough for me to know exactly what this is. A split second later, I notice the silver hand, a tiny turquoise stone embedded at its center.
The Hand of Miriam. A hamsa.
“These were on display in Edfu, and I remembered the one you wear on your wrist.”
I touch the one he’s speaking of.
“I’m not your father,” War continues, “but I thought I might do right by him.” By giving me another hamsa bracelet and continuing on my father’s tradition.
I take the delicate piece of jewelry from him and hold it in my hand.
I close it in my fist. It’s been a decade since my father wrapped my last bracelet around my wrist. Receiving this gift from War … it feels less like my father’s gone.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “I love it.”
War helps me fit the bracelet on my wrist, right next to my other one.
I stare at the two pieces of jewelry the horseman gave me today, and I almost say it.
I love you.
My eyes move up to War.
I love you.
He would be thrilled to hear those words.
I part my lips. “What will happen to us?” I say instead, chickening out at the last minute.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the future. Our future. Not just what will happen in the next week or month, but where we’ll be years into the future.
“What do you mean?” War asks.
“Where do you see our lives going?” Now that there’s a baby and War’s ways are changing, the future is one great, looming uncertainty.
“Wife, we will live just as millions of others have—in love until a ripe old age.”
There’s only one problem with that. “But you’re immortal, and I’m not.”
“That means nothing.” Still, War frowns, and I know he’s thinking about it all the same.
“It will,” I insist.
I’m twenty-two now, but I won’t always be. Eventually my youth will bleed away into brittle bones and sagging skin. Meanwhile, what will War look like? Will he remain unchanged, his body still muscular and virile? I can’t imagine him any other way.
And if he didn’t age, what then? What
would happen when I was elderly and my husband was still this raw, masculine force of nature? Would we still be together? Could we still be together?
And even if we were—
“Eventually I would die,” I say, “and you wouldn’t.”
What then would happen to War? And what would happen to the world? The horseman’s vow might end with my death. Would he then return to his old ways and pick up where he left off?
“You spoke once of faith,” War says, interrupting my thoughts. “Perhaps now is the time to have faith in me. All will be alright, Miriam. I vow it.”
By the time I wake the next morning, War is gone.
A chill moves over me. The horseman has left early before, but that was back when he plotted with his men. He doesn’t do that so much anymore.
I get dressed and force down a little food—my morning sickness actually seems to be going away—and then I leave the tent. Already the sounds of the living are filling the campsite.
I wander around until I spot War. He stands on the edge of camp, petting Deimos along his muzzle. The horseman’s dark hair flutters in the desert wind.
He doesn’t notice me until I come right up to his side. When he does eventually see me, he smiles. His expression is so free of violence that he could almost pass for a man.
You rip bits of his otherness away and then he becomes like the rest of us.
I don’t know if I want him to become like the rest of us. I like his strangeness.
But maybe I get to still have that strangeness, just without the bloodshed.
War continues to pet Deimos. The horse butts his owner’s hand away and takes several steps towards me, until the steed has buried his face in my chest.
The horseman turns and watches the two of us. Just when I think he’s going to say something about me and Deimos making a cute couple (we so do), he says, “We’re leaving Zara and the rest of camp behind.”
The world is quiet for several seconds after that as I continue to pet his horse.
His words aren’t computing. I won’t let them.
“Everyone but the phobos riders,” he adds.
Eventually, I glance up at War. “What do you mean we’re leaving them behind?”
“At the next city we will leave them behind. I’m dismantling camp.”
Now it’s starting to sink in.
“What? Why?” My heart begins to race. “Are you planning on killing them?” Because I won’t let that happen. Not to Zara or Mamoon—and not to the others either.
War’s eyebrows come together. “I didn’t say that. I said I am leaving them.”
“So, they’ll live?” I ask.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. But that will be up to their own fortune and luck.”
Now I’m trying to wrap my mind around this—that for the first time ever, War will free his captive army. They may be far from their homes—we’re now in Sudan, after all—but at least they’ll no longer be under War’s yoke.
I can’t seem to catch my breath. There are too many warring emotions inside me. Pain, that I’ll have to let my friend go; disbelief, that this might actually happen; wonder, that War is actually considering this. And then there’s a strange, niggling worry that creeps up on me.
This is a part of war that I’ve seen only once before. The end. The part where you withdraw your troops, you decommission your weapons, you decrease your standing army. I saw it when my country’s civil war ended.
Now it’s happening again.
Zara and Mamoon will get to live a real life—somewhere not full of death and sadness. For that matter, the rest of camp will get to live some semblance of a normal life. It won’t be the same as it was before, nothing can go back to the way it was, but they’ll get another shot at life, which is more than anyone else in this camp has gotten before.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask War.
He gives me a smile. “For your soft heart.”
Chapter 53
I don’t want to let my friend go. I haven’t ever since War told me the news earlier this week, but now it’s really hitting me.
War already released his undead army twenty kilometers up the road, their badly decomposed bodies scattered among the dry earth, all that remains of his original army.
He freed his undead. Now it’s time to free the living.
Me, Zara, and the rest of camp stand in the middle of Dongola, a town in northern Sudan that sits along the edge of the Nile. It’s a striking, sunbaked place, and I hope it makes my friend happy.
Around us, the city’s residents watch us with suspicious eyes. The deal War struck with them was that he wouldn’t harm a single soul of theirs so long as they could incorporate War’s entire camp into their town.
They didn’t look particularly thrilled about it—and I don’t blame them, Dongola doesn’t look fully equipped to handle thousands more people—but when faced with the alternative, they accepted our lot.
Not that they’ll necessarily stick to the deal once we leave. That’s why War’s going to leave a zombie or two behind, just to keep tabs on them. After all, we humans make brittle vows.
Already adults and children are breaking away from our procession, carting away livestock and other forms of currency that they’ll need to rebuild their lives. I feel my heart ache watching them leave. We’ve all gone on this unique journey together. It’s a horrible sort of feeling to watch them go—and to be left behind.
“Are you going to be okay?” Zara asks. She holds the reins to a stinky, grumbly camel, the beast loaded down with goods. She has plenty of items to keep her and Mamoon comfortable, and yet I am still plagued with worry for them both.
I nod.
She glances down at my belly, which is starting to protrude. “You sure?”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I take a steadying breath through my nose. “I’ll be fine. Are you going to be alright?” I glance around me again, noticing all the inhospitable faces. This is better than outright death, but humans aren’t always the most compassionate creatures; I’ve seen too much evidence of that in the last few months.
Zara lets out a sound halfway between a huff and a snicker. “You know I can take care of myself and Mamoon.” The latter of whom is clinging to her leg. “I’ll be fine.”
“And the rest of the children?” I bit my lower lip. There are a lot of parentless kids. I worry for them.
“I’ll make sure they’re okay.”
I step into her arms and give her a big hug. “I’m going to miss you, Zara. More than you know.” The two of us have been together for months, and we’ve both seen and done things that no one else has. It’s brought us close. Trying to imagine life without her just hurts my heart.
Her arms tighten around me. “I’m going to miss you too, Miriam. Thank you for being my friend from day one—and for saving my life and Mamoon’s.”
The two of us hold each other for several long seconds. Finally, I break away so that I can kneel down in front of Zara’s nephew.
“Can I have a hug?” I ask him.
Reluctantly, he lets his aunt’s leg go and steps into my arms.
“I’m going to miss you, little guy,” I say, squeezing him tight. “Take care of your aunt.”
He gives me a serious look, which I take is kid for, I will. Then he retreats back to Zara’s legs.
She backs away from me, keeping her nephew close, the camel grunting a little behind her. “By the way, if you ever need someone to kill your husband,” she says, nodding across the way to where War sits on Deimos, “just remember that I’m your girl.” She flashes me a wicked grin.
A smile tugs at my lips. “I thought you owed your loyalty to him?”
“I can make an exception for a sister of mine,” she says, her eyes shining.
Something thick lodges in my throat.
She backs away a little more. “Write to me, Miriam, if you can. Maybe one day our paths will cross again.”
My smile is wavering with my sadness. �
��I’ll do that.”
Zara waves a final time, and then she turns around and walks away, the city swallowing her up.
Camp is quiet. Far, far too quiet.
I stand outside War’s newly erected tent, watching the breeze kick up dust like ashes. We’ve moved on, leaving Dongola behind. I feel like I’ve left a part of myself in that city.
The wind whistles through the few tents left. It keeps unnerving me. You’d think after the loudness of living in a tented city, I’d appreciate the silence. But I miss the place as it was.
How’s that for irony? I’m nostalgic for the press of tents and the crowd you could get lost in. It was a festering wound of a community, but it’s left a void in its wake.
Our camp now consists of no more than thirty tents, and those include the tents that shield our provisions. I stare at the other canvas structures, the ones that house what’s left of War’s phobos riders. He hasn’t been replacing his riders for a while now, so his inner circle of fighters has been steadily growing smaller.
I don’t know what will happen to them, especially now that War has released his undead army. Will he ride into the next city with just his men? Or will he raise more dead?
I can see the same question in the pinched, unhappy expressions of War’s riders. None of them know what’s going to happen next. Their warlord didn’t release them with the rest of camp. What plans could he possibly have for them?
The question is all the more pressing since War has left no one in charge of running the daily tasks of camp. There used to be people who would wash your clothes, people who would cook your meals. Those who would weave containers and mend torn tents and sharpen blades and on and on and on. You name a need, there’d be someone to fill it.
To be fair, the horseman did try to recruit some of his dead for these jobs, but no one wants decomposing skin to find its way into soup (if the dead even know how to properly prepare such things), or for some zombie’s unmentionable parts to smear onto the clothes they’re washing.
War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 37
