Most are simply husks of humans, some with many bones missing. There are other animals too—horses, goats, cattle, and something that might be a dog or a jackal. They rise from the desert earth, dust sloughing off of them.
Once they’re topside, they begin to run in a single direction: towards the site of the ambush.
War.
Something’s happened. I’m certain of it now.
And my earlier plan is in shambles—the horses are long gone. If I want to help War, I’ll have to go it on foot.
I begin to jog in the same direction as the dead as they rush past me. There are so many of them—so many more than one would assume, given the fact that the land seems to be devoid of life.
The earth is full of so many bones.
Far in the distance, I hear a dull boom. The sound sets my teeth on edge.
What in the world?
Less than a minute later I hear two more booms, each one ratcheting up my nerves.
In response, I push my legs harder.
I’ve only covered about four hundred meters when suddenly, the undead fall to the ground all at once.
I glance around me at the countless bodies now littering the landscape, my hackles rising.
I step up to one of the corpses, this one nothing more than a skeleton. I stare down at it as the seconds tick away. One—two—three—four …
Something isn’t right.
Something really isn’t alright.
I glance to the horizon. My unease is back, but now it’s redoubled.
You know what?
Fuck. This.
Rule Four of Miriam Elmahdy’s Guide to Staying the Fuck Alive: listen to your instincts.
I haven’t, not since I came to camp. The past several months have forced me to disregard this rule I lived by, but I won’t today.
Instinct is telling me that something terrible is happening to War—that something terrible may have already happened.
I grab my bow and pull out an arrow from my quiver. I continue jogging along the road heading towards Karima, sidestepping piles of bones and bodies that litter the ground. It’s as I’m running that I realize if War’s men mean to dispose of him, then they’re going to come back to camp to dispose of me as well.
Shit. They might be coming back for me this very moment.
Part of me wants to continue storming headfirst towards War, but the more calculating, survivalist part of me knows that the only advantage I have on two dozen armed phobos riders is surprise.
I scan my surroundings as I run, until I catch sight of a rusted out car which sits just off the road. I make my way to it, and crouching behind its rough metal frame, I train my weapon on the road coming in.
I don’t have to wait long before I hear the pounding of hooves in the distance. Peering over the hood of the car, I see a mounted rider. They’re too far away for me to make out their features, but I can already tell it’s not War. The steed is black and not red, and the rider’s stature is not nearly as staggering as the horseman’s.
I keep my arrow trained on the rider and wait until he gets close. Then, I pull the bowstring back.
Inhale. Exhale. Aim. Release.
My arrow strikes the rider square in the chest, throwing the rider back in his saddle.
Another arrow is in my hand in an instant. The man is only just righting himself when I step out of my hiding spot and release the bowstring.
The shot clips him in the arm—not where I was intending, but hell, it hit him. That has to count for something.
“Miriam!” he bellows, closing in on me. “What the hell are you doing?”
It’s weird to hear my name on his lips when I don’t know who this man is. Or to hear him shout his indignation when he must know exactly why I’m shooting him.
The rider slows his horse as he gets close to me, then he hops off it. Only now do I see that it’s the burly, bearded man who entered my tent this morning. He now has a sword sheathed at one hip and a battle axe at the other. Roughly, he grabs the arrow embedded in his arm and rips it out, tossing the weapon aside.
I nock another arrow, aiming it at him. “What are you doing?” I’m impressed that my voice is as steady as it is.
He walks towards me, giving me a disdainful look. “I’ve seen you march about camp for the last few months like you’re some kind of goddamn queen.” His hand touches the top of his battle axe.
“Touch that weapon again, and I’ll shoot.”
“But you’re not a queen,” the phobos rider continues, his hand falling to his side. “You’re just a cheap whore who got herself pregnant.” His eyes meet mine. “You put that weapon down now, and I’ll give you a quick, clean death. Otherwise, I’m dragging you back to the rest of the men, and we’ll each enjoy fucking you a few—”
My arrow hits him cleanly in the throat, and his words cut off with a choke.
I’m not in the mood to listen to this shit.
He takes an unsteady step back, looking more surprised than actually pained. They always look surprised. I don’t know why. I already shot this man twice, and I threatened him a third time.
The rider tries to draw the arrow out as blood cascades down his neck. He sways a little, then staggers to his knees, reaching an arm out to brace himself. More blood spurts onto the ground.
I step up to him, readying another arrow. “Where is my husband?”
The rider does the best he can to look up at me, considering there’s an arrow running through his throat. He smiles cruelly as he tries to speak. The sound bubbles out his throat instead.
It doesn’t matter. I saw the words form on his lips anyway.
War’s dead.
Chapter 57
The phobos rider slumps over shortly after that. I lean down and pry his axe from his hand. I use his pants to wipe the blood from the weapon, and then I thread the wooden handle through my belt loop.
The rider’s horse has only ambled away a short distance. Stepping over a pile of bones, I reach the horse and pull myself into the saddle. It only takes another few moments to turn the beast around, towards Karima. And then I ride like demons chase me.
War’s dead. The words replay themselves over and over again. Maybe that’s why his zombies fell all at once. Maybe he didn’t release them, maybe his power over them died with him.
He can’t die, I have to keep reminding myself. Not permanently at least. But then, with every corpse I pass I feel a little less certain.
What if God turned His back on my horseman now that War’s decided to end the fighting? What if He’s decided that this time dead means dead?
I can’t catch my breath. The thought is absolutely terrifying.
I don’t know how long I ride before I register the wet, thumping noise coming from one of the saddle bags. I reach for it out of irritation. The moment I touch the canvas, my hand comes away wet. I glance at my fingers.
Crimson.
I jerk the horse to the stop, a bad feeling coming over me. Swinging off the horse, I loosen the saddle bag and—
I only catch a glimpse of familiar dark hair and a bloody, golden bead before I turn and retch over the side of the horse.
Whatever my eyes saw, they were mistaken. I shouldn’t look again. I shouldn’t.
I open the saddle bag further.
“No.” The word slips out.
War’s face is bloody and it looks all wrong. I have to lean over to vomit again.
“No,” I sob. My entire body is trembling.
He told me he couldn’t permanently die. He told me that.
But he never told me what would happen if someone did something this drastic, something like removing his head from his shoulders.
I sit there on the horse for close to a minute, aware that time is slipping by.
I don’t much care.
A choked sob slips out of me. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, a tear slipping out, then another.
War’s gone.
My husband, my love—the ma
n who awoke everything in me.
The man who left a part of himself inside of me.
All I can remember now are the nights he held me beneath the stars, and the feel of his lips against my skin as he whispered his love for me.
He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. I wanted that so badly once—to be free of him. It’s such a cruel irony that now that I want my horseman, someone’s taken him from me.
I never got the chance to tell him I loved him.
Another muffled sob slips out. I can feel myself beginning to tremble. I’m about to lose it completely. I can sense myself standing on that precipice, ready to fall headfirst into my sorrow.
I glance towards the horizon and force myself to pull it together.
There will be time to mourn War—endless, yawning amounts of time. I know that all too well.
But for now, while I can still claim it—
I want my vengeance.
I gallop down the road at full speed, anger driving me onwards. My thoughts are one continuous scream in my ears.
I can’t think about him or about the corpses that decorate the road like confetti.
I’m being held together by revenge and revenge alone.
Why must everything I love be taken from me?
I push the thought away before I slip down that rabbit hole again.
I spot a crumbling building off to the side of the road, and on a whim, I steer the horse towards the structure. Before the steed has fully stopped, I dismount, stepping over two piles of bones so I can slip inside the abandoned construction. I bring the horse in with me.
The phobos riders have to take this road back if they want to return to camp; it’s the only one that leads back there. And they will return to camp. They’ve left their possessions behind, and then there’s still me to kill.
I hold my bow in my hands, an arrow loosely fitted against it. It takes every last ounce of sheer, iron will not to slide my gaze back to that saddle bag, which is currently dripping onto the floor. I can hear the terrible sound of it.
Drip … drip … drip.
I grind my teeth together and stand at the window that overlooks the street. I pause briefly to knock out the glass pane, before I train my gaze and my weapon to the road.
And then I wait.
It feels like hours have passed by the time the phobos riders come galloping down the road. By then my mind is quiet and my aim is steady.
Quite steady.
I have no fear left in me, and my anger has all burned off, leaving nothing but grim purpose behind.
I count the riders. One, two, three—four. Four, when there used to be close to twenty. Which means that aside from this group and the man I shot earlier, there are still fifteen soldiers unaccounted for.
I’ll worry about that later.
I aim the arrow at one of the riders, take a breath, then release.
It hits the man in the shoulder. His body recoils from the impact, but he manages to stay on the horse, pulling savagely on the reins.
I’m already nocking my second arrow by the time his comrades notice.
Breathe, then release.
The next arrow hits another rider right in the chest. He slumps in his saddle, his horse veering off from the road.
The two remaining riders turn on their steeds, looking for the source of the arrows.
Nock and release. I hit one of them. Three wounded.
All that’s left is—
My eyes meet Hussain just as he looks towards me.
“Miriam,” he snarls.
I hesitate for a split second. Hussain has always been kind to me. I don’t want to believe he could have helped kill War—or that he might’ve been riding back to camp to deal with me.
The second passes and with it, my shock. I grab another arrow and aim. Release.
Hussain ducks, the arrow whizzing past where his head would be. He kicks his horse into action, galloping straight for the building.
Of course he would be a part of this conspiracy; it seems as though all the riders were in on it.
Still, my heart breaks a little at the sight of him.
Rather than continue to shoot at him, I train my next arrow on one of the wounded riders who has now righted himself on his horse and is circling back. Aiming for his torso, I release the projectile. It hits him just above the breastbone, and I hear his grunt.
That’s all I have time for.
Hussain is right on the other side of the doorway. I hear him dismount his horse, his weapons clinking against him.
I nock another arrow, aiming it at the entryway.
There’s a stretch of silence—
With a fierce kick, the door blasts inwards. Standing beyond it is the one rider who was ever kind to me. Sword in hand, he steps inside.
I release my arrow.
It hits Hussain in the side. It can’t be more than a flesh wound, but it’s enough for him to pause.
He glances down at it, then back up at me. “I never thought you’d try to kill me,” he says.
In seconds I withdraw another arrow from my quiver and settle it against the bow. “I could say the same.”
Aim, release.
Hussain moves, but he’s not quick enough to avoid the hit altogether. The arrow lodges itself near his hip bone.
His teeth clench, but that’s all the reaction I get. And still he keeps coming forward, removing the arrow as he does so.
I see blood drip from his wound, but he doesn’t look bothered in the least. He yanks the second arrow out a moment later, tossing it aside.
What the fuck is this savagery?
Dropping my bow and quiver, I pull out my dagger and the battle axe, backing up. His gaze goes to the axe in my hand. He lifts his eyebrows.
“You managed to kill Ezra?” he asks, recognizing the axe. “Miriam, I’m impressed.”
Hussain’s gaze moves to my face, then to the horse beyond me. He must see the blood-soaked saddlebag, which means he knows I know.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
His attention returns to me. “War’s ending his raids. If he hasn’t told you as much, you must have at least seen it.”
I shift my weight, sweat from my palms slicking my weapons.
“He left his army of children and innocents back in Dongola,” Hussain continues, “but not his trained killers. Why do you think that is?”
Honestly, I don’t have any idea.
“Let’s be truthful with one another: War might spare the innocents of the world—he might even spare the average man, but his phobos riders? We’ve seen and done too much.” Hussain shakes his head. “We gave him everything—”
“Everything but your loyalty,” I say.
“He intended to kill us.”
“No,” I say, something deep within me aching. “War didn’t intend on doing that.”
None of these fighters must’ve known War’s thoughts on redemption and forgiveness. If they had, they would’ve known that the horseman would’ve spared them too. War believed even they were capable of redemption. It’s these men in the end who lacked faith.
And so they plotted to kill the horseman.
Hussain brings his sword up, his intentions clear.
“You were kind to me,” I say a bit mournfully.
Not that it much matters now. It didn’t stop Hussain from plotting against War, nor did it stop me from firing the first shot at him. And it won’t stop the phobos rider from trying to slice me open now.
“And you were kind to me,” he replies, acknowledging our strange relationship. He takes a step forward, then another, his sword still raised. “Kind enough for me to consider sparing you. But we both know if I do, you’ll try to save him.”
I stare back at Hussain. There’s no use denying it. He already saw me cut down his men. He knows my intentions, just as I now know his.
“Besides,” his eyes move to my stomach, “there’s also the matter of his child …”
Without warning, Hussain b
rings the weapon down like a hammer, and I barely move out of the way in time. I swipe out at him, but I’m too far away and my weapons are too short to connect with anything.
The last of my emotions take a backseat as I truly engage in battle, dodging Hussain’s successive blows even as I swipe at him with my own weapons.
The two of us duck and pivot, sidestep and lunge, moving almost in synchrony. It’s a violent dance, and Hussain is my partner.
He swings again at me, and this time I’m too slow. I feel the sensation of skin tearing and warm liquid spilling down my arm.
The next second, the pain sets in. Fuck, does it set in. My left upper arm is on fire.
The rider follows the hit with another, this one grazing my other arm, equally deep.
I stare at him, my own attack coming to a grinding halt, and I know he’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me, and he won’t think twice about it. He’s done this a hundred times before. What’s another death? It’s as easy as breathing to him.
Hussain’s gaze has grown a bit excited, as though he relishes this moment where his opponent is caught on the brink between life and death.
“Did you truly think you could become the horseman’s wife and things could end well for you?” he says almost pityingly. “He is a monster. We all are. We don’t have happy endings.”
Hussain swings his sword, intending to slice my torso open, and the only advantage I have at this point is that his weapon is heavy and a bit slow.
I duck under the hit, feeling the air stir above me. Instinct is shouting at me to run, but the only chance I have of stopping him is to do the opposite. So when I rise, I step forward, swinging the battle axe underhanded as I do so.
My wounded arms scream against the weight of the weapon, and I have to grit my teeth against the pain.
The axe catches Hussain in the gut, lodging itself deep in his flesh. For a second I can only stare at the hit dumbly, shocked I actually landed a blow.
A split second later he backhands me, knocking me to the ground. I roll before I get a chance to recover, and an instant later, Hussain’s sword strikes the floor where I was an instant ago.
I scramble on all fours, crawling away from him, War’s dagger clutched in my hand. My cheek feels like it’s on fire.
War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 39
