War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(106)

War runs a hand over his glowing tattoos. “This is my purpose, written on my flesh.” He nods to my scar. “That, is yours.”

I shake my head.

“Deny your vow all you want, but it won’t change the truth: you were made to surrender to me.”





Chapter 45


War leaves shortly after his final words.

In his place are zombies, lots and lots of zombies. I can sense them outside the tent, but it’s the ones who are inside—the ones War sent in—that capture more of my attention.

Most of these ones are a bit more decayed than usual, and their ripeness has me covering my mouth.

I’m sure the horseman picked these corpses on purpose.

Proof that War can be just as petty as the rest of us.

The long hours of the night tick by, and I have nothing to fill them with. Sleep eludes me, and my toolmaking kit and arrows were confiscated with the rest of War’s weaponry, leaving me nothing to do with my hands. There’s still that well-worn romance novel …

The thought of reading it twists my gut. I couldn’t bear to hear about someone else’s great love life when mine is such a mess.

I almost killed him. There was a moment when I was leaning on War’s sword where I was putting my full weight into the thrust. Only the horseman’s sheer strength prevented that blade from piercing his skin.

I rub my eyes, feeling a thousand years old.

Violence doesn’t fix violence. I know that, and I knew it before I devised my plan. Yet nothing else had worked. I had been angry and tired of watching too many innocents die. And in the end, at least War had that same wounded surprise in his eye that so many of these doomed civilians had. If nothing else, my horseman got a taste of his own punishment.

By midmorning, the sounds of camp are in full swing. People are laughing, bickering, shaking out dusty clothing, sharpening their blades, or smoking cigarettes and kicking balls around the tents. I’ve already heard the war drums herald in one execution, and breakfast has come and gone. In all that time, War hasn’t returned.

I’m busy staring at the photo of my family, my thumb rubbing over my father’s face when the zombies around me straighten. Then, as one, they approach me.

They close in until it’s clear they’re going to grab me.

“If you want me to follow you,” I say quickly, setting the photo aside, “I will. Just please don’t touch me.”

The guards stop just short of me, flanking me on all sides. Then, as one, they begin walking towards the door of the tent, and I’m swept along with them. Together, the group of us leave War’s quarters and head towards the center of camp.

Somewhere in the distance, the war drums start up again, the sound making my skin prickle. The farther we walk, the louder they get, until it’s clear the drums are pounding for me.

There are hundreds—maybe thousands—of people who have swarmed around the clearing. They watch the group of us pass with a mixture of curiosity and horror. We cut through the crowd, the people around us giving us plenty of room to walk.

As the morning sun beats down on the clearing and the smell of spilled alcohol and vomit rises up from the earth, this feels like a dream that was left out to rot.

Amongst it all, War sits on his throne. His phobos riders spread out around him, most looking stoic, but a few of them appearing pleased. Only Hussain, the one rider who’s been kind to me, appears at all concerned.

I’m brought before War, my guards finally stopping at the foot of his raised dais. I haven’t been bound or manhandled, but it is clear enough that I’m a prisoner.

The drums are still going, pounding faster and faster, and it’s working the crowd into a frenzy.

Something bad is about to happen.

I gaze up at War, and he looks so remote. The horseman gives me a disparaging look, and I feel like I’m just another woman who’s satisfied him for a time. But now I’m a toy that’s more work than it’s worth.

All at once the drums cut out, and the crowd goes quiet. A breeze blows, stirring my hair in the silence.

“Devedene ugire denga hamdi mosego meve,” War begins.

You have discovered my one weakness before I have.

Around me, the crowd listens raptly, as though they understand even an iota of what he’s saying.

I stare unflinchingly back at him.

“Denmoguno varenge odi.” His voice is loud as thunder.

I cannot punish you.

Judging by my situation, I’m sure War’s figured out something.

Beneath my feet, the earth begins to quake.

My heart skips a beat. I know this sensation.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Around us, people glance about, unsure what’s going on. Some look more frightened than others; I’m sure those spooked individuals are familiar with this sensation as well.

Besides War, the only ones who don’t look bothered are the phobos riders.

War stares at me, his gaze deep and dark.

“Denmoguno varenge odi,” he repeats.

I cannot punish you. There’s an emphasis on that final word.

“Eso ono monugune varenge vemdi nivame vimhusve msinya.”

But I can punish others for your trespasses.

The first skeletal hand breaks out from the ground.

Oh God.

The earth is full of so many bones, he said last night. I hadn’t understood his words then, but now, as I watch the dead claw their way out of their graves, I understand. Anywhere War goes, he has a ready-made army.