War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(125)

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.