War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(14)

I readjust my grip on the dagger. “Get out of my tent.”

War studies me, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “Is this tent really yours though?” he asks.

No. Doesn’t change the fact that I want him out.

“Get out of this tent,” I correct.

“Or else?” He raises an eyebrow.

Isn’t that obvious enough?

I press the tip of his dagger a little deeper into his flesh. A dark line of blood drips down his throat.

War leans forward. “Brave little warrior, threatening me in my own camp.” His eyes search my face.

“How did you even find me?” I demand. There are thousands of residences in this place.

“I thought you wanted me gone from your tent,” he says. I sense his amusement.

“And yet you’re still here. So.”

“I can’t answer your question if you slit my throat.” He looks pointedly at the dagger.

I hesitate. Waking up to any man in my tent is what I would consider an open threat. Yet I have to admit that if War wanted to harm me in any manner, he probably would’ve done so by now, and no blade of mine would be able to stop him.

Finally, I lower the dagger.

He touches the blood at his throat, and I swear I see a whisper of a smile on his face. “This is my camp. There are no secrets here that can be kept from me.”

I eye him some more, my grip tightening on my dagger. “I’ve heard you can’t die,” I say.

“Is that why you haven’t tried to kill me yet?” That mocking tone is back in his voice.

Yes.

My silence is answer enough.

“Can you?” I press.

“Die?” War clarifies. “Of course I can.”

Damnit. Just when I lowered my blade too.

“I just have a tendency to not stay dead.”

I scrutinize him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grabs a lit oil lamp I didn’t notice, then stands. “You’ll understand, eventually—along with everything else, a??atu.” Wife. “All you have to do is surrender.”

Casting me one final enigmatic look, War blows out the lamp, and then he’s gone like a phantom in the night.

Even though my city is gone and I’ve been captured, I’m expected to just go on with my life.

That’s clear enough the next morning when I wake up to the sound of general chatter outside my tent.

I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised. The same thing was expected of me the day after the horsemen’s Arrival. By now I’m an old hand at this.

I dress in my stained clothes. They’re still damp from yesterday, but God, it’s a lot more practical than the outfit I was given. Pulling on my boots, I step outside.

People lounge around their tents, chatting, laughing, drinking tea or coffee. This section of camp is filled mostly with women and children, and I’m shocked to see that several of them have their heads covered. I would’ve assumed that War would want us all to forsake our religion for his, but apparently not.

The air is still full of the smell of meat, and for a moment, all I can think of are the dead bodies that littered the ground when I entered Jerusalem yesterday. It smelled like meat then, too.

I follow the scent back to the clearing. This terrifying place seems to be where breakfast is served. My eyes move over the sheep being turned on a spit and the trays of fruit and nuts and bread that are spread out before me.

I wander over to the line for breakfast and try not to think about where all this food came from. Armies need to be fed, and one as big as this one … well, raiding cities would be the lesser of the atrocities they’ve committed.

By the time I’m at the front of the line, I spot a familiar face. The man from yesterday, the one who grabbed his crotch and pointed his blade at me, stands on the other side of the clearing, wearing a keffiyeh and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He runs his fingers through his short beard as he chats with the men around him. But his eyes are on me, and no matter how long I stare back at him, he won’t look away.

The weight of the dagger at my side is some small comfort.

I break eye contact first, grabbing my food and leaving the clearing.

I head to the edge of camp, finding a relatively quiet place to sit down and eat. As I do so, my eyes drift over the mountains that surround us.

It would be so easy to slip away unnoticed.

I pause, mid-chew, surreptitiously glancing along the outskirts of camp for any patrolling guards.

I don’t see any.

Setting my plate aside, I stand up. I have to fight the urge to look around me and check that no one’s noticed my behavior. That’s the quickest way to alert people you’re up to no good.

Casually, I begin walking away from camp, holding my breath as I do so. The seconds tick by, and the general buzz of camp life continues on, gradually fading away behind me.

I’m actually doing it.

It’s only when I’ve passed half a dozen trees, however, that I exhale my relief.

I did it.

That was easier than I thought it would—

“On pain of death, stop!”

Damnit.

I come to a halt, positive there’s an arrow aimed at my back.

Sure enough, when I turn around, a man is striding over to me, an arrow trained on my chest.

“All deserters face the executioner’s block,” he informs me.