War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(48)

But then his words from yesterday rush back in.

I’m going to have to face my attackers. That thought makes me both hot and cold at once.

I sit up, running my hands through my hair. I take a deep breath, wishing for a cup of Turkish coffee. I’d drink it, sludge and all, if it could ready me for this day.

Pulling on my boots, I step outside, squinting against the brutal glare of the sun. War is several meters ahead of me, and he’s walking like he knows I’ll follow. The bastard. I hate being predictable.

The horseman leads me to the clearing at the center of camp, where most of the horde has already gathered. The crowd parts like the sea to let War and me through, closing seamlessly behind us.

It’s only once we get past them that I get a clear view of the three men who stand bound and beaten, several armed phobos riders spread out behind them.

The wind is nearly knocked out of me.

My attackers.

I can still feel their hands on me and hear the rip of fabric as they tore through my shirt. I was so helpless then.

But now the tables have turned.

My gaze moves from one bound man to the next. I recognize one of my attackers as the man from the first day, the one who called dibs on me. The others are strangers.

Looking at their faces in broad daylight makes them far less frightening. Maybe it’s that they’re the ones who look terrified, or maybe it’s the fact that they can’t be much older than me. In a different world, they could’ve been the men I went to school with.

But that’s not this world.

A phobos rider breaks away from his comrades, coming forward to hand me a weapon. I take the sword he gives me, then stare dumbly at it.

“What is this?” I ask War.

His upper lip curls in distaste as he stares at the men. “Wedāw.”

Justice.

It takes several seconds for realization to dawn on me.

“You want me to kill these men?” I ask the horseman.

In response, War folds his arms, saying nothing. Whatever gentleness he showed me over the last few days, it’s gone. This is uncompromising War, whose will reigns absolute.

I glance back at the men.

They’ll try it again. If not on me, then on another woman. They probably already have before. They are an open threat, and they will continue to be as long as they live.

But isn’t that what War believes about all of us? That we’re all evil and unchanging? It’s just not true. Even though we are all capable of wickedness, it doesn’t mean we’re doomed to it. We’re also capable of goodness.

I stare down at the weapon in my hand, and take a deep breath.

“I won’t kill them,” I say.

Not now, and not like this.

After a long and heavy pause, the horseman says, “Ovun obē tūpāremi ātreme?evi teri, obevi pū?e?evi teri epevitri tirīme?i utsāhe te?a eteri, obe?i vuttive i?uvennē n?ppe?”

They invaded your tent, they sought to rape you and defile you, and you will not mete out justice?

“This is revenge,” I say.

He narrows his eyes. “Kē kahatē, pe?iv?nīki sehi vuttive eke sā sekānevi.”

Right now, revenge and justice are one and the same.

“I won’t kill them,” I repeat.

I know I must seem like a hypocrite. I’ve killed before, and these are no innocent men. If we were out on the battlefield, I would easily fight them to the death. If they cornered me on a dark night in Jerusalem, I would’ve shot them dead then too. But seeing these men lined up, their wrists bound—this would be an execution.

I am no executioner.

War stares at me for a long time. Eventually he makes a sound low in his throat and gives a shake of his head, like I’m the damnedest thing.

“Abi abē vuttive e?u naterennē nek, keki evi abi saukuven genneki, a??atu.”

If you will not take your justice, then I will take it for you, wife.

The horseman prowls towards the men. Seeing him move I remember that this is who War is. And unlike humans, I’m not entirely sure the horseman can change. He certainly doesn’t want to.

My attackers shrink back from him, but there’s nowhere for them to go. They’re hemmed in by the crowd and the phobos riders.

As War approaches the three men, he withdraws a sword from its sheath at his hip. It’s not the massive sword he wears on his back. This one looks lighter and narrower.

“Avā kegē epirisipu selevi menni.”

You get my unclean blade, War says, his voice building on itself.

“Gīvisevē pī abi egeureveves?i p?t qū eteri, et?kin abejē kere?i pe egeurevenīsvi senu ?ti.”

In life you were dishonorable, and so your deaths too will be dishonorable.

The guttural sounds of his words make him all the more terrifying.

“Please,” one of the men begins to beg. “We didn’t mean it.”

The one on the left is noticeably trembling.

But it’s the man I recognize who lifts his chin defiantly, his eyes on me. He doesn’t look repentant, he looks angry. “Whatever that bitch told you, it’s a lie. She wanted it.”

War closes in on the man, and he grabs his jaw. “She wanted it?” This time when he speaks, he doesn’t bother speaking in tongues. We all hear the words perfectly enunciated.

The man glares daggers at the horseman, but he doesn’t respond.