War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(49)

After a moment, War lets the man go, and begins to rotate away.

In a flash of speed, the horsemen turns back on the man, and with one vicious stroke, he sinks his blade into the man’s stomach, impaling him with it.

I jolt at the sudden violence.

My former attacker lets out a choked cry, and his two co-conspirators shout in surprise.

War releases his grip on the sword, letting the hilt jut out from the man’s abdomen.

The man sways for a few moments, then falls to the ground, a growing patch of blood blooming from the wound.

“Does that feel good?” War asks, again making himself understood. He looms over the man, the blade still sticking out of his victim. “I hope it does. I bet you wanted my sword shoved inside you just as much as Miriam wanted yours shoved in her.”

Dear God.

I’d forgotten about the horseman’s savagery.

The man’s mouth moves, but all that comes out is a strangled moan.

The warlord’s attention turns to the two remaining men. As soon as his ferocious gaze fixes on them, they both visibly wither.

War grabs the hilt of his sword from the dying man’s abdomen, and jerks the blade out, the action making a wet, sloshing sound.

The horseman steps up to the most frightened of the remaining two, and without ceremony, stabs him in the stomach. Almost mechanically, he withdraws his sword and moves to the next, repeating the action until all three of my attackers lay dying in a pool of their own blood.

I gaze down at them in horror as they writhe and moan on the ground. The horseman mortally wounded them, but he didn’t instantly kill them, leaving them instead to suffer.

War casts his violent eyes on the crowd. “Anyone who lays a dishonest finger on another woman will suffer the same fate.”

He turns to me and gives me a nod.

Revenge and justice are one and the same, he said.

Perhaps this is the very reason the world is burning. After all, if this is War being just, then his God’s justice makes sense too.

I don’t immediately return to my tent. Instead, I make the familiar journey back to my original quarters. Call it morbid curiosity or call it closure, but I want to see the place where I was attacked. I want to see if the earth is stained red with the blood that was spilled, or if the ground has already returned to normal.

I don’t know why, but the urge presses on me.

About ten meters from my tent I notice something is off. The tents in this area flap forlornly in the breeze. No one is around, and it’s silent. So silent.

A chill runs over me, despite the heat of the day.

I continue toward the original location of my own tent, acutely aware that the usual noise and bustle of this area is now gone.

My old neighbors might just be lingering in the center of camp. There were still some people left …

When I get to where my tent should be, all that’s left is an empty patch of earth and some faint bloodstains. As soon as I see those stains, the night once again comes back to me in all its vivid terror. The men’s hands on me, pinning me down, beating me.

I take a deep breath, trying to unmake those memories. I don’t want to feel frail and afraid.

I take a step back, and that unnerving silence swarms in again. I look around at all the empty tents, their flaps snapping in the wind. There are a few overturned baskets scattered about, but there’s no life, not even a whisper of it.

When you cried, no one came. No one but me.

War’s justice touched more than three men, I realize with a shiver. The people that once lived around me are now gone.

I’m resting next to my broken down tent, whittling another arrow shaft when I hear commotion nearby.

I glance up just in time to see phobos riders closing in on someone.

“Let me through!”

I knit my brows at the vaguely familiar voice.

“No one passes by without War’s approval.”

“His wife would approve!”

I set my work aside and head over to the phobos riders, one who now has his hand on his weapon. Beyond the two men is Zara.

As soon as I recognize her, I call out, “Let her through!”

One of the men frowns at me and spits.

Apparently he’s super fond of me. The other one, however, the one who brought me the sword at the execution this morning, gestures for Zara to pass by. His comrade immediately starts arguing with him, but he ignores the other man.

My new friend slips by, two heaping plates of food in her hands.

“I’ve been trying to see you for days,” she complains when she meets up with me. “And for days those assholes kept sending me away.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”

I lead her back to the packed remains of my tent, aware of the many sets of eyes on us. Apparently the phobos riders don’t take kindly to just anyone entering their section of camp—even when their section of camp is getting packed up for traveling.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I knew I’d get through eventually.”

When we get to my things, she hands one of the plates to me. “I wanted to return your earlier kindness.”

That … that hits me harder than it should.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the plate from her, a lump in my throat.

“How have you been doing?” she asks, her eyes moving over me. Most of my visible injuries have healed up; I don’t know if she can see what’s left of them.