War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Read online

  I pinch my eyes shut, trying to keep out all the horrible images of what happens to women in war.

  “Neṯet ṯar,” he says.

  You are safe.

  I nearly guffaw at that.

  “From your blade, maybe.” Not from other things.

  Maybe the horseman has eighty wives, each one a war prize he’s plucked from a different conquered city.

  Oh God, that actually sounds plausible.

  A wave of nausea rolls through me.

  War unsheathes his sword as he rides through Jerusalem. The buildings are on fire, and the streets swarm with people—fighting, fleeing, dying.

  I’ve seen my share of fights, but my home has never looked like this, like a steaming heap of human savagery.

  I stare at it all, dazed. I think shock might be setting in.

  I can feel dozens of eyes on me as they take in me and War. Their fear is plain—no one expects to come face to face with one of these mythical, deadly horsemen—but I also sense a deeper terror. No one had realized that War might take prisoners, not until this moment when they see the proof sitting in his saddle. The sight of me must spawn a whole new set of fears.

  Around here we know that sometimes a quick death is a better way to go.

  The horseman begins to drive his steed forward at a punishing pace. His sword is still brandished and he steers his mount towards fleeing humans. Anytime he closes in on one, he takes a great swing of that mighty sword.

  I have to close my eyes against the sight, but even still, I sometimes feel the sick spray of blood.

  For a long time, I simply focus on not retching. It’s all I can manage. Escape is impossible with War’s viselike grip on me, and fighting—well, I already exhausted that avenue.

  We move west through the city, back towards the hills I so recently visited. The horseman takes the same route out that we both took in.

  City gives way to forest, and eventually the sounds of battle fade away. Out here, you’d never know an entire town was getting slaughtered.

  The two of us ride past the shell of a house I hid in, moving deeper and deeper into the mountains.

  Once we’re well and truly far from civilization, War’s hold on me loosens.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  No answer.

  “Why did you leave the fight?” I start again.

  I feel War’s terrible eyes on me, and I glance behind me to meet them.

  He holds my gaze for several seconds, then moves his attention back to the road.

  Okaaaay.

  Maybe he doesn’t understand me like I understand him?

  The rest of the trip we ride in silence.

  At some random point, War veers off the road. The plants here have been pulverized by the horseman’s army. He follows the tracks that his horde left, winding us through the mountains.

  Eventually we round a bend, and I suck in a breath.

  Nestled in a relatively flat section of land is a camp as big as a small city. Thousands of tents lie nestled among the trees and brush, covering a huge portion of the mountainside.

  Who knows how long they’ve been camped out here, completely out of sight from the main road.

  War rides past several makeshift horse corrals and rows upon rows of tents. Now that we’re moving through the place, I notice that even right now there are people here. Most of them are women and children, but there are a few muscle-y soldier types as well.

  The horseman stops his steed. Dismounting off of the creature, he then turns around and lifts me from his horse.

  I have no idea what the fuck is going on, but I really wish I still had my weapons.

  The horseman sets me on the ground. He stares at me for several moments, then tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

  What in the ever-loving hell is going on?

  “Odi acheve devechingigive denu vasvovore memsuse. Svusi sveanukenorde vaoge misvodo sveanudovore vani vemdi. Odedu gocheteare sveveri, mamsomeo.” War says.

  You will be safe here until I get back. All you must do is swear fealty with the others. Then we will speak again, wife.

  “I am not your wife.”

  Again, I catch an echo of his earlier surprise.

  I don’t think I’m supposed to understand him.

  One of the soldier-types comes over, a red sash around his upper arm. War leans in to him and says something so low I can’t hear it. Once he’s finished, the horseman gives me a long look, then remounts his horse.

  With a jerk of his reins, War turns around and rides out of the camp, and I’m left to figure out the situation alone.

  By the time the sun is setting, my wrists are bound behind my back and I’m forced to wait in a line alongside other similarly bound individuals.

  I don’t know if this is what War had envisioned for his wife when he dropped me off, but it feels about right.

  The other captives have trickled in throughout the day. There’s maybe a hundred of us; we probably amount to a fraction of a fraction of the city’s total population. And the rest of the city …

  When I close my eyes, I see them. All of those people who breathed only a day ago now lay dead in the street, food for scavengers.

  For a long time the line of us just stands there. A huge man a couple meters in front of me is trembling uncontrollably, probably from shock. I can see blood splatter across his back.

  Who did he lose?

  Stupid question. The answer must be everyone. The only difference these days is who everyone includes. A wife? Parents? Children? Siblings? Friends?

  One of my clients once told me that there were over fifty members of his extended family. Did they all die today?

  The thought brings bile to the back of my throat.

  My attention sweeps over our surroundings. Most of the other captives in line are male. Male and noticeably athletic. I search for another female amongst us. There are a few. Too few for my taste. And all of them are young and pretty, the best I can tell. A couple of the women cling to children, and that is another shock to my system. I don’t know what sickens me more—that these small families are now at the mercy of these savages, or that there must be countless more left behind in Jerusalem …

  I close my eyes.

  Always knew this day would come. The day when the Four Horsemen finished what they started.

  But knowing couldn’t prepare me for the reality of it. The bodies, the blood, the violence.

  This is some sick nightmare.

  “I’m going to enjoy you later.”

  I blink my eyes open just in time to see a man pointing his blade at me, his free hand moving to his crotch.

  It takes a mountain of effort not to react.

  My mind flashes to all the pretty women in line.

  What is this camp planning on doing with them?

  With us?

  A chorus of screams interrupt the thought. The crude man’s attention is drawn away, towards the front of the line where the screams are coming from.

  The man flashes me a mean smile, backing away. “I’ll have you soon enough,” he promises.

  I stare at him a long time, memorizing his features. Long face, the beginnings of a beard, and dark, receding hair.

  My gaze moves over the other men guarding us. They all have a mean look to them, like they’d rob you and rape you if the opportunity arose.

  “Move! Move!” one of the soldiers shouts.

  The line of us shuffles forward.

  A ways in front of me, another prisoner leans over and vomits. A couple of the soldiers laugh at him. And the screams, those piercing, terrible screams, they continue intermittently, followed by the camp’s boisterous heckling.

  I can’t see ahead to whatever’s going on; there’s too many people and tents in the way, but it turns my stomach nonetheless. There’s a peculiar agony to waiting when you know something bad is coming for you at the end of it.

  It’s not until I move around a bend in the line that I get a view of wh
at that bad thing is.

  Ahead of me, there’s a large clearing free of tents and shrubbery. Standing in the middle of it is a man holding a bloody sword. A captive kneels in front of him. They’re talking, but I can’t quite make out what they’re saying. All around them, men and women ring the space, watching with hungry, avid eyes.

  Sitting on a dais a short distance away and overseeing it all is War.

  My heart lurches at the sight of him. This is the first time I’ve seen him since he captured me.

  The man with the sword grabs the captive’s hair, dragging my attention back to the two of them. Now I can hear the captive’s cries.

  They seem to fall on deaf ears. The man with the sword pulls his blade back, and with one clean swing of the weapon, he beheads the captive.

  I turn my face into my shoulder, breathing against the cloth of my shirt to keep my rising sickness at bay.

  Now I understand the screams and the nausea.

  The prisoners are being culled.

  It takes an agonizing thirty minutes for me to move near the front of the line. In that thirty minutes I’ve seen several more captives die, though many have walked free.

  The huge man I saw earlier, the one who trembled uncontrollably, is now at the front of the line.

  Someone grabs him roughly, leading him to the center of the clearing before pushing him to his knees. He’s no longer shaking, but you can practically smell his fear tinging the air.

  For the first time, I make out the executioner’s words over the noise and distance.

  “Death or allegiance?” he asks the kneeling man.

  Suddenly I understand. We’re being given the option to join this army … or to die.

  My eyes swing over all the people standing around. They must’ve all chosen allegiance. Even though they might’ve watched the horseman kill their loved ones and burn down their towns.

  It’s unfathomable.

  I won’t become the very thing I fought against today.

  In front of me, I don’t hear the kneeling man’s answer, but then the executioner grabs him by the hair.

  That’s answer enough.

  The captive takes one look at the sword. “No-no-no—”

  With the sweep of the blade, the executioner cuts his cries short.

  Saliva rushes into my mouth, and I force down my nausea.

  That’s what will happen to me if I don’t agree to this camp’s terms. It’s nearly enough to make me change my mind.

  I close my eyes.

  Be brave. Be brave. I probably shouldn’t be using Rule Five of Miriam Elmahdy’s Guide to Staying the Fuck Alive to convince myself that death is the better option. The whole point of my rules was to stay the fuck alive.

  The handful of prisoners that follow all choose allegiance. They’re pulled from the arena and swallowed up into the crowd.

  Someone pushes me forward, and now it’s my turn to face judgment.

  A soldier roughly drags me to the center of the clearing, where the executioner waits. Puddles of blood soil the area, and the liquid splatters beneath my boots as I walk up to the man with the blade. Here, the air smells like meat and excrement.

  Death is messy. You forget that until you cut a man open.

  The camp’s eyes are now all on me. They look sickly fascinated by this, like it’s some sort of macabre show.

  But all of their faces fade when I gaze up at War.

  As soon as the horseman sees me, he sits forward in his seat. His face is placid, but his dark eyes are intense.

  All you must do is swear fealty with the others. Then we will speak again, wife.

  One of his hands squeezes his armrest; the other rests beneath his chin, those odd glyphs glittering from his knuckles.

  Now that he’s not on the battlefield, War’s removed his armor and his shirt, leaving him bare chested. No wounds mar that skin even though I know that at least one of my arrows embedded itself in his shoulder. There are, however, more of those strange glowing glyphs on his chest, the two crimson lines of them arcing from his shoulders to his pecs before curving back towards his ribcage. The markings look just as dangerous as the rest of him.

  He no longer wears his giant sword. In fact, the only weapon he is wearing is a needle-like dagger that’s strapped to his upper arm.

  The executioner moves in front of me, forcing me to tear my gaze away from War. The man’s blade is so close that I could reach out and touch it, the steel thickly coated in blood.

  Behind me, a soldier shoves me to my knees. Blood splashes as my knees hit the soaked earth. I cringe at the warm feel of the liquid.

  I close my eyes and swallow.

  “Death or allegiance?” the executioner demands.

  It should be an easy answer, but I can’t force myself to say the words.

  Despite everything, I don’t want to die. I really, really don’t want to die, and I don’t want to feel the bite of that blade.

  Right now anything, even the thought of turning on my own brethren, is more tempting.

  I open my eyes and look to the executioner. The man has dead eyes. Too much killing and not enough living. That’s what’ll happen to me if I choose to live.

  Inadvertently my gaze moves to the horseman sitting on his throne.

  The horseman, who caught me and spared me. Who called me his wife. He watches me now with captivated eyes. I know which answer he wants from me, and he seems almost certain I’ll give it.

  The longer I look at him, the more unnerved I become. A shiver runs over my skin. There’s a whole unexplored world in his eyes, one that promises me dark and forbidden things.

  I tear my gaze away from him and my wandering thoughts, my attention returning to that bloody sword in front of me.

  Death or allegiance?

  Be brave, be brave, be brave.

  I glance up at the executioner and force out the one word I couldn’t only moments before.

  “Death.”

  Chapter 4

  The executioner forces my head down, so that the back of my neck is bared for him. I don’t see him lift his sword, but I feel the warm drip of blood from it.

  I bite my lip at the sensation.

  This is not how I imagined my life ending …

  “No.” War’s voice fills the camp. The sound of it is like a lover’s breath against my skin. It’s sinister, deep—so very, very deep—and the weight of it seems to echo across the clearing. Or maybe it’s simply the silence that falls in its wake.

  Every rowdy, beady-eyed soldier goes quiet.

  I glance up. The crowd seems to shrink back into itself, and their fear is a physical thing.

  My eyes move to War, where he reclines on his throne. His gaze locks with mine, and suddenly, it’s as though we’re back on holy ground and he’s declaring me his wife all over again.

  War’s eyes aren’t anything like the executioner’s. They are so very, very alive. They burn bright. And yet, for all the life that fills them, I cannot say what the man behind them is thinking. If he were a human and I defied him, I’d expect anger, but I’m not sure that’s what he feels at all.

  War lifts a hand and beckons me forward.

  A soldier grabs me by the arm and leads me towards the horseman, only halting me a couple meters from his dais.

  With a nod to War, the soldier backs away.

  The horseman’s gaze rakes over me, and not for the first time, I register just how unnaturally handsome he is. It’s a vicious sort of beauty, one that only dangerous men have.

  His upper lip curls just the slightest, and it makes me think that he’s disgusted at the sight of me.

  The feeling’s mutual.

  All of a sudden, he gets up. I swallow delicately as I crane my neck to look up at him.

  He’s not human.

  There’s no mistaking it now. His shoulders are too wide, his muscles are too thick; his limbs are too long, his torso too massive. His features too … complicated.

  He pulls the needle-thin da
gger from the holster encircling his bicep. At the sight of it, a bolt of adrenaline rushes through me, which is ridiculous considering that I asked for death moments ago.

  “San suni ötümdön satnap tulgun, virot ezır unı itdep? Sanin ıravım tılgun san mugu uyuk muzutnaga tunnip, mun uç tuçun vulgilüü,” he says, circling me.

  I spared you from death, and yet now you seek it out? How you insult me wife, I who have never been known for my mercy.

  Each word is gravelly, resonate.

  Under his scrutiny my throat bobs. “I’m not going to keep my life just so that you can make me kill others,” I say, my voice hoarse with fear.

  At my back, I sense the horseman stop.

  Is he once again surprised I can understand him?

  Before I can turn around, he takes one of my hands. It’s only now, when he’s touching me, his calloused hands swallowing mine up, that I realize I’m trembling.

  I take a few deep breaths to settle my mounting anxiety.

  War leans in close, his mouth brushing my ear. “San suni sunen teken dup esne dup uynıkut? Uger dugı vir sakdun üçüt?”

  Is that what you think I want with you? To make you another soldier?

  He laughs against my hair, the sound making my skin prick. I flush, unnerved at his words.

  I feel the cool metal of War’s blade as he inserts it between the bound hands at my back. There’s a brief pressure as his dagger presses against my bindings. A second later I hear a rip as, in one clean stroke, War cuts the twine and frees my wrists.

  My arms sting as blood flows back into them.

  “I know what you want from me,” I say quietly, beginning to rub out my wrists.

  “Uger uzır vurvı? San vakdum tunduy uçıt-uytın.”

  Do you now? How transparent I have become.

  War comes back to my front. He’s still grimacing at me, like I’ve offended his delicate sensibilities.

  “A hafa neu a nuhue inu io upuho eu ha ia a fu nuhueu a fu Ihe,” he says. His tone and the language he speaks seem to change and soften.

  There are many things I can give you that Death cannot.

  “I don’t want your things,” I say.

  The corner of War’s mouth lifts. I can’t tell if his smile is mocking or amused. “Ua i fu ua nuou peu e fuhio.”