War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 29

  They’re trying to include me, I realize. This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition, this is how these women connect, despite all their differences. They’re all relatively new friends, after all.

  “Do you really want to know?” I say.

  This is so embarrassing.

  A few women nod.

  I gather together my confidence. “The horseman is definitely better at love than war.”

  It’s not entirely true, but it causes the women around me to titter with good natured laughter.

  “That man was made to please a woman,” someone else adds. More chuckles.

  The conversation moves on, and everyone seems to breathe a little easier.

  My heart lifts when I realize that I passed whatever test they threw at me. I might’ve come as War’s wife, but I’ll be leaving as one of them.

  I while away the day there, listening to their gossip and adding in a few tidbits about my own experiences. For the first time in a long while, life feels normal—or at least normal enough.

  That all ends when someone mentions the invasion tomorrow. I could pretend away the horrors of this place for a bit, but eventually they push their way back in.

  The collective mood of the group dips, the laughter dying away. When I first came to camp, I was so certain I was the only one fighting to stop the horseman. But now it’s clear that other people care too. They’re just not in a position to do anything about it.

  I am.

  I’ve secured the aviaries—and that’s something—but I saw firsthand during our last invasion just how little that actually amounts to. Only a handful of birds flew away with my message, and who knows how many of them were shot down by archers.

  But the key to surviving the horseman’s attack is to be forewarned about it. If people have enough time to flee their homes, and if they run in the right direction, then maybe they can cheat death.

  Unfortunately, I won’t have another chance to send off warnings, not if War is prohibiting me from joining the fight. If I want to do something to help the world, I’ll have to work around my violent husband.

  The key to surviving his attack is being forewarned about it.

  The answer is right there, staring me down.

  “Miriam—Miriam,” Zara says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Where did you go?”

  My gaze locks with hers. “I just had a thought.”

  Chapter 42

  In the dead of night, I slip out of War’s bed, careful not to wake him. He’s deep asleep, his breath hissing steadily out of him.

  The lamps in the tent are all snuffed out, and I have to feel my way around to the clothes I set out nearby. As quietly as I can, I tug them on, then pull on my boots. Lastly, I strap on my weapons and head outside.

  My undead guards are still on duty, their sightless eyes staring out at nothing. But as soon as they sense me, they creep close.

  I begin to walk, heading around War’s tent, and the zombies fall into formation around me just as they did earlier.

  Need to shake them.

  At least there are no living soldiers in this area anymore. That’s one obstacle I managed to avert.

  A short distance away from War’s tent, there’s a private corral. Inside it is a massive horse with fur the color of spilled blood.

  Deimos.

  Sometimes War lets his horse wander untethered, and sometimes, like tonight, he corrals him—separate from the other horses, of course.

  At night and without War’s comforting presence, Deimos looks a shit-ton scarier than I remember. He stands at the edge of the corral, his head turned in my direction. He looks as though he’s been waiting for me.

  Before I lose my nerve, I go up to the unearthly steed. He bumps my chin with his muzzle.

  “Hey there,” I whisper, trying to act brave. I reach out a hand and gently rub the horse up his snout and between his eyes.

  He nips at my hair, the action causing me to jolt, but the gesture seems affectionate.

  Maybe I’m just imagining things, but I think War’s horse might actually like me.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t know much about horses, only that they can be finicky creatures. And since I’ve been traveling with War, I’ve seen my fair share of horse kicks and bites. If these little ol’ ponies don’t like something, they make their displeasure known.

  We’ll discover how much this one truly likes me in the next few minutes …

  I hop the fence, and now I’m caged in with him. Several seconds later, the corpses that surround me amble over the wall of the corral as well.

  Dang it. I was kind of hoping the fence would deter the dead.

  Only now do I realize that one human girl, six undead creatures, and a savage steed all crammed into a tiny corral is a recipe for disaster.

  However, the aggressive reaction I anticipate from War’s horse never comes.

  He utterly ignores the dead surrounding us, ambling over to me instead.

  I pet the side of Deimos’s face. “Will you let me ride you?” I whisper.

  When Deimos doesn’t stampede me, I decide that I might just be able to do exactly that.

  His saddle hangs nearby. I have very little experience saddling a horse, and a lot of trepidation saddling this one.

  Definitely going to get kicked. Deimos is a mean bastard. I’ve seen him kick and bite and nearly trample a good dozen men since I joined this camp.

  But as I lift the saddle pad and then the saddle, hefting them onto his back, he doesn’t try to hurt me. I lean under him to secure the straps, and this is the moment of truth. I hold my breath, waiting for some sort of horsie retaliation. Instead, he tosses his head about impatiently, as though to say, hurry up.

  Meanwhile, my guards stand passively by. I glance at them, wondering if they’re able to communicate with War. My stomach drops at the thought.

  He’s fast asleep, I reassure myself. That doesn’t stop me from throwing a spooked glance in the direction of his tent.

  Once I’m done securing the saddle, I open the gate, grab the reins and try to lead Deimos out.

  The horse tosses his head about until I release his reins. Then he begins to make his own exit, picking up speed with every footfall.

  I end up having to rush to his side and hastily hoist myself onto his back before he outpaces me.

  For a split-second Deimos tries to shake me off, and I’m sure this is the end of my half-baked plan. But I cling to the horse, and after a few seconds, he seems to accept the fact that I’m going to be riding him tonight.

  His trot increases in speed as we head away from camp. Around us, my undead guards begin to run, trying in vain to keep up. But the human body can only move so fast—even a magically animated one. The corpses begin to fall away from us, and I desperately hope they’re not going to immediately report to War.

  I’ve barely shaken my guards when I hear the hiss of an arrow as it whizzes by.

  Fuck. I’d forgotten about the soldiers who patrol the perimeter of War’s camp. Foolishly I’d assumed that they’d been replaced by the dead. But no, they still stand guard.

  Another arrow whizzes by, and I lower my body so that I’m plastered against Deimos.

  I hear their distant shouts, but at some point, we travel outside the range of their weapons.

  I escaped my guards and camp itself.

  I release a ragged breath.

  Step one complete.

  Now onto step two.

  It takes over an hour to get to Mansoura. The city grows like a weed from the ground, the outskirts nothing more than rubble being reclaimed by nature.

  The few gas lamps that are lit reveal more broken shells of homes. The small buildings look like gravestones, their walls riddled with bullet holes.

  Clearly there was fighting here, just as there had been in Jerusalem. Maybe religion was at the root of it, like it was for my country, or maybe it was something else. Desperate people are often angry people. And since the Arrival, so many of us have b
een desperate. That’s really all it takes to start a war—anger and desperation.

  Once I enter the city proper, I quickly realize two things: One, Mansoura is huge—much larger than some of the cities we’ve raided so far. And two, in spite of its size, it might already be abandoned. Window panes are missing, buildings are crumbling, and the streets are littered with debris.

  However, the gas lamps are lit, and somebody had to light them, which means despite all outward appearances, people still live here.

  My eyes scour the sleeping city. In less than twelve hours, an army thousands strong will descend on the place, burning and killing and raiding everything in sight. Even on the wings of my passion and War’s kindness, there’s still this sick underbelly to our relationship.

  Egyptian soldiers manifest out of the darkness, just as they did in Port Said. And just like in Port Said, their weapons are drawn. There’s even an archer, leveling his arrow at my chest.

  “State your business,” one of them demands.

  Briefly, I wonder if every stranger entering town this late at night is welcomed this way. Doesn’t matter.

  “War is stationed less than twenty kilometers from your town,” I say. “In a few hours he and his army of five thousand will ride into your city, and they will destroy everything.”

  The soldiers don’t lower their weapons.

  “How do you know this?” one of them asks.

  “I’m his—” Wife. I bite my tongue to keep from voicing that damning title. “I’m one of his soldiers.”

  I hear the creak of wood as the archer pulls back on his bow. One slip of his fingers, and I’ll take an arrow to the chest.

  “Why should we trust you?” the archer asks.

  “You don’t have any reason to,” I admit, “but I’m begging you to take a chance and evacuate what you can of your city.”

  My eyes move to said city. If there’s still as many people here as there were before the apocalypse, there’s no way all of them will have time to escape. But some of them will, and that’s all that matters.

  “If you don’t want trouble,” one of the soldiers says, “I’d suggest you go back the way you came.”

  Why does no one ever believe me?

  “Listen,” I say. “The rumors about the east are all true. War has already swept through New Palestine. He will sweep through here too. I’ve seen it happen to several cities. It happened to mine.”

  I can’t tell in the darkness, but the men seem skeptical.

  “Have any of your messengers disappeared recently without a trace?” I ask, trying not to sound exasperated. “Have your aviaries had trouble delivering messages to certain cities to the east?”

  I see two of the men exchange a look.

  “How about the sky? Have you noticed it’s been hazy recently? Have you seen some ash floating in the wind?”

  Again, the men exchange a look.

  “The horseman likes to burn his cities and kill anything that comes close to them. Your missing messengers are dead, and the cities north and east of you have all burned. Port Said is gone. So is Arish and most—if not all—of New Palestine”

  The soldiers look at each other, then murmur softly amongst themselves. The archer still has his weapon trained on me, but even he is listening in on the quiet discussion.

  Eventually they come to some sort of decision.

  “And if we believe you?” one says, albeit begrudgingly. “What then?”

  For a moment the words don’t process. I guess I hadn’t expected them to come around. Not when they’d seemed so distrustful.

  “There isn’t much time,” I tell the soldiers. “War’s men will be waking in an hour, maybe less, and they will begin to mobilize. If the people here hope to escape, they will need to leave immediately.”

  “If you’ve lied to us,” the archer says still holding his bow and arrow loosely, “you’ll pay for it.”

  Unfortunately—

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  Fifteen minutes later I’m galloping down the streets of Mansoura.

  “Wake up!” I shout as I go. “You all need to evacuate! War is coming!” I move through the city, shouting various versions of the same thing over and over until my voice grows hoarse.

  This was the idea that formed when I sat with Zara and those other women. I might not be able to fight War’s army, but I could still warn the cities the horseman was poised to attack, starting with this one.

  Slowly, Mansoura rouses. Lamps are being lit inside homes, and I can see people shuffling about, or peering outside curiously. Eventually, I see families flood into the streets, some with their belongings.

  I pause briefly to take it all in.

  I managed to warn them. I actually did it.

  I touch my bracelet, rubbing my thumb over the Hand of Miriam. A part of me swells with pride. I actually helped these people. They might truly survive War, all because I dared to slip away and alert them to what was coming.

  Amongst the chaos I hear the clop of hooves, and a horse and its rider sidle up next to me.

  “This was bold of you.”

  I jolt at that deep, gravelly voice.

  “Bold and reckless.”

  My head whips to the side, and there’s War, sitting astride someone else’s horse, staring out at the houses with their fleeing residents. He doesn’t look angry, but the sight of his calm, pitiless face chills me to the bone.

  “W-what are you doing here?” I say.

  “I spared your friend’s boy in Arish, and I spared the survivors in Port Said, all for your soft heart,” he says conversationally. “I was even willing to find your family for you.”

  My hands begin to tremble. I know better than to trust his level voice.

  He turns his pitiless gaze on me. “And this is how you repay me?”

  Being with War has lulled me into a false sense of reality, one where he treats me with benevolence and overlooks my actions.

  The back of my neck pricks. I think I misread him.

  I force myself to lift my chin. We’re beyond apologies or explanations. I’m not sorry for what I did, and nothing on this earth will pry that lie from my lips.

  He scrutinizes my face. What he sees there causes the corner of his mouth to curve up.

  The chill inside me expands, reaching my arms, then my legs.

  “I knew you were going to be trouble,” he says. “But now, you must see me for who I really am.”

  He raises a hand—

  “No.”

  God, no. Anything but that.

  War ignores me, stretching his arm out, as if to grasp the dark horizon.

  All around us, people are moving into the streets. I want to say I don’t see the old and the young and everything in between, but they’re all amongst the heaving mass leaving their houses. Some of them glance our way, but no one seems to have any idea that a demon is among them.

  “Please, War,” I beg, reaching for his hand, “You don’t have to sabotage this,” I say.

  “I’m not sabotaging anything. You defied my will, and now they will suffer for it.”

  “Please,” I say again. A horrified tear slips down my cheek.

  I have held this man naked against me. He has saved me from the brink of death and brought out feelings in me no one else has.

  He is capable of kindness, of goodness. I’ve seen it more than once.

  “Please.” My voice breaks. “This isn’t you.”

  Isn’t it though? Isn’t this exactly who and what he is?

  War ignores me, and beneath us, the earth begins to shudder. The horse he sits on starts to nervously sidestep.

  “No,” I say again, this time more hopeless.

  I hop off Deimos and take several staggering steps as the earth rolls beneath my feet. Around me, I hear people shout as they grab one another.

  I glance over my shoulder at War, but his eyes have gone unfocused. He’s not here, but elsewhere. And he looks nothing like the man I’ve come to care f
or.

  The earth rips around me, and bone-white bodies pull themselves from the ground. People scream as soon as they catch sight of the dead rising. There aren’t that many dead in this area of town, but in the distance, I hear rising screams. There must by a nearby cemetery or a mass grave of some sort.

  And now the chilling realization sets in: Mansoura was probably hit by war fairly recently, judging from the look of the city. And in war, there are lots of casualties … casualties whose bodies may have been buried within the city.

  The dead around me descend on the living with unnatural agility.

  I turn back to War. “Stop!”

  Nothing.

  I stalk towards him.

  His horse is already halfway spooked. I debate scaring the steed into a frenzy before I decide instead to force myself up and onto the horse.

  I am mad, I think, especially when War’s mount lifts its front legs halfway up in warning. But I claw myself far enough onto the saddle to grab onto War’s armor, and then I begin to drag the two of us back down to earth.

  The action is enough to fully frighten the horse. The horseman’s mount rears back, throwing me and War off its back. A split second later, the horse takes off into the melee.

  War lays beneath me. His arm is no longer outstretched, his eyes no longer glassy. Yet still the undead don’t fall back to the earth. Whatever powers he drew on, they won’t be stopped by distraction alone.

  I lean over him, and I cup the side of his face. “Please, War. Please find your compassion. Please stop.”

  “I will not stop, wife. I will never stop. It is you who must surrender to my ways.”

  That damn word.

  I push myself away from him, suddenly repulsed at the thought of touching him. Of caring for him. He is a blight and a terror to my world.

  Around me the town is descending into full blown chaos. The dead kill the living, and every person cut down only lays still for a moment or two. Then they rise again as the vengeful dead. They turn on the living, attacking the very people they sought to protect only seconds before.

  Dead husbands kill their wives, dead parents kill their children, dead neighbors kill their friends. A lifetime of relationships—deep, meaningful relationships—are weaponized in an instant.