War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,149
ashes. We’ve moved on, leaving Dongola behind. I feel like I’ve left a part of myself in that city.
The wind whistles through the few tents left. It keeps unnerving me. You’d think after the loudness of living in a tented city, I’d appreciate the silence. But I miss the place as it was.
How’s that for irony? I’m nostalgic for the press of tents and the crowd you could get lost in. It was a festering wound of a community, but it’s left a void in its wake.
Our camp now consists of no more than thirty tents, and those include the tents that shield our provisions. I stare at the other canvas structures, the ones that house what’s left of War’s phobos riders. He hasn’t been replacing his riders for a while now, so his inner circle of fighters has been steadily growing smaller.
I don’t know what will happen to them, especially now that War has released his undead army. Will he ride into the next city with just his men? Or will he raise more dead?
I can see the same question in the pinched, unhappy expressions of War’s riders. None of them know what’s going to happen next. Their warlord didn’t release them with the rest of camp. What plans could he possibly have for them?
The question is all the more pressing since War has left no one in charge of running the daily tasks of camp. There used to be people who would wash your clothes, people who would cook your meals. Those who would weave containers and mend torn tents and sharpen blades and on and on and on. You name a need, there’d be someone to fill it.
To be fair, the horseman did try to recruit some of his dead for these jobs, but no one wants decomposing skin to find its way into soup (if the dead even know how to properly prepare such things), or for some zombie’s unmentionable parts to smear onto the clothes they’re washing.
That being said, there are still a few zombies left around camp; War likes having them patrol the grounds. He won’t chance them getting close enough to make me sick, but he clearly still has them around for the camp’s protection and—to a larger extent—my own.
As I stare out at the few remaining tents, two phobos riders step out of one, their torsos bare, save for the red sash they always wear around their upper arm. They lean in towards each other, chatting quietly. When they see me, one nods in my direction, and the other takes notice, the two falling silent.
The back of my neck pricks. Whatever they’re talking about, it’s not for my ears.
A short while later Hussain walks by, lifting a hand to me in greeting before joining up with the two other men. Together, the group of them head off, their heads bent together, their voices hushed.
They’re all obviously friends, and the sight of them together brings a sharp ache to my chest. I already miss Zara and the easy friendship we had.
Rolling my hamsa bracelets around my wrist, I head towards the outskirts of camp.
Off in the distance, I see Deimos grazing, and nearby him is War. The sight of the horseman still makes my heart flutter.
Like his riders, War is shirtless, and even this far away, I can see his olive skin ripple with his muscles. Standing there amongst Sudan’s barren landscape, he looks … different. Still fearsome in stature, but burdened somehow. It brings back that prickling, uneasy sensation I felt only minutes ago, though I don’t know why.
I make my way to him.
When I get to his side, he doesn’t turn to me.
“Wife,” War says, staring out at the horizon. Out here the world is all yellow, sandy soil and pale blue sky. “Where do you draw the line between those who are innocent and those who are not?” he asks, his gaze distant.
I shake my head, though I’m not sure the question was meant for me at all.
He turns to me, and his dark eyes unbearably tender. “I have seen it all,” he says. “There is no clear demarcation between good and evil. And who is to say that even the worst men can’t change?”
I search his face. I’m barely following his musings, and I certainly don’t have any sort of answer for him.
He stares at my lips. “I thought I could have it all—my wife, my war, and my sanctity. Instead, you have forced me to question everything—life, death.