War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,156

one of the riders, take a breath, then release.

It hits the man in the shoulder. His body recoils from the impact, but he manages to stay on the horse, pulling savagely on the reins.

I’m already nocking my second arrow by the time his comrades notice.

Breathe, then release.

The next arrow hits another rider right in the chest. He slumps in his saddle, his horse veering off from the road.

The two remaining riders turn on their steeds, looking for the source of the arrows.

Nock and release. I hit one of them. Three wounded.

All that’s left is—

My eyes meet Hussain just as he looks towards me.

“Miriam,” he snarls.

I hesitate for a split second. Hussain has always been kind to me. I don’t want to believe he could have helped kill War—or that he might’ve been riding back to camp to deal with me.

The second passes and with it, my shock. I grab another arrow and aim. Release.

Hussain ducks, the arrow whizzing past where his head would be. He kicks his horse into action, galloping straight for the building.

Of course he would be a part of this conspiracy; it seems as though all the riders were in on it.

Still, my heart breaks a little at the sight of him.

Rather than continue to shoot at him, I train my next arrow on one of the wounded riders who has now righted himself on his horse and is circling back. Aiming for his torso, I release the projectile. It hits him just above the breastbone, and I hear his grunt.

That’s all I have time for.

Hussain is right on the other side of the doorway. I hear him dismount his horse, his weapons clinking against him.

I nock another arrow, aiming it at the entryway.

There’s a stretch of silence—

With a fierce kick, the door blasts inwards. Standing beyond it is the one rider who was ever kind to me. Sword in hand, he steps inside.

I release my arrow.

It hits Hussain in the side. It can’t be more than a flesh wound, but it’s enough for him to pause.

He glances down at it, then back up at me. “I never thought you’d try to kill me,” he says.

In seconds I withdraw another arrow from my quiver and settle it against the bow. “I could say the same.”

Aim, release.

Hussain moves, but he’s not quick enough to avoid the hit altogether. The arrow lodges itself near his hip bone.

His teeth clench, but that’s all the reaction I get. And still he keeps coming forward, removing the arrow as he does so.

I see blood drip from his wound, but he doesn’t look bothered in the least. He yanks the second arrow out a moment later, tossing it aside.

What the fuck is this savagery?

Dropping my bow and quiver, I pull out my dagger and the battle axe, backing up. His gaze goes to the axe in my hand. He lifts his eyebrows.

“You managed to kill Ezra?” he asks, recognizing the axe. “Miriam, I’m impressed.”

Hussain’s gaze moves to my face, then to the horse beyond me. He must see the blood-soaked saddlebag, which means he knows I know.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

His attention returns to me. “War’s ending his raids. If he hasn’t told you as much, you must have at least seen it.”

I shift my weight, sweat from my palms slicking my weapons.

“He left his army of children and innocents back in Dongola,” Hussain continues, “but not his trained killers. Why do you think that is?”

Honestly, I don’t have any idea.

“Let’s be truthful with one another: War might spare the innocents of the world—he might even spare the average man, but his phobos riders? We’ve seen and done too much.” Hussain shakes his head. “We gave him everything—”

“Everything but your loyalty,” I say.

“He intended to kill us.”

“No,” I say, something deep within me aching. “War didn’t intend on doing that.”

None of these fighters must’ve known War’s thoughts on redemption and forgiveness. If they had, they would’ve known that the horseman would’ve spared them too. War believed even they were capable of redemption. It’s these men in the end who lacked faith.

And so they plotted to kill the horseman.

Hussain brings his sword up, his intentions clear.

“You were kind to me,” I say a bit mournfully.

Not that it much matters now. It didn’t stop Hussain from plotting against War, nor did it stop me from firing the first shot at him. And it won’t stop the phobos rider from trying to slice me open now.

“And you were kind to me,” he replies, acknowledging