Page 154 of War

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 Foolishly I’d assumed that they’d been replaced by the dead.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 guardsandcamp itself.

I release a ragged breath.

Step one complete.

Now onto step two.

It takes overan 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 been 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.”