Page 17 of War

He throws his dagger at my feet, the thin blade sinking into the earth, and then he walks away.

After War leaves, no one seems to know what to do.

I react first. Kneeling down, I grab the hilt of War’s discarded weapon and yank it out of the earth. On the horseman’s arm, it had looked more like a hairpin than a dagger, but in my hand, it’s heavy and big. Quite big.

Spinning, I point the blade at anyone and everyone. Someone laughs.

Time to get the fuck out of here.

Clutching the blade, I stride out of the clearing, elbowing my way through the crowd. I expect someone to attack me, but it never comes.

I only manage to walk a short distance before a woman grabs my arm.

“This way,” she says, beginning to direct me through the maze of the camp.

I glance down at her. “What are you doing?”

“Leading you to your new accommodations,” she says, not missing a beat. “I’m Tamar.”

Tamar is a petite thing, with greying hair, tan skin, and olive green eyes.

“I’m not planning on staying.”

She sighs. “You know, most people I greet here say that to me. I’m tired of having to tell you all the brutal truth.”

“And what’s that,” I say as she winds us through rows of tents.

“Everyone who leaves, dies.”

Tamar leads meto a dust-stained tent that looks identical to the dozens of tents erected to either side of it.

“Here we are,” she says, gazing up at it. “Your new h—wait.” She calls out to another woman four tents down. “This is one of the one’s we’re giving out, right?”

The other woman nods.

Tamar turns back to me. “This is where you’ll be staying from now on.”

“I already told you, I’m not staying.”

“Oh, hush,” she says, shrugging off my words. “You’ve had a harrowing day. Tomorrow will be better.”

I bite back a response. I don’t need to convince her of my intentions.

She pulls the tent flaps back and gestures for me to peer inside. Reluctantly, I do so.

It’s a small space, hardly big enough for the rumpled pallet that lays the length of it. In one corner rests a dog-eared book and a Turkish coffee set. In another corner rests a comb and some costume jewelry.

It’s clearly someone else’s home.

“What happened to the last person who stayed here?” I ask.

Tamar shrugs. “She left on her horse this morning … but she never came back.”

“She never came back,” I repeat dumbly.

My eyes sweep over the furnishings again. Whoever this woman was, she’ll never pick up that book again. She’ll never sleep on this bed, wear this jewelry, or drink from those cups.

“They weren’t all hers,” Tamar says, staring at the items alongside me. “Some belonged to others who passed on before her.”