Page 30 of War

“I believe in God,” I say. “I just don’t believe inyourGod.”

My mother was Jewish, my father was Muslim. I grew up believing in everything and nothing all at once.

“That’s too bad,” War says, eyeing me, “because He seems to have taken an interest in you.”

There are moredays of raids, days where the pounding of hoof beats marks the beginning of the day, and the bloody parade that returns marks its end.

It’s only on the fourth day when the sounds change.

I blink my eyes open and stare at the worn wood poles above me. Outside, I can hear women chatting.

I rub my eyes, stifling a yawn as I sit up. My knee knocks into a pile of branches that take up most of the room in my tent.

War made good on his end of the deal—I’ve beenallowedto gather wood for weapon-making. With a chaperon, of course.

I give the pile an extra deliberate kick.

Rolling off my pallet, I grab my boots and begin to shove them on. Once I’m finished, I run my hands through my dark brown hair. These days I sleep in my clothes—I’m not brave enough to risk anything else in a city with no true doors—so I simply smooth down my shirt before I head outside.

All around me, tents are being broken down and packed up. I glance about in confusion. A woman bustles by.

“Excuse me,” I say to her, “what’s going on?”

She gives me a look like it should be obvious. “We’re moving.”

Moving.

Even now, when my tent is nothing more than a pile of sticks and cloth at my feet, the idea tightens my gut.

I hadn’t anticipated moving. But naturally that’s what a terrorizing horde does. They move and raid, move and raid.

“Miriam.”

I nearly jump at the voice behind me. When I swivel around, two men wearing red arm bands stand at my back. War’s phobos riders.

“The warlord wants to see you.”

My gut clenches again. It’s been half a week since I last spoke to the horseman, and I can’t decide whether I’m now terrified or exhilarated at the thought of meeting with him again. I had convinced myself that whatever interest he initially had in me had passed. That perhaps he’d found another woman to pester and callwifefor seemingly no reason at all.

War’s palatial tent is still up. It’s one of the last structures left standing. And when I step inside, the man himself is in there, wearing black pants and a black shirt, a knife strapped to his waist. He kneels in front of an open chest, his back to me and my escorts.

“My Lord,” announces one of the phobos riders next to me, “we’ve brought her.”

War doesn’t react immediately, choosing instead to settle whatever item he’s holding into the chest. He closes the piece of furniture, running his hands along the lid.

“You may go,” he says, not bothering to speak in tongues. I guess he saves his gibberish for the general announcements he makes to camp.

On either side of me, War’s phobos riders retreat. I begin to leave with them.

“Not you, Miriam.”

I pause mid-step, the hairs along my arms rising. I want to say it’s because I’m spooked, but there’s a note to his voice … it makes me think of soft sheets and warm skin.

I swallow, swiveling back around.

War stands and faces me then, looking giant and magnificent and frightening all at once. The menace that rolls off of him in waves has nothing to do with his armor or his weaponry. There is something intrinsic about him that incites fear.

He takes me in for several seconds. Long enough for me to think he definitely hasn’t replaced me with another wife. My heart rate ratchets up at the thought.