Page 43 of War

War is already in the clearing with his riders, standing on a makeshift dais so he can be seen. My breath catches at the sight of him. I don’t know what I feel, only that I feelsomethingwhen I look at him.

He retrieved the photo of my family.That couldn’t have been anything other than intentional. I want to thank him, but the distance between us and the fearsome look on his face make him seem farther away from me than ever.

Once most of the camp has arrived, War steps forward, and the crowd quiets. He gives us all a long look, then he opens his mouth and speaks in that guttural tongue of his. “Etso, peo aduno vle vegki.”

The hairs along my arms rise.

Tomorrow, we head into battle.

Chapter 11

I sit inmy tent, flipping War’s dagger over and over in my hands.

Surviving isn’t good enough.

It once was, hence my rules for surviving the apocalypse. But now the game is no longer just about survival. It can’t be. It’s about remaining decent during the true end of the world.

War wants us to fight—well, to be fair, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass whetherIfight. He made that plain the day he took me. But most of the camp’s occupantsaresupposed to go into battle and kill just as their family and friends were killed. I don’t know how many people here can stomach that, but I can’t. I can’t just stand by as innocent people get slaughtered.

I glance over at where I’ve propped up the photo of my family.

My hands still.

What if I spent my time in battle killing off this ungodly army?

Killing is a horrible, messy business. And killing War’s army is akin to a death sentence—if I get caught doing so. My idea isn’t all that wise or decent.

I also know I can’t simply sit around and watch the world burn.

My tent flaps are thrown open, and a phobos rider peers inside. “The warlord wishes to see you.”

My stomach clenches.

Re-holstering War’s dagger, I follow the rider out of the women’s quarter, the two of us making our way towards the horseman’s tent.

As we move through camp, I notice that weapons have been set out, and people are picking through them, finding which ones best suit them. I even see a child checking out a dagger. I shudder at the sight.

Among the cluster of people, I see the man from the first night who grabbed his crotch and pointed his dagger at me. He chats with a few other men, but their eyes follow me as I pass by. The crotch-grabber runs his tongue across his lower lip as he takes me in.

He hasn’t forgotten about me, which isn’t good.

This is one of the reasons why Rule Three—avoid notice—has made my list of guidelines to live by. When people notice you these days, it’s often for the wrong reasons. Too pretty, too wealthy, too vulnerable, too wounded, too sick, too stupid. You can become easy pickings for the wrong person.

I frown at the man and move on.

When War’s tent comes into sight, my heart begins to pound.

This is the first time the two of us will have talked since we traveled together, and my emotions are conflicted. The War I rode alongside was a halfway normal person. The War who manages this camp is a fearsome, conscienceless being.

And the truth is, I don’t evenknowthe full extent of his power and cruelty, only that it’s capable of wiping out entire cities.

How much of New Palestine is gone? For that matter, how much of the lands east of New Palestine is gone?

Nausea rolls through me. That’s the man I’m dealing with. A horseman who has already killed off countless. A horseman whoenjoysthe carnage.

As soon as we near the opening of War’s tent, the phobos rider steps aside, leaving me to enter alone.

Inside, War sits on a chair, his fingers steepled and pressed to his mouth.