Page 48 of War

The sounds of war drift in—the screaming, the shouting, the weeping, and amongst it all, the wet slap of bodies being sliced open.

I pull out my sword.

Be brave.

I turn just as a man aims a long-barreled gun at me. At the sight of it, I freeze.

My heart is in my throat.

I haven’t seen one of those in months. But I remember guns, and I know what flesh looks like when a bullet tears through it.

I take in the man’s white shirt and pajama bottoms. He was probably sleeping when we came riding through—and now he’s fighting for his life. There’s blood splatter on his shirt, and shit, I really don’t want to fight him, I want to help him.

“Please,” I say raising a hand to placate him. “I’m not going to—”

I don’t see the man’s finger move, but I hear the gun blast. Metal shrieks as part of the gun explodes, blowing away the owner’s face.

At the sight of him, I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, forcing down my nausea.

This is why people stopped using guns. These days, firearms had a nasty habit of jamming. You were more likely to kill yourself than you were to end an enemy.

I only have a few seconds to process the fact that the man’s dead and I’m not before I’m swept along on the tide of the fight.

Over the next couple hours, there are others who I help in the melee. I’m not entirely sure it makes much of a difference. I want to keep saving innocent people—and I will—but it’s hard to see the point when they are so overwhelmed by soldiers. It’s War’s army that truly needs to be stopped.

The army’s wagons roll through the town, and marauding soldiers load them up with goods. Sacks of grain, jugs of water and whatever spirits they can get their hands on. Dried fruit, nuts, farm animals—which they will promptly butcher because chickens and goats don’t travel well.

What isn’t being sacked is being burned to the ground. The entire city seems to be on fire.

Ahead of me, my eyes fall on a dead soldier, a bow and a mostly full quiver still strapped to his back.

I stare at the items for several seconds. The bow is big—made for a man of stature—and the grip will be unfamiliar, but there it is. I’m far better with a bow and arrow than I am with a blade. And a weapon like that would give me the ability to injure enemies rather covertly.

Without another moment’s hesitation, I run for it, ducking and swerving to avoid the battles raging in the street.

I slide to my knees at the side of the fallen man. His blood is running like a river from a head wound. I try not to look at him any more closely as I begin to pry the bow and quiver from his body.

I have the bow over my shoulder when a woman on horseback charges down the street, and I have to roll out of the way so that her steed doesn’t trample me. A moment later, I’m back at the man’s side, lugging his quiver away from his body, the arrows rattling within it.

I’ve got it!

The quiver is fitted for a much bigger torso and the bow is heavy and strange in my hand, but I have them both!

Now I run, my eyes scanning the streets for a good building to perch myself inside. There’s not much to choose from, considering that most of the city is burning, but I spot a few buildings that are resisting the flames.

I sprint for one of them, a three story structure that must’ve once held offices or apartments. Finding the stairwell, I take the stairs two at a time. Sweat drips down my skin, and I cough as I breathe in the smoky air.

On the third floor I head into one of the rooms, which are not offices after all, but apartments. The family inside screams, and an older woman tries to bash my head in with a pot.

“Whoa! I’m leaving!”

Hot damn.

I slip back out and close the door behind me. “Lock your door next time!” I yell through the walls.

Door probably doesn’t have a lock, you numbskull.

Jogging to the next door, I enter the apartment, this time a little more wary. But the place is empty. I make my way to the window, and grabbing a nearby pitcher, I smash out the glass pane.