Page 7 of War

At least they’re safe. But then, there are so many others who are fighting for their lives. I grab an arrow, nock it, and shoot. Grab, nock, shoot. Over and over. Some of my shots miss, but I feel a flush of satisfaction that I’m managing to pick off any of these invaders at all.

I have to duck as I continue through the streets. People are leaning out their windows, throwing whatever items they can at this strange army. As I move I see a man get pushed off his balcony. He lands on a burning awning below. The last I hear of him are his screams.

At some point, a few of the invading soldiers recognize that I’m a threat. One of them aims his own bow and arrow at me, but he’s on a horse, and his shot goes wide.

Grab, nock, shoot.

I hit him in the shoulder. Grab, nock, shoot. This time my arrow gets him in the eye.

Need more arrows.And other weapons, for that matter.

I make a break for my flat, which is several blocks away, whispering a prayer under my breath that I don’t run out of arrows before I get there. I have a dagger on me, but I’m no match for a bigger opponent, and most of these soldiers are just that—big opponents.

It takes about thirty minutes to get to my place. I live in a condemned building—not that anyone’s going to tear it down anytime soon. It sustained some damage during the fighting a few years ago and most people moved as a result. I didn’t. Call me sentimental, but it’s where I grew up.

When I get to it now, the entryway is on fire.

Crap, why hadn’t I thought of this?

I eye the structure. It’s mostly made out of stone, and besides the entrance, it looks alright. I chew the side of my lip.

Making a decision, I dash inside. Not three seconds after I do, the overhang collapses, closing me in.

Well shit. I’m going to have to either hop out of a window or else hope the ancient fire escape works.

Once I’m inside, I dash up the stairs to my flat, coughing against the smoke.

I slow when I catch sight of my apartment. The front door hangs ajar.

Motherfucker. Someone else must’ve already had the same idea I had. People around here know I make weapons.

I step inside, and the place is a mess. My workstation has been overturned. Along the shelves, the knives and swords and daggers, bows and quivers and maces and arrows I’d carefully stored have almost all been removed.

I don’t pause to scavenge through them. Rushing to my bedroom, I lift up my mattress. Beneath it are dozens upon dozens of arrows and a spare dagger.

Dropping my canvas bag to the floor, I scoop up the arrows and shove as many as I can into my quiver. Then I grab a sheathed dagger and quickly strap it to me.

After I’ve armed myself, I head downstairs. Kicking in a door to one of the apartments I know is abandoned, I step inside. The windows here are mostly intact, and I have to grab a discarded chair and smash it against the glass for it to shatter.

Knocking out the last shards, I step outside and run into the fray once more.

It’s not untilI’m just outside the Old City that I catch sight of War.

And it’s him alright. I didn’t believe my eyes when I first saw him, but now, bathed in the blood of his victims, his eyes gleaming like onyx, there’s no way he could possibly be anyone else.

He sits astride his horse in the middle of the road, his steed pawing the ground. The creature is just as fearsome as all the stories promised it would be.

War surveys the carnage around him, looking far too pleased with the results.

Nocking an arrow into my bow, I line the horseman up in my sights.

Aim for the chest.Anything else is too likely to miss altogether.

War’s head snaps to me, almost as though he heard my intentions whispered on the wind.

Shit.

He takes in my weapon, then my face. War kicks his horse forward.