Page 8 of War

I let the arrow fly, but it veers off, missing him entirely.

Slinging my bow across my chest, I turn on my heel and take off, my arrows jiggling at my back.

I glance over my shoulder. War is driving his steed forward, the horseman’s cruel gaze locked on me.

I cut across the rubble where a building used to stand and head into the Old City.

Please don’t twist an ankle, please don’t twist an ankle.

Behind me I can hear the pounding of hooves, and I can practically feel the horseman’s menacing stare boring into my back.

There are a dozen other people fighting and fleeing around me, but the horseman disregards all of them. I’m the only one he seems to have eyes for.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It’s fitting, I suppose, that I would meet the horseman here, in this place that has seen millennia of strife and war. Jerusalem is full of just as much blood as it is soil.

The hoof beats grow louder, closer.

I don’t dare look back.

Normally, there are always a few people who linger in the Old City, but right now, the place is utterly abandoned.

Why did I think to come here? God can’t save me. Not when his spawn is too busy running me down.

I hook a left and suddenly the Western Wall is looming next to me. I run alongside it, my eyes locking on the Dome of the Rock.

If ever there was a time to believe in salvation, now would be it.

I push my arms and legs, snaking back and forth so that the horseman can’t cut me down from behind.

The mosque is so close I can make out the finer detailing along its walls, and—

The entrance is shut.

No.

I keep running for it.

Maybe it’s not locked. Maybe …

I close the last few meters between me and it, grabbing the door handle.

Locked.

I want to scream. I can see the Foundation Stone in my mind’s eye, I can see the small hole that leads to the Well of Souls below. If there was ever a place that a horseman would need to respect the sanctity of, that would be it.

I back away from the locked door and the columned archway. I back into the blinding sun.

Behind me, the hoof beats come to a stop. The hairs along my forearms rise.

I swivel around.

War swings off his mount, and I stagger back at the sight of him.

He’shuge. Taller than a normal man, and every centimeter of him is built like a warrior—broad shoulders, thick arms, lean waist and powerful legs. Even his face has the look of some tragic hero, his feral, masculine beauty only serving to make him appear more lethal.

Almost casually, War pulls his sword out of the scabbard on his back. My eyes go to the massive blade. It gleams silver in the sunlight.