Page 112 of War

“—I’ll lift Mamoon to you.”

She hesitates, not wanting to be away from him for even a moment. But eventually she stands, lifting her exhausted nephew in her arms. She hands him to me, then pulls herself onto the steed.

I look down at the toddler in my arms, and my heart swells.

He’s alive when he might’ve died. War spared him.

War spared him.

Zara reaches out and I lift her nephew up and into her arms. Together the two of us settle him onto the saddle in front of Zara.

The moment Mamoon realizes he’s on a horse, he begins to cry. It’s not the burning houses or the screaming people, or even my weapons that ends up terrifying him. It’s the horse.

“Sssh. Mamoon,” my friend says. “Zaza’s got you.”

“Hey!” That same male voice from earlier shouts. I glance over, and I see the soldier stalking towards us.

I turn back to Zara. “Time to go.”

Zara glances over at the man.

“Will you be—?”

“I’ll be fine.” I’m already sliding my bow off my shoulder. “Go. I’ll see you later.”

Zara nods and gives the horse a swift tap to its sides, and her mount takes off.

“Hey!” the man says again. “That was myhorse!”

“Get another one,” I say, turning to him as I pull an arrow from my quiver.

“I’m not going to fucking get another one,” he says, storming towards me, a sword on his hand. “You’re going to get my horse back, or you’re going to regret it.”

I nock the arrow and aim it at his chest. “Come any closer, and I will shoot.”

The soldier doesn’t so much as falter.

I release the arrow, and he sidesteps it. I aim and fire another and another—both he evades without even looking concerned.

“Is that the best you fucking got?” he shouts.

It’s about then that I notice the red sash around his arm.

A phobos rider.

“I don’t care how much the warlord likes your pussy; I’m going to carve you from limb to limb and leave you to rot.”

And he knows who I am—along with how to threaten the crap out of someone.

I grab two arrows and nock them at the same time, training them on the rider. I have only ever practiced this and always with shit results, but if I don’t hit the man soon, I’ll be forced to draw my blade, and against his sword … he will have the upper hand.

I pull back hard on the bowstring and release the two arrows. Both miss, one veering wildly off. But the shot distracts the rider, and the next arrow I release … that one hits the man square in the chest.

The phobos rider staggers, glancing down at his pierced flesh, his eyes wide.

Before he can do much else, I fire off two more arrows, one which hits him directly in the heart. The rider’s body recoils at the impact. Now his eyes aren’t wide so much as they’re unfocused.

He stumbles forward, then falls to his knees.

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