Page 169 of War

There are hundreds—maybe thousands—of people who have swarmed around the clearing. They watch the group of us pass with a mixture of curiosity and horror. We cut through the crowd, the people around us giving us plenty of room to walk.

As the morning sun beats down on the clearing and the smell of spilled alcohol and vomit rises up from the earth, this feels like a dream that was left out to rot.

Amongst it all, War sits on his throne. His phobos riders spread out around him, most looking stoic, but a few of them appearing pleased. Only Hussain, the one rider who’s been kind to me, appears at all concerned.

I’m brought before War, my guards finally stopping at the foot of his raised dais. I haven’t been bound or manhandled, but it is clear enough that I’m a prisoner.

The drums are still going, pounding faster and faster, and it’s working the crowd into a frenzy.

Something bad is about to happen.

I gaze up at War, and he looks so remote. The horseman gives me a disparaging look, and I feel like I’m just another woman who’s satisfied him for a time. But now I’m a toy that’s more work than it’s worth.

All at once the drums cut out, and the crowd goes quiet. A breeze blows, stirring my hair in the silence.

“Devedene ugire denga hamdi mosego meve,” War begins.

You have discovered my one weakness before I have.

Around me, the crowd listens raptly, as though they understand even an iota of what he’s saying.

I stare unflinchingly back at him.

“Denmoguno varenge odi.” His voice is loud as thunder.

I cannot punish you.

Judging by my situation, I’m sure War’s figured out something.

Beneath my feet, the earth begins to quake.

My heart skips a beat. I know this sensation.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Around us, people glance about, unsure what’s going on. Some look more frightened than others; I’m sure those spooked individuals are familiar with this sensation as well.

Besides War, the only ones who don’t look bothered are the phobos riders.

War stares at me, his gaze deep and dark.

“Denmoguno varenge odi,” he repeats.

I cannot punishyou.There’s an emphasis on that final word.

“Eso ono monugune varenge vemdi nivame vimhusve msinya.”

But I can punish others for your trespasses.

The first skeletal hand breaks out from the ground.

Oh God.

The earth is full of so many bones, he said last night. I hadn’t understood his words then, but now, as I watch the dead claw their way out of their graves, I understand. Anywhere War goes, he has a ready-made army.

Someone gives a surprised scream. Then there’s another several screams. I turn around just as a ripple goes through the crowd.

The dead rise, some no more than bones, others desiccated husks, and others still who look freshly dead. It’s not just human carcasses that are dragged from the ground, either. Animals, too, are pulled from the earth, their bones clattering and grinding together as they move.

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