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

“Hey!” the man says again. “That was my horse!”

“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.

I’m just lowering my bow when I feel the tip of the sword at my back.

“The only reason you are not dead, girl,” says the voice behind me, “is because I want our warlord to know your crimes.”

Well, shit.

Chapter 32

Back at camp, under the rays of the setting sun, the soldiers line the traitors up.

I’m one of them.

The new captives have already sworn their allegiance—or they’re dead. Now it’s our turn for judgment.

I’m shoved forward, towards the clearing, my hands bound. People are yelling at me, putting their hands on me; their hate is a palpable thing. They do this to every traitor, and yet I’m singled out amongst the crowd, undoubtedly because by now everyone knows of my relationship with War.

The horseman sits in his throne at the head of the clearing. I’d almost forgotten about that throne. He’s a different person up there, different from how he is on the battlefield—bloodthirsty and calculating—and different from how he usually is with me—gentle and kind. Sitting on that throne, still clad in his bloody regalia, he’s haughty and aloof. Although, today, I’ll admit he does look more agitated than usual.

As I walk into the clearing, I keep my chin held high, despite the fact that the ground is soaked in fresh blood and the bodies of the newly dead prisoners are lying in a pile off to the side.

The crowd is screaming and spitting and raging, raging, raging. More than one person is literally throwing horse manure at us.

Dear God, is this really what you intended? To make men into demons and let hell reign on earth?

The line of us are forced to face War.

He looks the lot of us over, his bored gaze moving from traitor to traitor until his eyes land on me. For an instant, there’s a spark of relief. Then his face hardens.

I’m not positive, but I get the impression that none of his riders told him my whereabouts. I guess they wanted to take a more dramatic, more public approach to the entire thing.

War stands, and the crowd goes quiet. I don’t know what he’s thinking, what’s going on behind those turbulent eyes of his. It’s probably regret that for a second time today, I’m undermining all his carefully laid plans.

“Miriam.” His voice ripples across the camp, and no one is immune to it.

People pause in their dung-throwing so they can stare at the horseman, then me.

His gaze drops to my throat, then my bound hands. When he looks at me again, there’s an edge to his eyes.

“Release her.” He doesn’t attempt to speak in tongues.

“My Lord,” one of the phobos riders objects, stepping away from the other riders. “She killed one of your riders.”

I don’t recognize the man speaking, but I do know he isn’t the soldier who captured me today. That ended up being Uzair, the same phobos rider who also caught me loitering outside War’s tent when the horseman was discussing battle strategies with his men. Right now, Uzair stands with the other riders, his jaw hard.

“Why are you keeping her around?” demands this new phobos rider, stepping into the clearing.

War looks bored as he stares down at his man.

Several soldiers are approaching me, presumably on War’s order to release me, but their expressions are hard. It’s clear they believe I should die today.

They come up to my side and take me by my upper arms, leading me away from the lineup.

“She kills our men, sabotages your plans, and yet you spare her? Her?” the phobos rider says, incensed. “Never have you made exceptions before. Why now, and for what? A whore?”

War’s eyes narrow.

“Kikle vležoš di je rizvoroš maeto vlegeve ika no ja rizberiš Vlegi?” the horseman says, now reverting to one of his dead languages.

How could you understand my motives if you don’t understand God?

“Has she made your mind weak, horseman?” At this point, the phobos rider just seems to be openly baiting War, which is never a good idea when dealing with a dude who happens to relish bloodshed.

The horseman takes an ominous step forward, and the crowd ripples with unease. He takes another and another, descending down his dais and entering the clearing.

He strides over to the man until he looms over his rider.

It happens so fast I barely have time to register. War pulls out a dagger from his hip and shoves it through the soldier’s heart. The rider’s lips part, and his eyes are just as wide as the phobos rider I killed earlier, like death comes as a surprise to him.

War withdraws his blade, and blood cascades out of the open wound.

The phobos rider chokes a little, his gaze swinging around at all the quiet people. He sways for a moment, then falls to the ground, dead.

The phobos rider’s blood hasn’t cooled before War muscles his way between the soldiers and scoops me up.

He’s quiet as he carries me back to his tent. I don’t bother telling him I can walk. I’m not too interested in opposing him right now, when he’s defied his own conventions twice in one day for me.

Behind us, the crowd is quiet, but once we’re well out of eyesight, I hear the noise ratchet up again, and then, all at once, the crowd seems to roar—undoubtedly as a result of the rest of the traitors’ executions.

I close my eyes against the thought of all those people I stood with minutes ago. They dared to stop the army, and they died for it.

The horseman carries me into his tent. It’s only once we’re inside that he sets me down.