My wounded arms scream against the weight of the weapon, and I have to grit my teeth against the pain.

The axe catches Hussain in the gut, lodging itself deep in his flesh. For a second I can only stare at the hit dumbly, shocked I actually landed a blow.

A split second later he backhands me, knocking me to the ground. I roll before I get a chance to recover, and an instant later, Hussain’s sword strikes the floor where I was an instant ago.

I scramble on all fours, crawling away from him, War’s dagger clutched in my hand. My cheek feels like it’s on fire.

I can hear Hussain’s heavy breathing. “I’m not dying today, Miriam,” he huffs out, grabbing my ankle and dragging me back to him.

I’m not either.

I flip onto my back just as he lifts his sword over his head, and I kick a booted foot at the axe handle protruding from his belly.

Hussain lets loose a sound that is half angry half agonized, a sound I’ve heard so many times on the battlefield as men and women died. His sword slips from his hand, and I have to roll out of its way as it clatters to the ground.

The rider’s hold on me loosens, and I manage to tug my ankle from his grip. I pull myself to my feet, my gaze moving over Hussain.

A curtain of blood cascades from his wound. It’s a fatal blow, I can tell that right away.

I think he knows it too. He gives a little laugh, even as he braces an arm against a wall. “Can’t believe—you got me,” he gasps out.

Neither can I.

“He’s not coming back to life, you know,” he says. “We’ve made sure of it.”

“I don’t believe that,” I say. I can’t.

I stand there for a moment, dagger in hand. I could kill Hussain right now. I’m not sure if that would be the more merciful thing to do.

I remember War’s words from last night.

Every man, woman, and child on earth is just as capable of redemption as I am … who am I to cut them down before their true day of judgment?

At the memory, I holster my weapon.

The rider’s knees buckle then, and he slides down the wall.

I begin to walk away from Hussain, but then I pause, glancing over my shoulder at him one last time.

“War really was going to let you live, you know. He told me all men deserved a chance at redemption.”

Hussain doesn’t react to that.

“I don’t know how any of us are supposed to redeem ourselves,” I admit, “but you still have a little time left. For the sake of our friendship, try.”

I grab my bow and quiver and exit the building.

Outside, one of the two remaining phobos riders has attempted to ride away, but he must’ve slipped off his horse because I see him laying off to the side of the road, inert amongst all the other corpses that litter the ground.

The other rider has also fallen off his steed, but as I leave the building he’s limping towards the creature, who’s standing fifty meters away.

Using the bow and arrows I’ve reclaimed, I shoot him in the spine. His back arches, and then he staggers forward several steps before falling to his knees.

I grab another arrow and nock it as I approach him. The rider glances over his shoulder at me, his eyes full of anger.

The second arrow goes through his ribcage. He cries out, slumping to the ground.

“You bitch!” he chokes out as I step up to him.

“Where is War?” I demand, nocking another arrow and pointing it at him.

He lets out a pained laugh. “You’ll die if you try to save him.” He’s gasping for breath. “But go ahead and try.”

Deep foreboding slips down my spine.

The phobos rider coughs, then goes still. I nudge him with my boot, but it’s clear that whatever life he possessed, it’s gone.

I move from him to the other phobos riders, checking each one for signs of life before I collect what arrows I can.

I might need them for the remaining fifteen riders.

I return to the lookout building I’d left my horse inside.

By the time I enter, Hussain is dead, his eyes half open and staring blankly at something on the floor.

Something inside me aches at the sight of him. He undoubtedly committed many, many horrors. Death was no less than what he deserved. Still, he was kind to me when he had no reason to be. I hope that whatever lays beyond this life weighs his good along with his bad.

I grab my horse’s reins and lead the creature back outside. I can’t stay here and wait for more phobos riders to come to me. If there are others who are making their way back to camp, I’ll simply have to face them head-on.

It’s time to find my husband.

I ride down the road, following the trail of corpses like breadcrumbs. They litter the ground everywhere. By the looks of it, War called all the dead to him, every single one that he could reach.

At some point, the fallen bodies seem to steer away from the road, cutting west, into the desert. I veer off the road, heading towards what I assume is the site of the attack.

The farther I ride, the denser the corpses become. A hot breeze has kicked up, and a layer of sand sprinkles the bodies like garnish.

It’s not until I summit a shallow hill that I see the rest of the phobos riders.

I count nine of them amongst the rest of the corpses, their bodies torn from limb to limb, their throats ripped out. They became zombie food by the looks of it. Even more perverse, some of the phobos riders have bloody mouths themselves, as though the moment they died, they turned on their comrades.

I continue on, aware that half a dozen phobos riders are still MIA.

That all changes when, a short distance away, I see a section of earth bare of corpses. It forms a lopsided circle, and at the edges of that circle I see meaty bits of appendages—an arm here, a leg there, an indeterminate body part across the way.

My earlier nausea rises at the sight.

There’s no way to determine how many phobos riders died here, or what caused it, only that—based on the blood splatter—several of them did in fact meet their end here.

Only about ten meters away from that, the bodies become so dense they’re nearly lying on top of each other. They seem to come to a focal point, as though they were all closing in on someone at the time they fell inert.

Was it War? His attacker?

My horse refuses to wade through the dead, so I hop off and head over to the location on foot.

I pick my way through the bodies, and right at the center of them all, there are more dead phobos riders and lots of blood—but no War.

It takes a bit more searching to find any more clues to War’s location.

I scour the area, sure that his body must be around here somewhere.

After wandering for a small eternity, I catch sight of a bare patch of earth. I hustle closer. It’s another circular clearing ringed with gore and mutilated bodies.

This time, I notice the scorch marks against the earth, and I remember the dull booms I heard back at camp.

It all comes together then.

These idiots were handling explosives.

I shouldn’t be so surprised; War’s army came across some back in Egypt, so I know they still exist. But anyone with a lick of common sense knows that most explosives stopped working long ago. And obviously, the ones that do still work are touchy and unpredictable.

But it would be an effective way to destroy the horseman.

My hands begin to tremble as I move towards the clearing, my eyes trained on the body parts. Am I going to have to pick through the debris to know what became of War?