by Fuad Baloch
Seeing her approach, the priest turned his chin up.
“Brother Hadyan,” said Ruma, giving her head a slight shake. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
The priest’s eyes scanned her face blankly as if trying to place her. Then, widening, they fell on the lock of red hair peeking out of her shawl. “You… you were…”
“Aye.” She nodded. Then, taking a look around to ensure no one could overhear them, Ruma leaned closer. “Last time we met, you were at the Blessed campsite, acting as Yasmeen’s lapdog. What are you doing here?”
“Don’t tell anyone where you saw me,” he said, the voice dropping low. “They will not understand.”
“I don’t care much to do either way,” she replied truthfully. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Brother Hadyan scratched his pudgy nose, took a surreptitious look over his shoulder. They were surrounded by disgruntled men but far from anyone’s earshot. “I…” He exhaled, raised his chin, threw back the blue stole he wore across his light blue robe in a style she vaguely recalled seeing before. “The prophecy made me leave.”
“The prophecy?”
“Blessed Yasmeen is a pillar of the Alfi faith. One of the earliest believers in the prophet’s message. Wife to both him and Blessed Turbaza. But… I don’t think she is the prophesied one.”
“You left your commander just because random poetry inscribed a few hundred years ago didn’t seem to gel with today’s political reality?” Ruma chuckled, slapped her thigh. “What a world this is!”
“Alf’s words don’t lie,” he replied, his tone becoming more sullen. The next second, the fight seemed to drain out and his thick shoulders slumped. “I… don’t know what to do. So… I left the camp, headed into Ghal to seek commune with Lord of the Worlds, and instead met the Uniter’s army.”
Ruma didn’t fail to notice the slight emphasis on the word. “You don’t think Bubraza is the promised one?”
He hesitated. “She… and her men are not much better than those they disparage. Not suited to be the successor, no.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Again, the priest looked around before replying, his voice a whisper. “They burn their enemies alive, these men. Infidel or Blessed, young or old, man or woman.”
Ruma began to shake her head to contradict him, then stopped herself. What did she really know about the methods of these people? All she’d seen so far was one side, and no matter how acceptable it had appeared, who knew what happened when darkness did fall and the players remained on the kabbad field? Then again, the person in front of her had been at the opposite camp up until quite recently and hardly made the most credible character witness. She grunted instead.
“Alf will show the way one day.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So you didn’t hear from your God either in this desert he apparently loves so much?”
“You don’t understand how these matters of faith work, foreigner,” he said. “Alf works in—”
“—mysterious ways!”
“Aye.” The priest nodded. He raised his index finger towards the heavens. “No ant moves in the darkest period of night without His knowledge.”
“Don’t quote scripture to me,” snarled Ruma. “Trust me, I know things that will get you crying mad.”
“Foreigner, you don’t—”
“And don’t call me foreigner again!” she barked, unable to keep her voice low anymore. Two warriors a dozen yards to the left turned towards them. “I am just as much a part of this land as anyone else!”
Brother Hadyan didn’t seem to agree with her, an angry vein throbbing on his forehead. But like her, he too noticed the extra attention they were drawing. “May Alf guide your path!”
Ruma took a step closer, then another. So close she could see the angry red pores on his nose—probably inflamed from incessant scratching. She’d never been one for holy men and their fanatical ways—assuming she could discount her encounter with Gulatu—and nothing would give her more pleasure than to expose this so-called holy man for withholding his past from those who had given him succour.
Then again, was she any more transparent than the priest on account of things she had hidden from everyone in this world? Besides, hadn’t the man kept his promise and let Sivan go without any further harm, just as he had assured her?
“Priest, you might be better placed putting some trust in your own abilities than on someone you cannot see.”
“Doesn’t matter if the blind can’t see, for the world still exists without their ability to perceive.”
Ruma ground her teeth, her fingers clenching tight. Before she could lose her cool on the man with the religion problem, she pirouetted and stomped away towards a clearing to her right.
Anger coursed through her veins. She was hopelessly lost in this world. No one understood her predicament or could understand it. No one except the Pithrean, who was up to some convoluted tricks and no longer conversing with her.
Her eyes fell at the men entering the kabbad ground. Sucking her teeth, she approached the priest standing to the side, the officiator who would soon start the proceedings.
Usually, the place would have been crowded, but either owing to overall lethargy or the state of the world around them, a mere dozen or so audience members were in attendance.
“Halt, young woman,” called out the priest.
“Why?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.
“You can watch from the sidelines, foreigner!”
Ruma sneered, cocked her head to the side. “I am not a bystander, priest. I am playing as well.”
The priest stared at her. He was a young man in his mid-thirties, most likely. Thin, lanky, handsome in a way. He raised a hand towards the Scythe painted on his breast, then turned his gaze away from her. “Women are not allowed to play kabbad.”
“Oh, yeah!” said Ruma. “Well, then come and stop me!”
Her voice carried to some of the onlookers. They chattered amongst themselves, raising their fingers. They might have expected a routine exhibition match between men with overflowing testosterone, yet things had seemingly taken a more interesting turn.
The priest looked back at her, his brows furrowed. “But—”
More shouts came from behind them. Ruma didn’t turn, didn’t budge, gave not an inch to the priest. Even then, a part of her shouted at her to retreat, to turn away. After all, what woman could dare defy a priest in public, quite possibly set a blasted precedent for history, and still expect to melt away into obscurity?
She was making a mistake. Something she knew, wanted to avoid, yet found impossible to turn away from.
She was sick and tired of waiting. Of following the primitive rules of this society that shackled her. Of constraining herself any more than she had to. What was the fracking point of caring for a future that she might very well never get to see, anyway? Surely, there was no way in seven hells she could make it any worse than all this already was.
She narrowed her eyes at the priest who was no longer paying her any attention. “I am going in. You hear me?”
“—now!” shouted someone behind her.
A war horn blared to the side. Ruma jumped, her hand falling to her side, towards the sword still hanging on her belt. Men were running to their tents. The kabbad players were bellowing.
Had they been attacked? Ruma took out the sword, pivoted towards the command tents, slipped into a defensive stance.
Her eyes darted here and there at the shouting men. If they had been attacked, why was no one rushing to arm themselves?
Why the wide grins instead of the panic she would have expected?
The horn sounded once more. A long, forlorn, quivering sound.
Not the shrill and harsh tones that sounded an attack.
Orders for moving out?
“Hey,” she shouted, grabbing the priest by the shoulder, “what’s going on?”
He raised a hand towards the heavens. “Alf has listened to us fin
ally. The Uniter has decided the time has come to march.”
She cursed. The damned horns denoted a pattern, something these men knew at her expense. “What do these blasts mean? What’s going to happen?”
“You don’t—” He trailed away, his eyes falling to her hair as if that explained everything. “We’re being called for war. For holy war.”
“The holy war…” repeated Ruma. “Isn’t everything you guys do a holy war of some sort?”
“For the glory of Alf and His name, young woman,” said the man who could not be much older than her. A warrior ran over to the priest, began chattering animatedly, the words too quick for her to capture.
Not that she didn’t know what was going on. The pieces were falling into place. Bubraza might not have wanted to do this, but the present was shaping up to lead to the future she did know. A march to save the holy cities. That was her sign she was on the right side here, beside someone who would ensure her future remained untainted.
“We’re marching to the holy cities?”
“The infidels will pay for all their transgressions!” said the priest. Then, without looking her way, he began walking away.
Ruma didn’t call him back. Bubraza was moving. Hearing this news, Yasmeen would find it impossible to stay put as well. It might be one thing to leave the protection of the holy places to God, but one couldn’t be seen doing nothing when your competitor ended up doing the nobler deed.
Ruma turned around, exhaled.
Time for sitting on the fence was fast coming to a close.
No matter what she felt now and what other doubts still stirred in her chest. Soon, she would be truly committing to one side and then doing her utmost to ensure the other was vanquished thoroughly, thus ensuring nothing went wrong in this world and hers.
But what if her support could tilt the balance and she was making the wrong choice?
Thirty-Four
Old Friends…
For fourteen days, the Traditionalists rode through the open desert at a punishing pace. Days of hard journeying that left little energy for the usual games of kabbad when they did camp in the evenings. Days began to stretch longer before they came upon unburned oases or merchant caravans, their supply train lagging long behind as the distance between it and the main host continued to grow.
On the fifteenth afternoon of their journey, the host stopped to let the horses rest beside ancient ruins of some civilisation lost to the pages of history. Tired and exhausted, Ruma turned her chin to look at the sky. The sun lay at a perfect forty-five degrees angle. Another four or so hours before it would set. She ran a mental calculation. At the pace they’d been keeping, there was a good five hours of riding ahead. She cursed, slapped her thigh in annoyance. If rumours were right and the Vanico were moving artillery that could fire fiery rounds, they would have been crawling through their march, though.
In a way, Ruma was happy to be moving once more. Much better for the body and the mind to buy the illusion she was doing something instead of sitting back, sulking, merely considering and reconsidering options. Yet she could have done with a more relaxed march.
The men around her didn’t seem to care, though. Despite the tiredness, the fatigue, the discomfort of riding over awkward camel backs, they continued to put on a brave face. They were travelling to protect the holy cities from the infidels. A mission that didn’t just appeal to their religiosity, but also touched upon their very identity as inhabitants of the Andussian peninsula. A vile enemy, one reviled for centuries, had dared enter their borders and make for the most important of their cities, and they, the Traditionalists, were going to be the mighty, righteous hand of God that would stamp them out for good.
Add the knowledge that it was them and not the cursed Blessed that were taking the lead on that and their chests puffed up even more.
Ruma grimaced, rubbed her hands together. She wanted to dismount and stretch her limbs before the order would come for them to begin moving again. Then again, if she did dismount, she’d have to fracking get back up again. She shook her head, deciding to stay put for the moment.
“Mzi!” came a shout behind her.
Ruma rolled her eyes but didn’t turn.
“I’ve got you something to eat,” said Gareeb, pulling his horse beside her.
Ruma nodded, extended a hand, then arched an eyebrow. “More jerky? Really, do you guys not eat anything else?”
Gareeb grinned. “Onion soup?”
Ruma sighed, then bit on the jerky. Dry. Hard. Tasteless. For a moment, the longing to escape this world for one meal, just one fracking decent meal at one of the many food courts littering Egania, overcame all other thoughts. She groaned, tried to bite into the damned thing that refused to give in.
At least she had something to eat while the supplies lasted.
“You should be riding with us,” said Gareeb.
Ruma scowled but the young soldier either didn’t get the hint or refused to take it. His eyes rarely ever left her face, she realised. Whether she was riding or talking or eating, these large brown eyes remained fixed on her face, her lips.
Feeling her heartbeat picking up, Ruma narrowed her eyes, bit into the jerky once more.
“The men speak highly of you,” continued Gareeb, undeterred by her show of indifference. “When the fight comes, it would be good to have someone with your experience beside us.”
“I am travelling with you lot!”
“Not like a normal soldier. As our general.”
Ruma chuckled. “Trust me, I am no general. Never been one that believes in numbers. They bog you down!” As some captain shouted to her right, she whipped her head around, worried orders had come to start moving again. They hadn’t. Just some rich scion having a go at his men. “Besides, you should be happy Bubraza and her generals have decided to keep you on as a captain.”
“I come from a humble background. Nor am I from one of the respected families who supported the prophet’s cause earlier on.” Gareeb paused, a shadow falling over the handsome features. “They will never respect me.”
“Well, and I am a foreigner,” declared Ruma as if that settled the matter.
Gareeb didn’t argue back.
Though she had won the battle, she knew the man hadn’t conceded the war yet. He’d be back, a relentlessly stubborn puppy unused to giving up easily.
Giving up on the jerky, she pocketed what was left—most of it—then turned her horse around to face the setting sun, feeling the warm sun on her skin. Gareeb remained beside her, allowing a companionable silence to fall upon them both.
To the left, surrounded by a coterie of the fastest horses, she could see the generals that formed Bubraza’s war council. Though she couldn’t see the shorter woman over the sea of bobbing heads and hats, judging by the way the circles of men moved around an invisible hub, she could infer the Uniter’s presence.
Ruma sighed. Things were moving fast now. Too fast, almost, leaving her little time to really plot her path and instead leaving her feeling like a rag doll bobbing in the wake of a surface-to-air rocket.
She turned right. If she squinted, she could almost see grey silhouettes: their scouts reconnoitring the distance ahead to ensure they wouldn’t march into an ambush.
When she turned her head 180 degrees, there was no sign of the mules and carts carrying their provisions. Ruma sighed. Another reason she’d never liked being part of large fleets. No matter how mighty the host, in the end, it relied on humble frigates and corvettes. Lose those unglamorous ships and the capital ships capitulated to hunger.
No, like it or not, she had been better off operationally being part of nimbler forces like the Misguided—even if she’d disagreed with their motivations—and, later on, with Gulatu.
Her heart choked at the thought of the wiry, thin man from this world that had made a home in hers. What would Gulatu do in her shoes? She chuckled at the absurd question. If he were here, the damned man would just turn up and the world would begin to revolve around
him once more. She recalled the way eyes of humans and aliens had always settled on the unassuming man wherever they had travelled. Even the Hengoli, the most militant of the known alien species and who had little respect for metaphysics and religion, had fallen silent whenever the softly spoken man had opened his mouth.
Gulatu wasn’t here, though. She was. And that was that.
A dozen or so priests were gathering some twenty yards to her right. A sea of white tunics, each of them marked with the Scythe. A couple wore blue stoles over light blue robes. Ruma narrowed her eyes. Where had she seen—
The answer came in a flash. Ayel. She had seen Ayel wear a robe very similar to one Brother Hadyan had been wearing the other day. She’d wondered why the Yeth had taken to human clothing when they’d arrived at Doonya.
Ruma turned her head away. It wasn’t good to linger on the past, on what had been. The present and the future—that was what mattered.
“First, you fracking bastard,” she whispered. “Listening?”
The First didn’t respond.
“Your… majesty?” she tried again. “Your most coherent wisdom?”
Nothing.
Ruma shook her head. She was tired, bloated, hungry, and increasingly unable to keep her emotions in check. This world was taxing, exacting. Briefly, she wondered if these external factors had influenced the manner in which she’d spoken with both Yasmeen and Bubraza.
A group of warriors to her right broke out into shouting. She turned. They were pointing east. She followed their target. Two figures atop camels accompanied by four mules shuffled across the desert even as a dozen or so Traditionalists rushed towards them on horseback.
Ruma began to turn away, unperturbed by the occasion, when the way one figure moved caught her eye. She stilled, squinted. A taller figure accompanied by a shorter one, both astride camels. The taller figure raised an arm, the movement slow and deliberate, even from this distance.
“Huzzah!” shouted Ruma at the same time she spurred her horse.
“Mzi—” came the startled reply from Gareeb, but already she was pulling ahead, barely keeping on the saddle as her horse shot forwards.