by Fuad Baloch
Interlacing her fingers, Ruma peered outside. The noon sun shone overhead, its golden rays hot, unrelenting. Three hundred yards ahead sat the makeshift dais her soldiers had constructed. Not quite what she had in mind, but for the purpose she wanted, it’d serve.
A part of her stirred. It wasn’t right what she was planning to do. One didn’t blame the tool, but the one wielding it. Too bad she needed the wielder and his connections.
Leather creaked as Yenita walked over to her. “Ruma… if there’s anyone to be blamed, it’s Yasmeen and her dogs. Her priests are the ones who started this tradition of looting other believers. They deserve our wrath, the full might of our strength.”
“True.” Ruma bit her lower lip, righting the veil on her head. “But I can’t tolerate flagrant disregard for my orders.” Then without waiting for Yenita to say anything else, Ruma marched outside.
Voices petered out, harsh discussions fading, giving way to murmurs. Soldiers stood at attention, their eyes glued to her. They knew how momentous this occasion was and waited to see how she would act. A flock of priests to her right wailed, their bells tinkling, their chins turned towards the heavens.
Keeping her head high, Ruma strode towards the dais. The distance wasn’t great, but the heaviness that had crept into her feet made it seem ten times longer. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Qaisan. The scout general sat in the saddle, his features covered, his eyes watching the onlookers instead of her. Just beside him stood Generals Restam and Nodin. Both men were quiet, Restam appearing pensive, his brows furrowed. Nodin’s face was hard like stone, his features giving nothing away, arms crossed over his chest.
Brother Hadyan rushed to her left side. “Lady, do not—” She brushed him aside. The priest fell silent, still keeping pace with her. Yenita joined her on the other side.
Ruma stopped a dozen paces from the dais. “Where is he?” she asked.
For a moment, no one answered, then the soldiers to the left began shuffling, making way for two guards who dragged Brother Nigalas with them. They shoved him and the priest stumbled forward. Neither of the soldiers bore arms, but then again, what could the young priest, his robes tattered, his face streaked with tears, do against the sea of Lady’s Light warriors? An older, dark-skinned veteran turned his face away, his features scrunching in disgust. He wasn’t the only one, Ruma could tell. Her men knew the priest had disobeyed her explicit command, but he was still a man of cloth, one anointed by Alf, and the conflict challenged their sense of loyalty.
Brother Nigalas swayed on his feet, his eyes focused on some invisible dot in the skies, his lips moving furiously.
A hush fell on the crowd as the soldiers grabbed him by the arms and walked him to it. They grew still as a brute of a man hauled up a massive block of wood, letting it drop in the centre of the dais with a deep thunk. Then, he stepped back, and withdrew his curved sword.
Though no words were spoken, Brother Nigalas seemed to know what was expected of him. He dragged his feet forward, his gaze dropping, scanning the mass of faces looking up at him. His lips still moved, offering either prayers or lamentations. Then his eyes finally fell on Ruma.
She braced herself. Dignity and respect were expressions men used so long they had something to gain. She had condemned this man, was about to take his life. Now was the time he unleashed the vitriol in his heart without fearing the consequences.
Brother Nigalas smiled, tears trickling down his cheeks. He bowed his head, a slight shiver creeping into his body.
“Ruma…” whispered Yenita, grabbing Ruma by the elbow. “Reconsider it.”
Ruma watched Nigalas for a long moment, the murmurs growing louder around her. Like a young tree being pushed around by wind, the priest’s lean body shook. His conical hat slipped from his head, falling to the accompaniment of tinkling bells. He made no attempt to bend and pick it up. Underneath the hat, he was balding, sweat shining in his recessed hairline. Nigalas sniffled, wiped snot off his nose, his tears falling on the dais, his lips still moving.
“Brother Nigalas,” said Ruma, surprising herself by how calm her own voice sounded to her. “You are guilty of disobeying the commands of your superiors in battle. A crime that warrants death. Do you have anything to say?”
The priest raised his eyes at her once more. “I disobeyed Lady of the Sands only to follow the zulzalat of the prophet.”
Men groaned around her. Ruma placed her hands on her hips. “Gulatu Koza of Irtiza, the man you call prophet of God,” she bellowed, turning to glare at her soldiers, her voice shaking with rage, “never condoned violence against the innocent! If you knew even half as much about him as you think you do, you’d scourge yourselves first for thinking so low of him.
“Gulatu Koza was a good man,” she continued. “A prophet of God. But he was a man. And men… die!” She allowed the murmurs to go on for a good while this time. She nodded slowly. “Men die and leave behind stories.” She raised her head, her eyes moist, scanning for the Shard that she might very well never get to see again. “If we’re lucky, Alf may allow us to see the dead again. But until then”—she narrowed her eyes, pointing her fingers towards the silent faces—“you will listen to those who live within you first.”
Brother Hadyan gasped, his features hardening. General Nodin stood beside him, his face still giving nothing away. But around them, she could see a kaleidoscope of warring, confused emotions on the faces of the believers. None of them were old enough to have met the prophet personally. Most hadn’t even seen either Turbaza Dia or Dadua Contee. All their lives, they’d only heard fanciful stories the priests had made up about their prophet. Now, here she was, a woman, telling them to discard the hard-grained traditions of their forefathers.
Lady of the Sands or not, had she gone too far?
Doubt creeping into her, she turned her back to the soldiers, and climbed the dais. The din grew behind her; for now, a confused buzz of voices, uncoordinated and un-channelled. Would this be the time one of the fervent believers cried blasphemy and charged her from behind? Her body rigid, she extended her hand for the curved sword. The soldier handed it to her, then offering a deep bow, stepped away.
Brother Nigalas fell to his knees, his body trembling. Now that she was this close to him, she could catch snippets of what he had been muttering. Prayers and exhortations to Alf, to Gulatu Koza, to Blessed Turbaza, to… Lady of the Sands. Ruma blinked. No, she hadn’t imagined it. She was going to execute him for a crime he was forced into by Hadyan who she couldn’t touch for the moment, and yet the stupid fool was seeking her blessing.
“I am no one to bless anyone,” Ruma murmured, raising her eyes at the crowd. No one had rushed up in rage. Not yet, anyway. She felt the edge of the blade with her finger, winced as it drew blood. “Nigalas, remember Alf.” The condemned man sniffled, then bending from the waist, placed his head on the block of wood.
Ruma raised the sword, hoping, praying the onlookers couldn't see her arm shaking. There was no reason for her to be the executioner, but this was a priest, and she had to be the one to do this. She saw Sivan, his face drained of colour, his eyes wide in terror. Beside him stood Gareeb. He carried no brush this time. A small mercy, that. The idea of seeing this scene captured on canvas repulsed her.
Exhaling, she swung the sword down with all her might.
Her aim was true, the blade arcing silver past her, then sinking into flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. A sharp jolt ran up her arm, the sword catching for a moment as it negotiated the tough tendons of Nigalas’ neck, but before she’d had the chance to really process it all, the blade was through, thudding into the dais.
The severed head fell from the wooden post, blood gushing from the torso, and hit the dais with a thunk.
Ruma stood still. Brother Nigalas’ headless torso thrashed, the limbs convulsing, jerking.
No one cheered. No one jeered either. All eyes watched her instead of the dead man.
Ruma blew out the pent-up air in her stomach, le
tting go of the bloody sword. It fell with a clank. Bile rose in her gorge, her clean robes doused in Nigalas’ blood, yet she stood rigid, offering a silent challenge to any who denied her authority to speak up.
No one did.
One by one, the believers began turning, breaking out into groups of twos and threes, muttering to each other in hushed tones, throwing quick glances her way. General Nodin offered a curt nod before turning to join his men. She couldn't spot Qaisan or General Restam. Brother Hadyan and Yenita were the last two to turn away, the priest’s eyes not straying from the dead priest until the end, Yenita’s face red with emotion.
Ruma exhaled. She was a hypocrite. Nigalas had been merely a scapegoat. If punishment was to be meted out here, two people deserved it better. Brother Hadyan, for it was he who had continued to whisper doubts in the hearts of these young, impressionable priests, and herself, for not having nipped all this earlier.
Herself, she couldn't punish. Not when so much remained to be done. Brother Hadyan… well, they were moving again only because of him, and as much as the thought sickened her, executing a priest was an order of magnitude different task than executing their leader.
What she had made was a political decision. One a realist would have made. One both Ruma of old and the fracking admirals of Arkos would have been quite happy with. “This is not me…” she whispered to herself, unable to stop the waves of shame drenching her.
She looked up at the sun once more, feeling her resolve shake. She gritted her teeth. No matter how much she detested the thought, she couldn’t go on like this. She neither had the numbers nor momentum on her side. The Traditionalists under Yasmeen were far too strong. She still had a spy in her midst she hadn’t been able to discover. Her men were confused, their loyalties shaken. The First was scheming something, tempting her to use the Shard for a purpose that would only really benefit him. Yasmeen, no doubt, would have traps after traps waiting for her if she followed her instinct and pushed on for Irtiza.
Ruma couldn’t go on like she had all along. She had to change, fight her nature. Do what no one expected her to do, even herself.
Wait.
Yenita’s words flashed in her memory.
And seize any advantage.
No matter the cost.
Ruma shivered, a moment of doubt holding her in its grip. She shook her head. Time… the one thing she didn’t have much of, was the one thing she needed to spend more of.
Alf’s breath, what other choice did she have?
Fourteen
Passage of Time
Time had a habit of remaining the same even as it continued to churn away, the world changing under its grip. Days had come and gone, the nights bleeding into each other, the map re-arranging itself, yet the fire in Ruma’s belly hadn’t petered out.
Six months had passed since the disastrous attack at Zaqar, but as Yenita’s eyes widened seeing what lay ahead, Ruma couldn’t suppress her smile.
“By Alf!” said Yenita, shaking her head in wonder.
Ruma nodded. She was tired, so very tired. They all were, having worked terribly hard to get to this stage. “We’re not finished yet.”
Yenita whistled, turning her head towards Ruma, her shadow spreading out in front. Six months had passed since Ruma had admitted the truth about her origin, and this was the first time since that she sensed a thawing of the cold that had crept between them. Resentment had simmered in the younger girl for a bit when she had tried and failed to have Ruma spare the priest’s life, its remnants lingering over these months, but now all that was replaced by awe. “You… you’re really not from here.”
Was that a question masquerading as a statement? Ruma didn’t know, nor did she care in the moment. Smiling, she offered a playful bow. “The Lady doesn’t lie.”
“Indeed, she does not,” Yenita said softly, her eyes turning back to the scene a hundred yards ahead. The dozen soldiers under Yenita’s command standing behind her gaped as well. They had all known Ruma was working on something big, but none, not even her councillors, had known what that was—something she had worked extremely hard to keep secret. She’d set up half a dozen ruses, encouraged disinformation, letting some even believe she was in commune with powerful angels. All that to ensure the fracking traitor in her midst didn’t know what she was up to. She could have rooted him out earlier, but she had to wait, to ensure she didn’t play her options out of turn.
“By Alf!” said Yenita again.
Ruma exhaled, crossing her arms over her chest. Six months of painstaking work having retreated to Dilli, an unimportant town with ample blacksmithies and forges for her purpose, and finally her time had come. This world now had cannons. A technology they wouldn't have discovered for another century. She closed her eyes for a second, hoping to hear the Pithrean. Nothing. Once more, the bastard, if he was still alive, remained quiet. Maybe she had waited too long, and with the Pithrean, the Shard was well and truly gone.
“May Alf’s name be honoured!” said Brother Hadyan at her left, a slight tremor in his voice. Ruma offered a terse nod, still not looking his way. He, too, had tried hard over the past few months to figure out her intentions, but she’d not let on. His apology after Zaqar had won him forgiveness, but Ruma wasn’t one to forget easily. Now that he saw the fruit of her hard work for the first time, his surprise was just as genuine as Yenita’s. He shuffled forward, leaning heavily on his chain. “By all that’s holy, Alf has inspired a miracle.”
“A bit of chemistry mixed in with rudimentary metallurgy,” she replied.
Brother Hadyan leaned forward. “Say what?”
“Nothing.”
Boots scrunched behind her. “Well, we’re all set,” reported Gareeb, his voice cheerful despite the weariness he was trying and failing to hide. Stopping beside the priest still staring open-mouthed, he grinned. “It sure is something!”
Ruma smiled gratefully. “None of this would’ve been possible without you.”
The young lieutenant beamed, his eyes meeting Yenita’s for a moment, before he flinched and looked away. “You embarrass me.”
“Embarrass you?” she said, cracking a smile. “I thought you’d be proud.”
Gareeb swallowed. “Well… I… meant—” Ruma waved her arm and he nodded gratefully, falling shut.
Despite the fatigue, Ruma couldn't stop her eyes from crossing over to the sun dipping beneath the horizon, the clear, open skies already losing some of their brightness. The First hadn’t spoken to her all this time. Maybe, she was already too late. Maybe—
“How does this thing work?” asked Yenita.
Ruma blinked, breaking out of her reverie. “It’s straightforward.” She raised her index finger towards the dozen silk bags placed neatly beside the 100-feet-long brass cannon ahead. “You take the powder and push it into the cannon.” She moved her arm over to the pile of smoothly carved rocks, each weighing 150 pounds or more, piled beside the gunpowder sacks. “Put the payload in. Then light the fuse with fire.”
Brother Hadyan touched his lips with the knuckles of his left hand, shaking his head. Behind him stood Brother Krishan. Since the first time she’d met him, the tall, young priest had grown in stature, the months of staying put in the middle of nowhere gaining him followers among the priests. Hadyan and Krishan held differing views, Ruma could tell that much, but what esoteric points they disagreed on, she didn't have an iota of interest in finding out. Enough that Brother Hadyan had returned to being her pillar of strength, corralling the priests to remain steadfast under her banner.
The air was pregnant with tension. She could tell those seeing the cannon for the first time were wrestling both with the desire to venture ahead and fear at seeing something so alien. Tapping her feet, she looked over her shoulder at Dilli, a mile behind them. It was one of the few rare towns in Andussia to boast sweeping date orchards, and as she looked on, it seemed the branches were swaying, dancing in the afternoon breeze.
Beyond the town, her seven thousand were camp
ed. There had been grumblings, just as she had expected when she’d ordered them to retreat here instead of fighting, Nodin’s voice one of the loudest, but they had stuck by her. Faith. That was what made them follow her still.
How would these next few moments go? What if she succeeded? Excitement, tinged with fear, rumbled in her stomach. If she succeeded here, everything would change. Yes, they had lost time, but like the gathering storm, it had been to muster strength.
And now she had it.
“Did you hear about the prophet’s wife?” asked Brother Hadyan. He had recovered somewhat, his eyes no longer as wide as they had been, but still he didn't move towards the cannon. “The scouts say she’s on the verge of defeating the Vanico forces besieging Irtiza.”
“Good for her,” she replied.
“Once she’s secured her hold,” said Yenita, her voice emotionless, “she’s definitely coming for us.”
Ruma pulled her shoulder blades back. “We’ll be ready for her.” Then, she started for the cannon, motioning with her arm for the others to follow. They did, staying a step behind, none of them saying a word as they drew closer.
Two dozen of her apprentices standing around the cannon bowed, then stepped aside. Soldiers who had shown a mechanical aptitude. Six blacksmiths she had personally trained. Three alchemists who had provided the minerals she had needed. Six stone masons supervising crews to carve rocks for her. Three charioteers.
The cannon looked nothing like she had imagined. No matter the knowledge she had brought back into this world, she had to make do with the imperfections of the smelting processes that simply weren’t good enough for her liking. She had tried making gunmetal alloys, and failed spectacularly before settling on brass. Instead of the smooth long barrel she’d wanted, what stood in front was a 100-feet-long hulking and misshapen monstrosity—something that could have shamed a freshman’s first attempt at basic metallurgy in Arkos’ engineering corps.