by Fuad Baloch
Yet, what she had was the best she could produce, first of the six she’d commissioned, an ugly yet precious first child.
Canam, the lead alchemist, stepped forward. “Lady, we await your order.” The other two alchemists drifted in closer. None of them knew what minerals the other two had provided her, a list that contained thirty elements out of which she needed just a few, the rest meant to throw off any attempts at sniffing the combination required to make the black powder. Then, he looked over her shoulder, apprehension setting on his face.
Ruma looked back. “Qaisan, you got my invitation in time.”
“Aye,” said her scout general, making his way through Yenita’s entourage. He was huffing, his moustache quivering as the mask hung loose, one end tied to his gleaming helmet. “Though neither Nodin nor Restam could make it.” He eyed the cannon warily. “Probably, a good thing, keeping curious soldiers in check.”
“Good,” said Ruma, biting her lip, excitement giving way to nervous tension. If she was to fail here, at least it wouldn't be in front of everyone. Not that it mattered. Word of what happened here would travel far, and soon. She could ask them to give an oath of secrecy, to never divulge what they saw here, but people did precisely what they were told not to do. She exhaled. Already, she had a hundred different tales circulating about her—what harm could a few more do?
She strode forward, Yenita and Gareeb beside her, the general and priests staying back. Both her companions were apprehensive, she could tell. Though Gareeb had been part of the project, he moved gingerly as if feeling the same nervous energy gripping her. Yenita was quiet, her eyes darting about.
“Fill her up,” Ruma ordered the tall soldier standing by the mouth of the cannon. The soldier, his face covered so only his eyes showed, bowed, then bent to gather one of the silk sacks. As he straightened, the smooth material slipped from his left hand. Ruma gasped, her hands rising to cover her face just as he managed to catch the sack. “Careful!” she growled. “Let nothing distract you around the powder!”
“Aye, Lady.” The soldier emptied one-tenth of the contents into the barrel, then stepped away with the remainder. The air stank of gunpowder. A familiar scent. Ruma tugged at the end of her veil, unable to keep her disquiet at bay.
“Fan around,” she said, motioning the crew to get behind the cannon. They did, their faces grim, their bodies tense. “Now, ready the payload.”
Two well-built men scooped up one of the carved stones, grunting with effort, and plodded towards the cannon.
“Careful,” she cautioned.
They heaved the stone up to the barrel, then let it slide down.
“Step away,” said Ruma. Then, gritting her teeth, she beckoned a crewman holding a torch a dozen feet away. “Give it to me.”
Her hands moist, her heart racing, she took the torch, then stared at the flames. An expectant hush had fallen over the spectators. These six months had been hard on her followers. While she had been cooped up here, her generals had been trying and failing to strike up meaningful alliances. Popoan and a handful of sects still hadn’t called for the Traditionalists, but more importantly, they hadn’t called for her either. A few mercenary companies who had seemed keen had walked away realising she had no coin. Brother Hadyan and Brother Krishan had used the months to argue finer points of faith. At least Yenita had kept the men busy, engaging them in drills alongside General Nodin.
Now was the reward for their wait.
Ruma looked up once at the sky, then exhaling, leaned forward and lit the end of the fuse sticking out of the cannon. The fuse burst into flames straight away, hissing and spitting. She passed the torch back to the soldier who ran away with it. “Cover your ears!” she bellowed, doing the same.
They did: an anxious group of men and two women, living in the fourth century of their history, watching a woman from the twelfth century prepare a sixth-century invention.
The fuse was long, but the fire was quick, snaking its way through the slithering line, the fiery tongue sprinting towards the cannon, and the gunpowder cache secreted underneath the stone payload. Ruma tensed, braced herself for the explosion that was to follow.
The flame kissed the cannon.
Ruma gritted her teeth.
Nothing.
Long, tense moments passed.
She shook her head. “What—”
A massive thunderclap sounded, deafening her, the deep, booming rumble thudding into her. The massive stone burst from the barrel in a shower of black smoke, yellow bits of fire marking its trail as it rushed into the air.
“By Alf!” shouted someone, his voice barely audible over the ringing in her ears.
“May Gulatu guard us—” said someone else.
Ruma blinked, finding it hard to breathe through the thick smoke, a rush of blood coming on her. She’d heard of early artillerymen getting a high when they fired and now she knew what that meant. It wasn't just the burnt gunpowder, but the sheer visceral nature of the power one could unleash on one’s foes.
“Lady of the Sands!” shouted one of the soldiers, raising his fist, his silhouette standing out against the fading sunlight.
“Lady of the Sands!” replied the others at one. “Lady of the Sands!”
Coughing, grinning cheek to cheek, Ruma turned around. “I did it!”
Qaisan blinked, his jaw hanging open, his eyes scanning the horizon. “By Alf, I’ve never seen a catapult like this before.”
“A cannon,” said Ruma.
“A miracle,” said Brother Hadyan.
Ruma exhaled, feeling her stomach unclench. She had done it. At last, she had the one advantage that couldn't be overcome. Even if she had paid the ultimate personal cost and wouldn’t return to her world. “Gareeb, tell the blacksmiths to work around the clock to finish the other cannons. Time has come for us to depart Dilli.”
“Aye,” Gareeb said, grinning just as much, a layer of black soot marring his forehead. He turned around and broke into a sprint. Ruma watched him for a bit. He was young but loyal, one she could count on, and in times like these, that was worth more than anything else.
For a long while, no one said anything, eyes gaping at the cannon, at the unspent pile of stones and sacks of gunpowder. Then one by one, the soldiers and crewman began peeling away. They didn't speak much, but they were smiling, standing a little straighter.
Actions spoke louder than words, and there was no denying the transformation that had taken place in this short while. These beaten men had placed their trust in her, and could now see their faith had been repaid. Now, they knew. They believed with certainty.
Yenita walked over to her. “This power is amazing.”
Ruma rubbed her hands. “The world will never be the same.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Yenita asked. She looked over her shoulder as if to make sure no one could overhear them. “With this, we will be unstoppable. The tide of this battle and those to come will be changed forever.”
“It won’t,” said Ruma, shaking her head.
“Why?”
“Once we prevail over Yasmeen, I’ll destroy the cannons myself.” She met the younger girl’s shocked eyes squarely. “And the formula for making the black powder will die with me.” Then, she forced a smile, reached over, and touched Yenita gently on the shoulder. “Come, Yenita. I’ve got one more surprise for us.”
Fifteen
Fond Memories
Ruma shuffled uncomfortably in the saddle as men shouted over each other and the braying camels. She’d never ridden in her world, and just when she had started to get the hang of it here, this six-month long break had sent her back to square one.
Dabbing at her forehead, she adjusted her head veil. The damned sun was hot, nothing surprising about that, but today her skin didn't burn as much as it normally did. Instead, it was the worry roiling in her stomach that kept her attention. Thoughts whirled in her mind: feints, tactics, counterplans, and all that could go wrong. She was gambling, one aspect of her previous l
ife that hadn’t left her, one that could go spectacularly wrong.
Regardless, she was on the move. The Lady’s Light was leaving Dilli behind. Time had changed them all; yes, the Traditionalists had taken over most of the peninsula by now, but it was also true that the force which had entered this crumbling town was no longer as disillusioned as it had been. She had fangs now, ready for the enemy’s underbelly.
“Alf, I sure as hell hope you’re on my side!” Ruma muttered, turning to watch the commanders and officers of her army bellow at the soldiers. The soldiers were baffled, their commanders just as much, her instructions to split her army into two contingents taking everyone by surprise. Two tall soldiers stood five hundred yards from each other, each carrying the brown Scythe of her movement. The commanders herded their soldiers to one of the two sigils, their lots having been determined by a random lottery she’d carried out earlier in the morning.
Ruma smiled. Large groups, whether social or made up of warriors, had never really suited her. Let the enemy think she was downsizing, going back to her tactics of small, targeted attacks strengthened by the cannons. She, too, was capable of carrying out feints and making huge wagers. Especially when she had nothing left to lose, with the Pithrean dead and her way back home destroyed along with him.
General Restam rode up to her, astride the largest horse Ruma had ever seen. He wore a ceremonial purple sash over his fine chest piece. A man who wanted his presence known, one who acknowledged his lack of charisma and did all he could to make up for it otherwise. “With respect, I still don’t think Gareeb is the right choice to command the cannons. He’s far too young, too inexperienced, and—”
“I trust him,” she said, a little too quickly than she’d have liked. She raised her finger to the east, towards the score of horses pulling the six cannons. “Besides, if I am to move swiftly through the peninsula, I can’t do that encumbered by them.” The real reason was different, of course. The spy was still in her midst, she was sure of that. But hopefully, she’d keep the spy away from the cannons, allow him to get word out of her strength to the Traditionalists, even as she waited to spring a trap of her own.
General Restam scratched his jowls. “Fair point, Lady.” His eyes narrowed. “These weapons will strike the fear of Alf in the hearts of disbelievers.”
“I’m counting on it,” she said with smile.
Just as she had suspected, news of her successful test two days ago had spread throughout her camp and beyond. As the charioteers pulling the cannons drew closer to the contingent on her left, soldiers shied away, visibly afraid of the beastly tubes they’d heard so much about. Ruma gritted her teeth. Not long before the entire peninsula knew about them.
A group of riders broke from the contingent, and started cantering towards her, General Nodin and Gareeb in front. General Restam grunted when the mercenary general offered him a curt nod. He opened his mouth, then paused, and motioned Gareeb to speak instead. “Lady, we’ll be ready to march within the hour,” said the younger man.
Ruma nodded, her eyes taking in Gareeb as he fidgeted with his reins. So much rode on him, the man she had elevated to lead the contingent and entrusted with a plan she hoped wouldn't spell her doom. “You’ll be fine, Gareeb.”
He looked up, his long, black hair tousled by the wind. Unlike the other generals, he wore no helmet, dressed in a plain leather vest over dark breeches. “I’ve never commanded a dozen men, much less a thousand soldiers.”
“Your primary command is the cannons,” she said. “You’ll find they grumble far less than men.”
A smile broke through. “As you will, Lady.”
Ruma cracked her knuckles, then tilted her chin towards the sky. Living in Egania had spoiled her, the locals there enjoying four seasons within a month depending on what the city’s council voted for. Here, Alf was the only one with the power over climate, and he most definitely preferred sweltering, sticky hot over any other alternative.
She leaned forward. Fifty yards to her left, Yenita conferred with Sivan. The lottery had put the two Kapuri siblings in different contingents, an arrangement she had been willing to overrule but Yenita had argued otherwise. The men couldn't be allowed to think favouritism was at play, for that was a disease which would rot them from within. Ruma could see the hurt beneath the strong façade Yenita had put up as she had uttered the words, but in the end she had relented.
Beyond them stood Brother Hadyan with a dozen priests, their bodies swaying as they chanted. All of them wore identical clothing: white flowing robes emblazoned with her brown Scythe. Each priest carried a metal pot with burning incense sticks, the other hand’s fingers twitching as they beseeched the Divine for their cause. Ruma couldn't hear their words, but somehow she doubted the so-called zulzulat they mixed with the Alfi scriptures were really words her Gulatu would have ever uttered. Then again, at the end of the day, if these empty words, this flotsam, offered some hope to the faithful, there was little harm in accepting it. Again, a part of her wondered why someone as pragmatic and clever as Brother Hadyan followed this zulzulat instead of carving something better. Maybe something as ingrained as this was hard to change even for someone like him.
She moved her gaze to the other priests. Brother Krishan turned towards her, almost as if he could sense her. He nodded, made a strange motion with his left hand. Ruma looked away.
Both her generals were drowning Gareeb with instructions, the weight of their combined wisdom far too much for him to bear. She caught snippets of it. Best routes to take depending on the environment. Successful ways for dressing down unruly subordinates. How hard to push the animals without breaking them. Gareeb kept nodding, a lock of his hair covering his left eye.
Ruma allowed her mind to drift. This was the calm before the storm. She had made her decision and all that remained was to see how that would pan out.
“—and when you decamp, the first priority must be given to the horses,” General Restam was saying. Had they started to repeat themselves now? “Especially those pulling the cannons. Afterwards, you must—”
“Do not forget the priests,” cut in General Nodin, pausing to blow his nose. “You’ve only got a dozen of them, but they can be a soft, complaining bunch.”
General Restam huffed, no doubt annoyed at being cut off. “And remember to watch your flanks. Nothing more important than that. When you—”
Again, her thoughts wandered. Had the air gotten cooler, the heat losing some of its sting? She cocked her head north-east towards Dilli. The palm trees surrounding the town a mile away seemed to sway, the town the only blob of green in an otherwise drab sea of yellow. Even from this distance, she could see the locals who had come to see them depart. They’d had an interesting relationship, one where she had insisted on paying for their services even as the town had been practically cut off from the rest of the peninsula for half a year.
Yet, they had come in their throngs for they had played host to the Lady of the Sands. Even if their religious affiliations rested with the Traditionalists, for a period in their lives, they’d had a person touched by the Divine reside with them, within them.
And now she was leaving.
Ruma exhaled. Judging by the number of pinched faces following her whenever she had waded into the town, most of them opposed her. She’d heard the local priests argue that no woman in the world, even the so-called Lady of the Sands, would measure up to the woman the prophet of Alf had married, the great leader who had defeated the Vanico forces threatening both holy cities.
But now, they, too, had heard of her cannons.
Did they then fear Alf’s wrath upon themselves, for it was their brothers and fathers who’d worked with her soldiers to build these weapons? Did they fear for their eternal salvations for having helped the person who could defeat their blessed mother?
“I have no power over their hearts and minds,” she muttered to herself. “They were never forced to do anything they didn't wish to do.”
From the corner of her
eye, she saw another rider approach her. Ruma shook her head, then smiled as Yenita pulled up to her. “I’ve been expecting you for some time.”
Yenita’s chest heaved, her cheeks red, her veil doing nothing to hold back her hair from spilling out. “My apologies. Sivan has been… most unreasonable.”
“He doesn't wish to go with Gareeb?”
Yenita bit her lower lip. “He kept arguing for us to stick together.” She punched her right palm with a fist. “Father wouldn't have liked this, Father would have preferred that, he kept saying over and over again. The demented fool has forgotten that Father is dead, but we’re not!”
“Families can be difficult to reason with.”
“Aye.” Yenita fidgeted with her leather vest. “Though, at times I do wish the two of us could have been more alike. No matter what we go through, he’s still stuck in the world he lived in with Father. That world is gone, though. Long gone, never to return.”
The heat of her words jolted Ruma. “If it helps, he’s going to be safer moving with the cannons.”
“Perhaps.” Yenita exhaled even as a vein throbbed in her forehead.
Smiling, Ruma turned her horse towards the three men, and snapped her fingers. “Restam, Nodin, are you quite finished overwhelming my newest commander?”
“We are still—” started General Restam.
“They have,” cut in Gareeb, offering her a grateful nod. He cleared his throat, raised a placating hand. “For this… immense knowledge, I’m eternally thankful to both of you.”
“But we’re not—” tried General Restam again.
“And I will seek you both the moment we meet again,” said Gareeb. He turned his wide eyes to her, his voice almost pleading now. “Isn’t that right, Mzi?”
Ruma smiled. It wasn’t every day she heard herself called that. “Aye.” She licked her lower lip. “You remember what you’re meant to do?”
Gareeb nodded. “I’ll follow your instructions by the letter.”