Shifting Sands

by Fuad Baloch

  “Very well,” Ruma assented.

  The priest nodded, then positioning himself a step away from them, closed his eyes. For a long while, his lips moved silently. Ruma fought the urge to yawn, soldiers shooting sidelong glances at them.

  “And that’s how the Charlatan works!” shouted Brother Krishan suddenly, swaying on his feet. Ruma arched her eyebrows. “Verily, the Charlatan and the Schemer, ever the enemies of Alf, allies to each other, find no succour anywhere. The Lord of the Worlds watches all, though, each and every one of His creations, no matter how mighty, no matter how wretched they might be. His path is true, just, full of majesty and mystery. Never shall He be denied what He seeks, for the worlds were formed for Him, by Him, and that shall remain the case so long as the last living thing continues to draw a breath.”

  The words stopped abruptly. Brother Krishan’s face had gone red, his eyes still squeezed shut, his body tense, his fists clenched. A tremor ran through his body and he grunted in pain. Ruma took a step forward. “Never shall the absolute might of the god be denied by mere gnats,” the priest bellowed. “Never!”

  Soldiers were gaping at them now. Ruma shook the priest by the shoulder. “Enough! Snap out of it!” Brother Krishan’s skin was burning hot, his brows twitching, drool running down from the corners of his mouth. Ruma slapped him on the face.

  His eyes snapped open, red-shot as if he’d just walked out of a physical brawl. He blinked, then swallowing, took a step back. “I… Alf… Alf is great.” The words came out from the same man, but they sounded different now, no longer carrying the bellicosity they had moments ago.

  “You were blabbering,” Ruma said, cocking her head to the side. “Do you need to visit a healer?”

  Brother Krishan chortled. Then, he took a step back, raising both arms in submission. “Listen to the god, Lady of the Sands.” He turned about and stomped off.

  “That was… interesting,” Ruma noted, turning her head towards Yenita. “Don’t you—”

  Yenita stood with her mouth hanging loose, her eyes wide.

  “What?” Ruma snapped.

  “He speaks in tongues.”

  “He speaks like a madman,” corrected Ruma.

  “The zulzulat talks of these visions.” Yenita swallowed, colour draining from her face. “Prophetic, these visions, markers of what’s to come.”

  Despite the disquiet roiling within her, Ruma forced a chuckle. “I know a thing or two about these holy men, trust me, to know this is nothing to worry much over.” Then she exhaled, and reaching into her vest, retrieved the sealed letter within. “Take this.”

  “What is it?” Yenita asked.

  “I want you to rescue your brother if you can,” said Ruma, her voice calm, steady. “After four weeks, whether or not you’ve found him, I want you to open this letter and follow the instructions therein.”

  A shadow crossed over Yenita’s face. A bugle sounded in the distance, followed by rhythmic drumming. “Why?”

  Ruma forced a smile. “The final battle is close. Very close. I feel it in my bones.” She touched her nose. “The end is coming.”

  “It is?” Yenita asked. “When?”

  “Soon.” Again, Ruma smiled. “Someone I know reckons time flows differently for him than the rest of us. I wonder if he’s not the only one.”

  Before Yenita could say anything, Ruma turned around. She had rolled her die. Now all that remained was to go through the motions, not knowing how the chips would land.

  Her eyes found the brown Scythes fluttering proudly under the morning sun. “Gulatu…” she whispered, unable to shirk memory of the man who had changed this world. “If you only knew the troubles you’ve landed me in!”

  She didn't look back at Yenita as she made for her horse. She had one more order to give to her council. They weren’t headed for Bhalpur anymore—not yet, anyway. Instead, they were now to turn to Ujaina, the breadbasket of Andussia. The magnets needed to draw more attention.

  Nineteen

  The Student

  Time never stopped, its fracking pace never slowing down when it could have been damned convenient for those it affected. Ruma gritted her teeth, feeling the sun’s fading strength warm her cheeks. Both moons were already out, growing brighter by the second.

  Had four whole weeks really come and gone since she’d made Yenita a commander? Ruma shook her head. She might not feel any older, but there was no denying the impact the passage of time had left. Lady’s Light under her command had defeated the forces guarding the granaries of Ujaina. When they had stormed through the warehouses, the unexpected discovery of weapon caches and stockpiles of precious gems had put out General Nodin’s concerns for the moment, even if General Restam continued to gripe about opportunity costs.

  While she had prospered, so had the Traditionalists. As they had expected, Yasmeen had overwhelmed the Vanico forces at Mukkur. A one-sided massacre had ensued, the end result being that the peninsula was finally free of all foreign forces.

  All but Ruma, of course, ironic as it was.

  Growing frustrated, Ruma kicked hard, her sandal throwing up sand. “Argh!” she grunted, stretching her arms behind her back. She was far enough from her army—resting after a hard march back to Bhalpur again—not to hear them from this distance, lending to the illusion that it was just her in the wilderness in the gathering dark. Her guards no doubt still followed her, though she had to admit they’d gotten much better keeping out of her sight.

  Four weeks. An eternity in her world, where time seemed to move faster. She’d done all she could in this month, though. It was good to have some time to herself for a change, even if that was only temporary. Once they arrived at the crossroads of Bhalpur, her trap would spring, and the march would begin to her final battle.

  The wind blowing against her face felt grittier, warmer than usual. Was another sandstorm in the works? Ruma chuckled. Like she cared!

  Exhaling, she continued on ahead, her mind a duelling arena for competing priorities. She hadn’t heard from Gareeb for some time. Jajan, the scout Gareeb had dispatched before, was one she trusted to not be in league with the traitors in her midst, but a part of her wondered whether messages from her commanders were being intercepted.

  “Gareeb, keep to the script,” she muttered, wringing her hands. She might have the six most powerful weapons in the entire world, but they were ten times heavier than the largest catapults ever built before. Gareeb could only move as fast as the slowest chariot pulling the cannons.

  Yasmeen’s movements worried her as well. Taking Ujaina, Ruma had inflicted a severe wound, one the Traditionalists couldn’t ignore. When winter arrived, the loss of these granaries would cripple the Traditionalists’ supply chain. But instead of rushing to meet them herself, by all accounts it appeared Yasmeen had stationed herself in Mukkur.

  A decision Ruma could understand. The Traditionalists had triumphed in the peninsula, their hold over the major cities was absolute, and with Yasmeen staying put in Mukkur, they acted as chokepoint over all traffic, military or trade, going between Andussia and the lands beyond.

  At least they had dodged the two armies the Traditionalists had sent after them over the past few weeks.

  Her thoughts drifted. One of Yenita’s messengers had arrived a week ago. Her youngest commander had defeated three Traditionalist armies, continuing to push north-west in her hunt for her brother. Perhaps army wasn’t the right word to use—the Traditionalists blocking Yenita’s way were no more than roving bands of a few hundred each—but at least Lady’s Light were finally getting some victories under the belt.

  Sivan had still not been found, though. How many more would die before Yenita came to the conclusion Ruma had?

  Again, the infernal doubts reared their head. Was she wrong in letting Yenita go off by herself? Maybe the girl was too young, just not mature enough to take on the burden Ruma had laden her with.

  “The past is the past. No good crying over it,” she muttered. Then realising the iro
ny in her words, she chuckled. “Of course, then this entire phase of my existence is not worth worrying about for it’s all in the past.”

  The worries grew a ton in the pit of her stomach. How had this past, her present for the moment, already impacted life in the future? What would she find if she ever got back to her world? “Not if, but when!” she told herself firmly, gritting her teeth.

  Another gust of wind blew over. Warm, odourless, full of fine particles of dust, the lifeblood of Andussia. She continued to move forward, letting her eyelids drop shut. Her veil slipped from her hair. Her hand rose instinctively, grabbing it just before the wind could snatch it away. But she didn’t put it back on. Instead, with her other hand, she touched her head.

  “I really should—” She blew air through gritted teeth. What was the point in cutting her hair short? Everyone in Andussia had now heard of the red-haired devil in possession of demonic weapons inspired by the Charlatan himself, marching against the one person who had beaten back the Vanico horde.

  In this history, she was the villainess, and Yasmeen the heroine.

  Chewing on her lower lip, her fingers crushing the veil in their grip, Ruma tried but failed to banish the thought from her mind. Another parallel rose, equally troubling, problematic.

  Despite the terror she had unleashed on the humans, Tasina had been hailed a heroine by the Zrivisi. She had been the selfless heroine who, despite the nature of her connection with Gulatu Koza, had sacrificed everything in the service of what she deemed right. Tasina the Butcher had been hailed a noble figure in the Volorosi, her courage celebrated on the Zrivisi worlds, her name honoured for generations to come.

  Wasn’t the same happening here as well, but in reverse?

  Ruma stuttered to a stop, her eyes widening. Did the locals look at her, a foreigner they had never connected with, as the one set to destroy the only figure around which this world was beginning to heal around?

  Ruma knew better, of course, and for that reason could argue that time would vindicate her. Did Tasina have an excuse similar to hers? “No,” she whispered, unable to expel the thought from her mind. How could the one who wiped out Irtiza and Salodia have anything in common with her?

  Truth was, Ruma didn’t know why the Zrivisi had done what she had done. Just like the people of this world didn’t know her reasons.

  Greatly troubled, she blew out pent-up air, making her way through to the dune in front. The sun had almost set by now, the western horizon a riot of brilliant colours, dying away by the second. Surprisingly, in the distance, sands shimmered. Ruma smiled. This world, like any others, was full of mirages, but she had finally wisened up to that.

  She stood still for a long breath. Something about the imagery around her was… familiar. She began shaking her head when it all clicked. The endless sands reminded her of the infinite space, stretching on for as far as the eye could see. These sands were broken up by oases, precious and few, a job the Shards did in space.

  Once more, she saw the Yeth circling the Shards as if worshippers come from afar. What were they doing? Was it just her mind seeing something that didn't really exist? Or was there a deeper meaning that had eluded her so far? A part of her chided her for ignoring the matter.

  “First, what are you up to?”

  The Pithrean didn’t respond. The winds picked up. Cocking her head to the side, Ruma raised a hand to cup her ear, straining to hear his response.

  Nothing.

  “Are you dead? Haven’t heard a peep in four weeks!”

  Nothing.

  Sighing, she continued onwards, allowing the monotony of the view to dull the tension growing within her. The blowing wind sounded like the death rattle, whistling, grim, foreboding.

  The end was coming, rushing at her. An end, whose script she’d had a hand in setting, but one she didn’t direct.

  On a whim, she craned her neck. She couldn’t see anyone. She slowed down, debating whether she should turn around and head back to her camp. Her councillors would want to speak with her. Now that they were returning to the crossroads of Bhalpur, each would want their proposals heard.

  One of them would no doubt encourage her to do something that Yasmeen would want.

  Ruma’s job was to sniff out that one wolf in sheep’s clothing, and skin him alive.

  She tilted her chin up. “Alf, why don’t you speak to me? Why bastards like Hadyan, but not me?”

  The Divine ignored her.

  Muttering under her breath, she started for her camp.

  “Time is running out, mortal.”

  A shiver ran up her spine. “My name is Ruma. Address me properly.”

  “We will perish. Both of us,” said the First, his voice so low she could have mistaken it for the winds. “Use the Shard before—”

  “Do you really know nothing else to say?”

  Silence. Then a long breath later, the First hissed, “The course of this world is decided. Nothing you do will change the future.”

  Ruma rubbed her hands, then came to a stop. “Exactly what are you planning?” She waited, but when the First didn’t respond, she clenched her fingers. “You are no fracking body of calm water, sitting still, watching the world go by. You’re up to something, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell me?” She paused. “I might even be able to help you.”

  Sands shifted, the wind rushing past her.

  Ruma waited a long while, watching the last rays of sun flicker out, leaving her in the afterglow of the death of another day. Exhaling, she continued her trudge back home. “Home?” She chuckled.

  The sound of her own voice was comforting. Before she had taken to space and its vast swathes of nothingness, she couldn’t remember a single time she had been out in her world and felt connected to it like she did in this one.

  Her heart ached at the memory of Egania. Despite it all, she’d had a good childhood, playing in the streets, looking up at the never-ending streams of ships, vowing she’d join them one day.

  Would she ever get home?

  What would she see there?

  The First’s words rang in her ear. Time was running out, the Pithrean had said. She had no reason to believe him, but none to discount him either. She, too, could feel the Shard weakening. A connection she couldn’t describe, but feel as one could the dull pain in one’s toe.

  Ruma raised her chin, patting dry the water gathering in the corner of her eyes. “Gulatu, what would you have done in my place? What if the bastard is true, and I might lose this opportunity?”

  He didn’t reply either.

  She had been abandoned. Again. Story of her life, really. First by her father, then Gulatu. As for Alf… well, He’d never really been her fan to begin with.

  Gritting her teeth, she increased the length of her strides. She could see her camp now, torchlights flickering proudly in the gloom of night.

  She’d had her fracking moment of introspection.

  Time to go meet this end on her terms.

  Twenty

  The Belly

  Ruma yawned, stretching her arms wide. Behind her, men of Lady’s Light hollered, grateful for the break after the long, hard riding.

  “So, what’s this town?” she asked, raising her hand at the oasis town a mile ahead, squinting to keep the sun out of her eyes.

  “Kepapa,” said General Restam, leaning forwards in his saddle. “Famous for its dates.”

  “Used to be a big trading hub in its day,” added General Nodin. The mercenary general didn’t seem to be in any discomfort, unlike the others who seemed worn out after the long days they’d been putting in the saddle. He waved his hand as a fly buzzed around him. “The main inn used to make sweet tea unlike any I ever had.”

  Ruma arched an eyebrow, surprised by the wistfulness in the mercenary general’s voice. His shoulders slumped uncharacteristically, General Nodin stared at the town, his lips slightly parted.

  “Hmm,” said Ruma, patting her horse’s lathered neck.

  “Lady of the Sands!” roar
ed a soldier behind her.

  “Lady of the Sands!” came the unanimous roar, accompanied by the chanting of priests.

  “What does Alf want?” bellowed another voice.

  “Lady of the Sands!” shouted back the others.

  Ruma exhaled, nodding to show her acknowledgement. Despite all this time, the title and the adoration that came with it still felt wrong to her. She’d lived all her life in the shadows, and her subconscious still hadn't warmed to the idea of being thrust into the limelight. Perhaps it never would.

  Adjusting her position in the saddle, she turned to General Restam. “Give me the map.”

  “Aye,” replied the commander of her forces. He barked at one of his lieutenants who dismounted and ran off to fetch the map. From the corner of her eye, Ruma caught General Nodin smirking. Realisation dawning, she watched the lieutenant as he began laying the map down on the sand, placing different coloured stones to show troop movements. The lieutenant was no more than twenty, tall, his muscled body straining against his leather vest, his lashes long and dark around his large eyes. A dashing, handsome man, the kind General Restam preferred keeping around him.

  “You old dog,” she muttered, shaking her head. Truth be told, knowing Restam’s sexuality changed nothing for her except for humanising him. Here was a man who was bound by the traditions of his culture, unable to do proudly what many in her time did without any consideration.

  “The map is ready, Lady,” said the young lieutenant.

  Nodding, Ruma brought her horse closer and leaned over it. Red stones filled the Andussian map, standing over towns, the three port cities, all major trading posts. In the centre, they covered Irtiza and Salodia. To the west sat a large red rock depicting Yasmeen headquartered at Mukkur.

  No stones for Vanico forces, though. The peninsula was finally free of them. Her eyes travelled south. The lieutenant had heaped a multitude of coloured stones there. The few factions who still hadn’t publicly called for Yasmeen. Each day, though, their numbers dwindled, their armies either smashed by the Traditionalists or assimilated.