by Fuad Baloch
Three blue stones looked pitifully out of place against the red horde. Just three. Yenita was in the north-west, doing Alf only knew what. Ruma chewed on her lower lip, vowing not to let the concerns rattle her mind. Though Yenita hadn’t sent an update on her situation, Ruma hoped for the best. The lieutenant had placed the blue stone for the cannons commanded by Gareeb at Bhalpur. Not where she would find him. He had different instructions, but the lieutenant wouldn't know that, of course.
“We could rest in Kepapa for a bit if you wish,” said General Restam, bringing his horse around.
“I say we move on,” countered General Nodin brusquely. “We’re only two days from the crossroads of Bhalpur, and who knows what kind of reception we’d get at the town.”
“A mixture of fear, curiosity, and wonder,” said General Restam. “People are afraid of what they don't know, but if experience at Dilli is anything to go by, once they see the Lady of the Sands in their midst, their hearts would give in to faith.”
Ruma considered her options. She’d want nothing more than to keep pushing forward, but at the end of the day, their animals couldn’t keep moving without breaking down. Besides, the more time she could give her scouts, those she had instructed specifically and sent to Bhalpur ahead of them, the better.
“I think a bit of rest wouldn’t hurt anyone,” she said lightly. “Restam, tell the men we’ll be camping outside the town for a night.”
“Aye, Lady,” General Restam said, then rode away, his lieutenant running after him.
“Care to join me?” Ruma asked General Nodin, waving her arm over towards the town. The mercenary general hesitated for a bit, then nodded.
General Nodin seemed to be in no mood to talk, falling quiet as they loosened their reins, letting their horses advance at a leisurely walk. His moroseness proved contagious, her own mood darkening as they drew closer. Maybe it was the tiredness that crept in when one was travelling. Maybe it was the realisation their swords would soon be tasting blood again.
Had she ever been this tired travelling through the Shards? Against her better judgement, she looked up. The sun was bright, sweltering hot. “Argh!” Slapping her thigh, she let her chin drop, vowing not to let her thoughts drift again.
“Lady?” said General Nodin after a while.
“Yeah?”
The mercenary general grimaced, his back straight as a rod. “I wanted to offer my counsel in regard to attacking the Traditionalist forces. The crossroads allow us the perfect opportunity to go south, court—or force—factions who still haven’t called for Yasmeen. We won’t find a better opportunity at replenishing our numbers than this.”
“What does Restam think of it?”
“As per your command, I’ve been pondering the matter on my own over the last week.”
“Hmm,” she said, wringing her hands. Hopefully, her councillors hadn’t been discussing these plans between them after she’d forbidden them individually. She looked up. They were a few hundred yards from Kepapa now. The locals were gathering around their mud-baked houses, standing under the shade of swaying date trees. Mothers clutched kids. A group of farmers stood underneath a warehouse, sickles and scythes by their side. Three men dressed in black, flowing robes stood on the main road leading into the town, their naked swords tied to their waists glittering in the sunlight.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Ruma said. “The Traditionalists wouldn’t be expecting that.”
“If you approve, I can start working on our tactics straight away.”
“Get on with it,” said Ruma, then raised her hand as the general pulled his reins. “Oh, Nodin, these desert winds do have a nasty way of spreading news they shouldn't. Can I count on you to ensure that doesn't happen?”
General Nodin stiffened in the saddle, his features hardening. If he took personal insult at what she had implied, he disguised it well. “By the One who created me, not even my shadow shall know what my hands do.”
“Good,” Ruma said, turning away from him. She didn’t fail to notice the six riders who were now riding just behind her, their swords unleashed.
Kepapa had been lucky for having escaped both the civil war and the invading Vanico forces. The buildings appeared unblemished, the golden dome of its large Alfi temple rising proudly over the treetops. More locals were crowding outside their homes now. More mothers, their faces covered by veils, holding back crying toddlers. Old men, their white robes fluttering in the wind. Teenagers, their eyes flitting between her and the armed men behind her descending on their sleepy town.
Ruma felt her skin tingle as she heard a woman singing in the distance. She had a lovely voice, ululating and pure, the sound floating over the winds. The words were unintelligible, but the underlying joy, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of drums, was unmissable. An unexpected thing to hear when one prepared for battle.
“What’s going on?” she shouted at a group of men standing to her left as her horse stepped onto the central road.
“A wedding,” replied one of them, his eyes growing wide. Those around him, all of them, were staring openly at her, at her red hair peeking out of the veil. Irritated, Ruma pulled the veil forward.
“Step away from the Lady of the Sands!” yelled one of her bodyguards. The locals scurried back.
“No need for it,” Ruma snapped, then advanced, letting the song guide her towards it. She crossed into an alley, faces peering at her from behind ajar doors, noses pressing against dirty glass panes. Someone called for her from behind. One of her councillors, no doubt.
Ruma spurred her horse, breaking into a trot. The music was louder now, the woman’s voice joined by others. She rounded the corner and emerged onto Kepapa’s central square. A hundred men and women danced under the shade of the grand temple. Dressed in scarlet robes with white frills, the pirouetting women looked like bright red tops spinning round and round, tied to each other with silver strings. Kids laughed, chasing a group of cats. Young men, wearing garishly purple capes that flared out long behind them, strutted towards the young women seated in a long, straight row. To Ruma’s left, six men and women stood in choir formation, the woman in the middle singing, an arm raised, her eyes closed.
Ruma pulled the reins and stopped, her eyes settling on a young couple sitting on a raised platform beside the temple. It overflowed with flower petals and colourful garlands.
Like a pebble dropped in still water, a hush fell, travelling at light speed as faces turned towards Ruma. The dancing women stuttered to awkward stops. The young men strutted no more, their faces hardening. The children looked up from their play, surprised by the sudden change.
The woman whose voice had drawn Ruma kept on singing for a while even as her companions broke away. The man beside her poked her in the ribs, and then she, too, fell silent.
“A wedding!” Ruma exclaimed, taken aback by the simple gaiety of the event. Strange how life continued to go through its spectrum of hues even when it had lost all colour for her. She blinked. Alf’s breath, when had she started thinking like a fracking philosopher? What was wrong with her?
Two men, both carrying swords on their waists, rushed towards her.
“Step back!” shouted someone behind her. Then, all six of her soldiers were bursting forward, their swords unleashed. Screams went up.
“Stop!” Ruma shouted. Her bodyguards halted. Though they went no further, they held out their swords in front.
“For the love of Alf, do not harm us,” whimpered an old woman, inching away from her soldiers. So, that was the fear Restam talked of.
“The Lady of the Sands,” said someone, his voice quivering. Not fear. Amazement. The others repeated the words over and over, their voices sombre, no cheer in them now, enthralled by a bevy of emotions. The groom stood, stepped in front of his bride on the dais as if to ward her from danger.
Ruma straightened her back. “Men of the Lady’s Light, go back to your generals.”
“But—” one of them protested.
“Now!�
��
As one, her men bowed their heads. Then, they withdrew, vanishing from view as they rounded the corner. They wouldn't really go back as she had ordered, but this wasn't the time to call them out on competing loyalties.
Ruma waved her arm at the gathering, forcing a smile on her lips. “Go on! As you were!”
No one stirred.
Ruma made a shooing motion at the singers. “Resume your singing and dancing.” She pointed at the barrels heaped to one side. “And your drinking, for Alf’s sake!” The two young women closest to her nodded, then turned. Realising they were the only ones, they froze.
Ruma slapped her thigh. “Don’t tell me I have to whip you into having some fun, all pun intended?” She chuckled, no one else joining in. They watched her, even the children, as if she was an alien making first contact. At least they hadn’t run away, something they might have done had it been the Charlatan come to life.
Ruma dismounted, her horse whinnying.
“Alf’s breath, get on with your merry-making!” she bellowed. Someone to her left coughed. A few cleared their throats. Most dropped their chins, watching their feet. Anger stabbed Ruma. “I’m not the fracking Charlatan or Schemer. If I’m anything…” She spread her arms, smiling at them. “I’m but an unwanted guest. But don’t worry, I’ll be gone from your lives soon enough.”
Ruma turned towards the lead singer. “You, start singing! Regale us!”
Nodding, the woman closed her eyes, then started singing. Ruma still couldn't tell the words, the tune remaining unfamiliar, but the spell that had fallen on the crowd was beginning to break. One of the drummers joined in, not quite keeping up with the singer’s timing, but that was one more thing Ruma didn't mind in the moment.
Hearing the shuffle of boots, Ruma spun around.
“Brother Krishan, will you tell them to have some fun?”
The tall priest smiled. “Not every day does one find himself next to Alf’s chosen one.” His smile faded, and he beckoned one of the older men towards him. “You don’t have a priest here?”
“No, Brother,” said the elderly man, his nervous gaze flitting between the priest and Ruma. “Not since… the great war.”
“Have the couple been married yet?”
“No.” Then, he beamed, his anxiety giving way to wonder. “It would be an honour, though, to have the grand priest serving the Lady of the Sands herself officiate.”
Brother Krishan nodded, not correcting the villager’s mistake about his position in her army. He turned towards Ruma. “Shall we?”
Together, she and the priest who claimed to follow the religion of her Gulatu, strode over to the dais, the crowd parting and giving way. The bride and the groom sank to their knees, their heads bowed.
“Greetings, young ones,” said Brother Krishan gently. He stepped forward, then, grabbing the boy by the shoulders, raised him. “Alf smiles on your blessed day.”
The young bride’s eyelashes twitched. She stood slowly, then swayed as if she’d lost her balance. Her groom rushed forward, grabbing her by the elbow before she could fall. “Lady of the Sands,” she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion, her eyes still downcast. No fear there whatsoever.
“May you…” Ruma started, suddenly finding it difficult to keep her voice from straining. She’d never been good with this stuff. “May Alf bless your union.”
“Young ones, stand together under the merciful gaze of your Lord,” said Brother Krishan. He nodded his approval when they stood beside each other, their hands brushing each other’s. Ruma craned her neck back. Despite the music, not a single person was dancing, but at least the nervousness had given way to a rapt, attentive audience.
The singer fell silent. Ruma fought the urge to shout at her to resume. Maybe in this Andussia, this particular moment belonged to the priests only.
Brother Krishan cleared his throat, then started, his voice carrying easily. “We begin in the name of Alf, the mighty, the all-knowing. We are gathered here—”
“Lady, I want you to marry us,” came a strangled whisper.
Ruma looked up sharply. The bride swallowed, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. She trembled, one hand reaching out to her groom for support.
“What?” demanded Ruma.
“We’ve heard so much about you. The Chosen One. The Prophesied One. Can you… marry us?” said the bride, her voice steadier this time. Someone gasped behind Ruma. “There would be no greater honour for Kana and me than to have the most joyous moment in our lives made more special with your blessing.”
Ruma forced a smile. “You don’t really want me.”
The groom blinked, then exchanging a glance with his bride, fell to his knees. “In the name of Alf and His prophet, we beseech you to grant us this honour.”
“Only priests may marry believers,” said Brother Krishan gravely. He didn't look at Ruma. “Don’t you two know the way?”
“Please?” begged the bride.
Brother Krishan shook his head. “The zulzalat is most insistent on the priests being—”
“Krishan,” said Ruma, enunciating each syllable. “Are you saying that one touched by the Divine, one under whose orders you would lay down your life, isn’t good enough to do something as simple as marry two people?”
Brother Krishan turned around slowly. “Lady, I mean no disrespect. but—”
“But what?” she demanded, rage roiling through her. “I am not as good as you because I’m a woman?”
Brother Krishan hung his head. “The zulzalat orders us to obey the prophet’s words…”
“The very zulzalat that has been corrupted by men like you.”
The priest kept silent.
He wasn't the only one. The entire fracking world had gone eerily quiet, leaving nothing but her thudding heart.
Ruma blinked.
She was not the damned Lady of the Sands. She was Ruma Nuway, daughter of a smuggler. She was fighting the good battle, but whether she liked it or not, she did know the Alfi religious body had never embraced women, not even in her time. That meant she could do nothing to upset the status quo here.
Ruma Nuway always did what was pragmatic, not what was necessarily right. For a while she’d been confused between the two positions, but no more. By tomorrow, this stupid day would be nothing but a memory, a strange but ultimately needless detour.
“The priest will marry you,” she heard herself say, turning away for she couldn't look the bride in the eye. “That… is what Alf commands.”
She turned around and stormed away, leaving behind a stunned silence.
“It all ends soon!” she muttered to herself, holding up a finger, realising these reminders had almost become a habit for her. “Two more days until Bhalpur.” She raised another finger. “Then I find the traitor.”
Angrily, she wiped the tear trickling down her cheek. One more blasted thing that had no sense of occasion. “Then, this all ends!”
Twenty-One
Crossroads
Bhalpur was a massive let-down. Despite the sandstorm limiting Ruma’s vision to just the few hundred yards directly ahead, she could tell the famed crossroads of Andussia was no more than a bunch of old, rundown buildings and an ancient inn well past its best days.
“Argh!” Ruma grunted, rubbing her eyes as more fracking sand particles blew into her. The wind was still strong, whipping against her army, her brown Scythes on poles fluttering so strongly she feared they would tear soon enough.
At least she had a good reason for staying put for the moment.
Muttering to herself, Ruma adjusted her weight in the saddle, ignoring the clamour of men behind her. They were restless, tired, just like her. A hard march with the barest of breaks in between tended to do that.
To her left, General Restam was shouting orders at his lieutenants. If General Nodin was nearby, Ruma couldn’t really see him anymore.
Ruma sighed. As different as the water was from sand, her mind conjured up old memories of her being at se
a with her father. They’d been caught unaware by storms a few times—Yaman had been most insistent on not using technological aids when going out on those trips—and when they blew in, they reduced the world around their boat to grey sheets of mist and lightning and gloom. She would cry then, convinced the two of them were the only living humans left in existence.
A different world, a different time, but the sands achieved pretty much the same outcome. Cocooned by the swirling red sands, the harsh sunlight turned into a dull reddish-golden hue, Ruma’s world might as well have been just her and these men under her command.
“Lady, we should wait out the storm,” shouted General Restam. “Soponga is not going anywhere.”
Ruma smiled. Soponga and the north-east provinces lay to her right now. If she were to trust the general’s counsel, the region was apparently prime for the picking. She could take the Soponga fort without much difficulty, and from there carve out a niche of believers in the Lady. “Wage the war, not useless battles,” Restam had argued when she had first asked for his private opinion.
Frowning, she turned her gaze left, her horse fanning its tail. There lay the arterial roads of the south that led to the ocean, and the last factions that still hadn’t called for the Traditionalists. That was where General Nodin wanted her to go.
In the south-west lay the ruined crypts of Nabatata, a long-dead civilisation whose secrets had been lost to time. That was where Qaisan wanted them. He was convinced of ancient weapons hidden there that could help their cause. Directly ahead, a week’s march away was Mukkur, host to Yasmeen herself.
Behind her were the roads leading to the holy cities of Irtiza and Salodia. Brother Hadyan wanted her to turn for them. “If you are not going to rest as Alf commands, at least make for the holy cities. No one controls the peninsula until they hold those two sacred keys.” Like the other members of her council, she hadn’t promised the priest anything either, even if, like the others, he’d seemingly gotten the impression that she was going to follow him.