Shifting Sands

by Fuad Baloch

  Her councillors wanted different things, each pulling her to a separate direction. She didn’t mind that, so long they didn’t know what the others desired. She’d spent a long time getting to this point, sacrificed a great deal. The virus had been allowed to linger, to continue to feed trustworthy information to her enemy.

  Now was her time to spring the trap.

  Ruma reached for the skin tied to her saddle. The water was warm—nothing new about that—and had acquired a foul flavour, but she gulped it down greedily regardless. Her veil came off as a gust of wind slammed into her. She caught the cursed thing just in time. Grumbling, she debated whether to put it back on, then shaking her head, balled it, and shoved it into her saddlebag.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw General Nodin approach her. His black horse was smaller than Restam’s, but she had seen how fast it could move, a bolt of lightning under the command of the most gifted swordsman Ruma had ever seen. He had covered his face with a mask, his eyes hard as he peered ahead at the sands.

  “Another hour or so,” said General Restam, rubbing his hands. “Then, we can turn north-east for Soponga.”

  “Soponga?” asked General Nodin. He spurred his horse, turning around to face them both. “By Alf, there’s nothing there but the plague. We need to—”

  “Stop arguing, both of you,” Ruma snapped. “In fact, leave me alone for the moment. I need to think.”

  General Restam straightened his jacket, the sand sticking to his sweaty face. “As the Lady commands.”

  “I guess I should check up on the supply train,” said General Nodin, his voice surly.

  “Aye,” she replied.

  General Restam waited a long breath after the mercenary general had departed, then cleared his throat. “The desert out here is infamous for the storms it gets. But if there is a blessing from Alf, it’s that they weaken just as quickly as they arise. We’ll be ready to move straight after.”

  Ruma scanned the eastern horizon, then turned west. Nothing but the damned red sands. “I’m sure we will.”

  General Restam leaned towards her. “Regardless of where you choose to go, I should get the men ready for the march ahead.” He sounded hurt, his pride dented, but he soldiered on, putting on a strained smile. “Calls of nature and other business.”

  “Tell them not to shit downwind, Restam. I’m in no mood for stink.”

  The general blinked, then bowed, and rode away in silence.

  Ruma exhaled. Had the gusts slowed down already? The wind felt more like a new lover’s incessant caresses than a brawler’s ceaseless punches.

  “A lover?” Ruma chuckled. When was the last time she’d had a man’s hand on her cheek like that? When was the last time—

  Snap out of it, girl!

  Ruma chewed on her lower lip, thankful that the pain was enough to divert her attention. For a moment, brief but sharp, she wondered whether the Pithrean was dead already. But no, he didn't matter for the moment either. He would have to wait his turn now. She peered to her right. Nothing but the swirling sands. Sighing, she swept her gaze straight ahead and to her left, seeing little else.

  Where the hell was Jajan and the other scouts she’d sent?

  Fear settled in her gut. What if they had been discovered? If Qaisan was the one who had been betraying her, and his men had come upon hers, Jajan and his scouts were more than likely dead. Had she condemned those young men to their deaths? A variable she hadn’t quite considered until now.

  Ruma shifted uncomfortably. Command was a heavy burden. Being a ship’s engineer was a much easier task than being the captain. As the engineer, she could choose to cut corners, decide which auxiliary systems to scavenge parts from to bolster the fusion engines. As the captain, it meant making those decisions using human lives instead.

  “Isn’t this storm a sure sign of Alf’s majesty and power?” came the clipped voice of Brother Hadyan behind her.

  Ruma gritted her teeth. “He could have done better than this if He is indeed the alleged creator of everything.” She jabbed a finger at the swirling red sands. “Instead of this drudgery, you know what I could really do with right about now? A fracking rainbow. A nice, lush jungle, even if overrun by predators. Lounging on the beach. Anything but this!”

  Brother Hadyan chuckled, bringing his horse closer to hers. Like Qaisan and General Nodin, he, too, had taken to covering his face on long marches. His eyes peered at her for an instant before falling to the soldiers behind them. “Time draws near.”

  “It does indeed.”

  “The prophecy calls for you, Lady of the Sands,” he said, his voice solemn. “And Alf’s will shall be done.”

  Ruma arched an eyebrow. “You’re really certain of what you say?”

  “Aye.”

  “Tell me this. You served both Yasmeen and Bubraza. Were there moments in your service where you felt the same conviction as you do now?”

  “Never.”

  The emphatic answer surprised her. “Why now? What’s changed?”

  “Alf is wise, all-powerful. We are nothing to Him.” Brother Hadyan exhaled, his chin dropping. “And yet, He chooses to share His visions with us wretched souls. He has shown me His world, ringing with praises to Him, the temples full of chanting believers, a kingdom of believers content in Him alone.”

  Ruma pointed her index finger at herself. “And this kingdom of believers is to come from me?” She smirked. “You do know my heart carries no conviction whatsoever?”

  “Alf chooses the vessels He prefers.”

  “But what if I don’t believe?” she pressed.

  “All sentient life knows instinctively that Alf created them. What is belief but a mere extension, wrapped in rituals?”

  Ruma slapped her thigh in annoyance. “You priests and your fancy words!”

  Brother Hadyan considered her for a long breath. “A soul who accepts the Almighty without ever doubting Him never really believes. To see, one must first shut the eyes. To eat, one must undergo hunger. To understand, one must give up one’s self.”

  Ruma began shaking her head, then stopped herself. “There’s no point in arguing theology with a priest. I’ve tried it before and never won.”

  The priest fell silent. Ruma turned from him, agitation growing heavy in the pit of her stomach. She scanned the horizons again. Once, she thought she saw the outlines of a lone rider, but the next second, sands rushed forward, covering the silhouette. “Argh!” she grumbled. “First… you see better than me, right? Care to tell me what’s really out there?”

  “You said something?” said Brother Hadyan.

  “Nothing,” she snapped.

  “Ah.” Brother Hadyan raised both hands towards the red skies, began praying, mumbling as if talking to someone she couldn’t see. Ruma scoffed, turned away. She heard him cough and looked his way. “Lady?”

  “Go on.”

  “Alf is pleased with your decision to return to Irtiza.”

  Ruma cocked her head. “Are you having your vision right now?”

  The priest let his hands drop, his bloodshot eyes finding her face. “Alf honours me with His visions, Lady of the Sands. I should tell the generals to prepare for the march to Irtiza. When the storm weakens, we must be ready to—”

  “Not yet,” she said, shaking her head.

  The priest arched an eyebrow. “I beg your forgiveness, but it seems to me that we don’t have the luxury of waiting. Alf wanted us to be no part of this war, but He is satisfied with us taking residence in the shade of his Grand Temple.”

  “Right!” She coughed as flecks of sand blew into her mouth. Rubbing her eyes, hacking, she turned in the saddle.

  There, to her left, two horsemen were riding towards them. She blinked, rubbed her eyes again. No, she wasn’t imagining them.

  “Who are they?” muttered Brother Hadyan. From the corner of her eye, she saw riders rush forward to intercept the two.

  “Friends,” said Ruma, feeling her insides unclench. “Friends bearin
g grim news.”

  Twenty-Two

  Burning Shame

  Biting her lower lip, Ruma crossed, then uncrossed her legs for the thousandth time. Her ass had grown numb having sat hours in the uncomfortable chair her men had found for her. Her back was warm under the fading sunlight, her eyes watered, but she continued to stare eastwards. “Alf’s breath, where are you?”

  The sandstorm had died late last night, the distant sands shimmering now as she glared at the horizon. To her right, the date trees encircling Bhalpur’s main inn swayed under the gentle afternoon breeze. A few of her soldiers watched her from under the shade, no doubt unnerved by their extended stay at the crossroads.

  Ruma slapped her thigh, shifting uncomfortably once more. Sooner or later, her vigil was going to end. The final scout she’d dispatched would return from the east, bearing news she both dreaded and couldn't wait to receive.

  Blowing out pent-up air, she shook her head. Three of the scouts who had returned had not sighted any enemy build up. That had cleared three of her councillors who had suggested she headed that way, leaving one behind.

  “It can’t be,” she muttered to herself. “Of all people, he’s got nothing to gain by betraying me.” Empty words, laced with emotion that wasn’t needed in the moment. Yet, there was no denying that men did things sometimes even their hearts couldn't make sense of. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time a man had showed a different side of his to her.

  She could hear the murmurs behind her. Her men were growing increasingly restless. No one stayed long at the crossroads. Bhalpur was meant to be travelled through, not lingered within. One of General Restam’s lieutenants was shouting at soldiers to clear the ground for kabbad in the evening. Ruma exhaled. Kabbad would divert the men’s attention, but their tongues wouldn’t cease their wagging.

  Something was wrong, the men knew. Nothing else could explain the unexpected delay. She had no idea what stories her councillors had been telling their underlings, but truth was no one knew what she did.

  Not yet, anyway.

  At the sound of boots approaching her, Ruma tensed, her hand drawing to her waist. Her fingers found nothing. “Frack!” she swore, realising that in her impatience, she’d forgotten picking her dagger. Not good. If this was the man who she feared had betrayed her, it wouldn't do to give any sense of weakness by acting flighty. After all, power was an illusion, a mirage kept up through constant habit. So, even as every fibre in her body tensed, preparing for the worst, she schooled herself to remain still.

  “With respect, we can't wait here long, Lady of the Sands. We lose all momentum we’ve built over the past few months.”

  Ruma feel the tension drain, her senses remaining wary though. “We won’t be here long, Restam.”

  “I must—” the general broke away abruptly, something drawing his attention eastwards.

  Ruma followed his gaze, squinting to get a better look.

  A lone figure was riding towards them.

  Ruma shot up to her feet. She rubbed her eyes. No mirage, that. The last scout was really here. “Hurry up!” she bellowed. Then, realising the rider couldn't hear her from the distance, grunted in annoyance.

  “Scouts!” shouted General Restam. “Escort the rider!”

  Her fingernails digging into her palms, Ruma shook her head, then broke into a run towards the rider. General Restam called after her, yelling at the guards to follow her, but Ruma didn't care. Her lungs burning with the effort, the sand soft and yielding under her sandals, she sprinted faster and faster. She had to talk to the scout, hear him say the words that would seal the fate of one man, the rat her trap would ensnare.

  The rider broke into a gallop seeing her run. The distance shrunk enough that Ruma could see the brown Scythes painted on his leather vest. Definitely her scout.

  “Lady of the Sands!” shouted the rider when he was in earshot. He pulled on his reins hard, the horse snorting its displeasure, then dismounted in one smooth motion and fell to his knees. “Witnessing you with my own eyes fills my heart with joy.”

  “What do you have to report, man?” Ruma asked, panting as she pulled up beside him.

  “As commanded by the Lady and relayed by her general—”

  “Skip the fracking preamble and just tell me what you saw!”

  The rider jerked his head up, but dropped his gaze a second later. “As you command.” He cleared his throat. “Forty miles east, I estimate at least eight thousand soldiers hidden in the hills of Nitianga. Alf smiles on our cause for I was able to observe them even from a distance.” He swallowed. “Trusting Alf, I approached them, having tucked away my armour, pretending to be one of them. Traditionalist heathens, the lot of them.” He paused, then met her eyes. “They’re expecting you, Lady of the Sands.”

  The world swayed under her feet. “You’re absolutely certain those were Yasmeen’s men?”

  The scout’s brows twitched under the heavy helmet he wore. “They used… most blasphemous words for you while singing her praises.”

  Ruma turned around, her mind growing numb. Strange that the news she’d been expecting already still had the power to shake her so.

  The truth was undeniable now, though. Rage burst through her restraints. “Hadyan!” she roared.

  “Lady—”

  Striding past the scout, Ruma mounted his horse, her thoughts dark, blood pounding her temples. The horse neighed when she spurred it, the tired beast not complaining, though, as she kicked it again and again in the flanks, shouting all the while for the damned beast to fly faster than the wind.

  She thundered past the three riders that General Restam had sent after her. She shot past the general who shouted something at her. Her eyes darting left and right, she burst into their camp pitched just outside Bhalpur. The tents were largely unoccupied save for a hundred or so men stoking fires for the cook pots. They looked up as Ruma rode over.

  “Where’s the priest?” she yelled. “Where’s Hadyan?”

  “At the kabbad, Lady,” replied one of the cooks.

  Ruma spurred the horse once more, the beast whinnying loudly, as she headed towards the clearing a hundred yards to the right. Panicked shouts broke out, men scurrying back in alarm as she rode in. “Where’s Hadyan?” Ruma bellowed, not slowing down as she turned her horse round and round, men clambering to get out of her way. “Priest, present yourself to me!” she thundered, spit flying from her mouth, adrenaline flooding her veins.

  The men stared at each other, a hushed silence falling upon them.

  Then, bells tinkled.

  Ruma turned her horse around. At first, she saw nothing but the anxious, startled faces of her soldiers, and the bloody fighters in the kabbad ground. Then, her eyes found the clutch of six priests threading their way through the crowd towards her.

  Her vision clouding, Ruma forced her heartbeat to slow down. The fading sunlight glinted off the freshly painted brown Scythe on the lead priest’s robes. He took off his conical hat, raised his chin, his dark features haloed in gold.

  “I answer your summons, Lady of the Sands,” said Hadyan, his voice calm, carrying over the shocked silence even as the other priests fanned around him.

  “You’re the traitor,” Ruma spat the words, struggling to keep her voice level. “Like you betrayed your previous mistress, you betrayed me as well.”

  The priests exchanged nervous glances. One of them placed his hand on Hadyan’s sleeve, pulling him back. Hadyan shook his elbow free, took a half step forward. “I obey Alf and his commandments, Lady.”

  “Stop your fracking lying!” Ruma growled. Her fingers curled, the fingernails digging painfully into her palms, she shook her fist in the air. “Why did you tell Yasmeen I was planning to attack her forces in Irtiza?”

  From the corner of her eye, Ruma spotted Generals Restam and Nodin cutting a path through the soldiers, their faces hard. She turned her attention back to the priest. Now would come the denials, the excuses, the attempts at obfuscation. He would argue that
she had no certain way of proving that it was indeed he who’d betrayed her plans. He might argue that the orders she’d entrusted him had been intercepted, overheard. Or he could beg forgiveness. There were a million things the priest could’ve said, none of which would have changed her mind.

  “I did what Alf commanded me,” Hadyan said, his voice just as calm, his features just as relaxed.

  “You don’t deny it, then?” Ruma asked.

  Hadyan stood still.

  “Restrain him!” barked General Nodin. Half a dozen soldiers stepped forward, surrounding the old priest.

  Hadyan smiled then, the blankness on his face chilling Ruma to the bone. This wasn’t the man she was used to seeing. He tilted his chin back and raised his hands in supplication.

  “Nodin, imprison this fracking piece of shit for the night,” she said through gritted teeth. Then, she turned her horse around before she’d strangle him in the heat of the moment. “Restam, ensure no one leaves the camp, and prepare the men for tomorrow. After I’ve dealt with the traitor, we ride to the final battle.”

  Twenty-Three

  Justice Denied…

  Time was never happy letting one be.

  Ruma hated what she’d become, vacillating from one extreme impulse to another. Decisions that had been easy to make once cut at her very being now, her resolve melting at the thought of what needed to be done.

  On her knees, she tried wriggling her toes. If they did, she barely felt them. How long had she been like this now, her eyes leaking water, second-guessing herself over and over? A few hours? The whole cursed night?

  She looked up, her eyes finding not the open skies that would have comforted her, but the canvas roof instead. “You’re there, aren’t you?” she muttered. “The Creator of all there is, all there ever will. The Lord of the Worlds, master of not just the humans but the aliens, too. If you’re really there, and I’d very much like to think that, because my Gulatu is not one to lie, how can you choose to sit back and not help me?”