by Fuad Baloch
“Why?” she said, looking out as well. More men were shouting now. To her right, metal clanged against metal. “Are we being ambushed by the Traditionalists?”
“Worse,” said the other voice. Gareeb. He, too, removed his hood, wincing as he did so. “We’ve been betrayed by Yenita.”
“Betrayed by Yenita,” Ruma repeated slowly, the words not making any sense. “But what in the worlds do you mean?”
General Nodin advanced towards her, his hand outstretched. “The Charlatan has taken her. An hour ago, she announced her intent to put Yasmeen to the trial, arguing that not even you had the power to deny her that. When some men”—he pointed at Gareeb—“protested, she took out her sword and killed two of his supporters.”
Ruma blinked, the world swaying under her feet. “I’ll talk to her. Where is she? Take me to her and I’ll put an end to this nonsense.”
“Ten more believers were killed by her henchmen before we managed to escape,” said Gareeb. He raised his right hand and Ruma saw blood dripping from his sleeves. “I, too, would have perished had it not been for Nodin defending me.”
More cries went up outside.
“We need to get moving,” said General Nodin, turning around.
“Where is she?” Ruma demanded, walking towards the flaps. “She’s young, hot-blooded. Once I’ve calmed her down, though, she’ll see reason.”
Gareeb placed a hand over her shoulder, waited until she turned around to face him. “Her men…” He shook his head. “They are calling her the Lady now. Most of them, by my count.”
Ruma laughed. “You’re joking. She, the Lady? That’s…” She trailed away. Who was she to call anything preposterous? Hadn’t they already made one mistake calling her the Lady before?
“They’ll kill you,” said General Nodin, his voice cold. “And then there will be no one left to challenge her claim.”
“—for Alf and the prophet’s zulzalat—” someone was shouting outside.
“Die, infidel!” cried another voice.
Ruma squeezed her eyes shut. “After all I’ve done… all this work… it comes to this?”
Metal crashed against metal. Men grunted. The clamour was drawing closer.
Ruma stepped outside the tent. The sun was still hours away, braziers and torches lit up between their tents at regular intervals. The alleys should have been empty, men snoring in their tents. Instead, they fought each other bare-handed, wrestling, punching, clawing. Just beyond, she saw a group of soldiers moving in closer, armed with swords and maces.
“Cease your fighting!” Ruma bellowed at a group of six to her right. “In the name of your Alf—” Gareeb shoved her roughly to the side. She fell, knocking the wind out of her lungs. An arrow whistled past in the air, right where she had been a second ago.
“I’ve sent Cikan to prepare horses for her,” said General Nodin, leading them to the north-east, his sword held out in front.
Ruma followed him, Gareeb taking up the rear.
“For the Lady!” thundered a tall dark figure to the right, one Ruma had seen fighting bravely in the battle beside her.
“For the real Lady!” shouted another blocking him. He laughed maniacally, then began swinging his mace, three more of his companions joining him against the giant. They fell on the warrior.
“A-Alf…” The tall man fell, his words giving way to screams. Ruma ran past him.
“Halt!” someone shouted at them.
“Run faster!” urged General Nodin. Despite his age, he ran like the wind, leading them on as if he could see in the dark. They crossed another dozen men fighting. She didn’t stop, water leaking from her eyes. Not tears of grief or fear, more out of frustration at how quickly the brief unity she thought she had achieved had been torn apart.
“She’s no better than Yasmeen, the red-haired whore!” someone shouted.
“The priests of Alf declare for the real Lady!” chanted a group of figures ahead wearing conical hats. “Oh followers of Alf, heed our call and resist the red-haired one, the killer of priests!”
Her head spinning, her thoughts a jumbled mess, Ruma ran, her legs moving of their own accord. The morning wasn’t far off, but the way she looked at it, the cursed night had just stretched on indefinitely.
Twenty-Nine
Flickering Flames
A puff of clouds crossed over the sun, dimming its brilliance ever so slightly. Ruma turned in the saddle and looked back. They’d been riding for hours now, far enough, long enough, that she couldn't see her camp anymore.
Her body ached, her thoughts a chaotic jumble. Since their flight, Gareeb and the mercenary general had been in constant talks. They had tried involving her as well. A fact she knew, but couldn't remember more than that. Twelve soldiers, Gareeb, General Nodin, Brother Krishan, those were her only companions now. She had won the war over the Traditionalists, and yet she had lost it all.
The horses were tired as well. They, too, like her, had been constantly moving. The horse she sat on was snorting every dozen paces, shaking its neck. If they kept going, they’d be risking laming their horses. If that happened, that’d be disastrous in the middle of the fracking Ghal Desert. Even if they weren’t found, the desert would claim them.
Dimly, she acknowledged the growing pangs in her stomach. She’d only had a loaf of bread along with a weak serving of goat curry last night. Their cannons had destroyed most of the Traditionalist provisions, leaving them to rely on only that which Yenita’s forces had brought with them.
Yenita’s forces. Ruma exhaled, feeling the vein on her forehead throbbing.
“Lady?” asked General Nodin.
Ruma shook her head, thankful for the distraction. “What?”
“We can camp for the night.” General Nodin hadn't had a wink of sleep either, and had sent more men on the lonely path than anyone could have counted, but unlike her, he still sat comfortably in the saddle, giving no outward appearance of lethargy. “Mukkur is ringed by date orchards on the north and east. We can slip through and take care of that illegitimate whore, may pox be upon her seven generations!”
“She’d be expecting that, though,” said Gareeb. Unlike the mercenary general, he winced every time he raised his right shoulder. He wore a tattered leather vest, his long hair falling over his face. He pushed back his hair with his left hand, then offered her a sad, tired smile. “Perhaps we ought to take shelter in Whitanaga. It’s not large, but the town was one of the first to call for the Uniter. As her heir, and the Lady of the Sands, they will give us refuge, and the walls will offer us defence should Yenita wish to move from Mukkur.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said General Nodin. “Once word spreads of your glorious victory over Yasmeen, the common folk will gather under your banner. Heck, I fully expect mercenary bands to come fight for us as well.”
Ruma shook her head, too tired to even argue back. None of this was what she wanted. She had won, her mission was done. This wasn't how it was meant to go down.
“Alf has blessed the cause of the Lady,” said a sonorous voice to their right. Ruma groaned. Brother Krishan looked the worst of the lot, his tall frame slouched over the saddle, his horse already limping slightly. “He has supported your cause before, and will do the same again.”
Ruma scoffed. “He has deceived me. Again.”
The priest coughed. Like Hadyan, he’d always had the smug smile as well. Now, though, as he scratched his chin through his short beard, he appeared haggard, his eyes dark, without a twinkle.
Thankful that the priest was too tired to argue back, Ruma felt her eyelids dropping. Despite all that had happened, her body craved for sleep. Was it possible to sleep upright? If so, wouldn’t that be a blessing to slip away from the week that had been, this immense series of highs and lows, and drift away?
“Gareeb,” she muttered, her voice so low she thought he might not hear it. He heard her, though, an advantage for having so few companions. He pulled his horse close to hers. Ruma clenched her jaw, turn
ing her chin up to soak in the afternoon sun. The afternoon sun? Had they been already riding that long?
“Lady, you called for me?” he asked.
Ruma’s fingers grew tight over the reins. “Why? Why did she betray me?”
“She will be made an example of!” snapped General Nodin instead. “Not even a mercenary would do what she did to her commander. Absolutely despicable. Besides, leading a mutiny against one anointed by God? Oh, she’ll pay for it tenfold!”
Ruma kept staring at Gareeb. The younger men grimaced, tugging at his hair. “Alf knows best, Lady.”
“Don’t call me the fracking Lady,” she barked. “I’m over it!” Gareeb didn't reply. A moment later, Ruma cleared her throat. “I made mistakes, I know that much. But I’ve always tried doing the right thing.” Her voice quavered. “I helped her brother, back when both of us had been captured. I helped them when they were about to be looted by Bubraza’s men.” She chuckled mirthlessly, spreading her hands. “I even gave her command of my forces to help her brother. And despite it all, she stabbed me in the back! Why would someone, anyone, do that?”
None of the men replied. Two of the soldiers in earshot touched the brown Scythes on their armour as if trying to draw strength.
“Maybe it was because in my heart of hearts, I knew something like this would happen when I divided my army. Men were going to die because I was using them to divide the enemy’s attention. Despite knowing that, I put them in the path of danger, and got what I deserved.” She chuckled again. “Sacrificing the few for the many. Who, just who in the fracking worlds am I to make that decision, huh? I’m no god, no prophetess, no prophesied one…”
The priest continued to mumble to himself, the bits she could hear little more than gibberish. Gareeb watched his fingernails. General Nodin was the only one who didn't appear as shook as the others. He clenched his fingers. “She will pay for her sins.”
Ruma laughed. “Nodin, you’re a mercenary. Now that you can see I have cost you your men, and have nothing to pay you with, there is no reason for you to stay.” She made a shooing motion. “You—no, all of you, go away. Leave me be. Go to your families if you still have them. If not, go find good women and start new families. What’s done is done, and you don’t need to suffer anymore.”
“Never!” said Gareeb, his tone brooking no argument.
General Nodin shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “Even if we did that, what will you do?”
Ruma curled her shoulders forward. “I have no purpose. No family either, except—” She exhaled, then turned to point at the vast desert around them. “Except these sands.”
After a breath’s silence, Gareeb cleared his throat, spread his hands. “What do you think Yenita will do now?”
Ruma didn't reply, for none of the answers that leapt in her mind gave her any relief.
“If she does hang Yasmeen,” said General Nodin, his eyes hard, “Andussia will erupt. Far too many of the believers still believe in her cause to let go of her that easily. The governors of the holy cities will declare independence. There will be another civil war.”
“She has the cannons,” said Gareeb slowly.
“That, she does,” conceded General Nodin. “It’s going to be a bloody civil war.”
“The cannons must be destroyed,” said Ruma, her words loud, clear. “Promise me this, both of you.”
“Lady—” tried Gareeb, but Ruma waved him off, turning to glare at both men.
“Promise me!”
General Nodin offered a terse nod. “If that’s what you want.”
“Aye,” said Gareeb.
Ruma broke eye contact slowly, her shoulders sagging once more. From the corner of her eye, she saw a rider cantering towards them. One of their scouts. The mercenary general was taking no chances. If they were being followed, at least they would not be taken by surprise.
Ruma turned her gaze towards the heavens. “Alf, what a twisted sense of humour you have, I must say! You bring me to this cursed land, have me try and fix this mess, then leave me right in the shits! What sick pleasure do you derive from this?”
“Lady,” said Brother Krishan, his eyes wide. “Even in times of great distress, our words must be—”
“Polite towards the fracking Creator of the worlds who cannot ever bother to right all the wrongs He tolerates in this world?” Ruma bellowed. “And enough of this Lady crap. Call me Ruma!”
“But Lady—”
“Ruma!” she snapped, raising her fist. It shook, trembling with the effort of staying still. “I’ve had it with all of you. With this world. And with its dumb, mute creator!”
Silence fell upon them. An uneasy one. A terribly stifling one. The knot that had been growing in her stomach since last night tightened its grip, crushing her from within. If the men were scandalised, which surely they all were—even the normally unflappable mercenary general—at least they had the sense to keep shut.
“We should camp here for the night,” said General Nodin after a while, pointing at a squat hill to their right. “The scouts will alert us the moment they see any danger.”
Ruma cackled, though she didn't know why. A gust of wind blew over, setting the ends of her veil fluttering. Instinctively, her fingers rose, wanting to hold tight. She paused, then pursing her lips, yanked the damn veil and brought it in front. The greyish-brown veil had once been made of pristine white cotton, a silver lace running along its hem, handiwork of supreme order. She scoffed, then released her grip. The veil fell from her fingers, but before the dusts could claim it, a gust got hold of it, set it sailing. One of her soldiers raised a cry. He would have rushed after had she not raised a hand to hold him back.
Up and over the veil flew. Then, unceremoniously, it crashed into the sand. Ruma waited, and waited, her horse trotting towards the hill. The veil never rose again. The winds were done with it. Before long, enough sand will have covered it to leave no sign of its existence. She tried imagining an archaeologist in the future coming upon it. What fantastic theories would he concoct? Even if he tried his fanciest, would he ever come remotely close to her tale? No, she decided. If he offered a story even half as imaginative, his staid colleagues would laugh it off.
She pulled on her reins, motioning the others to keep moving. She stared at the sands that had taken her symbol from her. Funnily enough, she was meant to be the Lady of these very sands. What an ironic way for those sands to now complete her humiliation.
She loosened her reins, allowing it to move to the hill. General Nodin and Gareeb and the priest were arguing over something. Gareeb said something to her, but she never heard it. As others dismounted, started pooling whatever provisions they had managed to escape with, she stayed on her horse, glaring at the sands. The shadows continued to stretch, her horse snorting, fanning its tail. Someone handed her a loaf of bread. She nodded, began chewing, feeling nothing. A skin of water was pressed into her hands. She raised it to her lips, finding no energy from the warm water.
A part of her longed for a miracle, urging the sands to shift, for the veil to sprout wings and rise, and soar, and fly back to her. Now that would be a true, undeniable sign of divine favour.
Nothing like that happened.
She dismounted at some point, sat down, her back turned to her group, still staring at the spot where her veil had fallen.
The winds died down, her shadows stretching and lengthening until it bled into the other shadows creeping forward. When she finally turned, having given up on ever seeing the veil again, she was the only one still awake.
Ruma blinked. Night had fallen, time rushing past without her once more. Her companions were snoring, their heads resting on saddles propped up as pillows, the animals tied together beside them. If there were scouts patrolling the nearby area, she couldn't see them. She rose gingerly, tried moving her feet. They refused to budge, almost as if the sands had claimed them as well. Grunting, she forced her left foot, then the right, grimacing as her body creaked. She stopped a couple of
paces from her men, her heartbeat so slow the fact surprised her more than scare her.
Ruma looked up. A part of her half-expected to see the contrails of a starship leaving Doonya’s gravity well. She saw nothing but the stars and the two moons watching her from their high perch.
“The Shard,” she whispered.
Tentatively, gingerly, she raised her right hand. Funny how her puny fingers looked larger than the stars, even the moons, from this distance. She moved her hand closer, covering with it Tarani, then Cian, then both together. She laughed. No one stirred. Distantly, memories of last night rose. The betrayal. How close she had been to death before the cannons had turned up. Her chat with Yasmeen.
“You give me permission to be with your Gulatu?” Ruma scoffed, shaking her head. “Who in the worlds are you anyway?”
Yasmeen didn't respond. Of course, she couldn't. Ruma would never get to meet her again, this much a part of her knew for certain.
She dropped her chin, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. Gareeb lay directly ahead, his long, delicate fingers curled neatly underneath his left cheek. Ruma came to a stop beside him, stared at him for a long while. Beside him, General Nodin lay sleeping. His mouth was open, a sliver of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. Ruma smiled. So, the famous mercenary general was human after all, just as mortal as the rest of them.
At the sound of a rattle, she whirled about, her heart jumping to her mouth. She’d heard of the night snakes even if she hadn’t really seen one. In the distance, a shadow moved. One of their scouts most probably.
Then, her eyes fell on Brother Krishan. The priest lay on his back, his chest moving gently, his blue stole folded neatly under his saddle.
“Priests!” Ruma sneered. Something stirred in her heart. She’d never really respected the priests, never had much cause to find commonality with them. In this world, even when they had supported her, that had only made her uncomfortable, and after Hadyan’s about-turn, she had every cause to hate the damned class. Yet, no matter how much she tried, she couldn't bring herself to loathe the gentle-mannered man directly overhead. For all his flaws and shortcomings, this man of God reminded her of man’s longing to connect with the divine, and of the holy man she had left behind—or the future, to be precise.