by Fuad Baloch
She rubbed her hands, her heart aching for work she would occasionally curse as being too boring and mundane. What would she not give to get back to that life now? Was it too much to have hoped this town would have had at least one merchant peddling metals, one blacksmith who hadn’t already been snatched by this or that army?
“The truce is not going to last,” said a thick voice beside her. Ruma turned her head. The speaker was a middle-aged man, his back bent, a tall black hat over greasy orange hair, thick rings adorning the fingers. “They think prophecies have some mystical power to make men and women forget all past hostility.”
Ruma frowned. Something about the man was familiar. The accent was unfamiliar to her, yet she felt she’d heard it before. “Is that right?”
The man laughed. “This old saint has lived too long and knows that to be true.” He focussed his large black eyes on her. Ruma met them squarely. A deep chill ran down her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. She swallowed, alarmed at the sudden urge in her mind to scream. Her body seemed to be shouting that the man was dangerous. Yet shaded by the palm tree, ignored by the passers-by more interested in her than him, he seemed normal. “He still needs you!”
Ruma forced an exhale. “Who?”
“The prophet.”
She blinked, then shook her head slightly. “What do you mean… the prophet?”
“He needs you. You are still of use to him and his mission.”
Ruma narrowed her eyes. She didn’t recall the man in any ship she’d served on. But was it possible that whatever had deposited her into this world had afflicted him as well? “Are you… from Egania?”
She had expected a denial. Or surprise. The man who called himself a saint smiled. “I am of the worlds, my dear girl. You watch yourself.”
He turned around and began walking away, leaning heavily on the cane.
“Wait!” she shouted.
The old man didn’t reply.
Ruma gritted her teeth and made to run after him when shouting broke out behind her.
“Bandits!”
“No, soldiers!”
Screams followed. Ruma wheeled around. The street was in a state of mayhem, the soldiers shouting at each other, the women squealing, the men shoving others out of their way.
“We’re surrounded!” came a shriek.
“To arms!” bellowed one of the guards close to Ruma. “Every able man, arm up!”
Ruma heaved a sigh. What was it with her and the ability to draw battles everywhere she ended up? This wasn’t her battle, though. Something she needed to remember. But one she couldn’t get stuck in. Spying a soldier handing out swords, she marched towards him, her hand outstretched.
Twelve
Easy Decisions
Ruma saw the first soldier burst through the alley separating a warehouse from the town’s largest Alfi temple. He was a young man, his puffed-up cheeks still beardless, the horse underneath him lathered, a curved sword in one hand. As he turned his horse around, the red Scythe painted onto the white of his breastplate caught the brilliant sunlight.
Ruma turned around, her hand gripping the sword tight, in no mood to get involved into matters that had nothing to do with her. Cries drifted up all around. The governor’s soldiers, dressed in brown, clashed with the invaders, a tangle of limbs and flashing swords. Which side used the red Scythe—the Traditionalists or Blessed?
She shook her head, then broke into a run. What did she care?
Spying more soldiers gathering up ahead, she turned left into a winding narrow alley. She needed to get out of town, ensure she didn’t get caught up in the petty affairs of this world. Thoughts rushing through her mind, her lungs burning, Ruma emerged into a plaza.
Gasping for air, she looked around. She’d hoped the blasted alley would carry her away from the mayhem, not deposit her in yet another flashpoint. A small contingent of the governor’s soldiers was mounting ahead, their leader shouting at them to hurry up.
Think! Forcing herself to a complete stop, she took stock of her surroundings. All she had was a sword she didn’t really know how to use. And for all their cries of righteous anger, the governor’s men appeared outmatched by the attackers.
She had to leave the town, but if the attackers were worth their salt, they would have blocked all means of egress from the town. That was what she would have done in their place, after all.
What else, though? Ruma scowled, cast her eyes left and right. No frigates to fly out with. No fast-moving vehicles she could commandeer. Not even a river she could use to mask her escape.
Shouting broke out ahead. A dozen of the invaders had emerged from one of the alleys, flanked by three archers who unloosed their bolts on the governor’s mounted soldiers.
Before Ruma had time to process the scene, a rough voice barked behind her, “Come here!”
Ruma whipped around, thrusting the sword out in front. The young soldier she had seen before sat casually in his saddle, the horse snorting. He smiled, beckoned her forwards with a hand. Ruma arched an eyebrow. Had he followed her? “I’m… a nobody,” she shouted back. “A foreigner. Let me go!”
“Let you go?” he asked, forcing a gruffness in his voice he might have thought made him sound authoritative. “Not until you recite to me the basic tenets of the faith.”
Ruma blinked, taken aback by the sheer absurdity of the question. She laughed, waved her spare arm about. “Really, that is what determines what you do with me?” She felt scorn drip into her voice. “Your fellow believers live in this town. All those who call Alf their God. But no, you’d rather break all that doesn’t bend your way!”
His face reddened. “Foreigner, do not blaspheme by judging the true believers, the Blessed, alongside all those who corrupt the faith. Recite the tenets of the true faith or meet the consequences ordained by Alf!”
From the corner of her eye, Ruma saw the last of the governor’s men go down. The young man didn’t budge, staring at her, waiting for her answer. She felt something give way in her heart. Not only did she look different than the others, but her mind also failed to reconcile the idea of a faith requiring all others to submit to it. That, more than anything else, made her feel like a true foreigner.
“You’re a woman,” continued the soldier, “and so I will ask you one last time.”
“Or what?” she snarled.
The young man hissed, clicked his heels together. The horse began moving towards her.
Ruma took a step back, raising the sword in front of her. “Why are you even here?” she asked, hoping to distract the man. “I thought this was neutral territory. A place of rest for both Traditionalists and you lot, the Blessed!”
“The blasphemers’ proposal hasn’t been accepted by the Blessed Mother yet.”
The Blessed Mother? That was Yasmeen. Another thought bubbled up in her mind. Why did no one call her the Lady that Ruma would have expected?
Ruma retreated, her eyes casting about for any opportunity. Why did she keep getting shafted by politics and religion everywhere? Then she raised her chin. “Hey, I’m a woman, aren’t I? You’re not allowed to lay a hand on one you don’t know. How about you back away before I report your attitude to your fracking leaders?”
She hadn’t expected much from the tirade. But the man who’d seemed unfazed by his twisted theology or visiting violence upon the innocent actually paused to consider her words. He nodded, then raised a hand to someone behind her. “Riyasat!” he bellowed. “Send one of the female believers to take this one into custody.”
“What would you even do to me?” asked Ruma.
The soldier turned towards her angrily. “You’re a foreigner, ignorant of the truth. We will teach you the Blessed ways of the prophet and all the righteous who follow in his footsteps.”
“Don’t have time for all that crap,” she muttered. “Hey, call off your dogs or it’s going to get messy!”
The soldier scoffed, raised his hand once more, oblivious to the grave threat he w
as placing himself in. “Riyasat, did you hear me?”
Time was slipping from her grasp.
Ruma craned her neck back. Though the Blessed soldiers swarmed the streets, skewering any governor’s soldier they came upon, by and large they seemed to be letting the civilians go unharmed. She groaned. Maybe she should have tried making it out without grabbing a sword first and drawing attention.
“That’s the only inheritance my husband left behind for my children!” shrieked a woman to her left. Ruma turned. A middle-aged woman with a boil on her cheek was pulling a Blessed soldier by the arm, who in turn carried an iron trunk.
“Alf is the real treasure, Mzi,” replied the soldier, his voice solemn, respectful.
“But—”
“He will replenish tomorrow all you lose today in His name.”
Ruma shook her head at the paradox of these believers who pillaged but did so with an apologetic shrug and, when rebuked, replied with prayers. Was that the legacy Gulatu had left behind? Roving bands of lunatics and fanatics who preyed on the sinew of their fellow believers?
“Riyasat!”
Ruma snapped out of her musings. She now realised she shouldn’t have picked up the sword. That had made her a target. But it was too late to have regrets. She darted her head to the alley to her left. Swarming with the Blessed. She cursed, then turned towards the soldier, the only person standing between her and the empty alley.
“Let me go!” she shouted.
If he heard her, the soldier didn’t turn away.
She licked her lips. She had no idea what would happen to her once she got passed over to Riyasat and his kind. How long before they were convinced she had converted suitably? More time wasted that she could put to better use.
Exhaling, she broke into a run, raising the sword high. “Get out of my way!” she warned, waving it about.
The young man heard her this time despite the hubbub. He snorted with derision, moved his horse about to block her way.
Undeterred, Ruma didn’t slow down, pointing the sharp end at the rider.
Someone shouted behind her, followed by thundering hooves. The rider’s horse snorted, then raised its front legs. The rider shouted in surprise, the reins falling from his grip.
Ruma blinked, tried moving out of his fall.
Too slow.
The soldier fell from his saddle, onto her sword, skewering himself in the belly, sliding all the way until he hit the hilt, the momentum pushing her down, pinning her underneath him. Warm blood soaked through her tunic, still wet from the time she’d left Yenita behind. She gasped, heard the bubbling, choking sounds from the dying man’s mouth.
Terror rising in her gut, she pushed the soldier off to a side, rose unsteadily, not realising she had pulled the sword out, leaving blood spurting in its wake.
Shouts broke out behind her.
Her fight or flee response kicked in. She bolted. Curse it all!
Luckily, the alley was empty as she ran through the dusty path. A young boy peeked outside a window, shrieked at the bloody sword clutched in her hand. Ruma shook her head, blood pounding in her temples, her lungs burning. She should have left the sword in the soldier instead of carrying it around like a fracking trophy.
More shouts came behind her and she redoubled her effort. Priorities. That was what she needed to do. Get out of this hell-hole, find a place to hunker down, get to Fanima, gather the materials she needed, get working on the radio, contact someone, anyone out there she could reach out to.
Again, the nagging voice rose. How bad could things get if she ended up drawing the eye of aliens who hadn’t yet made contact with humans?
Then again, hadn’t she already got a fracking Pithrean riding shotgun with her, watching everything she did? No, whether she liked it or not, she had already contaminated this world. The sooner she got out of here, the lesser the chance of causing something that might reverberate over the millennia.
Ruma took a turn, then another. What had seemed a straightforward path before seemed to have become a labyrinth with no real discernible pattern. Yet in a way, it felt good to sprint like this, leaving little room for the worries and concerns that had been plaguing her for so long.
“Stop her!” came a shout behind her.
“Halt!”
Gritting her teeth, Ruma continued to pump her feet forwards. The alley rounded and she took the bend without stopping. For half a breath, she considered throwing the sword to the side, taking any advantage to increase her speed. Thoughts of coming across another fanatic baying for her blood as she stood defenceless quickly allayed them.
Another bend came and she turned without slowing.
“Halt!” came another command, this time from the front.
The front? Ruma raised her chin. “Alf damn you all!”
Two Blessed fanatics, their long beards fluttering in the wind, their armour glinting under the sun, blocked the alley’s exit to the road beyond. Still not slowing, she cocked her head to the side. Just the two soldiers. If she could run past them, she would be out on the road that led out of the city, if memory served her right.
Just her and the vast sands of Ghal then.
“Stop her!” shouted the burlier of the two, stepping to his left to block her way. The other nodded, unbuckled the sword tied to his waist.
Groaning, Ruma slowed down, brandished the sword in front. “I’m… just a traveller. Lost… and—”
“Drop the sword and stand still.”
“Me?” She arched an eyebrow, still walking towards the burly soldier. Fat men always had an exaggerated sense of how well they moved, something she could use to her advantage. “I’m just a woman.”
“So is the Blessed Mother,” replied the lankier of the two. Then he shouted, “Be careful—”
Ruma lunged forwards, thrusting the sword towards the burly fanatic. She had the element of surprise—no man in this world would have likely expected a woman to attack him first—but the blood on her sword had dulled the overall effect somewhat.
The man grunted, side-stepped her attack. He dragged out his sword, easily blocked her next swipe with a casual flick.
“I do not fight women,” he growled. “Cease!”
“What will you do to me?” she shouted back. “One of your men… attacked me, wanted to… rape me! I… barely ran away.” Without waiting for a reply, she lunged once more. He deflected it, too.
“If it is as how you say, justice will be accorded to you. Such is the way Alf demands.”
Ruma licked her lips, a part of her wondering whether it would be wise to go down the diplomatic route. More than likely, she had left behind no witnesses and they might buy her story as a distant traveller disoriented in the mix of their politics.
The burly man turned towards his companion. “What?”
Ruma leapt forwards, punched him in the belly. She followed with a round kick, landing her heel squarely on his bearded cheek.
“Oww!” the soldier wailed, straggling backwards. Smiling, Ruma pulled back her fist, took in a deep lungful of air.
Something dense and heavy smashed against her skull and she went down like a rag doll, the world falling dark an instant before the pain could take her.
Thirteen
The Return
Consciousness returned with a rush.
Ruma gasped, opened her eyes. She couldn’t see the sky, her view blocked by a sheet of rough cotton. Panic rose within her even as pain throbbed at the base of her skull.
She had been attacked. The other guard, one not versed in matters of chivalry, had struck her from the back. Stupid of her to discount an enemy so easily.
“Curse them all,” she croaked, trying to prop herself up.
“You’re hurt,” came a voice. Familiar.
“Sivan!”
Her erstwhile employer sat beside her, knees pulled up to the chest, arms crossed over them. Sivan raised his head, offered a sad smile. “We meet again.”
“What… happened?” she asked,
looking around. A tent of some sort, the only entrance blocked by a thick flap. Silhouettes moved outside, indistinct voices floating over. Someone shouted. A boy, she thought.
He shrugged. “They are rounding up all foreign traders. Some pretence of not having had the right permits issued by the Blessed authorities.”
“The bastards,” she declared, then spat to the side. “Pious bandits.” Though she still didn’t know the extent of the differences between the two factions beyond their leaders, she knew what she didn’t like—those who preyed on the weak.
“Shh!” he said, holding up a finger to his lips. “Watch what you say.”
“Or what, they will strike me again?”
Sivan opened his jaw, then let it hang for a beat. “You’re a brave woman. Braver than any I’ve ever met. But keep talking like this, and the Blessed Mother’s men aren’t going to be too pleased.”
“Like I care,” she drawled, rubbing a hand over her head. Her fingers met an angry bump. Shards of pain radiated and she withdrew the fingers. “They are going to pay for what they did to me.”
“Did they find you at the square as well?” asked Sivan.
“Not quite,” she said. The question gave her pause. Did he know why she had left them? What his sister had tried? Ruma shook her head, forced her mind to focus on more important matters. What did the Blessed know about her? Had they put two and two together and realised she had killed one of their men—even if unintentionally? Or would they be punishing her for attempting to strike at the other two where she had failed?
A loud bell peeled outside. The other voices fell silent.
“What—”
Sivan shook his head, pointed his fingers up. She followed the direction, not getting what he was trying to say. Was there something about the roof that—
Prayers. The noon prayers the Alfi believers carried out every day. She’d heard these bells before, of course, back when she was a young girl and Mother would sometimes take her to a temple. The timbre was different, somehow more raw, organic.
