Lady of the Sands

by Fuad Baloch

  Not that it changed anything.

  She’d met the very prophet of this faith, and even he had failed in convincing her to believe in a Creator God. In all honesty, though, she had come closer to faith beside him, before events had taken that away from her for good.

  The nightmare rose. Galaxies swirling around each other, birthing stars even as she stood and watched them all. Matter forming from nothing, time a plaything in her hands as entire worlds rose, evolved, decayed, got destroyed.

  Ruma shivered, remembering the other being who was always with her. One not God, but almost as powerful. A tremble crept into her fingers. She slapped her right thigh, shook her head.

  “You there?” she whispered.

  “Huh?” answered Sivan, one hand motioning her to fall silent.

  The bells were still peeling outside. Not something she cared much for. “Are you?”

  Sivan narrowed his eyes but thankfully didn’t object. Good. The last thing she wanted was to get into an argument with someone whose sister had just tried seducing her as she waited to hear from the Pithrean who had landed her in this mess in the first place.

  She groaned as she saw Yenita approach her again in her mind, the flimsy tunic falling away to leave her fully naked.

  Focus, focus! Ruma inhaled a deep lungful of the stale air in the room. The bells had fallen silent now, the conversations resuming once more.

  Facts were the only allies she had. What did she know, then? It was noon. She had been captured by the very men she’d tried punching her way through. The men owed their allegiances to the Blessed Mother—Yasmeen, Gulatu’s wife. A civil war was brewing between those that followed Yasmeen and those who followed Bubraza, Turbaza’s niece.

  And oh, on the sidelines of it all, armies from the Vanico Empire were allegedly roaming the peninsula, seeking booty and destruction of their neighbours.

  And if that wasn’t all, there was this fracking prophecy business that had got everyone up in twists. Again, useless thoughts rose. Would anything change once the prophecy was out in the open?

  None of that mattered. All she knew and realised was that she was just as helpless now as she had been the day she’d opened her eyes and found herself here.

  “What’re you thinking?” asked Sivan, his voice hoarse.

  Ruma sighed. They might be siblings, but Sivan seemed to share none of his sister’s exuberance or courage. A shame, as Ruma could have done with a more capable partner in this moment.

  “There is every chance the Blessed will end up striking a truce with Bubraza’s armies,” continued Sivan. “Or so they were saying on the square before… before…”

  Ruma dozed away, her attention drawn by the dull pain pressing against her temples. The First was there, stretching his limbs like a baby might in one’s womb.

  “Hey, you there?” she tried again, poking at her temple. “If you are, and can watch all this and are bloody stuck with me as I think you are, this might be the time to chime in with something useful.”

  She waited.

  And waited.

  “Curse you!” Exhaling, she rose to her feet. Whether or not the alien could help, a simple reply could have sufficed. Nothing stopping one from displaying good manners.

  But no, the First would only talk when he fracking damned pleased.

  He was going to pay for that.

  “Ruma,” came Sivan’s voice, high, a slight tremor in it now. “What are you thinking?”

  Truth was, she wasn’t really doing much of that. Merely stewing, overwhelmed by waves of anger, helplessness, and the overriding urge to be moving. A lifetime of action wasn’t that hard to shirk when she was shoved into a backward world, one that now comprised the flimsy canvas walls of this tent.

  The boy shouted again. Boots scrunched outside. A sharp voice snapped, followed by another man’s deep reply. Ruma half ran to the entrance, casting her head about. Except for a threadbare carpet they stood on, the tent carried nothing of value. Not even a utensil or furnishings she could grab.

  She still had her fists, though. Exhaling, she turned her head towards Sivan. “Come over and stand at the other end. When the first man enters, pounce on him. I’ll cover our backs.”

  Sivan shook his head, crawled backwards. “No! What are—”

  “Oh, for Alf’s sake, get your ass over here,” she hissed.

  The young man began shaking his head, met her eyes, then dropped his head.

  Ruma exhaled. She was on her own, then. That was alright as far as she was concerned. Wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.

  Again, voices rose outside the tent. Much closer this time. Taking in a deep lungful of air, she dropped into a half crouch, filling her body with tension.

  “Don’t…” whispered Sivan. “The truce—”

  Just as Ruma narrowed her eyes, the flap rose. A tall, balding man entered the tent. Ruma pounced on him. The man straggled forwards as the first kick met him on the back.

  “What—”

  Taking a step forwards, she round kicked him, aiming her heel towards his neck. He jutted out a hand at the last instant, winced as her foot struck his hand with a thwack.

  “Halt, you—”

  Snarling, Ruma dropped to a crouch, kicked him in the kneecaps, hoping to take him down. This time, the fanatic couldn’t keep her away. He fell with a shout.

  Ruma stood up. Blood and adrenaline coursed through her veins. These men were better fighters than the ones she’d sparred with, but she was still better.

  Careful. Ruma shook her head but couldn’t quieten the voice of caution—that annoying, high-pitched warning that had started becoming stronger in the past few months.

  “Ruma!” screamed Sivan. Ruma blinked. The young man stood a pace to the right. His eyes were wide, one hand raised and shaking, pointing at someone behind her.

  Ruma turned around. Not quickly enough.

  A crack sounded and her cheeks burned. The second man who had snuck in raised his hand again, readying yet another slap.

  “No one does that!” she hissed. Before the man had a chance to process her words, she ducked, rolled. The moment she was past him, she got up into a half-seated position and threw a punch at his balls.

  He dodged, her fingers brushing past his thick thigh as he turned around.

  Ruma took in a sharp breath of air and rose. Only a stupid infantry grunt continued fighting a battle he couldn’t win. It was time for her to leave. She rushed over to the flap.

  “Halt, or I crack his neck!”

  Ruma turned around to her left. The first Blessed soldier had recovered and now stood with an arm around Sivan’s neck as he squirmed.

  “Let him go!”

  “Hands up and walk over to the side, you foreign bitch,” snapped the soldier.

  “Is this really how you talk to women when you’re angry?” she goaded. “What happened to watching one’s tongue, especially when in the grip of emotions?”

  “S-shut up!”

  The second soldier took a step forwards. When he spoke, the words were cold. “Step to the side.”

  “Let him go,” she said, biting her lower lip. Then she shrugged. “Or not. He is no one to me. Do as you will.”

  “I am not going to ask you again,” growled the first soldier. He dug into his tunic, fished out a dagger, pressed it against Sivan’s ribs. “Make one false move, and he gets hurt.”

  “None of my concern,” she said, rearing to turn around and run away. Every moment she stood there, precious time leaked away. She had to leave. Now. Truthfully, Sivan meant nothing to her. Just someone she had travelled with for a few days across the desert. Whatever they did to him would not be her responsibility.

  Right?

  Her heart beat strong in her chest. Was it possible the man was merely bluffing? Was this what the Pithrean wanted from her? Was she making things better or worse in her haste to find a way out? Ruma weighed her options. Then, forcing a false smile on her face, she shrugged off the worries she co
uldn’t do a great deal about and began turning around.

  A piercing shriek rose. Ruma whipped her head around. Sivan squirmed on the ground, both hands pressing hard into his sides, blood beginning to seep through the fingers.

  “You… You actually fracking stabbed him!”

  The soldier crouched beside Sivan, the bloody dagger dangling from his hand. “Say one more word and see what happens.”

  Ruma exhaled, felt her shoulders slump. She was beaten. A lifetime ago, she would have walked off, but either the passage of time or knowing Gulatu had changed her. Gone was the carefree, reckless girl she had known intimately, replaced by someone she hardly recognised. “Very well.”

  The second soldier marched towards her, the bearded face a mask of restrained rage. “Walk over there”—he pointed at the opposite end—“and sit down.”

  Casting a baleful glance at the man who had stabbed Sivan, Ruma trudged to the spot.

  “Sit.”

  She did.

  The first soldier rose, stepped past the still writhing Sivan. “What are we going to do with her?”

  The second soldier spread his hands. “Had the truce not been struck mere hours ago, she was fair game.”

  Fair game? Ruma felt a wave of revulsion wash over. Was that the term these men used for women they ended up making their concubines? Well, they could try and see what ended up happening to their private parts.

  “She hit me!”

  The other soldier nodded. “Best to take her to the Blessed Mother. Have her judge her fate.”

  Ruma’s ears perked up.

  “Are you sure, Poalon?”

  Her heart thudded against her chest, the sound so loud she was certain they could hear.

  Yasmeen was here.

  The Blessed Mother.

  Gulatu’s wife. Were they really talking of taking her to meet her? Another terrifying idea rose from the abyss. All her recent actions… had they been guided by the Pithrean to get her to meet Yasmeen? If so, why? What did the bastard really want from her?

  “Aye.”

  Fourteen

  Meeting History

  The sun outside was harsh, bright enough to blind Ruma for a couple of seconds. She heard the man shout at someone, ask him to send word he was approaching with a prisoner.

  “Move!”

  Offering a sardonic smile, Ruma began dragging her feet. A makeshift town had risen over shifting sands, its stench heavy, almost gelatinous. A breeze blew over from what must have been the open latrines, and Ruma gagged.

  Not wanting to show weakness, Ruma didn’t slow down, her eyes darting about. The tents were pitched a little too far away from each other, the number of soldiers milling about not as many as she’d assumed. No more than a thousand Blessed warriors, she estimated, staggered to give the illusion of more from a distance.

  The Blessed with the cold voice pushed her. “Move quicker!”

  Ruma turned her head to the side, stuck out her tongue. A petulant response, but the only one that leapt immediately to her mind. That earned a shake of the head.

  “Women!”

  Anger flared in Ruma. “You follow a woman and still think of them as your inferiors. How do you justify that?”

  “The Blessed Mother is the prophet’s wife,” declared the soldier as if that explained everything.

  “So she’s a robot instead of a human?” she asked sarcastically.

  “A… what?”

  Ruma rolled her eyes, exhaled. She had to watch her tongue.

  Then, shaking her head, she concentrated on the path ahead. The Blessed looked like an eclectic bunch—old men, their white beards fluttering in the wind, younger ones with serious acne issues, and a few weathered faces that would have been right at home in the Arkos Special Forces. As they passed, the warriors looked up from the weapons they were tending to watch her.

  Ruma braced herself for a verbal onslaught, a dousing that the victors often showered on the vanquished. What did they know she had done? How terrible would they be to her?

  Though the men did talk whilst looking at her, their fingers raised, no one called out at her, their eyes soon returning to their chores.

  “What’s going on?” she asked the warrior beside her. “Is this to prepare against the Vanico armies?”

  “The blasphemers’ forces are two days’ march from here.”

  “Hmm,” she responded, racking her mind. If not the Vanico armies, then it had to be Bubraza. But hadn’t they announced a truce recently? If so, why did the campsite resemble an army gearing up for a major battle? “Hey, why did you attack this little town anyway?”

  “None of your concern.”

  Ruma gritted her teeth. Then again, the man was right. Whatever happened in this blasted world had little to do with her.

  Someone screamed at her left. Ruma whipped her head towards the source. A boy, no more than twelve, lay on the ground, his limbs pinned down by two burly warriors, a third standing with a saw in his hand, the cruel instrument hanging over the boy’s arm which pumped blood.

  “Hey, stop that!” Ruma shouted. She would have run over to them had the warrior beside her not grabbed her by the arm.

  “Who’s she?” growled the man with the saw. He was a middle-aged man, his grey hair wispy and long. He wore a cloth apron over his abdomen, almost as if he was a chef preparing a meal.

  The boy screamed once more, his little body thrashing underneath the men.

  “Let him go!” Ruma snarled. She yanked herself free, then placed both hands on her hips and glared at them.

  “He will die,” hissed the warrior beside him. “Can’t you see?”

  “See what?” said Ruma, even as realisation bloomed within her. Flies buzzed over the wound. Infection had set in. Stuff easily curable with antibiotics. Heck, even basic plant-based medicine would have helped the boy.

  “If she can’t see it,” said the warrior with the saw, one who passed as a medic in this age, “turn her face away.”

  Ruma didn’t turn away, ignored the arm that pulled her once more. Her eyes fell on the thrashing figure of the boy who would be amputated for want of basic wound care that even she could provide.

  The surgeon knelt, the saw inching closer to the boy’s arm, and the boy let out another scream.

  She could stop it. She had enough basic medical knowledge to help him, save his arm.

  At what cost, though? How would these barbarians react if they realised she possessed knowledge far beyond anything they’d known?

  What would that do to her plans of leaving the world, biding her time incognito? Then again, hadn’t she already tainted timelines by not turning her back to the world and slinking away like a true hermit?

  Before the saw would make contact with the flesh, Ruma turned away. “Lead on!”

  The boy’s long, fearful scream became a series of shrieks. No one seemed to pay the boy any attention. Nor did she, outwardly, even as she felt her very centre shake in the moment.

  What had held her back, stopped her from rushing ahead? This new-found pragmatism was still a foreign concept to her heart, even as her mind continued to push for it. How many more times would she be able to curb her natural instincts, not do what she should have?

  They passed another dozen cook pots being attended to by rotund Blessed warriors. The same onion-based soup she had seen in both Salodia and the tavern before. Ruma raised her head, and her eyes found the emblem of the prophet flying atop a large tent. A red Scythe on a sea of white. Her heart thudding, Ruma swallowed.

  “Alf be praised,” said the man beside her, his eyes watching the flag as well, then rising towards the heavens in the manner she’d seen Gulatu do a million times. The prophet might have been dead for a decade, but in a way, he continued to live on in the actions of all these men and women imitating him.

  Gulatu had changed this world. And hers.

  She’d seen his second attempt. Was it fate that wanted her to witness the aftermath of his first mission as well?
>
  A nervous anxiety settled in the pit of her stomach as they now walked past a train of middle-aged men dressed in white tunics and conical hats. Priests of the Alfi faith. A whole class of preachers that the Gulatu she knew had derided.

  The real object of her worry wasn’t the priests, though, and even if she let her mind continue to try and divert her attention, it wouldn’t really stop what she had to face.

  Steeling her resolve, Ruma forced her eyes at the large tent in front. Inside sat the woman Gulatu had loved enough to have married. Something Ruma had never been offered. Something even Tasina might not have received.

  A sea of emotions, complex, far too weighty and twisted, rose within her. What did she really feel for Gulatu? Love? Fury? A mixture of them and more she hadn’t had discovered yet? A strand of jealous hatred rose, one she could easily identify, one reserved for all the women who’d always had a stronger pull on him than her.

  Someone like the woman in the tent beyond.

  “Is she the prisoner?” came a clipped, refined voice. Shaken from her reverie, Ruma turned her chin up. A dark-skinned man, dressed in priestly garb, his thick and pudgy nose hanging over a patchy beard, looked her up and down as one might examine a battered frigate at an auction.

  “She is, Brother Hadyan,” replied her captor.

  “Follow me, foreigner,” said Brother Hadyan, turning around.

  Ruma didn’t. She raised her finger at the warrior. “I’m not going anywhere until you confirm my companion is being treated.”

  The Blessed grunted and narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Hadyan, turning around, his narrow features scrunching.

  “This one,” said Ruma, “and his mate stabbed an innocent man out of fear that I would skewer them.”

  “Lies!” growled the Blessed. “Pure and filthy.”

  “I don’t care,” replied Ruma hotly. “I am going to get your mate for what he did to Sivan.”