Lady of the Sands

by Fuad Baloch

  “Ruma,” she corrected automatically, then shook her head absentmindedly. “Our people have found… other ways to keep a restless soul occupied.”

  “Wise,” agreed Gareeb, “to keep that energy diverted but not completely extinguished for when the time comes.”

  “When the time comes…” she muttered, taken aback by the depth in the younger man’s words.

  The audience was cheering now. One by one, the players were peeling off like the outer layers of an onion. In the end, only one would remain. The victor. The one who had clutched the ball, dared the wrath of both opponents and lecherous members of his own team, and yet survived.

  One they’d honour tonight before forgetting him for tomorrow’s victor.

  “When we win the war,” continued Gareeb, his words hard to make out over all the cheering, “I might travel. Always wanted to explore the world, you know. And then”—he chuckled—“might come back to start a family as Mother wants.”

  Ruma kept quiet. Who did she have to go back to? No family. No loved one with whom she didn’t have serious issues that needed resolving. No kids. Nothing that really tied her to the world she had always thought as hers. Just a cog in the giant machine. One that had lubricated ship engines as much as being the lubricating agent herself.

  “What if I tell you,” said Ruma, “that even if you—we—still win the war, the Blessed and their ideology would continue to live on?”

  He laughed, then stepped forwards. “Impossible. We will root them out.” Ruma straightened, but the younger man began walking towards the man who now stood in the centre of the brawl.

  Ruma sighed, rose, walked over to the latrines they had dug to the sides, grumbling as she smelled the onion soup in the air.

  Maybe, if she was lucky, she’d have a dreamless sleep tonight.

  Twenty-Five

  Best Laid Plans

  Ruma held up a hand, blood running like hot lead in her veins.

  A useless gesture considering the other two thousand warriors not under her command continued to inch forwards, pointedly ignoring orders shouted from their commanders, their blood lust awakening at the sight of enemy. At the Vanico soldiers rampaging through an Andussian town full of believers.

  But at least her men listened.

  “Mzi—” protested Gareeb.

  “Hush! Stay right here,” she barked, and he fell silent. She cast one final look at the distant enemy, the source of all this excitement after days of uneventful riding.

  Then Ruma spurred her horse, thankful that the damned beast didn’t get as excited as men, and began making her path sideways through the throng. The men were howling, shrieking, in no mood to make way for her. But her shrill, high voice managed to cut through the din as she finally made it through to the generals.

  “—attack now and—” an excited officer was shouting at General Thallim, one arm pointed at the enemy forces ahead.

  “Nonsense. The prophet would never have—” interrupted another captain, his conical hat set at a precarious angle.

  Ignoring them and others trying equally hard to make their voices clear, Ruma headed directly towards the two generals Bubraza had left this army with: Thallim and Urnal.

  The older general didn’t know much about battles—one largely relegated to the role of quartermaster—but his higher social status had meant his was the titular command, not that of the shorter general, who sat in his saddle and grimaced beside him.

  Thallim was scratching his beard, nodding his head absentmindedly as Urnal grunted something. The younger officers beside them continued to shriek excitedly, offering tactics and strategies neither of the generals paid much attention to.

  “Generals,” Ruma barked when she was finally in earshot.

  “Y-you…” said Thallim, his nervous eyes darting over to her before retreating to the distant dots surrounding the oasis town a mile away.

  “—and they would never know,” said Urnal. “Time is of the essence. We need to attack now. Seize the initiative. The Uniter would want us to secure a major victory. Nothing better than that to rout out the misguided and then the Vanico infidels in one go.”

  Ruma sucked through her teeth. Was he supposed to be the more experienced general? Could he not see they were outnumbered three to one, even if the enemy was momentarily distracted by the looting they were carrying out in the town.

  “But their numbers…” said Thallim, echoing Ruma’s concerns.

  “One of us is equal to ten of them, Mza,” said Urnal. He pulled out the curved sword from the scabbard tied to his harness with a flourish and jabbed the sky. “Alf watches over us. We fight in the name of His messenger, for the protection of His believers, and will triumph.”

  “Don’t attack them!” said Ruma, urging her horse forwards. “Your men are not only outnumbered but less experienced as well.”

  “Girl,” snarled Urnal, finally turning his beady eyes towards her. “You know nothing about—”

  “Mzi has led more than a hundred battles in her life before joining our righteous cause,” came a young voice. Ruma rolled her eyes, bit down on the anger that rose within her chest. Despite her explicit instruction, the damned boy hadn’t stayed away, hadn’t honoured his promise not to share some of the tales she had ended up divulging to pass all that dead time riding through the desert. “We should listen to her.”

  Thallim chewed on his lower lip, appearing torn by indecision.

  “There’s a third way,” said Ruma before Gareeb would say anything more. “Attack them—but from a hundred different directions.”

  Urnal scoffed. “She argues for pinpricks instead of the righteous hammer!”

  “Fracking useful against a larger force, these pinpricks,” said Ruma. She exhaled, forcing her voice to remain calm yet remaining loud. “I do know what I am talking about.”

  Urnal held up a hand. “Mza Thallim, give the order and I will lead the believers personally.”

  “And you will lose,” added Ruma.

  Relative silence had fallen around them, the other officers staring open-mouthed at the woman who dared to contradict their general in full view. Ruma shook her head. They followed a woman, but every other fracking time they seemed most happy to forget the fact.

  “Mza Thallim…” said Urnal once more, his voice falling dangerously low. “Are you really going to watch the infidels despoil the families of believers?”

  Thallim’s shoulders slumped. Ruma opened her mouth, shocked by the general’s short-sightedness—their scouts hadn’t even returned yet with the composition of the enemy forces—but the older general nodded before she could say anything.

  “Ready the charge!” bellowed Urnal, turning his horse around. “Archers, to the back. Infantry, ready your ranks. Cavalry, to me. To me!”

  Just like that, all the arguments Ruma had thought of and that were bubbling in her mind became moot. Shouts and commands and grunts met Urnal’s orders. Soldiers tired from all the travel cheered at the prospect of spilling blood in the name of Alf.

  A religious battle was about to ensue.

  One with her in the middle of it.

  “Mzi,” shouted Gareeb, touching her gently on the shoulder amidst the clamour. “What are your orders?”

  “My orders?” she scoffed. What choice did she have? As much as she disagreed with Urnal’s methods, there wasn’t much to fault his motivation. After Fanima, she wouldn’t walk away when there was a chance she might be able to make a difference. Maybe that was what the general felt as well. Maybe he wanted to give his men a target to cut their teeth on. And an enemy that was momentarily distracted, even if greater in strength, proved a good enough target.

  None of that meant she had to follow the foolish men.

  “We peel away from the main host!”

  “Ah,” said Gareeb, his grin beginning to fade. The youthful face reddened as war trumpets began to blare. Ruma clenched her fists, squeezed her eyes for a second. Well, if there was any chance of striking the enemy by
surprise, that chance went down the drain. “You want us to remain here.”

  Ruma blinked. “No, you fracking idiot.” She grimaced as more trumpets sounded. Was there no end to their stupidity? “We will kill as many as we can, fighting my way.” Even if that wouldn’t change the end result much. Ruma clenched her teeth, spurred her horse towards her dozen.

  Already, the infantry were marching towards the besieged town, chanting, singing verses from the holy scriptures, their chests filled with fervour and righteous fury.

  Fools marching to their own deaths.

  “Gareeb.” She motioned for the younger man to lean in as she rode. “We will fight. But when the time comes for difficult choices, can I count on you to follow me?”

  “Of course I will, Mzi.”

  Time will tell.

  Ruma inhaled, then pulled up in front of her men. They were young, new recruits the lot of them, their faces eager and afraid in equal measures, their eyes falling over to the rest of the host peeling away.

  A sorry lot, but one with the highest probability of surviving. Well, them and General Thallim, who stood beside the supply train, assuming the command position from a height.

  “Men, not much to say!” she shouted, knowing words wouldn’t do much at this stage anyway. “Just follow me. And attack only when I say so! Got it?”

  “Aye, Mzi!” they shouted back.

  Ruma glanced over her shoulder. As she had expected, the enemy was lining up to face their main host now. More would pull out from the city soon, strengthening the lines. Numbers that would seal the fate for Urnal’s tactic.

  The Vanico soldiers sounded their trumpets. Mournful, almost sounding like a dirge. Undeterred, the believers continued to march ahead, their chanting fuelling the fury in their chests.

  “Charge!” she heard someone shout. A command so foolish not even Urnal, travelling at the head of their host, would have sanctioned.

  Not that it mattered. Others picked it up. “Charge! Charge!”

  The cavalry broke away from the host, the infantrymen breaking into a mighty charge, a hundred pennants with the white Scythes fluttering proudly under the midday sun. In the middle of them all, Ruma spied Urnal, flanked by heavy cavalry, joining the charge.

  “Foolish, the lot of you!” she muttered.

  “Mzi—” she heard one of her dozen men protest. She didn’t turn. He didn’t argue back. Ruma shook her head, watching the distance between the infantry and cavalry stretch, the archers lagging even further behind.

  “Turn left!” she shouted, then spurred her horse as well towards the far gates leading into the walled town.

  “That’s not where the fighting is!” shouted Gareeb.

  “Yes, there is!” she bellowed. “Now follow, you bastards!”

  Together, the twelve of them, a small, insignificant little group, rode unchallenged into the town. The enemy had made a mistake here, putting no archers to guard entry points into the city, expecting no quiet ambush.

  Had it been just men like Thallim and Urnal, that decision would not have cost the Vanico soldiers anything.

  Buildings were up in flames everywhere they turned. A strong smell permeated through the thick air. A fuel of some sorts, Ruma thought, one the Vanico must have been using. Though her unit was in the city, couldn’t see the battle anymore, shouts and cries came from the east. No doubt the Vanico arrows were now beginning to find homes in the chests and limbs of the believers.

  “Keep straight!” she shouted at her men, her resolve unshaken, unwavering, her voice brooking no argument. She had to keep looking, trust her gut.

  Unmolested, they emerged into an abandoned square. The streets were just as deserted here as the one they had followed into the unlucky town. If there were men and women that had survived the killing and pillaging, they did well to remain hidden. Ruma kept a wary eye, expecting an attack at every intersection. But her intuition was correct and it did seem the bulk of the Vanico forces had pulled out of the town.

  A wise decision made by a general well used to the reckless fighting of the Alfi believers. Someone not used to the modern guerrilla tactics Ruma had seen perfected by the Misguided in her time, methods she’d witnessed first-hand, even if only as an indifferent observer.

  “Halt!” came a shout from the right.

  “Attack!” she shouted back reflexively, spurring her horse forwards.

  Her men shouted, their animals grunting, snorting.

  As her horse thundered forwards, she saw the offender. A thick Vanico soldier standing on foot, his tabard a size too small, his helmet askew over his head. Half a dozen other Vanico soldiers shouted, brandished their swords. Clumsily, the man who had shouted first reached for his sword still in the scabbard.

  Too late.

  Ruma ran her sword down his exposed neck. An initial thud that ran up against her arm. And then nothing as the sword came out clean. Panting, blood red hot in her veins, Ruma turned the horse around. Her eyes fell on the bloody figure she had left behind, a pool of blood gathering around the flailing body.

  Another instant, and then his body was being run over by her dozen. Gareeb ducked an attack, then, snarling, speared the Vanico swordsman to his side. To his left, three other enemy soldiers went down. One of her men shouted. She tensed, then recognised it as the bestial cry of a man marking his first kill.

  Her fingers trembling, Ruma brought her hand up to dab at her sweaty forehead. The touch was wet, slimy. Repulsed, she thrust her hand back, saw the blood on her fingers. A shout bubbled up in her throat. She shook her head, ignored the urge. She had killed before. Many times, in fact. She’d been an indirect part of the Misguided. Then a part of the ARK Aroha as it had opened fire on other ships. Heck, she had led a platoon of Arkos’s best marines over to Tasina’s ship, killing any Zrivisi that had dared to move.

  She had killed many times.

  It shouldn’t have affected her as much as it seemed to.

  The answer was obvious. Death had never been this visceral before.

  Though the act repulsed her, horrified her, it also stirred something coarse and primal inside her. She forced a grin, spurred her horse, and joined her dozen standing over the dead soldiers.

  “How we doing?” she asked.

  Gareeb looked up, grinned. “The army of Alf thrives.”

  “Y-you… are… t-the devils…” came a gurgling voice behind her.

  Ruma scanned the dying and the dead. Then she spied one bloody figure writhing atop two of his dead colleagues. “Give him quick mercy,” she said, motioning to Gareeb.

  “Y-you m-monsters!”

  Gareeb growled. “Repent your words while you still have the chance. Deny the Charlatan and the Schemer. Accept Alf and his prophet—”

  “Y-you… kill… i-innocents…”

  Ruma frowned. What in Alf’s name was the man on about? She kicked her horse forwards.

  Gareeb bent over the dying man. “Repent and you shall live in Alf’s glory in the next life!”

  More gurgling sounds came, the words unintelligible to Ruma.

  Not that it mattered. Shaking his head, Gareeb raised his sword, then sank it into the dying man’s chest before Ruma could stop him.

  Ruma shrugged, ignoring the knot of doubt tightening within her gut, then turned towards the west. No man or woman could ever lay claim to knowing absolute truth, and hearing mere accusations wouldn’t help anyway.

  All the more reason to chase the snake’s head.

  Ruma shook off the thoughts, looked around. She didn’t have all the pinpricks she had wanted. But with her dozen, she could still frack these bastards in the ass.

  Twenty-Six

  Ways of Men

  Fifteen times they attacked. Fifteen times they came out victorious.

  “Feels unfair,” remarked Gareeb, moving his horse close to hers. “The infidels hardly even know we’re coming for them.”

  “They knew since the day they entered this country,” she replied.

 
Gareeb cocked his head to the side, then nodded slowly. “Fair point.”

  Ruma turned her horse around. Her dozen were dirty, tired, their clothes and swords bloody. A couple had superficial wounds. Another three seemed utterly exhausted. But they were all alive. For now.

  “Gents,” she shouted, moving her horse forwards to stand under the shadow of a temple’s minaret. “You are doing great. We are doing great.” She waved a hand towards the corpses to the right, beside upturned papers. “Already we’ve crippled one of their major lines of communication.” She pointed at the stables just beyond. “And seized a fresh train of supplies and mounts. We keep it up, and the frackers wouldn’t even know how to tell the right butt cheek to be wary when we cut off the left.”

  Gareeb chuckled as the others cheered.

  Ruma beamed. The initial shock of killing a man by her own hand had worn off, but adrenaline still coursed through her veins, would remain for a very long time.

  The battle rush. Euphoria followed by a sustained period of bliss and self-satisfaction. Stuff soldiers longed for.

  “Should we join the main forces now?” asked Gareeb.

  “What good would that do?” she demanded.

  Gareeb coughed, exchanged a glance with one of her dozen. “The real battle is being waged on the battlefield over there, Mzi.”

  Ruma shook her head, annoyance building up in her. “No, this is the real battle, you fool. One does not win against a larger foe by baring one’s chest. You win by crippling them from the sides, blinding them when they least expect, then striking them down from behind.”

  She saw their eyes harden. They didn’t dare voice their objections loudly, having seen first-hand the benefits of her approach, but their hearts were cast in a manner a few sorties with her would not likely change.

  The kabbad, she realised sourly. All these would have likely played the game in the fracking spirit of it instead of seeing the real game within the game—that of winning at all costs.

  Ruma looked around. The town, whose name she still didn’t know, was quiet now. Come to think of it, this particular minaret looked familiar. She had already scoured the main arterial routes intersecting it on the other side. As far she could tell, they had stripped the town of the Vanico support staff.