by Fuad Baloch
Ruma shivered, thrashed in the nothingness. What in the seven hells was happening? How much was a dream? How much a show meant for her?
“First, you here?” she called out.
The Pithrean didn’t respond. Was he even aware she was here? Was she infiltrating his mind the way he did hers?
She turned her attention.
The brave ones, ensconced as they were, plotted as they waited. The variable continued to behave erratically. Unpredictably. They had time. They waited.
Safeguards. Controls. Fail-safe mechanisms.
The variable needed to be contained, shunned, if not eliminated.
They conspired. Plotted. Set themselves and the minions and their plans in motion.
They died in an infinity of galaxies.
Those left behind faded away.
Yet some of the brave ones waited.
And waited.
Fear began to grow alongside the pain. Another something they weren’t used to. Could they really fail? Was extinction unavoidable?
The brave one, the last of them, screamed, a screech no other conscious being could hear or comprehend.
Ruma heard it.
And she screamed, too.
Twenty-Eight
Mirrors
Ruma woke up screaming. Footsteps rushed towards her.
“Is everything alright, Mzi?” asked someone.
Ruma waved her hand to shoo the man away. Breath came in quick gasps as she struggled to wrap her mind around what had happened.
A nightmare. That’s all she’d been sucked into. Nothing more than that. Yeah, that had to be it!
Something’s wrong! screamed a part of her, urging her to confront these nightmares, the Pithrean ensconced in her mind.
I am thwarting him, doing all I can do! she shouted back, hoping to keep the rising fear at bay, at least for now.
Wrapping the shawl around her, Ruma exhaled. “How much time till sunrise?”
“Two hours before the true dawn approaches, Mzi.”
Ruma blinked. The night still showed no sign of the approaching sun. She cleared her throat, scratched her thigh.
“Order the men up,” she said, feeling restlessness grow within her chest. “We march within the hour.”
“As you command!”
As the man slipped away, Ruma took stock of her surroundings. She’d never really been a morning person—a reason she’d taken to ship life, where she could pick shifts not dependent on her proximity to a sun.
A part of her mind protested, wanting to forget all she’d seen, calling out to her to collapse back into the bedroll, to let the tired muscles have another chance at relaxing.
Grunting, Ruma rose to her feet. To the left, a group of men were moving towards the pitched tents. Believers who had woken up before dawn to pray to Alf. Fanatics or not, at least they had the courtesy of not letting their bells and chants wake up the sleepy.
The Lady had survived into her future. Not the Uniter. The Lady.
To succeed, Bubraza had to rise over her current status, take on the mantle of the undisputed leader that this peninsula and the future needed.
Yasmeen was the key to it all. The prophet’s wife had a part to play in the grand narrative that was beginning to unfold.
Wasn’t that what the First had been trying to distract her from?
She shook her head, noticed the guards part to reveal Gareeb, already dressed in his armour and riding gear.
“Mzi,” said Gareeb. “The scouts have arrived as well.”
“Very well,” she said. “Take me to them.”
Bells and shouts rang throughout the campsite as she followed Gareeb, a sense of foreboding rising within her. The end was approaching, but try as she might, she couldn’t see its final shape yet.
“Get up!” she ordered at the sleeping men.
“In the name of Alf, another day begins!” joined in a warrior beside her.
Men protested, groaned, stretched their limbs, scratched their balls. Like animals being roused from a deep slumber, they took their time getting into their riding gear, showing little urgency in packing their provisions and relieving themselves in the open latrines dug beside their tents.
Ruma narrowed her eyes, then spotted a group of middle-aged men still lying on their bedrolls in the tent.
“Give me your sword,” she said, extending a hand towards Gareeb. A moment passed before he handed her the weapon. Gritting her teeth, Ruma stomped towards the tent. A pace away, she raised her arm. One of the men looked up groggily, then screamed as her sword arm swung in an arc.
She slashed and hacked at the tent until the fabric hung in tatters.
The other men jerked up, shrank from her sight.
“Five minutes,” she drawled, dropping the sword. “Or we leave you behind.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned away, motioning Gareeb to take the lead again. Shouts rose behind them as the lazy buggers got moving. Men never liked being belittled by women. Well, if they couldn’t get used to it, they were most welcome to elect one of their own to take charge as far as she was concerned.
The scouts rose from wooden stools when they were a dozen paces away. Three lanky men, their heads and faces both covered, leaving just the eyes to peer through. One of them, their leader most likely, offered a curt bow.
“Tell Mzi what you’ve found!” said Gareeb, coming to stand in front of the leader.
“The Blessed are ten miles to the east.”
Ruma inhaled. “Ten miles? You sure?”
“We got pretty close, didn’t we, Qaisan?” The leader waved an arm towards the man to his left.
“Aye, we did, Baosad.”
Baosad nodded his head once more. “The prophet’s wife is with the army as well. We confirmed her tent.”
“How many are they?”
“Five thousand, give or take.”
Ruma cursed. The margin of error didn’t even come into play when the difference in numbers was that huge between her army and Yasmeen’s. Besides, even if she could somehow convince these battered men to take on another numerically superior enemy, the other side would likely be fuelled by the same righteous fury as them. Probably more so with the Blessed Mother leading them personally.
“We can skirt around them,” offered Baosad. “Take a path to the west, then work our way up through the oases of—”
“Why would we want to do that?”
Baosad exchanged a glance with Qaisan, his eyes finally settling on Gareeb. “The Uniter would be expecting us north.”
“Who said that’s where I’m headed?” The scouts didn’t reply. “And show me your face when you talk to me,” she snapped. A moment passed. Baosad nodded, then raised a hand to unsnap the covering to reveal a weathered face, his profile lit by the weak morning sunlight.
Ruma took in a long breath, considered her options. She could listen to the scouts, press on until they reunited with the larger host. That was what Bubraza would have wanted, what Thallim and Urnal would have done.
Or she could avail the opportunity the fates had offered her. After all, when would she ever get a better chance than this to strike at Yasmeen? The thought gave her pause. Indecision rose, paralysing her temporarily.
Then the conflicted thoughts rose. She might have been fuelled by the urge to destroy Yasmeen before for what she’d seen her men do. But after what she’d seen in the nightmare, suddenly she wasn’t so sure anymore.
The Lady had survived.
The Lady.
That was the key. Another part of her tried to find a connection between words of the prophecy, both women, the future as she remembered.
It was all too much for her, the thoughts much too weighty and troubling for her to wade through.
“Gareeb,” she said, pointing at him to approach her. Fear thrashed within her chest. Was she doing the First’s bidding here? Is that what the cursed being wanted from her, to have her help wage a bloody battle between two believing parties, leave the
m both drained and spent? For a second, the nightmare rose again, the world growing dark, the darkness reaching for her, choking her, strangling her.
“Mzi?”
Ruma shook her head, shivered. “Prepare a dozen men you trust. Fast, efficient men. They will accompany me and Baosad.”
“Accompany us?” asked Baosad.
“Aye,” she replied coldly, then turned to Gareeb. “Five minutes.”
Gareeb didn’t look convinced. Nothing would change her mind.
She stayed with the scouts, letting thoughts float through her mind, not latching onto any.
They might have been up all night, but both Qaisan and Baosad sprang into action without complaint, saddling their horses, muttering under their breath. They might have been swearing at her then, but she didn’t care. There were bigger things to worry about.
The believers packed away the tents, complaining loudly at marching with nothing in their bellies. They might have complained more, even staged a mutiny, yet they didn’t.
Why was that?
Faith? Or fear?
Her eyes fell on two warriors standing quietly to a side, hands raised up towards the heavens, their lips quivering.
Just the way Gulatu used to do.
Ruma trembled, turned her back to yet another reflection of the man she just couldn’t be rid of.
For a breath, she wondered if word of Yasmeen’s army this close to their current position would spark much outcry from the believers. Would they insist on following her, to meet the larger army despite the ugly lesson they’d just been taught? Or would common sense prevail to rush and join hands with the larger host?
“We could turn back as well, Mzi,” suggested Baosad. “The Vanico frackers—pardon my language—wouldn’t have gone much further in this heat. Besides, not like they’d be expecting us.”
Ruma exhaled, then smiled, finding relief in the man’s irreverent tone, the sheer audacity of the idea.
Qaisan coughed. “Not that I agree with Baosad, but the infidels have nothing blocking their march to the holy cities. Once they get there, the governors’ forces would provide little resistance.”
Ruma raised a finger towards the bright sun blaring down at them. “Trust God to look after all He holds dear and true.”
“But—” protested Qaisan.
“Do you think you could do a better job than Alf?”
“No, but—”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
Baosad scoffed, then patted his fellow scout on the shoulder. “You heard the general. What Alf keeps, no man or woman can harm. Now get on with it.”
One by one, the believers started forming up neat rows. Now even half an hour had passed since her order, but already almost all signs of their encampment had been erased. From the corner of her eye, she spied Gareeb approaching her. She straightened her back, pursed her lips in a straight line.
“The men are ready, Mzi,” he announced when he was within earshot. “If the scouts are correct, then—”
“Gareeb, you’re in charge of these men,” she said, waving her arm towards the ranks. “Make haste and report to Bubraza.”
He blinked. “Me, in charge? Mzi, what in seven hells are you thinking of doing?”
She grinned, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. “Doing what I am good at. Being the pinprick that cuts deeper than any sword would.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “Why are you still here, young man? Begone!” She caught Baosad’s smirk. “And just what’re you waiting for? We ride out now.”
Without ceremony, Ruma mounted her own horse, offering a silent thanks to whoever had both saddled the horse and packed it with dried meat strips. Hardly the fare she’d have once imagined but now a lifeline gratefully received. A brief pang of sympathy rose in her gut for the men she was sending to march off without a chance to eat their fill.
Then again, by sending them away, she was sparing their lives.
She gestured at Boasad. “Lead us.”
“As you will.” The older scout scowled at his companion, glanced at the other men beginning to move away from them. “Huzzah!”
The scouts’ horses bolted forwards as if lashed by an invisible whip. Ruma’s followed suit. Gripping the saddle with one hand, the other dangling limply to the side, she held on for dear life, hoping that if she fell, they’d turn around and offer her help instead of leaving her to languish in the middle of nowhere.
Within minutes of hard gallop, her horse was lathered, both of them equally exhausted. She didn’t let up, keeping pace with the scouts and their sleeker mounts bred for speed and stamina over fitness for war.
Another three hours or so passed before Baosad held up a hand, pulled back on his reins. Exhaling, she slowed down her mount, approached the scout.
“We travel on foot from here,” he said.
“Where are they?” she asked.
“Two miles to the east.” He pointed at the distant trees of an oasis she’d earlier confused as a mirage. “Just beyond the trees there.”
“Hmm.” Following the lead of the scouts, she too dismounted. Baosad began his approach towards the oasis. “Wait!”
He turned around, his eyebrows arched. “I thought you wanted to see the army.”
“I do,” she said. Then she smiled. “But not during the day.”
Twenty-Nine
The Reflection
Ruma held up a hand and Baosad and Qaisan froze. Heart thudding in her chest, keeping to the shadows, Ruma pressed herself against the tent wall, took another cautious peek.
The three Blessed who had emerged from the large tent to the right loitered around a torch, their shadows dancing behind them on the other tents.
“Movement?” whispered Baosad.
She nodded, still holding her hand up. The itch to draw out her sword with the other hand and just get on with things rose in her chest, but she bit down hard on it. Whatever she thought of the Blessed and their methods, she wasn’t really here to pronounce judgement over them.
Instead, she waited.
Time seemed to stretch on as she continued to peek at regular intervals. The men weren’t moving, but at least they hadn’t been spotted yet in the dark alley. Nor had anyone spotted them sneaking into the Blessed camp.
Chewing on her lower lip, she settled down on her haunches. Come to think of it, the Blessed camp wasn’t that different from that of the Traditionalists—no real surprise there considering their shared heritage.
What did surprise her was the ease with which they had snuck in. It was like the fanatics—in between transgressions that no real priest would approve of—were playing out a game of kabbad, each party certain the other wouldn’t land a low blow like sneaking in at night while Alf watched, as if such an action might invalidate the veracity of their claim.
There was so much wrong with that mindset that she didn’t even bother thinking through the internal contradictions.
Forced to slow down and catch her breath, irritating questions rose once more. What in the worlds was she trying to do here? Not too long ago, she’d wanted to exact vengeance on Yasmeen, the so-called Blessed Mother. But now, with her suspicions on what the First wanted in terms of Yasmeen, she was no longer that sure on what she ought to do here.
If she had hoped time would help present a good choice, that had been in vain. She was here, a stone’s throw from Yasmeen’s tent, increasingly uncertain.
Was it too late to turn back, return at a later stage?
Boots scrunched. Ruma dared another peek. One of the men still stood beside the torches but the other two were walking away, their raised voices indecipherable in the evening din.
Wind picked up, carrying with it the aroma of spiced meat. Her stomach grumbled. She’d tried chewing on the dry-as-stone beef strips during the day, then gave up after the first one. Now, she wished she’d eaten the damned things, if only to keep her growling stomach from giving her away.
“—tomorrow morning at the prayers—” wafted over a snippet
from one of men just before they both disappeared.
“Now you bugger off as well,” she muttered, taking another quick peek at the third guard. Ten yards behind him stood the largest tent in the camp. If the Body of the Prophet were meant to be guarding Yasmeen, they hadn’t devoted much attention to the rear of the spacious tent that at the moment was guarded by just one man.
Ruma rubbed her hands. Wouldn’t be long before the men would return, their bellies full, denying her this golden opportunity.
Was this a sign from Alf?
She shook her head at the stupid urge to have the divine rubber-stamp her actions.
She heard Baosad shuffle over. “Mzi, allow me to take care of the problem ahead.”
Ruma bit her lips. “Wait.”
“The men would be returning soon.”
Ruma hissed in frustration. She was close, so very close, to getting to Yasmeen. Unchecked, the woman’s bloody ideology would end up killing them all. Here was her chance to do something about it.
“Mzi!”
She narrowed her eyes, glared at the two scouts. They fell quiet, then exchanged a glance. They might not have had the same Arkos training as her, but she couldn’t blame them for getting jumpy. Intuition born through street smarts.
The sound of bells peeling in the west made her jerk her head up. The call for evening prayers. If the Blessed followed the same form as the Traditionalists, then she had less than ten minutes to make her move.
“Wait!” she snarled at the two scouts, then peeked once more. “Walk away, you fracker!”
The third guard looked up. A young soldier, his beard still patchy in the pale yellow light. Ruma ducked just before his eyes could find her.
She settled down on her haunches again, hoping and praying for a diversion. Was there another way past the guard? Not unless she wanted to take on at least a dozen well-armed Body of the Prophet guards.
Again, useless worries drifted up. How would Gareeb be doing with the men she had left in his command? Would they listen to him, obey him like they had her? Had Yenita and Sivan gotten away alright as the Traditionalists at Mithi had assumed? What was Yaman Nuway, her father, up to this very moment? Was he pleased to be rid of her once more?
