Lady of the Sands

by Fuad Baloch

  And then, like always, thoughts of the prophet she had left behind assailed her. Fanciful notions, really, of how life for the two of them could have been. Ruma scoffed, dismissed the daydreaming. What was done was done. She had left the man alone to his own indecisions, and that was that.

  Would he ever know why she had left him? Did he have any idea of the extent of her feelings for him, in spite of the terrible way he had treated her?

  Focus, damn you! Ruma bit down on her lip hard. The trick worked, shattering the fantasy land, landing her back in the dreary reality that was this night in a Doonya she didn’t belong in.

  She was losing focus.

  Tightening her grip over the sword, she gave Baosad a terse nod. “It’s time. Follow me.”

  Ruma darted her head for a quick second. The guard was still unaware of them, humming softly to himself. Keeping on the balls of her feet, hugging the tents closely, Ruma approached the young soldier.

  The yards shrank. Ten. Eight. Five.

  The young man looked up. His eyes widened, the jaw opening.

  Ruma pounced, smashing the warrior’s mouth with the hilt of her sword, the other hand reaching to cover his mouth.

  The Blessed grunted, his voice muffled under his hand. The eyes rolled back, blood pooling against her hand.

  Ruma let the body drop, keeping a wary eye out for any signs of detection, the scouts dropping behind cover, short swords at the ready.

  Nothing stirred.

  A breath later, she took her hand away from the warrior’s mouth and stood up.

  “We should send him to Alf,” hissed Baosad. She looked up. The scout pointed the tip of her sword towards the unconscious boy. “You go on. I’ll take care of him.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “We’re not mindless killers who kill just because others think differently!” She held up a finger. “Nor are we animals programmed to kill.”

  Baosad shrugged, giving in but also letting her know his displeasure.

  “Keep guard,” she said. “Qaisan, at the first sign of trouble—”

  “I’ll whistle as we agreed,” he replied, his voice subdued.

  “Good,” she said, nodding. “Good.”

  That done, she looked up. No more than a minute had passed since the call for prayer had went up. She still had time.

  Ruma inhaled, her fingers tightening over the hilt. Not very useful if and when she did get into an actual fight, but the mere presence of a weapon in easy reach seemed to have a calming effect on her frayed nerves.

  Dropping to a low crouch, she crawled towards the unguarded curtain flap. Torches burned inside, casting a silhouette of a person sitting in the centre.

  Yasmeen. Wife of Gulatu Koza, Alf’s last prophet.

  A surprising numbness spread through Ruma’s pores, a cold sweat breaking out. She’s just a woman. Just like yourself, damn you!

  True words, but also untrue.

  Beyond the room was the mother of believers, the woman who had seen the birth of the Alfi faith, then watched its growth up close.

  Just another woman despite all that!

  Ruma craned her neck back. Both scouts were watching her, their swords raised. What did they think of her plan to ambush Yasmeen like this? Now that the thought rose in her mind, she wondered why hadn’t they asked any questions. Wouldn’t a believer have wanted to know what a foreigner like her meant to do with a key pillar of their faith, one they still revered for her connection to the prophet despite their differences of dogma?

  Regardless, they hadn’t asked. And she was wasting time musing over useless questions.

  Ruma whipped her head around, filled her lungs with the chill night air, then marched up to the tent. No one challenged her. She lifted the tent flap and entered, sword held up in front.

  Yasmeen looked up. Still seated on the chair across the table, her profile lit by a lamp placed beside a pile of papers, she looked every bit a heavenly being.

  “You!” said Yasmeen.

  Ruma opened her mouth.

  “KILL HER! KILL HER!” shouted the First in her ear. “KILL HER NOW!”

  Thirty

  Confrontations

  Ruma froze, stared blankly at the serene woman straight ahead.

  Yasmeen rose wordlessly. One second her face was calm. The next it turned dark with fury. “How dare you barge into my tent like this,” she snapped, her eyes surveying Ruma, taking in the sword still clutched in her fingers.

  Ruma shook her head, feeling out of her depth. What in Alf’s name had she been expecting to achieve here? Now that she was here, what would she do? What in the seven hells was the First on about?

  Yasmeen straightened her back. To her credit, despite having seen the sword, she didn’t seem panicked but merely outraged.

  “What do you seek, girl?”

  “KILL HER!” shrieked the First in her ear.

  Ruma shook her head, took a tottering step forwards. Yasmeen tensed, her fingers clenching at her sides. Ruma stopped. “You need to stop killing innocents who do not believe in your misguided ways.”

  Yasmeen stared, the large eyes seeming to see past all Ruma’s defences, penetrating all the way through to her soul. “You’re an ungrateful woman!” She raised a well-manicured finger. “We let you go, despite what you did to my men, and now you dare accost me like this?”

  “Doesn’t excuse what your men have done to the defenceless people of this peninsula!” Ruma snapped.

  Yasmeen’s eyelashes fluttered. “What proof do you carry behind these false allegations, laal?”

  “Your own men admitted it!”

  “My men?”

  “Those bastards you sent to destroy Fanima?”

  Yasmeen chuckled, gave her head a shake. “And why would I want to destroy the city and the tablet that cements my claim over my misguided niece’s?”

  Ruma blinked. Of all possible reactions she had expected from Yasmeen, a rational argument hadn’t been one of them. Memory of the little boy floated up, one tiny hand pulling his father forwards, then both of them falling behind.

  “KILL HER!”

  The air was warm inside with two torches burning on either side, but still a tremble came over Ruma. Was she a pawn here to the First’s machinations? Doing his bidding without ever realising? What did he really want here? For her to kill Gulatu’s wife or leave her alone?

  “Well?” said Yasmeen, her voice acquiring a sarcastic tinge, the pure, refined Anduras sounding strained.

  Ruma narrowed her eyes, recalling the fanatic she had seen at Fanima. “Your men admitted—” She broke off. The man she’d met had admitted to being a Blessed, but his accent had been different. Wrong. Not one she’d heard from either the Traditionalists or the Blessed in either of their camps. A more guttural, uncouth version of Anduras she’d assumed normal but really wasn’t normal in a world where people didn’t really travel that much.

  Yasmeen nodded appreciatively. “You’re beginning to see the fault in your own argument. We are moved by Alf for the sake of His name and glory. Protectors of the weak and helpless are not those who kill them.”

  “Then, who…” Ruma exhaled. She had seen the terrorists with her own eyes, but did she really have to buy their claims as well? Now that she thought the matter over, an alternative appeared she hadn’t even considered.

  One Yasmeen beat her to. “The Vanico Empire is treacherous, famed for setting rifts between the believers,” cooed Gulatu’s wife. She still hadn’t moved an inch from her original position, still just as unarmed as when Ruma had burst through, but somehow the balance of power had shifted in the room. Again, Ruma felt the end coming. An end freezing her blood. “Can’t you see, girl? The poisoning of Dadua Contee, the prophet’s first follower, the dirt between him and blessed Turbaza, my second husband.” She leaned forwards. “This nonsensical dispute between me and my weak-minded niece, all of this is inflamed by the Vanico spies.”

  Ruma ran a hand over her hair, pa
tting down the errant strands, Yasmeen’s eyes watching the movement. Ruma didn’t know the Vanico Empire and how their spies operated. Nor did she really care.

  Something of greater importance reared its head. If Yasmeen wasn’t lying, and it wasn’t her men who had attacked Fanima, then whose ideology was she meant to refute? Which of the two factions would end up inspiring groups like the Misguided? Who did she stand with?

  Her head hurt.

  Why was she bothering with it all anyway? It would have been much easier to bide her time, remain incognito, find a way back to her world.

  “I heard of you from our scouts,” declared Yasmeen. “The red-haired girl leading the routed Traditionalists outside the oasis town of Paknam.” She leaned forwards. “You took a small group of soldiers and gutted the Vanico supply train, didn’t you?”

  Lost to crippling thoughts, Ruma nodded weakly.

  “One has to be careful with you,” Yasmeen observed, not explaining what she meant. “Tell me, what would you have done if you were going to ambush a much larger force?”

  “Slip through in the cover of night, cripple their weapons.”

  “Ah.”

  “You…” Ruma croaked after a moment of silence. “You’re the Lady, a revered figure. You… need to patch up your differences with your niece. Your name has to survive without getting tainted. Heck, a lot depends on it!”

  “I do not deal with those who murder believers just because they speak the truth.”

  “Bubraza does not—”

  “You know nothing of the group you stand with, girl!”

  “Do not call me girl!” Ruma snarled.

  “Girl,” said Yasmeen, her voice steady, calm, “did you not hear the prophecy? I am the one the prophet called the light of his days. I and the prophet are the two moons that sail the skies together each night. Alf elevated my status before and now affirms it with this prophecy.”

  “I don’t buy into the prophecy,” replied Ruma.

  “Laal, you do not believe in the Lord of the worlds?”

  Amused, Ruma laughed. “Really, is this the time to be discussing theology?”

  “In each conversation of two, the third is always God. Not that hard for all matters to turn to him in the end.”

  Ruma bit her lower lip. She didn’t have a lot of time. Something Yasmeen knew as well, for she kept her talking. Yasmeen was stalling her. She needed to get out soon.

  “If you are here to kill me,” Yasmeen continued, shifting her weight forwards, her eyes falling to a dagger placed on a table six paces to her left, “let me not be without a weapon.”

  “I am not here to kill you,” Ruma snapped.

  “KILL HER!”

  Yasmeen arched an eyebrow.

  A painful, strained silence fell upon them, distant muffled chatter of men and the burning lamp the only other sounds.

  Ruma shook her head. “By all accounts, you stand against innovation to better the lives of the common men. Your priests punish any religious disagreement by first applying labels of heresy and then corporal punishment. Your men and you are intolerant, unwilling to allow open debates between the believers. Your methods rationalise all means so long as the desired result is achieved. You need to stop this! Make up with Bubraza and stop this nonsense from spreading any further!”

  Her tirade seemed to take Yasmeen by surprise. She exhaled, cocked her head to the side, a strand of perfectly straight, long black hair tinged with a few white ones falling to the side. “Bubraza is hardly who you might think her to be. Most definitely not the Uniter the world needs.” She gave her head a soft, almost sad shake. “What matters is the glory of Alf. A lesson the prophet believed and taught and something we all—”

  “Nonsense!” barked Ruma. “The prophet believes in the power of dialogue, solving disputes through diplomacy and discussion. Not all this!”

  Yasmeen smoothed the folds of her long skirt, the eyes never leaving Ruma’s face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Ruma smirked. “Oh, you have no idea.”

  Yasmeen’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forwards, a thoughtful expression crossing over her features.

  Ruma chewed on her lower lip. “You should band with Bubraza. She’s your niece, for Alf’s sake! Whatever’s the matter between the two of you, together you can push back the invading armies, protect the innocents and the… holy cities.”

  “Only when she bends her knee.”

  “Damn you,” shouted Ruma. “Can’t you see where your actions are going to lead this peninsula? War! Misery! End this now. Make up with Bubraza and prepare a united front. Can’t you feel the terrible end coming?”

  “I would gladly accept her help when she publicly denounces all the false claims she has made against me.”

  Ruma hissed, her teeth grinding. What was with her luck and all the obstinate men and women she seemed to bump into all the time?

  Bells peeled outside. The prayers were coming to an end. Yasmeen’s eyes rose to the flap behind Ruma. Ruma fought the inclination to turn back, confirm they were still alone. Baosad and Qaisan were still outside. No warning had come yet. She still had time.

  Thoughts raced through her mind. Way too fast to latch on to any of them. This was an important moment, one of those that would change the course of history no matter what decision she took. If nothing else, the First’s crazed frenzy had given that away. No matter what the First said, though, she didn’t trust him. Maybe she should send this woman to her God after all, save the worlds from a terrible fate, prevent the Pithrean from using reverse psychology on her.

  She had no way of knowing anything for sure, though.

  Ruma raised her hand, patted the hair down. Even if they were not behind the killings at Fanima, this was the group, guided by this very woman, that felt most like the spiritual parents of heretics like the Misguided in her time, and if she—

  “You knew my husband,” said Yasmeen.

  Simple words, yet the unexpectedness threw Ruma off her reverie. Scalded, she raised her eyes to meet Yasmeen’s, blanched at the look she received. Not what one might expect from a person being threatened. The look thrown by a suspecting wife. But how could she know? Then Ruma realised her hand was still over her hair, attempting to pat the errant wispy strands down. Except she had no wispy strands. Without realising, she had been following the mannerism of a man she had no right to ever meet, a man with thin wispy hair and a way about him that forced men and women to follow him.

  “I—”

  Yasmeen exhaled, crossed her arms across her chest, her eyes scrutinising Ruma. “How old are you? Thirty-five? How did—”

  “Shut up,” croaked Ruma, her voice quivering, an unexpected wave of shame and guilt washing over her. She had never known this woman, hadn’t even bought Gulatu’s insistence he was the prophet transported to her time. But now, standing in front of this woman who’d thought herself a widow, she felt dirty, tainted.

  “KILL HER AND RETURN TO YOUR OWN WORLD!”

  “Shut up!” barked Ruma, raising the sword, tilting the edge towards her temple. “Both of you, shut the frack up!”

  She heard the soft, shrill whistle outside. Her cue. Time was up. She couldn’t remain here any longer.

  “KILL HER!”

  Ruma trembled, held out the sword in front. Could she amputate the rotten limb before the poison spread through the body?

  Yasmeen had fallen silent, arms still across her chest, the eyes staring coldly at her.

  “You…” began Ruma, taking a step back, the sword still held out in front. “Do not harm the innocents. I… I will be back.”

  Fighting back the tears that seemed to swell up in her eyes from nowhere and without any warning, she turned around and ran out of the tent, leaving the prophet’s wife fuming behind her.

  Thirty-One

  The Intrusion

  They galloped across the vast Ghal, their shadows hidden under the blanket of soft moonlight. Ruma dabbed at her eyes, no longer worri
ed about falling off the saddle, her mind occupied with anxiety and worries.

  She had fled. Fled! Why was that? Wasn’t she in the right by taking to task a woman who needed to be counselled, warning her so she could make the right choices, no matter how hard?

  Why then did she feel like a prostitute embarrassed at meeting her client’s wife?

  And what was with these tears, anyway? She jabbed at the corners of her eyes, flicking away the wet accumulating there.

  Baosad or Qaisan—she really couldn’t tell who was who with their faces covered once more—glanced back for a second. Ruma nodded, gestured to indicate she was alright, thankful she’d sent the other scouts away that had accompanied her towards the Blessed camp.

  “The horses need rest,” shouted Qaisan. “We can’t keep galloping forever.”

  “We keep riding until we’re away from their reach!” she shouted back.

  “Mzi,” came Baosad’s voice now as the older scout pulled on his reins to allow her horse to catch up to his. “The Blessed can’t track us in the night. Even if they could, their heavy horses won’t keep up with ours for long.”

  “You don’t understand—” she started, then shook her head. What was there to explain to them, anyway? That she was someone from their future, someone who had seen their prophet appear from nowhere, that she had a monster lurking in her mind, a monster that shouted at her to throw this world into turmoil?

  “Did you kill blessed Yasmeen?” asked Baosad, his voice barely audible over the thundering hooves.

  Ruma laughed, shook her head. “No!”

  Baosad exchanged a glance with Qaisan, who had also slowed down his horse to ride beside her. “Then why did we infiltrate their camp?”

  Because I’m an impulsive, useless girl who doesn’t know what she should be doing! “None of your business!”

  “Mzi—”

  “Just keep riding!”

  Baosad exaggerated a shrug. “We have two choices. Ride hard and join our forces under Gareeb or bypass them and cut directly for Nameema, where the Uniter is mustering before the final battle against the Blessed.”