Lady of the Sands

by Fuad Baloch

  The final battle.

  The hairs on the back of her neck and arms rose. The end was fast approaching. Everyone seemed to feel that. The very air seemed to brim with it. But then why was she so bloody unsure of where things were heading? Who was she helping here with her actions and at whose expense?

  She cleared her throat. “We cut through for Bubraza.”

  If the men took offense to the way she referred to their precious Uniter, they didn’t let it show. Baosad turned his chin up, raised a finger towards the skies. “The Hunter’s constellation to the right. Five degrees to the west, in alignment with the prophet’s star.”

  “Aye,” confirmed Qaisan.

  Spurring his horse forwards, Baosad tore away from her, began charting a slightly different course through the never-ending sands. Quiet, Ruma let her own horse follow the two scouts.

  The prophet’s star. She looked up. Countless stars spread out in the night sky like glittering diamond dust. The urge to laugh rose within her. The prophet was in the stars this very second. How little did they know!

  A crushing wave of disappointment rose over her, draining her resolve. She was flailing about in this world like a kid set loose in a capital ship’s engine room. The First still lived in her mind, still spouting his nonsense whenever it bloody pleased him. She was theoretically free to move her limbs, speak what she wanted, travel, yet she felt the invisible bonds curtail her freedom. A housefly put in a glass jar, being watched by an evil scientist.

  She’d had an opportunity to change the course of history. Just the way the Pithrean had wanted it. But she had balked at the chance, unsure whether she’d be playing into the alien’s hands. The cold feet did mean that she’d likely never get the same opportunity again.

  There was another factor at play. One more selfish, personal. One that had ended all attempts at reasoning with the Blessed leader. One she only now saw as she replayed the confrontation in her mind’s eye.

  She had walked away from harming Yasmeen, not just to spite the Pithrean—though that had been a consideration—but because a part of her had wanted to return and confront Yasmeen as an equal.

  An equal!

  Not a mere girl, a foreigner, but one with an equally valid claim to the affections of the man they shared.

  Ruma chuckled, realising how childish the idea sounded. A woman of her day and age, fighting with another for a man who didn’t have the time of day for either of them.

  If nothing else, then this world was forcing her to change, to discover traits she’d not assumed for herself. Pride. Arrogance. She’d blamed Tasina for having something she too possessed, enough that it blinded her from doing what had needed doing.

  Ruma whipped her head around, thinking she’d heard voices. The Blessed camp was miles behind them now, their torchlight swallowed by the dark desert. Beyond the tent, hundreds of miles east, the Vanico Empire’s armies were still marching towards Irtiza and Salodia.

  Just the wind.

  Why hadn’t she challenged Yasmeen more on not pursuing the Vanico armies? For all her distrust and loathing for the infidels, surely even she could see there was more value in protecting the lands of the faithful from those that spared nothing in the way of their bloodlust.

  Baosad and Qaisan were gesticulating towards the stars, their voices loud, angry. Some minor dispute on whose was the more correct interpretation of the direction. They had compasses, something Ruma had seen before, but they too exhibited traits of pride in relying on answers from the night sky unaided by technology.

  A primitive people’s longing for the divine? A way to claim kinship with the divine by appealing to the heavens He lived in?

  Ruma shook her head, tried calming her nerves.

  “First!” she demanded.

  The blasted being kept quiet.

  Cursing, Ruma slapped her thigh.

  Again, she heard Yasmeen’s accusation that she knew Gulatu, the words falling like bricks. Ruma was hardly in the wrong there, yet she had clammed up.

  Why?

  Was it just the weirdness of the situation? After all, hadn’t she already been in this state before, having had to share Gulatu with Tasina? Another realisation flashed. Both Tasina and Yasmeen seemed cast from the same mould: obstinate, contemptuous, imperious. Tasina had been a princess of her people. Yasmeen was the Blessed Mother, the Lady whose portraits hung in the Alfi temples even eight hundred years after her death.

  How did one stand up to women like that?

  Yasmeen’s accusations had wounded her up more than anything Tasina might have said. She was the woman he had laid with countless times. The woman he had confided to in his lowest moments, had spent many long years with.

  The woman he had married.

  Pangs of jealousy gripped her heart, the roots sprouting trunks growing wider by the second.

  Ruma raised her head towards the skies. “Curse you all!” she screamed, jabbing a finger at the heavenly bodies, the aliens that resided there, the Pithrean for putting her in this mess, and, more than anyone else, the hidden architect of this cosmos of order and chaos.

  One of the scouts turned his head back. Ruma glared. They couldn’t see her facial expression, of course, but something in her mannerism got the message across and he turned away wordlessly.

  Ruma continued to ride sullenly. She had no way of knowing for sure, but her intuition continued to warn her she still sat at the cusp of momentous times. She was a nobody, but she did have the capacity to twist things slightly, give them a push in a direction which could still have great results in the end.

  What did the Pithrean want?

  She had to try and see if she could manipulate him, hasten the end without losing her footing.

  “First,” she whispered, the germinations of a true plan falling into place. She forced a grin, kept her voice low. “If you’re still listening, I’ve got things to discuss.” She forced an exaggerated sigh, spread her arms towards the heavens. “Truth be told, I am sick and tired of this blasted, primitive Doonya. Tell me how I get back to my world. That’s all I care for!”

  Leaning forwards, their horses thundering in the general direction of the Uniter’s forces, she strained to hear the Pithrean.

  Thirty-Two

  Ramifications

  Four days of hard riding later—which left Ruma too drained to think straight for more than ten minutes at a time, a blessing in her estimation—they arrived at Nameema, a small town nestled against some river whose name Ruma neither knew nor needed to.

  “A sea of the faithful,” remarked Qaisan, the more poetic of her two companions, as he waved a proud arm over to the rows of tents pitched a mile out of the town proper.

  “A damn pleasing sight,” agreed Baosad. He chewed on a twig he’d broken from a neem tree half an hour ago. A toothbrush that left a sticky sweet texture once bitten.

  Ruma stretched her limbs, a part of her relieved at the prospect of rest, the other still bracing for when the First did talk to her. He had ignored her ever since she’d fled. But he’d be back, she knew, and when that happened, she had to be ready to move all the pieces here that she could.

  They had come across gutted towns along the way—handiwork of the Vanico armies—and Ruma knew she wouldn’t be resting for long.

  “Did you want to freshen up first, Mzi?” asked Qaisan, smirking.

  “If I can put up with the likes of you for all these days, they can tolerate me in my current state as well,” she hissed right back. The man did have a point, even if she didn’t want to admit it. She looked like crap. Her nails were chipped, her clothes and body covered with sand. And her hair… Ruma winced, refused the temptation to run her fingers through the unruly mess and even attempt to tidy it.

  Wrapping the shawl tighter around her red hair, she kicked her horse forwards. Qaisan and Baosad grunted—some signal the scouts shared—then started following her.

  The Traditionalists’ camp was just like the Blessed’s—only larger. They crossed row
upon row of tents separated by narrow, unwieldy alleys. Young men loitered in groups of twos and threes. The older men seated on the ground played the same board game she’d seen before, replacing white stones with darker ones. To her right, ground had been cleared for what she assumed would be the afternoon’s kabbad games. In the distance, cooks stoked fires over massive pots.

  Everything looked like it should have. How she’d expected. But there was something else in the air as well. A sense of foreboding. A shared idea that a change in fortunes was imminent, obvious in the tense way the younger men sat, the wary eyes the older kept darting at each other.

  Ruma’s stomach grumbled at the sight of the cook pots. Not that she had developed a taste for the watery curries that tended to wreak havoc on her stomach or the blasted onion soup whose name she still couldn’t pronounce, but because anything would be better than the rock-hard meat strips she could hardly chew through now.

  Her eyes travelled back up to the command tents up ahead, surrounded by a coterie of armed guards. “Baosad, Qaisan, you’re alright to go on your own paths from here on out.”

  “You’re not going to see Gareeb first?” asked Baosad.

  Ruma dismounted the horse, grimaced. One of the soldiers passing by stared at her, his unblinking eyes lingering on her figure a second before settling on her hair. She winked, startling him. “Take the horse.”

  Exhaling, she started marching towards the tent. Both scouts grumbled something, the words falling silent on her ears. Her body ached, the thighs chafed with each movement, but she put on a brave face.

  She’d heard the ancient Andussian proverbs and sayings that talked of the pains of travelling. Flitting across star systems separated by hundreds of light years, she thought she’d understood them. But having trekked across the deserts on horseback, she’d learnt otherwise.

  Ruma shook her head, once again taken aback by the command tent up ahead and how similar it looked like Yasmeen’s. If she were to go around the corner, would the rear entrance be just as lightly guarded?

  “Bubraza is hardly who you might her think to be,” Yasmeen had argued, accusing her niece for her methods. Worried, Ruma interlaced her fingers, stretched them outwards. Who was she meant to trust?

  Alf didn’t help her. Her gut didn’t offer any profound insights. All she knew was her own belief that it was Bubraza who had the best chance in stabilising the woes of this world. She was a pragmatist, the only one who could negotiate without showing the rigidity that Yasmeen possessed.

  Ruma didn’t know which woman to trust, but she had another path.

  “First…” she whispered. “Let me help you help me. Tell me what you seek!”

  The blasted Pithrean remained quiet.

  “Sure, just wait until the most blasted time to scream in my ear!”

  Another warrior looked up from his board game. She scowled, turned away.

  “Halt!” A tall guard, built like a tree trunk, blocked her way.

  “I’m here to see Bub—the Uniter,” she said. “Get out of my way!”

  The guard peered down at her for half a beat. “Await your summons, laal.”

  Ruma rolled her eyes, bit down the retorts bubbling up. “Fine! But I don’t have all day.” A small lie.

  Rubbing her hands, her eyes taking in the bustling tent, Ruma waited. A crowd seemed to be gathering at the mouth of the nearest alley. Young and old men. Fingers pointing at her.

  “—after Thallim—”

  “—new general and her—”

  Clutching her shawl, Ruma turned away from the curious onlookers. She needed to keep a low profile, melt away into the pages of history. Do the right thing, then return to her world after having thwarted the Pithrean.

  Memory rose of the prophet’s wife forcefully denying all accusations Ruma had levelled at her. The Blessed hadn’t been behind the killings at Fanima. The prophecy referred to Yasmeen as the moon that complemented the prophet and as such the intended recipient. That Ruma was wrong for following Bubraza.

  Something felt wrong, though. Off. Based on all she’d witnessed of the Blessed, of their intolerance, theirs was the group to resist. Something she was reasonably certain of. But… she had to be careful to not support anyone blindly. A lesson she’d learned in her previous life.

  The debate in her mind didn’t help her a whit, leaving her feeling like a leaf being blown about by the afternoon breeze.

  “Follow me!” came the gruff voice of the guard.

  “Took your time,” Ruma muttered, then stomped towards the command tent. One of the guards outside lifted the flap and she entered.

  Bubraza, flanked by generals of her army, stood around a circular table. Weathered men with flowing beards and well-trimmed moustaches, men who had been leading others all their lives. As the eyes turned to watch her, she felt her heart beating, for a second taking her back to the first time she had stood before the admiralty board.

  “I hear our gratitude is in order, foreigner,” said Bubraza, walking over to her. “After the unfortunate defeat, you helped unite the routed forces and shepherded them safely.”

  Ruma spread her arms. “We all had the same destination.”

  Bubraza beamed, yet something in the hard eyes troubled Ruma. “Yet another sign of the divine’s favour.”

  “Indeed,” said a priest standing to the side.

  “The prophecy doesn’t lie!” added a general.

  “You consider yourself the chosen one?” Ruma blurted out.

  Someone hissed. Bubraza blinked. The general directly behind her stood straighter. “Of course. The prophecy points at me as the one that will unite the differences between the believers, reconcile the Fire and Water, the Earth and the Sun. Unite all that has been broken.”

  Ruma smacked her lips, took a step forwards, her eyes facing the table. A crude parchment map was spread out. Andussia, or an approximation of it, anyway, stones denoting various armies dotting its cracked surface.

  “The Vanico armies are spreading out,” noted Ruma, pointing her index finger at the black stones in the centre of the peninsula, mere inches from both holy cities.

  “And we will crush them.”

  Ruma turned to face the shorter woman. “You don’t have the numbers.”

  “Doesn’t scare me!”

  “You need to,” Ruma said, forcing herself to calm down, “work with your aunt. Unite to defend the peninsula from the invaders. That’s what you need to do. Together, the two groups may just be able to thwart the enemy.” Worry coursed through her. All this time, she’d not let thoughts of all these Vanico armies marching to the holy cities bother her, but what would happen if they ended up destroying them? Was that something she was meant to stop? If so, time was running out. “Bubraza, reach out to your aunt!”

  Bubraza’s face grew hard. “Alf doesn’t—”

  “Oh, for frack’s sake, for all the talk of pragmatism, can’t you fracking see this is the only way?” shouted Ruma, blood boiling in her veins, tiredness burning away all restraints. “Are you really going to cut off your nose to spite your face? Even victorious, neither one of you has the necessary numbers to overcome the Vanico armies.”

  “We have Alf on our side!” replied Bubraza.

  “Where was he when Thallim’s men ran away like wounded puppies?”

  An oppressive silence fell on the room. Then a general coughed. Two bent over the map, talking in soft tones. But she could tell they still watched the two women.

  “You forget your place, foreigner.”

  “And you, your duty!” accused Ruma.

  Bubraza gritted her teeth and Ruma knew she had gone too far. One could only be pushed so far in front of their subordinates. A lesson she should have learned by now. But now, here she was, repeating the same mistakes over and over again. And just like she had barged into Yasmeen’s camp without a real plan, here she was, getting into more trouble.

  “Foreigner,” barked Bubraza, all joviality now gone from her features. “You ar
e going to turn around and not show your face to me again unless summoned!”

  Ruma straightened her back, glared at the younger woman. She would have shouted at how wrong Bubraza was, how she should listen to her, but Ruma thought better of it.

  So she turned around and stomped out of the war council.

  The tall guard turned his chin towards her, his fingers resting lightly on the massive broadsword, its tip in the ground.

  Ruma dragged her feet east, eyeing a lesser crowded alley. The Vanico armies were tearing through the peninsula, and both women who could do anything to stop it were more interested in playing politics. And if Ruma was to merely watch it all unfold, let the so-called infidels destroy the holy cities, what would that do to the believers?

  A religion revered its dead, its martyrs. One that lost the very citadels of its faith and yet survived into the future would be a hundred times worse than anything the Misguided might have been.

  She shivered, realising the same had already happened in her world. Then again, for the moment at least, they had the prophet himself to keep the peace.

  Aimlessly, she drifted between the tents.

  Two priests huddled under an awning. They fell silent when they saw her approach. Another ten steps later, a restless crowd of young men shouted as a priest yelled, “—the holy cities will be defended!”

  Troubled, Ruma continued to roam ahead. Did Bubraza not know what was happening to her men, how their hearts clamoured to defend the holy cities? The powder keg was waiting for a spark. And when that arrived, neither Yasmeen nor Bubraza would be able to do much.

  She raised her head and her eyes fell on a priest. One she had seen before. Ruma shook her head, trying to remember where.

  When the memory came, she blinked, then headed for him.

  Thirty-Three

  Crossroads