by Fuad Baloch
Ruma leaned back. Bubraza was staring at her, the one eye perfectly still, not moving.
“Mzi!” whimpered Gareeb.
Ruma blinked, felt tears trickle down her cheeks.
Gently, almost reverently, she placed the Uniter’s body back beside the tree trunk, closed the eyelid.
Neither of them spoke for long breaths, Gareeb muttering to himself, Ruma gazing at the dead woman’s face.
Here lay the Uniter, the one prophesied to bring peace to the two factions, dead.
Thanks to Ruma.
Loathing for herself rose in Ruma’s chest.
She didn’t fight it, instead welcomed it with open arms.
“Help me power the Shard and you can return to your world!” whispered the First in her ear.
“Now that you’ve won… you dare demand favours from me?” she asked, not caring for the surprised look Gareeb threw her.
“I am dying. I wish to die in my own world. Let me go back there and I will send you to yours.”
Ruma laughed. “Oh, haven’t you played me enough already?”
She had lost. The Pithrean had won. But the Shard was still up there, waiting to transport both of them.
What kind of a world would she find if she returned now? Where did the Pithrean want to go? What did she want now?
“Help me help you!”
Ruma laughed, then rose.
“Mzi?” asked Gareeb. He paused to take a long breath. “Shall we return to the main force with the Uniter’s body?”
“No,” she repeated. “The main force is gone.”
Forty
Admissions
The first rays of the morning sun were peeking over the horizon when they finally arrived at the palm orchard they’d left behind a lifetime ago.
“Who goes there?” asked a voice, the owner hidden behind a tree.
Ruma scoffed at the vagaries of fate. This was a group of men who had volunteered to be martyred so the main host had a chance to succeed, and now they would more than likely actually survive. Men planned, and God disposed.
“We’re Traditionalists!” shouted back Gareeb, raising his arms. “Do not shoot.”
Not caring, Ruma continued to march ahead.
“Halt!” came the voice again from the trees.
“Get your general to see me,” barked Ruma, not slowing down an inch.
Gareeb made a strangled sound but Ruma paid him no mind. Her thoughts were jumbled, dark. Nothing lay ahead for her now except terrible choices. The life as she had known in her Doonya was changed with the death of Bubraza. Life here—well, that was going to either end very soon or turn out in some manner she didn’t much care for.
The scouts didn’t loosen their arrows.
When they walked into the clearing beyond the trees, an area two hundred yards across, she was startled to see a hundred pairs of eyes turn up to look at her.
“Who’s she?”
“What’s going on?”
Men rushed about, their horses whinnying, the camels braying. Had they been making all this racket before? If so, why hadn’t she heard any of that as they’d tramped up?
A tall man with a protruding nose, his potbelly straining against his tunic, walked over to her. He had the face of a frog, and when he dabbed at his slick forehead, he completed her mental depiction of him as an upright amphibian.
“I’m General Restam,” he said, his voice high and nasally.
Ruma nodded, recognising him as the man beside Bubraza in the war council meetings.
“You left with the Uniter,” continued the general, looking over their shoulder. “What happened?”
Ruma met his eyes squarely. “She’s dead.”
The general blinked. The man closest to him give a cry. “Whatever in Alf’s name do you mean?”
“The woman you followed, the one known as the Uniter, who endeavoured to bond all your factions together, is dead.”
Simple words that hung in the crisp morning air. The words spread. Within a minute, the din had grown so loud she couldn’t think straight. Not a bad thing considering how terrible things were in her mind.
“Urana,” barked General Restam, “have we heard from the scouts yet?”
“No enemies in sight, Mza.”
The general scratched his beardless chin, fixed Ruma with a glare.
“Pull your scouts back,” she ordered. “You are not going to be attacked. Not yet, anyway.”
This time the general’s face turned red. Taking a step forwards, he raised his index finger. “With all respect to your foreign upbringing, you will not speak unless you’re spoken to.”
Gareeb said something, reached out for her hand. Ruma registered the touch, pulled her hand free. She took a couple of steps closer to the general, so close she could see the pores on his neck turn golden in the dawn light. “First, I am a daughter of this land, with just as much right to its bounties, riches, and identity as you. Second, watch your tongue or I am going to pull it out!”
The man beside the general gasped. The general’s lips quivered, his face so red it looked like the veins within would burst any second.
“Why do you… think we won’t be attacked?”
Ruma nodded. Whatever the general thought of her, he was at least pragmatic. One fashioned by the same mould as the Uniter. Instead of asking more questions about the dead woman—something he would undoubtedly confirm on his own— by giving the illusion of control, he ensured his men didn’t fall into panic. “Because the Vanico and Blessed are falling upon your main host this very second.”
Unlike the last time, the racket that rose following these words couldn’t be put down even by the general’s bellows at his men to shut up.
Ruma exhaled. She was tired. So very tired. When was the last time she had washed her face? She brought up her fingers, saw the blood beginning to crust there. Blood of the Vanico infidels. Blood of the woman she had thought necessary for both of these worlds.
Paying no attention to the general’s commands for more explanation and to Gareeb’s panicked questions, Ruma headed for the pond of water she knew was nestled in the trees just beyond the clearing.
The men parted, a way forming for her to glide through, their shouts resembling jagged peaks jutting over a narrow ravine cutting through. The words meant nothing. Birds squawking.
Her own sight at the pond gave her pause. She blinked, shook her head in disbelief. The red hair had turned a greasy, matted layer, spilling out of the bloody shawl. More blood stained her tunic. But it was the sunken eyes that frightened her the most. This world had run her haggard—something she had recognised whenever she ran her fingers across the cheekbones that felt more pronounced than ever—but the dark, foreboding sense she got from the eyes made her shiver.
Reaching into her belt, she brought out the knife, began cutting off the dead hair, first reducing it to clumps, then slicing as close to the skull as she could get without nicking the skin.
That done, she rinsed her fingers in the water, squeezed her eyes shut, savouring the cool sensation. For a blissful second, her mind registered little but that simple perception.
The peace slipped away.
Thoughts and worries returned with a vengeance. The heavy weight that had been building in her stomach now weighed more than mountains. Ruma looked at her reflection once more, at the woman she thought she barely understood, didn’t recognise. Could she not just lie down here, let someone else pick up all this mess? Hadn’t she already been through enough?
The men were shouting behind her. Was Gareeb saying something? An argument of sorts had broken out as the general bellowed at the top of his lungs.
Ruma interlaced her fingers, running the water through them again to scrub away last of Bubraza’s blood from her skin. Exhaling, she splashed the water on her face.
“Mzi…” came a plaintive voice from her right.
Ruma turned. Gareeb stood by the bank, fidgeting with his tunic, the general beside him.
�
�We…” began Gareeb, glancing over at the general.
“Oh, get out of my way,” said General Restam, taking a step forwards. “You have made quite an impression on my men.”
Ruma smirked. Always had that impression on men. A retort she would have made normally but couldn’t now.
“All armies need a mascot. An ideal. Something larger than themselves.”
Again, Ruma nodded absentmindedly, her eyes turning back to watch her reflection. Who in the seven hells was this woman? Would even her mother recognise this shrunken husk that seemed to have aged a decade in so little time?
“Lady, I am not one that agrees with them,” continued the general, “but I can also sense the way the tide has turned. The scouts have confirmed what you said…”
Ruma dozed off. Her body was there, yet her mind wasn’t really listening. The general didn’t sense anything different, going on to confirm how the Vanico armies had turned back, ambushed the Traditionalist forces waiting to attack. They hadn’t been alone. Blessed warriors had accompanied the infidels. A preposterous idea for the general and his men. One that failed to surprise her. How had she ever imagined Yasmeen as the Lady?
“—what do you think?”
Ruma continued to look at her reflection.
She heard footsteps behind her.
“Mzi,” said Gareeb. Ruma turned her chin towards him. Time had changed him, too. He’d been a handsome young man when she’d first met him. Another life, another time, and she might have even enjoyed his company. Now, though, he looked a decade older as well, his smooth skin hardened by the world. “You have to do this.”
She blinked. “Do what?”
The general cleared his throat, approached her. “The men need a leader. Someone who can continue with the legacy of the blessed Uniter. Can you lead us?”
Ruma chuckled. Had she gone mad now? Was she hearing things?
“The bastards will come for us soon enough,” continued the general. “We cannot remain here.”
“You have to lead us,” said Gareeb. “The soldiers see you as the best person to lead after the Uniter.”
Ruma scoffed, turned to see her reflection. “I am not the person you seek.”
“True enough,” grunted the general. “But you are the person we need for the moment.”
Ruma shook her head but the men didn’t walk away.
Men’s minds were simple things, seeking continuity, familiarity. No matter how far apart the two of them were, both the Uniter and she were women. A simple enough connection. One that would do for now, as the general said.
Except she was no one to lead anyone.
Besides, where in the seven hells would she lead them to?
Where was she headed from here?
Again, the uncomfortable feeling rose in her gut. What was she not seeing?
Forty-One
The Lady
Ruma took General Restam’s proffered hand and climbed up the makeshift dais the men had set up for her.
Hundreds of faces turned towards her. The palm trees swayed gently under the morning breeze, a coterie of armed men keeping watch in the distance.
Ruma sucked her teeth, her thoughts a cloudy, hazy mess. Hours had passed since their return to the orchard with news of the Uniter’s death—an event that had doomed two Doonyas. Hours since she’d chuckled at the general’s preposterous idea.
The Lady was dead. One these people would never get to know.
Yet now that she looked around, she saw a strange expression in the eyes of all those that looked up at her. Not lecherous any longer. Not covetous of her body. Something entirely different. Something not meant for her.
Hope.
She shook her head, adjusted the shawl someone had passed her to cover her shaved head. What in the seven hells had she gotten herself into?
“Lend me your strength and you can return to your world,” came the urgent whisper of the Pithrean in her ear. “Time is running out!”
She ignored it. If the damned thing had thought she would still do his bidding after what he had put her through, he was very much mistaken.
What if this was his plan?
Ruma chuckled, discarded the doubts in her mind. She was done second-guessing herself. What was done was done. Two things were certain. This world, if left to its own, would consume itself, reduce itself to ashes.
And her world was gone.
Yet here she was, still breathing.
Thoughts drifted, ramifications of the Uniter’s death filtering up. She tried focusing on the silent, disciplined rows of men but failed to banish the prophet from her mind.
She’d never see him again.
For the first time in a very long time, Ruma felt tears well up in the corners of her eyes for a man. Damn, she loved him. Had loved him. Still loved him. Wanted nothing more than to be back beside him.
Some men lied. Others gambled or drank too much. Was Gulatu really that bad compared to the others she’d met?
A falcon soared over the desert, swooping low, its beak pointed at a target somewhere on the sands.
“Mzi…” hissed someone. The general. Ruma didn’t turn away. He could wait.
Then again, what was she going to gain from delaying what she needed to do? The portal might be open, inching shut with each passing second, but the world she would return to—assuming the Pithrean wasn’t lying—wouldn’t be the one she’d known and lived all her life in.
Another emotion consumed her. Hatred. Blinding, searing hatred for the woman who had married her love. The woman who had played her, was in cahoots with the Vanico armies and the Pithrean, and had killed the one person meant to heal the divides of this era. The woman who had ended up siding with the infidels in attacking one of the holiest cities in her faith just to get back at Bubraza.
“Lady!” shouted someone else beside the general. A more familiar voice. Gareeb? Still, Ruma didn’t turn, her blurry eyes watching the space over the heads of men waiting patiently to hear her words.
Salodia was still burning five miles from where they stood. So much had changed in such little time, the peninsula inundated with Vanico forces working in tandem with Yasmeen’s men.
Hours had passed since their escape from their botched assault on the enemy’s artillery, but they hadn’t come for them yet. They wouldn’t come for a while. The poison she had slipped into their cook pot would have spread into other pots once the onions got distributed, slowed them down considerably, keep them stationary for a good bit yet.
The men were muttering now, a mix of chants and prayers she couldn’t quite make sense of.
They waited for her to speak, her continued silence making them anxious. Yet what was she meant to say? She wasn’t a leader of men. A mere activist who had gotten involved with the wrong crew, picking up a few useful skills along the way that had helped her try to make an honest career in Arkos before all that had been flushed down the drain.
“—Alf will help us—” she heard someone say. Ruma chuckled, looked up. Another blasted habit she’d picked up from Gulatu. Like always, the sun reigned all by itself, unchallenged by either clouds or ships streaming through its domain.
“Open the—”
Ruma cleared her throat. The first few rows of men fell silent. The effect reverberated across the ranks. Within seconds, she had their undivided attention.
“You have been beaten,” she began. “Your leader, one with connections to both Dadua and Turbaza, was murdered. Thousands more have been slain not three miles from here. Yet even after all that, the holy city burning behind you, you lot stand still here, doing nothing.”
An angry murmur rose, spread. She spied the general grinding his hands and exchanging sharp words with Gareeb, who blocked his approach towards her.
“You are guilty,” she continued, her words cold, hard, “both of cowardice and stupidity. And for that, no amount of blame is ever going to be enough. The ramifications of your actions”—Ruma shuddered, extended her arms—“are going to str
etch across millennia!”
The murmurs quietened, the eyes beginning to drop.
Ruma wasn’t finished. “You were no better than those you despised. The Blessed kill and maim all those that stand in their way. So do you lot! The Blessed appeal to religion and make it justify all the horrid deeds they commit. Your priests do the same! The Blessed do not care for the religion preached by the prophet.” Ruma jabbed her finger towards them. “Neither do you!”
Dimly, she registered the falcon rise from beyond the treetops, a small animal dangling in its beak. Someone coughed right in front. Another beside him, a tall brute of a man, broke into sobs.
“You deserve all that has befallen you!”
“Lady, that’s not right—”
Ruma shook her head, her blood boiling in her veins. “Even now, you want to rush headlong towards the holy city, mow down both Vanico and Blessed forces in your way on account of faith alone.” She paused. “When you do that, you will fail.”
She heard Gareeb shouting at the general. She turned her head. Older by more than three decades, the general still had enough strength to shove the younger man roughly to the side and stride towards her.
Ruma stood her ground, glaring at the approaching figure.
“Stop!” came a shout from behind her. One of the commoners who, until now, would not have dared raise his voice at the general.
“Don’t dare touch the laal, the Lady!”
The general came to a stop two paces from her. His large nostrils flared, fingers clenched into fists. He worked his jaw, his forehead clammy.
Ruma arched an eyebrow.
She felt the weight of all these eyes shift to the general. The older man dabbed at his forehead, a wad of butter beginning to melt under the sun.
“I…”
Shouts broke out behind her. Ruma spun about, revulsion breaking out. “Why am I wasting my time with you lot?” Shaking her head, she stepped to her right, aiming to get off the stage. All she needed was a horse, some provisions, enough mind space to think through what she needed to do, plot her revenge against Yasmeen. That was what she would do before her time came to an end.
