by Fuad Baloch
“Should I have waited instead of rushing through to Irtiza?” she whispered, biting her lower lip, the uncertainty of it all gnawing at her. Maybe she should have waited, heard from the scouts and potential allies before springing into action. It wasn’t like her fundamental issues had disappeared just because Yasmeen had been defeated in one battle. The Vanico forces were still burning through the Andussian peninsula. The Traditionalists still held more towns and banners than she could ever face on her own. She didn't have enough men to replenish the one army she did have. Two of her top generals were at each other’s throats once more. She was going half-mad, for still thinking she had heard the First, when that surely had been her imagining it.
“One problem at a time,” she said. “The generals.” She dabbed at her forehead slick with sweat. The mercenary general hadn't asked for gold when he’d joined her cause, but all along the implications had been clear. Should she win—something that had seemed quite remote until three days ago when news had come of Yasmeen’s defeat—he and his bounty hunters would extract their price. Another discussion she should have had much earlier.
“I need to keep them busy,” she muttered to herself, fidgeting with the veil. Unable to quench her restlessness, she began pacing, more a caged, frustrated lioness than a commander resting for the night. Her thighs chafed from the hard ride in the saddle, her arms ached from holding reins all day long, yet the urge rose within her to rush out of the tent, mount the fastest horse, and gallop away.
“Gallop away!” she scoffed. Out of ideas, she righted the veil on her head, and stormed out of her command tent.
To the west, the sun was setting, just a sliver of golden disc jutting over the dunes. Far in the distance, the sands shimmered—a mirage for the gullible. All around though, voices shouted, metal clanged, animals brayed. Already, a dozen or so tents had been set up for the night—for the commanders only, of course—each under the watchful gaze of a brown Scythe fluttering proudly beside it. Fifty yards ahead, tired riders were preparing for another night under the stars, brushing down their horses, unrolling their bedrolls. Steam rose over cook pots to her right, men sitting around them and trading stories. Hard to believe they’d be doing exactly that for every night before they arrived at Irtiza.
These nights would continue to come until she had helped defeat the Traditionalists and Vanico forces. Then… Ruma shrugged. She still didn't know what came after. Maybe, she would indeed have to gallop away and ensure history forgot all about her.
She crossed her arms over her chest, then closed her eyes, letting the sounds wash all over her. A different world and era, but in many ways, the basics hadn’t changed from the time she’d been part of the prophet’s fleet banding together to defend Doonya. Sure, back then, instead of men travelling a mere three dozen miles a day across the vast deserts, their massive fleets had criss-crossed entire star systems, yet what moved soldiers then seemed to affect these as well. In her day, it was the impulse to defend one’s homeland against aliens seeking to destroy their way of life. Here, they fought to keep off the Vanico and Traditionalist barbarians from their homes.
Survival. The one thing that united them all.
Ruma chuckled, opening her eyes. “Gulatu, once I fought beside you. Now, I fight your wife. How does that make you feel?”
She felt a pang of sadness at not knowing whether she’d ever see her world again. Worse was the fact that her universe was beginning to fade from her memory. The more she dwelt on the fact, the more difficult it became to order her thoughts.
From the corner of her eye, she spied two scouts cantering towards a hooded figure. Qaisan checking in with his scouts to make sure the path ahead was safe. The road to Irtiza. The one path she was hoping would gain her a major victory, heal the differences in her men, and win her enough recruits to take on Yasmeen licking her wounds. A good plan on paper.
“First…” she whispered, almost without intending to do so. Surely, she had imagined him, for she heard nothing back. Ruma raised her chin. The dark of the night was beginning to gain strength, swallowing up light that still lingered. In between the stars that were twinkling at her was the Shard, the physical manifestation of the powerful being who had made his way in her mind. Or maybe the Shard had collapsed into itself by now as well.
If the Shard was dead, and by extension the Pithrean was dead too, did it mean her mind was finally free of the blasted alien? A mix of emotions met the realisation, leaving her more confused.
“What am I doing?” she muttered to herself. If she had lost her chance at getting back to her world, what made her continue against the Traditionalists and Vanico forces anyway? This selfless impulse… wasn’t something she recognised in her. Ruma Nuway was a survivor, one who didn't let attachments weigh her down. All her life, she’d moved lightly and swiftly. Yet, here she was, wasting away for the sake of people in a future world she was already beginning to forget. Worse, no one in either world would ever know her plight.
Frustrated, she began to plod ahead. No particular destination in mind, nor any agenda, just the desire to feel her limbs in motion, confuse her senses with the world she was in, soften the longing in her heart to return to hers, distract herself from the yearning to see Gulatu again, and to hug him, and to tell him how much she loved him after all.
“Qaisan told me you might be heading to the kabbad ground,” came a soft voice behind her.
Startled, Ruma turned. “Yenita, you’ve got a damn talent for seeking me out.”
“I could’ve accused you of the same back at Fanima,” Yenita said. Smiling, she walked up to stand beside her. Yenita wore tight-fitting leathers under the dark shawl she had draped over her shoulders. Memory flashed in Ruma’s mind of the younger girl naked, offering her nubile body when she had been bathing in the tavern. She shoved the thoughts away. That was the past and that was where it was going to stay for good.
“Sivan is keeping himself amused?” Ruma asked, her fingers fidgeting with the ends of her veil again.
“As much as he can,” Yenita replied, the bitterness in her voice taking Ruma by surprise. “Sometimes I wonder if I’d be better off without him. He’s miserable to travel with, and his haggling is more terrible than a toddler’s. But then, I remember he’s all I’ve got left after what the Traditionalists did to us, and I snap right out of it.”
“Love changes you even if you can’t break out of it,” said Ruma. She turned her head. Without realising, she had indeed walked over to the kabbad ground. “Did you know I never thought I’d come to like this game as much as I do?” She whistled softly. “Forces you to make difficult decisions, this game does. Seize advantage at the cost of honour or accept defeat as a price for being noble. Though the answer appears simple, in reality it isn't so.”
“I guess they don’t play kabbad in the Northern Reaches,” Yenita said. She cocked her head to the side, her full lips pouting. “I don’t see the fascination with the game personally, though. Who in Alf’s name would not try and win, no matter the cost?”
“Oh, I know some,” Ruma said softly. “The prophet, for one.”
“The… prophet.”
Ruma exhaled, then flexed her fingers. “Well, based on all I’ve heard about him, he was a man moved by higher impulses, so I suspect he’d never have struck a man below the belt so to speak.”
“And look where that left us!”
Ruma blinked at the bite in Yenita’s voice. She turned around to face her. “Do you actually blame the prophet for this mess?”
Yenita squeezed her eyes for a second. “I shouldn't have said anything. If any priest hears that, Sivan assures me I’d be strung up for blasphemy.”
“It’s only me here. Explain yourself.”
The corners of Yenita’s soft mouth quivered, then she exhaled. “Well, he had multiple opportunities to set his successor, didn’t he? Couldn't he have left instructions on how he wanted Alf’s faith to be administered once… once he passed away? That act alone could have sa
ved a lot of lives.”
Ruma opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn't really have an answer to that. Truth be told, the more she thought about it, the more she found herself agreeing with Yenita. If I ever see you again, Gulatu, you’d better have a good explanation.
“Anyway, Qaisan said to pass word of a delegation heading your way.”
“Qaisan asked you?” Ruma asked.
Yenita nodded. “Apparently, he wanted to tell you himself, him being this master of spies and all that. But considering I’m… well, I’m part of your council, I guess he thought it alright for me to pass the message.”
“Did he say who this delegation was from?”
Yenita hesitated. “Members of the Blessed Dadua Contee’s family. They’ve been seeking you for a while, I hear. Especially since word spread that you witnessed the Uniter’s last moments.”
Ruma clenched her fingers. “I see. I guess hearing Yasmeen suffering a defeat helped them make up their minds.”
“If they could join our cause, we’d have thousands more to fight the Traditionalists.”
“Hmm.” Ruma leaned forward, arching an eyebrow. “Yenita, I hope the men are treating you alright since I made you a commander.”
Yenita shrugged. “Men don’t seem to like taking orders from women. Luckily, I’ve been on the road far too long to let it bother me much.”
Ruma forced a grin. “Good.”
“If I’m being honest though,” said Yenita after a pause, “I would have refused your offer. After all, I want nothing more than my brother beside me as we trade across the peninsula.” She cleared her throat. “But since you saved our lives, I couldn't bring myself to it.”
“Aha.”
Silence stretched between them. The sun had vanished behind the sand dunes now, the smell of roasting meat wafting over from the left.
“You’ve changed,” Yenita said, cocking her head to the side. “You’re much more driven. But also distant, somehow.”
“I’m not the only one to change.” Ruma forced a chuckle. “Trust me though, I’m more grounded to this world now than I’ve ever been.”
Bells clinked to the right. Ruma turned her head. Brother Hadyan was leading a dozen shuffling priests over to the withered palm trees in the distance, their hands raised towards the heavens.
“I wonder what they pray for at night?” mused Yenita. “They never let us close enough to overhear them.”
Ruma scoffed, then turned her back to the priests. “What do I care? All I know is we’ve got another long day of ride tomorrow.”
Five
To Arms
“Make way! Make way for the Lady of the Sands!” shouted her scouts as Ruma rode into the charred centre of Moteka. They’d had no intention of entering the small town en route to Irtiza, but after the news the scouts had come back with, she’d resolved to see it with her own eyes.
A decision she was beginning to regret.
Moteka, a thriving town on account of its proximity to trading routes, had been reduced to a burned down husk, the town centre littered with corpses and upturned carts. Faces peeked from shattered windows and cracks in the collapsed walls. Two of her scouts shouted at the survivors, shooing them off and away from her sight.
“Alf’s breath!” Ruma swore, feeling strength drain from her limbs. Two stray dogs watched her contingent behind a blackened wall, their tails wagging nonstop. Worst of it all was the stench, unmissable, unbearable, of human bodies sliced open and baking under the unforgiving sun.
The scouts fell silent, an eerie silence pressing inward, punctured only by the occasional wooden beam splintering and pieces of masonry crashing.
“Who would do this?” she murmured again, her mind still reeling with the indiscriminate carnage. The twelve scouts she had ridden out with watched her silently. As did the few survivors hidden behind the remains of their homes, almost as if waiting to see whether she had come to finish off the job.
On her Doonya, she’d been part of armies far greater in number and capability than the seven thousand she had now. The fleet they had assembled in the Defence of Doonya had comprised more than three hundred thousand soldiers. The Battle of Heb had cost more than a thousand ships. The Zrivisi bombardments had razed entire cities on Doonya.
Yet, none of her past experiences had trained her for this bloodbath. For death made so visceral and ugly in its simplicity. When plasma rifles hit flesh—human or alien—they made neat burns that cauterized almost immediately. When a bomb exploded, it left no bones to pick and grieve over. When ships died in space, the vacuum of space silenced any cries of death.
On this Doonya, death was more palpable, bloodier, more in the face. To her left lay a severed hand over an abandoned fruit cart. To the right, guts spilled out from a body whose face had been smashed in with blunt trauma, the skull cracked open.
Bile rose in her gorge. Ruma swallowed, fighting the sickness growing in her. A flurry of emotions washed over her. Grief. Rage. Disgust. Would this fate befall her world if she didn’t succeed here?
“Animals, these Vanico soldiers,” came Brother Hadyan’s voice behind her. Ruma acknowledged him with a terse nod as he rode up beside her. Despite the heat, he shivered, clutching the reins in one hand. “Verily, Alf has cursed the perpetrators. They will never get a sniff of the Gardens reserved for the believers.”
She grunted.
“This is why we can never enter into an alliance with them,” said Brother Hadyan, his voice soft, almost paternal. “I know you hunger for allies, Lady, but you’ve got Alf on your side. He sends allies to you, even if you can’t see them yet.”
Ruma cracked her knuckles, her heart heavy with grief. “Why does Alf allow such evil to exist in the first place? For an all-powerful being, why not save the wretched from the monsters?”
“We, the mortals, may not always understand His grand plan, but we must believe that when we return to Him, He shall judge us for our deeds.”
Ruma exhaled. She was not going to get any other answer from the priest. He meant well, she could see that much, but ultimately they both looked at the world from perspectives that acted like the two banks of a river, able to see each other but never meet.
Behind her rose more shouts. Nodin’s clipped voice ordering scouts to fan around and seek any able-bodied men who would join them. Restam’s whiny voice demanding any provisions found to be taken to the quartermaster without delay. Qaisan dispatching scouts north-east to check on the town’s granary.
Vultures. She led a pack of vultures willing to pick clean the hyena’s kill.
Another horse pulled up beside them. By Brother Hadyan’s grunt of displeasure, she knew who that was.
“The Traditionalists are no better under Yasmeen,” said Yenita. “They’ve done this and more across the peninsula.” Ruma nodded at her. Yenita wore a hard-boiled leather vest, her long hair tied neatly behind her. Her eyes, though, were hard as stone, bereft of the usual twinkle that dwelt within them. “I spoke with the scouts. Not even the children were spared.”
“Alf will smite them with Divine retribution,” said Brother Hadyan.
Yenita stared ahead, leading forward, a curious expression settling on her face. “Children, if left behind, grow up to avenge their parents. Something the Traditionalists never quite understood.”
Ruma didn’t reply.
Brother Hadyan hissed. “No doubt, they are aided by the Charlatan and the Schemer.” He shook his head vehemently. “After all, not even the most vile man could do all this without fearing Divine retribution.”
This wasn’t the time to argue, and Ruma had lived on this Doonya long enough to understand its views on women, yet the words irked her. “What of women?” she asked softly. “What if I told you I know of one who did far worse in a different age completely unaided by the Charlatan or the Schemer?”
The priest blinked. “I find it hard to believe, even if I’m loath to deny your words.”
“Why?”
“Women…
are given a different set of duties by the Divine.”
“Like cooking and tending to children?”
Brother Hadyan touched his throat as Yenita scoffed.
Ruma glared at the priest. “Hadyan, you follow me, a woman. The Traditionalists you deride follow the prophet’s wife. Before me, you paid allegiance to Bubraza, another woman.” Brother Hadyan swallowed, colour rising in his cheeks. Ruma wasn't finished, though. Now that her mind had found a suitable avenue for distraction, it wasn’t letting up. Leaning forward, she jabbed at the Scythe on his chest. “Why the hypocrisy? You call me anointed by Alf, a woman, yet I only see men in your order. Why is that?”
Brother Hadyan frowned, the lines in his forehead deepening. “I… The prophet entrusted the men for taking care of matters of the faith.”
“Is that right?” Ruma mocked. From the corner of her eye, she saw a boy around ten shuffle towards them. A scout rushed to cut him off. She cleared her throat, keeping her gaze focused on the priest. “Am I just a tool for you then, a means to an end?” Anger rose through her in a flash. “Tell me, what do you seek through me? Lordship over all priests should I win?”
Brother Hadyan stared at her for a long breath. “I am no mercenary seeking worldly benefit. I merely do what Alf commands. No more, no less.”
“Bah!” scoffed Ruma.
“I see your soul is troubled, Lady,” said Brother Hadyan. “The conflict between our two generals weighs heavily on your mind, one I assure you need not worry about.”
“See how he mints words without ever answering you?” challenged Yenita.
Brother Hadyan closed his eyes. Then nodded. “I do see your point, Lady of the Sands. Perhaps, once the sands shift no more, we’ll have an opportunity to re-examine the zulzulat.”
“Don't trust him,” said Yenita. “These priests, they’re all liars.”
Ruma shook her head, sadness filling her heart. “Not all of them.” Before memory of Gulatu would overwhelm her, she turned her horse around, and spurred it towards the rest of her army. Yenita rode after her. For a brief second, Ruma wondered if she should look for the boy who had been trying to seek the Lady of the Sands. Then again, what could she offer him? She couldn’t mend these walls, couldn’t raise the dead, couldn’t give him back all that he had lost. All she could do was to press on harder than before, rid both worlds of the evils of extremism.
