Shifting Sands

by Fuad Baloch

  “I can’t do that,” she said to herself, shaking her head. Bhalpur wasn’t that far off now. Her plan was still in motion. She still hadn't played out all her cards. There was still the possibility… no matter how remote, that she could pull it all off. No, the doubting part of her shouted back at her. She ignored it.

  Sivan’s face floated up. She brushed it aside. He was a good guy, one to keep to himself, a soul that sought no harm, did no harm. Yet, as much as it hurt to dwell on it, war was especially brutal on the good ones.

  This isn’t you! shouted the annoying voice within her. You’re one to care for those around you.

  “I am not the girl I used to be,” she said slowly.

  Cries went up from the kabbad ground. Just six men stood in the circle now, their features shrouded in the fading sunlight and the dust they’d kicked up. Ruma forced a grin on her face and leaned forward. The sand underneath her sandals was cooler now that the sun had barely another hour to go. The steady drumbeat picked up, accompanied by loud, ululating singing urging the fighters to give their all. She crossed her arms, swaying slightly on the balls of her feet. Had the distance between her and the other onlookers grown in the past fifteen minutes or was she imagining it?

  Look ahead! She did. In another ten or so minutes, these men would have a champion to felicitate for a night before the cycle would reset once more. Her thoughts drifted.

  Bhalpur was where she intended to trigger her trap. Once she did so, there would be no turning back. The end would hurtle towards her.

  More doubts rose. Was it hubris that she consulted with no one? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to rethink her strategy. She could still send word to Gareeb, pull him back, focus more on building alliances, acquiring garrisons, strengthening a guerrilla network of spies and insurgents.

  She didn't have the time for any of that. Wasn’t that what the fracking Pithrean had said?

  “First… speak to me!”

  Nothing.

  “Alf is the greatest!” shouted a priest to her left. Ruma kept her gaze steady, her thoughts a right mess. “Men, fight in His name!” Ruma exhaled. How stupid was it to think that the lord of all creation would want to drop everything else and watch half-naked men fight for fracking nothing in the middle of nowhere?

  “Praise be to Alf and the prophet!” bellowed another priest, standing a little further away on a thick hand-knit carpet, a pitcher of hot tea set on one corner.

  Ruma didn't recognise either of the priests, but even from this distance she could tell the two ignored each other. Disciples of Hadyan and Krishan then, who weren’t on speaking terms either.

  A shrill cry came from the kabbad ground.

  The crowd went wild, the two hundred or so onlookers raising their fists, a cacophony breaking out that made it impossible for one to seek refuge within their own mind. Ruma almost welcomed it, but even through the commotion, her problems pressed in.

  It seemed she alone believed in their tactics. Her councillors, normally never in agreement, unanimously thought it a mistake to not rush back to the cannons. They finally had powerful weaponry capable of levelling any city’s walls. Why in the seven hells would they not accompany it?

  She had other plans, of course, even if it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the doubters at bay.

  When she returned to her command tent, which of her councillors would she find ready to challenge her? Would it be Restam? Or Nodin, who had much more to lose than anyone else in her command council? Would it be Yenita, her wound raw and aching? Or would it be Hadyan, telling her once more to listen to his visions and retire north for half a year?

  She needed to catch up with Qaisan. Maybe one of the sects was willing to throw their weight behind her.

  Men were shouting around her. They knew the Traditionalist ambushers had made their way through the other contingent, knew one of their own had been captured. But Sivan Kapuri was someone they neither knew nor cared much for. The only ones who did were herself and his sister. Of those two, she, Ruma Nuway, seemed most willing to sacrifice one insignificant soul for the grand currents of history.

  “He’s just one man,” she told herself again, her voice drowning in the frenzy growing louder. “Just one man.”

  “We have a winner!” bellowed the first priest, striding towards the kabbad ground, the crowds parting to give him passage. Ruma inclined her chin. A bloody man, one of thirty who had entered the ground half an hour ago, stumbled forward. His chin was covered in gore, his robes tattered, half a dozen wounds leaking from his lean torso. He half-smiled, half-groaned, raising his right hand in the air.

  “What’s your name, servant of Alf?” asked the priest, stopping a step away from the warrior as the crowds fell silent.

  “Lakan,” came the tired response. “From Whangapa.”

  “Lakan of Whangapa!” shouted the priest. Then, he leaned in, grabbed Lakan’s hand, and thrust it up. A loud cheer went up, accompanied by clapping, shouts praising Alf, and the war drums going berserk.

  “Well done,” said Ruma. She turned about and started threading her way back to her command tent. The sun must have dipped, for her shadow stretched on four times her height. Torches burned at regular intervals, more patrols out than she’d ever seen before. If luck held, her councillors would have retired for the evening, or were busy readying their men for tomorrow’s hard ride. After all, they weren’t too far away from the crossroads now. Already, the scenery had started changing, the sand dunes giving way to plains and patches of rocky surfaces, squat hills, and hardy trees watching guard as they rode past.

  “Lady!” bowed a group of men around a cook pot.

  “Would you like some tea?” asked one of them, an old man, grinning through broken teeth. “It’s from Opar, nothing quite like it in a thousand miles.”

  “No, thank you,” she replied, brushing past them.

  Something about the humanness of the exchange unclenched her innards a bit. A ray of light, no matter how weak, managing to disperse the darkness a bit. What had happened had happened. What was to come tomorrow, she still controlled.

  “I’ll defeat you, Yasmeen,” she muttered through gritted teeth. She turned the corner.

  Someone stood in front of her tent.

  “Yenita,” said Ruma, coming to a stop six paces from her.

  The Kapuri girl blinked. She didn't wear her veil today, her greasy hair lying in a matted heap on her head. Her fingers twitched uncontrollably. “We need to rescue my brother.”

  Ruma inhaled. From the corner of her eye, she could tell that her guards stood in the shadows. They had been ambushed once, had heard of the enemy scouts making their way through Gareeb’s camp, and now they refused to let her out of their sight. Heck, though they might have tried to remain inconspicuous, she had picked out at least three of them at the kabbad ground, their attention firmly drawn to her instead of the fighting.

  “Every moment we waste,” said Yenita, “every mile we add between us and him, we seal his fate.”

  “For all we know, his fate has already been decided,” Ruma said gently.

  “I refuse to accept that.”

  Ruma nodded. “I can understand that.”

  Yenita took a half step forward. Shadows stirred just as Ruma raised her hand to halt them. “You can’t really, though. Have you ever lost a family member to these savages?”

  Ruma glared at Yenita for a long breath. “I know what it means to lose what you love the most. I’ve gone through the hard, painful periods of doubt and regret that follow straight after. But more importantly, I know what needs doing once all these phases are past. Preparing for the future.”

  “Sivan is no abstract principle to be sacrificed on the altar of the future, Lady,” hissed Yenita, leaning forward. She was close enough that Ruma could see the torchlight dancing in her eyes. “He awaits our rescue for it is us who put him in this position in the first place.”

  “I asked him to leave—”

  “You also set this pe
ninsula on fire!” spat Yenita. “Your actions have doomed him!”

  Ruma blinked. “You strike low, Yenita. You know this fracking peninsula was on its way to doom long before I showed up.”

  “Pour oil on the fire and it burns even more!”

  The urge to step forward and slap the young, stupid girl hard grew in Ruma’s chest. But she restrained herself, her fingernails digging deep into her palms. She forced her left hand up, righting her veil. “I know very well the power of emotions. Believe me, I do. I also remember the many times they landed me in trouble for saying things I never should have.”

  “You’re not from here,” said Yenita, her voice dropping to a low growl. “You’ve already created these advanced catapults. You must have a way of freeing Sivan.”

  Ruma shook her head sadly. “If I did, why wouldn't I do it already?”

  “Because he is just one man. A useless, worthless man. One not worth risking your grand plan for.”

  Ruma licked her lips, the words cutting deep at her. “Every day you surprise me. Do you really think so little of me?”

  Yenita shook her head. “This is what I would have done in your place.”

  The crowds were still cheering behind Ruma, but the fervour had dimmed considerably now. The victor and the cheering men would join the priests soon for evening prayers, then return to their camp to fill their bellies and retire for another night under the stars. Reflexively, Ruma looked up, her eyes finding the bright Cian, alone tonight, her consort Tarani missing.

  “You have to find a way to help Sivan,” insisted Yenita.

  Ruma cocked her head to the side, irked by the irreverent tone in the younger girl’s voice. “Or what?”

  “Or I will tell the world all I know.”

  Simple words, spoken matter-of-factly, words Ruma believed immediately. Dangerous thoughts raced through her mind. Had she been more like Tasina, she’d have ordered Yenita dead. Hell, even if it had been a younger, rougher Ruma, she might not have hesitated either. Now, though, the very idea nauseated her. “You’re threatening me?”

  Yenita barked a short laugh. “Making it easier for you to make your mind up.”

  Again, the words struck close, wounding Ruma more than should have been right. Beneath all the competing emotions though, something else gnawed at her. The rough edges of an idea. What was better than one magnet drawing iron filings was two of them. Here was another variable she could cast which the Traditionalists wouldn't have counted on.

  “I’ll go far away,” said Yenita, her voice breaking, tears leaking from her eyes, all strength gone from her. She shivered, hugging herself. “You will never see me or hear from me. Sivan and I will go to the Vanico empire, never set foot in Andussia again. No one shall ever know what you told me, this I swear by my dead father, by Alf himself!” She broke into sobs. “I… I’m sorry. I wouldn’t… really tell anyone what you told me. Father always said those who share someone’s secrets are no different than cannibals. I would never—”

  “Hold yourself together, Yenita. Maybe there’s another way.”

  Wiping snot off her face, Yenita raised her thick, moist eyelashes.

  “Come see me in the morning,” said Ruma.

  Eighteen

  Cold Cuts of Meat

  “I strongly counsel against it,” said General Restam, patting down his errant strands of hair. “We’ve already seen Gareeb fail at being a commander.”

  Ruma turned her gaze to the general. “Oh, so if you blame Gareeb for what Yasmeen’s men did, who do I blame for how she managed to gut our animals?”

  General Nodin grunted. “That’s a good point.”

  “But… but this isn’t the same thing,” protested General Restam, looking around the tent, his angry gaze settling on Brother Hadyan beside Qaisan, who scowled by himself. “It’s not.”

  “I’ve made up my mind,” said Ruma, nodding more to herself than the others. “And I’m not going to rethink it.” As she started to turn, Brother Hadyan cleared his throat. Ruma grimaced. One by one, the three men turned towards him. Ruma wondered whether she could ignore him, then shook her head. “Go on, Hadyan.”

  He took a half-step towards her, the morning light casting his shadow on the canvas wall behind him. He bowed his head, setting the gentle bells within his hat tinkling. “Alf is wise, most beneficent. One of His best gifts is that of guidance. Men… and women spend entire lifetimes searching for signs. When He does reach out”—Brother Hadyan closed his eyes, rocking on the balls of his heels—“it behoves us to listen to Him.”

  “Let me get it right,” Ruma snapped. “What He wants is for me to curl my tail inwards and sulk in the corner?”

  “Alf is the Lord of the Worlds, master of the past, present, and the future,” intoned Brother Hadyan. “What He wants from the believers is for their own benefit.”

  Ruma scowled at him, but couldn't wipe the arrogant smirk off his face. “You know what surprises me the most? Your complete lack of doubt. I’ve known men of faith, ones with a better claim of knowing God than you, and yet they’ve known dark nights of doubt. A man I knew admitted that he didn't like the state of being unsure but that it was still better than being certain.” She crossed over to him. “How can you be so certain that these visions you keep talking about aren’t just your imagination?”

  “I know,” Brother Hadyan replied. “My heart tells me that.”

  “The heart!” Ruma scoffed. “If we all followed that damned thing, nothing would ever get done.”

  Not waiting for a response, she spun about and stormed out of the tent.

  Outside, soldiers were a beehive of activity as they finished loading their provisions for the ride ahead. There was no sign of the kabbad ground anymore, the space taken up by neighing horses as they got weighed down by riders and provisions. All around, donkeys and camels brayed as the quartermasters readied them. Dawn had broken barely half an hour ago, and normally they’d have been already moving by now.

  The men knew something was different about today.

  They were right.

  Ruma drew in a deep lungful of air, then coughed at the dust. “Blasted world!” Righting her veil, holding her breath, she strode towards the camels.

  “Blessing upon you, Lady of the Sands,” shouted a soldier from her left.

  “The Lady!” said another.

  “Oh, Alf, bless our cause.”

  Ignoring them all, Ruma marched ahead. The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of latrines freshly turned over. But then, her eyes picked out the person she was seeking standing over a dune.

  Ruma clambered over. “You received my orders?”

  Yenita turned. Despite the relatively cool air of the morning, her forehead was slick with sweat. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Ah, look, another disbeliever!” mocked Ruma.

  “I’m a simple merchant. I know nothing about leading this many soldiers all by myself.”

  “You asked for it,” Ruma said. “You’ll be fine.”

  Yenita chewed on her lower lip, her eyes glazing over for a moment. Then, she shook her head. “What if I’m not up to it?”

  Ruma leaned forwards and grasped her by the shoulder. “Until one tries, no one is.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me,” said Ruma, giving her shoulder a firm squeeze. “You seem to know instinctively how much you can push someone. A pretty good qualification for a commander as far as I’m concerned.” Ruma chuckled. “Alf’s breath, you’re more ready to lead these men at your age than I ever was at this point of my life.”

  “But, you’re not—” Yenita stopped, looking over her shoulder to ensure no one was within earshot. “This is a different world. You and I don’t have the same shared experiences.”

  Ruma smiled, stepping back. “You’re wrong there. Women and men are the same no matter where or when. Trust me on that.”

  Yenita exhaled, then turned towards the quartermasters. For a long while, the two of them
stood in silence, watching Lady’s Light break into two groups. Ruma’s insides squirmed. The simple truth was she had no idea whether she was making the right decision. Arguments, both rational and irrational, made by her councillors assailed her. Not one of them had agreed with entrusting one third of her army to a girl who wasn’t yet twenty, setting her off to pursue one man.

  They didn't know what she intended, though. Even if they did, Ruma doubted they’d have seen things from her perspective. All that mattered was the final battle, and doubling down on the original wager she had made.

  “These men are loyal,” said Ruma, her voice strained. “They do not know you yet, but they’ll listen to you.”

  “They might in the beginning, but—”

  “There will be gossip,” continued Ruma. “Crude, double-meaning phrases. Some will try to squeeze into your tent at night, try and cop a feel when the opportunity presents itself. Chide them, punish them, but don’t forget you need them, just as much as they do you. They are the sharp blades we need and you the arm that must wield them.”

  Yenita opened her mouth, then fell silent as Ruma spotted Brother Krishan shuffling towards them. Ruma exhaled. Was her life never going to be free of priests? Her thoughts drifted, the image of the Yeth moving around the Pithrean in blue stoles flashing in her conscience. She sucked her teeth. Once this business with the Traditionalists was done, and if the Pithrean was still alive, she’d find out what all that meant.

  The tall priest offered a curt bow, then stood still.

  “What brings you here?” Ruma asked, straightening her back.

  “I wondered if you would join me in a prayer, Lady of the Sands,” said Brother Krishan.

  “That wouldn’t be a terrible idea,” said Yenita before Ruma could get in a word edgewise.