The Songs of Strife

17 EMISSARY

Tension and unease filled the air on the denuded hill as the whinnying of a warhorse echoed down the valley. It spoiled the smell of the freshly torn grass, and the bright sunny day itself seemed to darken as time went by.

A small crowd of villagers from Mandawili had gathered at the foot of the hill, eager to lay eyes on one of their long-standing enemies. The memories of the Magalos, the destroyers, were still freshly etched on their minds. They were ravagers. They were killers. Nothing good came with the destroyers. The villagers scowled at the man. Spat at the ground were he walked. In a sense the saying was true, tattoos inked on skin faded. It was not as indilible as the dark memories birthed from cruelty. But not all felt hatred, the young ones were more at awe at the stranger but their curiosity and eagerness soon gave way to respect as Pulaco and his men made their way. Ancient and young alike, bowed their heads as the chief climbed the exposed hill. All the while, the visitor waited for him at the peak of the mound, his placid face betraying nothing about him.

He just sat there on a black horse like a dignified hero. Around him, Pulaco's warrior serfs held their spears close in hand. They were wary of the dangers that a man like him brought. As though teasing them, the visitor adjusted the two curved sword on his back, their white strap in contrast to his thick red vest. The serfs all gave a nervous twitch, thinking that he was going to draw the twin blades at them.

Like most Magalos, he wore a black tobao on his head as black as the unusual beast of burden on which he rode, white geometric and floral designs wound around it like venomous sea snakes ready to strike. While the pale ruby on the center of his headwear maliciously glinted at the villagers below. A stark contrast stood between him and the villagers. It wasn't just his wardrobe that set the distinction, but how he carried himself, restrained and calculated like a leashed tiger. Dangerous when he needs to be. Dangerous when he wanted to be. And one needed to be like him to know what kind of man he was. But few could tell about the subtle difference except Pulaco.

The chief looked at the man straight in the eye. A cold blooded-killer hiding in plain sight, he thought. A man ready to kill.

"Greetings, Maas Ilidji!" the visitor said, his sharp ringed eyes fixed on Pulaco. "Or maybe its more proper to call you Dimantag... since after all, you're supposed to be the unbeatable one," the man added, giving emphasis on the final word.

Pulaco strode and halted a couple of feet away from the warrior. "What do you want stranger? And who are you?" He hissed. The cloak on Pulaco's shoulder hid his injury from the visitor, but it was also too tight, lancing pain crossed over it and a shadow of a grimace passed over Pulaco's face.

Lam and Mingming flanked his side as the Magalos drew closer

"My name is Alahamid Ibn Surrac al Hassan, Lieutenant of the famed Magalos, Emissary of the great Sultan of Pu-Lilo, his Highness, Ul Zain Ali-Abbedin." The man gave Pulaco a curt bow, speaking with confidence and certainty. He smiled at the chief's subtle reaction. Then, he stared at the crowd below before letting his mount take another step. The people seemed to hold their breath and he relished their dread. "What do I want? Hmmm...a drink from the famed wells of Mandawili, perhaps?" he finally said.

The stranger dusted his khaki trousers.

"You want a drink? Why don't you try sea water for a change." Mingming spat in front of the sultan's warrior, a couple of inches shy from hitting the Magalos' feet. The people around the hill laughed, but Mingming didn't join their mirth.

Lam smiled as he dragged his sword to his side. "Or maybe you want to spar? As I've often heard... Mandawili is also famous for its warriors. I'm not from here, but I've been inching for a fight. Care to try, stranger?"