The Songs of Strife

35 NARROWS

Lam stood on weary feet, the only sound he could hear was his own breath. He loosened his grip on his sword, dropping to a knee. But as soon as Lam did so, Rooster's claw gave out an inhuman cry only he could hear. The gray steel pulsated as he buried it on the sand. It was as though the blade wanted more. As though it was hungry for something.

Lam sighed. "That's enough. You already have your fill of souls today. Don't be greedy... we don't want to wake him. If he is as powerful as you say then we don't have the devata who imprisonned you coming for us."

The sword did not answer back.

"Loyalty is all I ask from you," Lam said to the sword. "Give it and I will give you what you desire the most."

It was maddedning to console or to rebuke a chunk of steel. But the moment he started to converse with Roster's claw, fragments of memories started to come back. Not enough to show him the full tale before he arrive here in Zubu. But it was enough to give him a sense of direction. The sword whined again.

Lam sighed. At first, he thought he was losing it when he heard the sword actually talk to him. So, he consulted the babaylan. And she told him it was normal. For the blade he held was a Living weapon and not just some mere implement of war. She also told him during his earlier visits to her pavilion that it would serve a grander role on his fate. That it was the key to bring what was forgotten.

But the seemed so uniportant now. Not with all this. Not with Malaya and their child.

He studied the last of the invaders' boat as they retreated towards the ship that floated on the horizon's edge.

"That's it?" He said as his chest rouse and fell with the blue wave below his knees. "Is that all you got?"

Lam's whole body was aching tired. He was thirsty and he wanted to go home. Home, a funny word for him to think of. It was one of the many things he no longer had. His home was turned to ash and dust long before he met Pulaco, Mingming and Malaya. Come to think of it. This whole mess was his home now. He raised his head towards the sky. How in the hell did I miss that, the waylander thought.

"Home," he whispered, trying to taste the word in his mouth. A shadow of a smile edged his lips. He was indeed home. He felt as thought he was no longer a waylander because for better or for worse he now had a place to call home with Malaya.

Lam surveyed the beach. Blood made the waves run red and the faint noise of grown men crying filled the air. Everything was either broken, dead or dying.

So, much for home.

This was war. It was clear as daylight that no one could truly be victorious in it, Lam thought. It was a costly thing which everyone paid for, whether they were the fools who fought it. Or the ignorant bystanders who died because of it.

None argued this against Lam for those who can were already floating lifeless, swaying with the crimson waters of the beach. He turned to face their enemies as they rowed their bankas to their ship. Then, he roared with the rest of the serfs who survived, crying like the howling devils from the pit, brandishing their spears and kampilans in the air in genuine jubilation.

It was the end, Lam thought. Time to go home. Time to go back to Malaya and celebrate their victory against the strange invaders.

Pigafetta thought differently, though.

When he arrived on Victoria's deck. He dragged Delcano by the collar. Both men were wet and tired. But Pigafetta knew it was not the time to rest. Not yet. A crewman came to his aid but he pushed the man away and dropped Delcano behind him.