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.
"Help him!" He was still panting when he started running again, armor clattering and eyes wild with anger and tinged with a bit of madness. He was looking for something. For someone.
One brave and concerned gunner, the man in-charge of firing one of their cannons meet him half way. "Sir, are you okay?"
Pigafetta grabbed him by the throat, nails sinking deep in the man's skin.
The gunner was too stunned to react. "Sir, are you all right? What do you want?"
The chronicler had a look of a man who finally found what he was looking for right in front of him. And like a feral beast from the jungles of Zubu he said what he had to say with rage, "Shoot them all down! Give them hell! Tear them apart!"
He frantically pointed his finger down the white beach full of screaming barbarians. The gunner turned to the howling natives of Opon Matan. They were celebrating their victory. For it was clear that they've won against all the odds. But what they didn't know was that they were also in range for the pale men's cannons.
The gunner turned to his fellow crewmen and gave a curt nod. "You heard the man." He took the chronicler's hand off him. "Fire all cannons!"
The crew men who manned their artillery obliged as they aimed all their weapons to one single point and fired their armaments dry. Steel rain fell one final time down the victors of the battle of Opon Matan.
The ear-splitting sound of the cannons ended Lam and the other serf's cries of victory a few seconds later. The last thing they saw before the cannonballs' concussion struck them was white soul-searing light...
In the cliff above the Narrows...
Mingming opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was Pulaco on his knees swaying from let to right, face bruised and battered. Broken and spent arrows littered the ground between them like dried cogon grass. Mingming was about to come to Pulaco's aid but the pain on his rib stopped him. He grunted as he rounded up all the energy in his body to stand up.
"Good gods," he said to himseld as he rested both hands on his knees. "Don't we ever get a break?"
Balat answered him with a kick in the back, shoving him face first on the rocky ground above the Narrows. "Nah, baldy," Balat whispered. "Not till we're finish with you."
"As I was saying," Zullah made a flourish with his hands as he addressed Pulaco. "I just can't send you back to the mud without seeing you suffer for what you did. There has to be justice. And I prefer my own kind."
Mingming groaned in pain as another kick landed on his rib. Balat kept on his attack against the defenseless man. But unbeknownst to the serf with an awful birthmark, the Daraganan did someting to change their odds against them. Mingming pinched something from the ground and hid it behind his wrist as Balat held his head up to face Pulaco. Then, Zullah's warrior serf unsheathed his blade. But his master raised a finger to ward off him off.
"Not yet Balat," Zullah said. "I am not quiet satisfied yet."
Balat replied with a nod. He could still wait.
All the while, Mingming tightened his grip on the piece of arrowhead hidden in his palm, all his muscles tensed in anticipation. All he needed was an opportunity to strike. And he only had one chance. For a mistake here was death. So, the question of when to do it sprung inside his stubborn head. Acting too early would have one of them going to the mud. While doing things too soon will get him and Pulaco both killed. But it wasn't really a choice for him. He smiled as he readied himself to strike.
***
Zullah smacked the datu of Mandawili behind the head. "Are you even listening? I want to see you beg, Pulaco. Why don't you beg?" He backhanded him on the face. "Oh, so you're too tough for begging?"
Pulaco ignored him and eyed Mingming. A flitting grin crossed the Daragangan leader's lips. Pulaco moved his head to the side. He knew what Mingming was planning to do. He knew how stupid and foolish it was.
"Well, let's see how long you could keep at it," Zullah said as signaled his servant, Balat, to do his bidding. "Don't waste time, oaf. Move with haste and let's see if that Daragangan will bleed red like his men."
"Yes, lord Zullah," answered Balat as he leaned closer to his prey. Close enough that Mingming could smell his foul breath. He threatened Pulaco's brother-in-law with his keen dagger. "See you in hell, baldy..." he said, raising the cold steel above his victim's head.
But before Balat could carve Mingming's face, the Daragangan leader made his move. He took the chance as he grabbed Balat's neck and stabbed him with the jagged arrowhead. Zullah's servant recoiled away, holding his wound with both hands, an unspoken curse trapped in his mouth. Balat half stumbled as he bled, tip of the arrowhead in between his bloody fingers. Angered by the man's action, he struck Mingming with an elbow, breaking the Daragangan leader's jaw.
Balat took a step forward, making gurgling sounds as he tried to stop the bleeding. But it wouldn't stop. It would never stop until he was dead.
Mingming made sure of it.
Zullah realised what the Daragangan leader did and went for Mingming's head. "You fucking piece of shit."
Mingming only smiled at him, the kind of smile that only redeemed men wore. And he just knelt there as Zullah came for him. But there was no fear on the Daragangan's face as his death strode towards him. There was only cold defiance. He gave another knowing smile. A smile only wore by men who reached their limits. Then, he turned to Pulaco.
"Fight on," he whispered. "Fight on for the one's you love."
Zullah grabbed him by the neck, clawing at his face. But Mingming would not relent. He would not show fear. He would not, even in the most desperate situation, cower to his foe. He would be a bagani to his last breath.
"It's time to bring your old self back my brother," he added before Zullah swung his blade to slit his throat.