Searching was just a different kind of hunting, Bayani
thought. The Maestro insisted that every man be armed. Bayani turned out in his
hunting gear: bow in hand, quiver of arrows, baraw tucked into his loincloth, ginunting at his hip. Alejandro carried his bolo in place of a ginunting.
The bolo’s short, heavy blade was
more useful for clearing vegetation than the ginunting, but in his hands the bolo
was no less effective a weapon.
Salazar examined the group, patting their shoulders
and wishing them well. To Alejandro, he said, “Expecting trouble, Maestro?”
“Sometimes, the seeress gets something right. And even
if she’s wrong, we will be able to hold a hunt on the way home and keep the
larder full.”
“Ah. Good thinking.”
Bayani marveled at the Maestro’s thought process. He
would have to learn how to think like him. As the party trudged off into the
jungle, Bayani lagged behind, keeping pace with Alejandro.
“You have something on your mind,” Alejandro said.
“Well…it’s Grandmother Dalisay. She pointed at me when
she said, ‘Heroes die’. Do you think…?”
“Who knows the hour of one’s death? Not I, not even
she. The important thing is to focus on the task at hand and do it well.”
“But if…what if…”
“Then die like a man. Sword in hand, surrounded by the
corpses of your enemies. Die so well your enemies will fear your ghost.”
Bayani blinked. He had never heard the Maestro speak
so harshly. The closest he had come to that was explaining the effect a certain
technique would have. But the lectures sounded like an afterthought, an
epilogue to the crash of sticks on sticks.
Alejandro chuckled. “Bayani, you have your father’s
eyes. And, I think, you have his heart. But as long as you carry that ginunting—” he nodded at the sword “—you
must be prepared to draw it. And be prepared for the consequences of drawing
blood.”
Bayani nodded. There was so much he had to think about
now, and so little time. Maybe later, when Mother was back home, he would have
ample time to think.
The jungle gave way to a mangrove swamp. Bayani felt
it in his feet, the way the earth softened and squelched between his toes. The
group slowed down, carefully winding their way through the thicket of roots
that erupted from the mud. Bayani kept his eyes open, watching for stinging
insects, crabs and other inhabitants of the undergrowth. He kept his eyes
trained on the ground, watching his feet very carefully. So carefully, he
almost missed the hand signal to halt.
Bayani froze. The other men halted too. The Maestro,
leading the party, lowered to a crouch, his bolo chambered by his ear. One of
the men nocked an arrow to his bow. Another unsheathed his ginunting. Bayani breathed slowly, inching his hand to the grip of
his sword. He strained his ears, listening for footsteps, snapping twigs, signs
of enemies. But all he heard were the warbling of egrets.
Egrets, he remembered, were migratory birds. They
would have flown south this time of the year.
Why were…
Figures leapt from the earth. Gray mud dripped from
their bodies. Bayani yelped. Shiny objects flashed in their hands. The
mudpeople roared as one, charging towards them.
Bayani shook. What were these? Multo? Diwata? Some
other kind of beast? What were—
“KIIIIIIIILLLLLLL!” Alejandro yelled, launching
himself at the nearest foe.
The men took up the war cry, counter-charging the
ambush. Bows thrummed, and two of the enemies dropped. Bayani fumbled, yanking
his ginunting free. Steel crashed
against steel. Blood splashed across the trees. He was needed—
No. The Maestro had said that one should never attack
from the front if one could attack from the side. Bayani surveyed the scene
again. There were at least eight Inrun, closing in on his people in a rough
semicircle. If Bayani joined the scrum there would be little room to fight. But
if he attacked from the side…
The mass of screaming men seemed thinner on the left.
Bayani splashed through the mud, scrambling over roots, bringing his weapon
high and using his live hand to maintain his balance. Blood pounded in his
ears, men screamed and died and—
And a mud-covered man emerged from behind a tree, his
sword high in both hands. This close, Bayani could study the sword in exquisite
detail. The point of the tapered blade shrunk down to a narrow base. A spikelet
protruded above the main point. This was a kampilan,
the signature weapon of the Inrun.
He was a man, and men can die.
The Inrun yelled, slashing his sword down. Bayani
diagonal-stepped left, his sword racing for the Inrun’s head. The blades
clashed. Bayani flowed into a second cut, going for the knee.
The Inrun staggered, falling on his back, growling in
a strange tongue. Bayani pointed his sword at him and said, “No, no, don’t get
up, don’t—”
The Inrun got up. Favoring his left leg, he propped
himself up on his sword. With a shout, the Inrun lunged, slashing wildly.
Bayani swore, side-stepped left, swung his ginunting
down, looked away and brought his hand up to his face. Warm liquid splashed
across his palm. His sword down at his hip, Bayani stepped in, smacking his
palm into his enemy’s face and thrusting the blade deep into his belly.
Twisting the sword, he slashed out and used the momentum to push the threat to
the ground. A foul stench filled his nose.
His opponent fell to his side, squirming and moaning.
Pink snakes writhed in the open wounds. Bayani grimaced. His legs turned to
jelly. Did he just—
“Bayani!”
He turned to his left. An Inrun was charging, sword
raised. Bayani snapped his sword to the guard and the Inrun’s head and arm sailed
from his shoulders.
Bayani blinked. How the…?
The corpse took a step and tripped over a root, gushing
blood at his feet.
“Bayani!”
He looked up. Maestro Alejandro was standing in front
of him, blood dripping from his bolo, his eyes aflame.
“Pay attention, Bayani! There’s more than one foe!”
His arms regained their strength. “Where, Maestro?”
“Out there. Stay here. Watch our flanks. I’ll check on
the others and get back to you.”
Alejandro spun on a heel and returned to the front.
Now, Bayani realized, the jungle had gone silent. No bird calls. No fog croaks.
Only the moaning of grievously wounded men. Bayani wiped the filth on his ginunting off on a rag.
The Inrun he had gutted was muttering something under
his breath. He was holding in his guts, but blood seeped through his weakening
fingers. At that moment, Bayani realized the man’s right hand was lying a foot
away from the rest of him, still clutching his sword.
“Ina…” he
whispered. “Ina…”
Was he calling for his mother? This…this barbarian,
who had tried to kill him not too long ago? How strange. A moment ago, he was
furious and filled with life; and now he lay as helpless as a baby, bleeding
out his lifeblood.
“Ina…Ina…Ina…”
His voice burbled, and faded away. All the strength
fled Bayani’s hands. He staggered, pushed himself up against a tree. Next to
the headless corpse. It was still pumping blood, still twitching, still—
Bile raced up Bayani’s throat. He turned away and
retched. Again and again and again. A line of thick mucus fled his open mouth.
Wiping his lips and tear-stained eyes, Bayani looked up to see Maestro
Alejandro towering over him.
“Are you well?”
No. He didn’t feel well. He didn’t feel like he would
ever be well again. He brought himself to attention, as best as he could, and
realized to his shame that he had soiled himself.
“You’re alive, yes?” Alejandro said softly. “No
injuries?”
Bayani patted himself down. “Yes Maestro.”
“Good. That means you’ll become stronger.” He gripped
Bayani’s shoulders with powerful hands. “You did well, you understand?”
“Yes Maestro. I…I feel sick.”
Alejandro nodded. “Yes. Whatever you are feeling now
is completely normal. Everybody’s first time is like this. Including me. Get it
out of you and carry on.”
“I don’t…feel well.”
“But you are alive. We are alive. We won, and that’s the important part. Whatever
unease you feel, you will recover from it. Come, now. We must rejoin the
others.”
Bayani wasn’t sure if Alejandro was right this time.
But there was still work to do. Sheathing his sword, he followed the Maestro.
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