The battle ended shortly thereafter. Or maybe after a
lifetime.
Perhaps both.
Panting, his muscles aching at a point beyond fatigue,
Bayani finally lowered his weapons. His sword and knife were soaked through
with the gore of who knew how many men. Blood soaked him head to foot. He
wasn’t sure how, but he had picked up a few cuts. Nothing fatal, perhaps
scratches from jungle plants, or nearly-successful blows.
For the first time in Bayani’s experience, the Maestro
was short of breath. Slowly, steady, Alejandro wiped off the blood on his
blades and put them away. The Maestro would have fresh scars for his
collection, and Bayani shuddered. This was the true price of mastery of the
blade, he realized. Either you learned quickly or you died.
“Are you okay, Maestro?” Bayani asked, his voice
hoarse and dry.
Alejandro nodded, staggering over to where he had
dropped his backpack. He pulled out a small tin canteen, popped the cork and
drank deep. Then he thrust it out at Bayani. “Drink.”