The sultan's emissary...

  "Well, that went better than I expected," Alahamid Ibn Surrac al Hassan said to himself as he entered the forest south of Mandawili. The warhorse whinnied as though he understood Lieutenant Alahamid's sentiments. He replied back to his steed by giving it a soft scratch behind the ears. The warhorse shook its head in satisfaction. "You stress out too?" Lt. Alahamid said and the beast of burden bobbed its head up and down. "Yeah? Me too." He gave a sigh of relief as the shadow of the forest finally blanketed them.

  "You did well, Zhultanno. That was some incredible acting on your part. The way you reared up as those mangy villagers tried to encircle us was definitely smart." He gave the warhorse's neck a gentle rub and Zhultanno gave a satisfied nicker and bobbed his head up and down a second time. "Hey, don't let that get in your head. I know you were scared shitless," he added.

  Lieutenant Alahamid steered Zhultanno off the trail, mowing down the shrubbery and the tall grass in between the trees. He noticed his palm was still sweating and shaking. He was supposed to scare those lowlifes and intimidate them, that was the whole point of his visit. But when the man himself stared at him it almost felt like he knew the time of Lieutenant Alahamid's death. Maas Ilidji wasn't the killer he imagined him to be. He looked different, shorter and not as hideous, and definitely not the giant that the stories told. But there was something in the datu of Mandawili. Something that told you to run and hide. An unnerving sensation one may feel when he is being watched by a hunter. No, a predator.

  "How I wish to see you in battle, Maas Ilidji," he whispered. "Maybe the great prophet and the one true god will grant that if I pray hard enough. Maybe my Magalos will have a chance to truly test themselves against a demon like you and see how unconquerable Dimantag truly is." The emissary halted, whistling with the wind. The chief of Mandawili and his people believed that there is glory in combat which made them all the more interesting for the lieutenant. They all live and fought, and fought to live. How would they react if he bested their champion in battle? What would they do if he bled their Salip dry? He smiled at the thought as he delve deeper in the bushes.

  "Who goes there?" a voiced from the shadows spoke, dismounting him from his reverie.

  Alahamid turned his head towards the direction where it came from. That must be Marag guarding the entrance of the hide out, the lieutenant guessed.

  "I am the glint of your blade when it bites through your enemies," the lieutenant declared. "I am the light of the prophet, the soldier of the most high."

  The voiced spoke again, " I am your brother. Not by blood, but by blade. I'm the shepherd of the shamzir."

  "Then, I am the destroyer of sins," Lt. Alahamid replied, careful to speak every word. "I am Magalos, I am the sultan's gift to all who stand against him."

  He would have to change their password tomorrow or maybe three days fr now if he felt lazy just to be sure. Redundancy after redundancy, just so they are all safe.

  Marag went out of the bushes, scimitar in hand. "Were you followed, lieutenant?" he said with his rough voice.

  Alahamid turned behind him. "I think not. They probably think I'll go straight back to our ship than stay here and observe them. But to be sure send a man to watch the edge of the forest. They might be suspicious enough to follow me."

  Alahamid dismounted from Zhultanno's saddle and handed the reins to Marag.

  Marag nodded and walked through the thick serpent-like vines that led to their hide out, guiding the beast of burden. The place was surrounded with a wall of rock taller than three men placed end to end. Moss and fern clung to its surface, hiding most of the gray stone wall. The hideout was in the shape of a horse shoe with a narrow opening covered with a curtain of jungle vines and knee high cogon grass. For outsiders, it would only look as though it was a steep hill veiled with thick greenery. Nothing important or noteworthy.

  Inside, tents made of canvass lined the sides of the the rock wall were some of Marag's underlings rested. Marag tied Zhultanno a few meters away from Lieutenant Alahamid's tent and called one of the greenhorn soldier. He pointed towards Mandawili and whispered his orders. The young Magalos quickly went his way outside their hide out to stand as look out, eager to prove himself.

  "How did it go?" Sergeant Abban said as he stirred the soup on the pot near the dying fire. Alahamid walked towards the veteran Magalos.

  "They bought it. They think we won't attack if they pay us enough gold. They are all dull as rocks, fools waiting for slaughter." Those who were within earshot laughed.

  At first, they all thought the plan wouldn't work. That Maas Ilidji and the warrior serfs won't buy their ruse. But stupidity can sometimes surprise you.

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  "Did you send the pigeons?" Alahamid said.

  "Yes, Lieutenant. But not a feather has come back."

  "Send another dispatch to the sultan. Tell him that we'll need all the Magalos we have if he wants his revenge. Tell him to do that if he wants to take everything from Maas Ilidji."

  "Are they that many?" Sergeant Abban said as he stood up. His scarred face showed a shadow of concern.

  Lieutenant Alahamid nodded. "Before I went to their village I saw a handful of men. Definitely not from Mandawili. I believe that Maas Ilidji is strengthening his allegiance with other datus. He is itching for a war."

  Abban scratched his stubble. "Is that so? Then, we'll have to give them all we have. A preemptive strike, perhaps?"

  "That goes without saying. Tell all our men to prepare. They may give us a run for our coin when the battle comes."

  "Will that be all, lieutenant?"

  "Tell our good friend that his plans will finally come to fruition."

  "Do you trust him? Do you trust a man who's willing to rat out his own kind. He used to fight with Maas Ilidji. And our spies told me that our honorable friend is trying to ally himself with the chieftain of Mandawili too."

  "Time's a changing, Sergeant. He'll get nothing if he betrays us. I know his kind. Jealousy shan't be quench like some simple thirst."

  "And the regent? Humabara is a self-centered idiot. He may bring chaos if not dealt properly."

  "Don't worry. He probably sees Maas Ilidji as a liability for his new world. Our honorable friend will counsel him to the right path."

  Sergeant Abban nodded. "I already sent our best soldiers to that god-awful place you told me about. They'll stay there to meet his right hand man, a man they call Balat."

  "Well done," Alahamid said.

  "Do you trust Zullah this much?"

  "He has everything to lose and nothing to gain by turning his back on us. That's what grudges do to you."

  "I trust that you are right, Alahamid."

  "Don't forget to tell our brilliant sultan that the plan is going as smooth as we expect it to be." He smiled. All we need is coordination and timing, the lieutenant thought. And we'll be twice as rich and twice as glorious in battle.

  Alahamid hoped it would be enough to propel the Sultan to bolster his men here. Maas Ilidji and the other datus of the island had once driven them off years ago. And the shame of it all still burdens him and most of the veterans with him during that campaign. But now's different. Now, its their chance to seize the moment while their enemy are distracted gathering their treasures. Gold, silk and Maas Ilidji's head, a fine prize after waiting for so long, Alahamid thought. I hope the sultan ignores the witch's advice this time around and listen to him. He stooped and took a cup of water from one of the jars to quenched his dry throat. The drink was cold and refreshing.

  "You look hungry. Here have some soup, sir," Sergeant Abban said, offering him a bowl. Alahamid accepted it. He thanked the kind veteran and went inside his canvas tent.

  He placed the bowl of soup on the small table and took his stylus and ink from the small carved box that contained his meager possessions. It's been a week since he received a letter from his wife and son. It's been a week since he sent a letter to them. So, he sat on the stool and dip the stylus on the ink and began to write.

  He thought of the things he'd tell them about. He thought of the sleepless nights observing their enemy, a fact he'd have to omit from his letter, for his wife's sake. He thought of the strange culture their enemy possessed. All of it would definitely peak the interest of his young son's imagination. And as his mind wondered on paths best left alone, he thought of the men he lost during their journey. So many to name.

  Some things were best left unsaid.

  He tried to refocus his thoughts. But the past week was uneventful. That was the truth for a man living a soldier's life. Most of it spent waiting for things to happen.

  And when things do happen, you're mostly left panicking and whimpering, all the while trying to save face in front of your men or your peers. Of course, there were times when blood lust whispers in your ears and you kill and kill till the morn turns to dusk. A proper shamzir-warrior would smile hearing this truth. But those moments are far too rare. And reality is, that when your luck runs out which sadly happens most of the time, you're going to be the one to call for the retreat. Or worse you're going to be hacked to pieces by men like Maas Ilidji. And that's the truth. So, you should know when to run, Alahamid said to himself. For a brave Magalos is a dead Magalos, there's no going over that. The tip of the stylus touched the parchment and the black ink soaked through it. He gently blew at the blot, so the ink wouldn't smudge as he wrote the next word. But before he could continue the screams and the slaughter began.

  A loud cry from one of his men shattered the stillness of the forest. He dropped the stylus and drew his swords. But Alahamid paused mid-stride. It was all too familiar hearing the eerie sound of a man dying formed a pit on his stomach and he began to perspire rivulets of cold sweat. It didn't sound good. Screams normally don't sound good.

  He dashed outside his tent silently cursing himself. Everyone was on their toes fighting or running for cover as their attackers, twenty or so men, stood tall above the rock wall that surrounded their hide out. Their attackers were pelting them with rocks. Worse still, were the ones throwing sharp spears at them.

  And all was chaos. And all was shattered in a split second..

  Some of his men tried to throw their daggers and spears back at their foes but it left them exposed and they were either skewered or stoned to death. Half a dozen Magalos fell before they could touch their attackers with their steel blades. Alahamid upturned the table where Abban's gasping body lay and hid behind it.

  "Shit, shit, shit..." He needed to think and the chaos of the fray was not helping. Did Maas Ilidji's men followed him here? he asked himself even though he knew it wasn't the right time to ask questions. Rather, it was the time to act. Things weren't going any better here and Alahamid knew what had to be done. Fighting against his attackers would do him no good. He needed to escape this and fight another day.

  After all, he wasn't a brave Magalos.

  He looked around, turning his head from left to right. And there a few meters away, he saw what he was looking for. Like the great man-eating feline from the islands of the Old Kingdom, he bolted and dodged the bamboo spears that descended towards him. One keen spear grazed his shoulder and drew blood, but he kept on running.

  "Oh, fucking shit." Alahamid said as he staggered to his only chance of survival. Zhultanno.