Datu Zullah opened the window blinds after the last drops of rain fell. It was a cold morning for the datu as usual but nowadays he used to it. He blew a puff of smoke from his pipe at the open gap of the window, watching it disappear with a blank look on his face. He sighed. He wanted to go back home to Opon, to his village, but a "friend" needed his presence here. His help, so to speak. The incompetent Humabara needed his guidance right now. And he would never abandon him in his time of need. Especially if the problem concerns Kalipulako. And more importantly, he needed his voice heard by the regent himself. One day he'll have Opon Matan for himself and when that day comes he'll need the rajah's support to make it stay that way.

  He took the pipe out his mouth and place it on the table.

  "Look at them, pale savages... all fools alike," he whispered as he turned to Old Banglud, who was sitting cross-legged between the door. "They've just been here for four days and they act like they own the whole goddamn archipelago!" The hut where Zullah stayed had a clear view of the pale strangers' lodgings. A small contingent of them were outside drinking palm wine.

  "They always crave and ask for wine like it was water in the middle of a devil dry desert," Old Banglud said, distaste clear in his voice. He continued on about their arrogance, enumerating all their trespasses against all the laws of the tribe. While Zullah watched the one called Barboza as he guzzled down a jug of wine. His arms wrapped tight around one of Humabara's lady-servants.

  Zullah spat. "What a disrespectful bunch of scum." The hook-nosed datu could barely control his anger. "If I were the regent they wouldn't last a day here." He hissed the last word.

  The servant jerked Barboza's arms to get away and he reacted by grabbing the her foot, tripping her on the bamboo floor.

  Zullah sighed, hearing the pale men's laughter. They were at it again. Filthy drunkards. All leeches. All freeloaders drinking the blood of the regent through their hospitality. But the chieftain knew that they'll have what's coming for them after Kalipulako's fall.

  "But you're not the regent," Old Banglud said with note of irritation. "Not yet in my recent recollection. And the true 'regent', my master Humabara, thinks they can be of help to us."

  "Maybe... We'll see." Zullah closed the blinds. He sat back on a short wooden stool and took his red kangan off. He replaced the collarless shirt with a quiver brimming with arrows.

  "Is that necessary?" Old Banglud said.

  Zullah tightened the quiver's leather strap. "We shall know later, Banglud." He stood and stringed his longbow. "Does Rajah Humabara know what Kalipulako did to my son's name?"

  Stolen story; please report.

  Old Banglud stood, with a wooden cane in hand. "Yes, I've informed him. And he is disheartened by all of the recent events. This slight will never be forgotten."

  "And what does he think about the alliance, now?"

  "In hindsight, he thinks that you are correct. Kalipulako is too unconventional for us to deal with. He may have helped driving the raiders away, but the problems he's making are far worse."

  Zullah sighed as he slung the bow on his shoulder. "And?"

  "And he is still furious. A man who doesn't believe in tradition. A man who is not bound by our laws will only create disorder and promote disrespect, especially in the ranks of the datus."

  Zullah laughed. The hook-nosed datu knew the real score. He's been telling Humabara that for years. Salip Pulaco could trick others into thinking he's a changed man but it would never convince Zullah. No man could shed their warmongering side that easy. But instead of seeing the truth, Humabara coddled the monster just because he was too afraid of the raiders. Or maybe the fat regent thought he could put a leash on the witch dog, tell it when to bite or when to grovel for a piece of bone. Perhaps, he thought it wise and his decision stands flawed and inadequate. Now it might be too late to stop his rival, Zullah thought. He eyed the old man. "What does he plan to do, apart from the things we said to Magalhaes?"

  "For now, he just wants you informed that he fully supports your actions," Old Banglud said. "Kalipulako must be punished for what he did to you and your son's honor."

  Zullah paused. To me and my son? Maybe he means to his ego and pride. He held his tongue. "Is Halang with them, right now?"

  The old man nodded. "Yes, master Humabara assigned him to act as guide to one of Lord Magalhaes troops. Your son and his men are currently preparing the troops against Kalipulako's tactics."

  Zullah shook his head. "That's as worthless as those pale drunkards outside. Kalipulako's tactics is not that easy to trump." He shook his head slowly. If they were, I'd already have Opon Matan in my hands a long time ago, he thought.

  Old Banglud nodded, resting both hands on his cane.

  "Kalipulako's guile and skill will surely complicate things." Zullah checked one of his arrow's tip using his finger and a bead of blood came out. Satisfied with its sharpness, he placed it on its quiver. "And as long as we give him time and space he'll come out on top. We need to be precise against him. Make sure to finish him with one strike."

  "Can my master rely on you to do what needs to be done?"

  "Can he? What do you think?"

  "What I think is not important here. Your capability on the other hand, is."

  "Ah, tell him to never doubt me." Zullah smiled. He gave the old man a nasty look, making Banglud step back towards the threshold of the hut.

  "Shall we go?" The other datu of Opon Matan said, back to his usual genial demeanor.

  The old man nodded, hesitation plastered on his face as he led the way to Rajah Humabara.

  A circle of warrior serfs and pale strangers cheered and jeered side by side as the fight commenced. Their voices intermingled in to one loud roar while Humabara watched in silence above the dais.

  The rajah, hesitant at first, tried to dissuade the foreigners about the fight but he finally relented when Magalhaes himself suggested that the men would like this. And that it would be good for their morale.

  And so, it began. Two men from two opposing directions approached the Captain General with sharp glinting kampilans in hand. Magalhaes, on the other hand, wielded two swords of his own, a broad sword on his left and a blade with a thin needle point on his right. He turned from left to right, watching the two warrior serfs, gauging every movement they made like a hunter. Or more accurately like a predator to his prey.