Chapter 1: The Night Mission

Thunder cracked across the heavens, shaking the slopes of Mount Merapi with each deafening roar. Rain poured in torrents, drenching the earth as if the sky itself had split apart.

Within a humble hut, Agung Sedayu shivered upon a bamboo platform. His face was pale, his body trembling—not only from the cold, but from the dread that hung thick in the air.

“I must go,” came the quiet but resolute voice of his elder brother, Untara.

Sedayu raised his head, his voice quivering. “Please, don’t go tonight, Kakang.”

“There’s no time,” Untara replied. “The remnants of Arya Penangsang’s forces have turned feral. I must warn Uncle Widura in Sangkal Putung. If not, his men will be slaughtered in vain. The attack will strike without warning.”

“Can’t someone else go?” Sedayu pleaded.

“There is no one else.”

“But…” Sedayu’s lips trembled.

“I must go.” Untara stood. But before he could take a step, his brother grasped the hem of his robe.

“Don’t!” Sedayu cried. “I’m afraid.”

Untara sighed deeply and sat back down beside his brother. Conflict clouded his heart. He could not stand idle while Uncle Widura’s men faced doom. Yet his brother—nearly eighteen—was still as timid as a child. Since the passing of their father years ago, and their mother just months past, Sedayu had clung to him like a lifeline, never straying far. In these chaotic times, it was as if he were caring for a helpless infant.

“Sedayu,” he said at last, “you are nearly eighteen. At your age, the Duke of Pajang—then known as Mas Karebet—had already shaken the throne of Demak. And now, Sutawijaya, still young, has vanquished the mighty Penangsang.”

“I am not them,” Sedayu replied.

Untara shook his head. “At the very least, have some pride.”

“But I’m afraid,” Sedayu whispered.

Untara fell silent. He had only himself to blame. He had shielded Sedayu too much, taken every blow that might have taught him strength. Though Sedayu had learned a bit of martial arts, and showed some agility in practice, it meant little beyond the safety of their home. His spirit was fragile, his courage small. And now, the mere mention of rogue soldiers roaming Mount Merapi struck terror into his soul.

Time pressed on. Rain hammered the thatched roof. Then Untara’s eyes lit with a thought. “What if… you come with me?”

He hesitated. If danger came upon them, and Sedayu was harmed, their relatives in Banyu Asri would blame him.

Sedayu looked at his brother, bewildered. Why would Untara insist on such a perilous journey in the dark storm?

“What would you say? Stay here, or come with me?”

“Neither seems right,” Sedayu said softly.

“You must choose.”

Sedayu knew his brother would not change his mind. And so, with a heart pounding like a war drum, he chose to go.

“What if we meet the enemy on the road?” he asked.

“The risk is no greater than them coming here.”

No more questions. When Untara reached for his keris resting by his bedding, Sedayu stood too, adjusting his soaked garments and sipping warm lemongrass tea with trembling lips.

“Bring your keris,” Untara ordered.

Reluctantly, Sedayu slid the weapon into his sash.

They stepped out into the rain, made their way to the stables, and soon were astride their horses. As thunder rolled once more, Sedayu asked again, “Could this not wait until morning?”

“It cannot,” Untara answered. “By dawn, the rogue forces may already strike Sangkal Putung.”

With that, the brothers rode eastward, leaving behind Jati Anom. Mount Merapi loomed behind them, cloaked in night and downpour. Lightning briefly illuminated the muddy road winding beneath their horses’ hooves, slick and colored red by the mountain clay.

For a long while, they said nothing. Sedayu kept glancing toward his brother, afraid to fall behind. Untara was lost in thought. What would they face on the road? Would they reach Widura in time? Sangkal Putung was vulnerable—its forces light, its stores ripe for plunder.

Suddenly, Sedayu whispered, “Kakang… I saw a shadow.”

Untara frowned. “Where?”

“There, near the path… Is it a man?”

“No,” Untara replied. “It’s just the fallen trunk of a teak tree, downed by the storm three days ago.”

But to Sedayu, it looked like a giant looming in the night. He drew his horse closer.

“Hmph,” Untara grunted. “You are not a child, Sedayu. You should ride this path alone.”

Sedayu said nothing, though his chest was tight with fear.

A bolt of lightning flashed again. Sedayu sighed in relief—it truly was just a fallen tree.

But soon his heart pounded anew. Ahead, they approached the vast field of Lemah Cengkar, where an ancient banyan tree stood tall—said to be guarded by a spectral white tiger.

“Are we taking this path?” he asked nervously.

“Yes.”

“But the tiger…”

“We’re turning right. Through Macanan.”

“Where the striped tigers roam?” Sedayu was near panic.

“Better striped tigers than ghosts,” Untara said dryly. The shortcut would save precious time.

The rain fell harder. The horses pressed on. Sedayu stayed close, refusing to fall a body’s length behind.

Suddenly, Untara stiffened. A flicker in the dark—movement not from wind or beast. A figure, upright and human, vanished into the underbrush.

He slowed his horse.

“What is it, Kakang?” Sedayu asked.

“Nothing. The road is slick.”

But Sedayu was not fooled. He too sensed it.

Untara dismounted. “We walk from here. It’s safer.”

They led their horses cautiously. Untara remembered a friend who once fell to a trap—horse tripped by a rope, the rider ambushed before he could rise. He would not risk the same.

Sedayu drew closer, his voice shaking. “Is there danger ahead?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps, allies.”

Sedayu froze. “Should we turn back?”

“Widura’s fate rests with us.”

“What of our own?”

Untara said nothing. The burden was his.

“Please, let’s turn back!”

“No. Maybe we meet friends. Widura’s men.”

“You saw someone?”

“Yes.”

Sedayu whimpered. “Let’s go back…”

“Silence,” Untara hissed. “Don’t let them know you fear them, or they’ll toy with us like rabbits.”

Sedayu fell quiet, but fear clenched his limbs. Then they saw it—a thick black bamboo pole stretched across the path. A trap.

Untara stopped. Shadows lurked beyond the trees. He would not advance into their hands.

Then, a voice rang out:

“Who goes there?”

Sedayu flinched. His blood froze. Untara calmly answered, “We are sons of Sendang Gabus. Who are you?”

“Which son? Of the sickly one, or the short pockmarked one?”

“Neither. A tall man, strong, one-armed.”

“Ha! So you do know Sadipa. But you’re lying.”

A figure stepped from the woods. Stocky, hardened, his face cruel. Untara’s heart sank. He recognized him: the blacksmith of Sendang Gabus. And the blacksmith knew him.

“You are Untara of Jati Anom, aren’t you? A follower of that mad Karebet?”

“We each follow our convictions,” Untara said. “Yours to Jipang. Mine to Pajang.”

“Enough talk! Every follower of Adiwijaya must die!”

A sharp whistle pierced the night. Three more figures emerged, weapons drawn.

Untara drew a breath. “Sedayu, step back. Let me face them alone. These men are not worth your blade.”

The blacksmith growled, “Arrogant!”

But Untara was not boasting. He only hoped to shield his trembling brother from notice.

The enemies fanned out, their eyes fixed on Untara. In their hands gleamed sword, dagger, staff, and spear.

The night had turned to steel.

And the first battle of Agung Sedayu’s destiny was about to begin.