Chapter 2: The Coward and The Warrior

“Untara…” the young man muttered under his breath. He asked nothing more, but an odd sensation stirred in his chest. He had once fought beside his comrades against Pajang soldiers led by none other than Untara himself. How he had admired that mighty warrior from afar! And now, that very man stood before him.

His heart trembled. Yet still, he had to fight. With his three companions by his side, surely they could fell even such a revered man.

Untara understood well: his foes meant to kill him and his younger brother. He had no choice—he would fight, and if blood must be spilled, the fault would not lie with him. But he could not ignore the peril of his own demise either.

He drew a deep breath. His strategy was clear: he must seize the attention of all four, so none would strike at Agung Sedayu.

Then, as swift as lightning splitting the sky, Untara sprang forward. In a single whirling motion, he launched an assault on two men at once. Though the attacks were not fatal, they were executed with such speed that the lanky one leapt back in alarm, while the broad-shouldered one veered aside with a gasp. They escaped the blow, but barely—and they had not expected it.

Before their hearts could calm, Untara surged again, this time like an eagle swooping from the heavens. His hand reached for the iron staff held by the blacksmith—and with a deft pull, the weapon flew into his own grasp.

“Demon! Fiend! Spawn of hell!” the blacksmith of Sendang Gabus roared, cursing without end. To his comrades, the strike had been like watching a hawk snatch a helpless chick.

But the blacksmith was quick to recover. He turned to the towering man beside him. “Give me a blade!” he barked, snatching one without waiting for reply.

Now all four understood their situation—and attacked together from different directions.

Untara gave thanks in his heart. He had succeeded in drawing them into a single ring of combat. If he could end this quickly, there might still be time to reach Sangkal Putung before dawn.

The clash intensified. The blacksmith was strong—his strikes thundered with fearsome force. The lanky man had long arms, and with each swing of his gleaming machete, he sent deadly wind howling through the night. The towering brute relied on sheer power, slashing wildly with his dagger, even clashing it against Untara’s iron staff in defiance. But Untara was no novice playing at swords. Each collision forced his enemy to rethink. Soon, the dagger wielder dared not strike directly again—his weapon too short, his skill too shallow.

The youngest of the four, agile and quick, darted in with light attacks, retreating just as swiftly. Alone, he would not have lasted longer than a moth flying into flame.

Untara fought with grim resolve. The darkness aided him—he struck freely, unburdened by fear of harming his brother. But his enemies were not so lucky. They had to guess, to flinch, to hesitate. For Untara moved like a stag in flight, vanishing between them and reappearing like mist under the rain. At times, it seemed he had melted into the storm.

Agung Sedayu watched, heart pounding unevenly. At moments, it thundered like a drum; at others, it halted in terror. His knees trembled, clashing together like sticks. Yet he could not look away, especially when he saw a youth his own age trading blows with his brother.

A strange question bloomed in his chest: How could one so young dare face his brother?

To Sedayu, Untara was the pinnacle of manhood—invincible, unmatched. And yet… even so, he was afraid. Could his brother truly stand against four foes at once?

He had never seen true battle before—not this kind, where life itself was the stake. Only sparring. Practice. Lessons. He knew the steps, the parries, the ways to strike and evade. But the courage to act? That he lacked.

Untara fought with ferocity. His enemies slowly recognized his strength. But then, unease crept into Untara’s heart.

He noticed it—the blacksmith’s glances toward Sedayu. Watching. Gauging. Studying the boy’s trembling hands, his pale face, how he covered his eyes, how he turned away.

The blacksmith was cunning. Strange, he thought. That boy is no warrior.

Still, he was unsure. Either he is so confident in his powers that he finds our fight unworthy—or he is simply a coward.

He remembered Untara’s boast: “These men are not even worth your blade.”

Then suddenly, the blacksmith laughed. Loud and shrill.

He had decided.

The boy was weak. Powerless. An easy target.

His voice rang out between laughs. “Oh mighty Untara! How long will you dance with us? Why does your friend just stand there, like a rooster watching a cockfight?”

Untara’s chest tightened. They suspected.

Still, he called back coolly, “Why trouble him? I alone am more than enough for the likes of you.”

But the blacksmith laughed louder, more grating than before. Untara’s patience snapped. He leapt, striking hard with the stolen iron staff.

The laughter ended. The blacksmith’s face turned grim—his skull nearly crushed by his own weapon.

He ducked just in time. Simultaneously, the young swordsman slashed for Untara’s ribs. Untara twisted aside, and with a spinning step, he flung his staff toward the big man’s chest. The blow nearly ended the fight—only the others’ swift aid saved him. The tall, thin man struck Untara’s weapon with his machete, but the strength was mismatched. The machete rebounded with a clang, his hand flaring with pain, the weapon flying from his grasp.

The blacksmith now understood: even four against one, they could not win. One of them was already unarmed.

He decided.

He fell back, then shouted, “Kill Untara! I’ll deal with the boy!”

Untara’s heart skipped. The threat was real.

From the front, a sword swept low toward his belly. From behind, a dagger stabbed for his spine.

But Untara was a seasoned warrior of Pajang. He ducked, rolled, and twisted, both blades narrowly missing. Yet the maneuver took time—precious time.

And the blacksmith charged for Agung Sedayu.

Sedayu saw him coming—and his blood turned to ice. His hands reached for the keris at his waist, instincts from training guiding him. But his fingers trembled. They had no strength.

The keris remained in its sheath.

All he could do was whisper, “Kakang… Kakang Untara…”

The blacksmith laughed again, savage and sure. “Hold him back! Let him watch his little friend die!”

Untara panicked. He was too far, and Sedayu was frozen.

In desperation, Untara stooped and hurled a stone at his horse. It neighed, reared, and bolted.

The second horse followed.

The chaos gave him a chance.

The blacksmith stumbled back, avoiding the crazed horses—and Untara sprinted, roaring with fury. The iron staff whirled like a cyclone, driven by blazing wrath.

The blacksmith turned, startled—too late.

Untara’s strike came down like a hammer of judgment.

The blacksmith tried to deflect it with his dagger, but the weapon was too short. The staff was not only his own—it now bore Untara’s might and rage.

The blade barely nudged it aside.

The staff struck his temple.

The blacksmith screamed, reeled, and collapsed.

He moved no more.

Untara exhaled deeply. He had saved his brother.

But he had lowered his guard.

The young swordsman struck from behind. Untara spun away—just in time.

But the big man had been waiting. His dagger plunged for Untara’s throat.

The blow came fast, sudden.

Untara twisted, but not enough.

The dagger grazed his shoulder.

He growled in pain.

And then he burned.

With fury.

Like a storm unleashed, he charged. The iron staff became a whirlwind.

His shoulder bled freely, but he did not stop. He could not. Not now.

The big man faltered. He could not block with his dagger alone.

The lanky one stepped forward, his machete gleaming. He stabbed for Untara’s side.

Untara crouched, dodged—and struck.

The staff slammed into his foe’s shin with a sickening crack. A scream split the air as the man toppled.

The big man saw his chance. He could not strike in close. So instead, he threw his dagger.

Straight for Untara’s chest.