Chapter 3: The Road to Pakuwon

Fortunately, Untara saw the knife.

He aborted his strike and dropped low once more, spinning his body just in time to avoid the flying blade.

Indeed, a man’s fate is often shaped by powers beyond his reach. The knife, swift as a lightning bolt, whistled past Untara’s side. But then—a muffled cry.

The lean man, the one whose leg had been shattered earlier, twisted suddenly on the ground. He raised his head weakly, his eyes wide with disbelief. Then, slowly, his face fell slack. The knife had struck home—straight through the heart.

All who saw the moment froze.

Untara. His two remaining foes. Each of their chests throbbed with stunned silence. Most of all, the large man—he had killed his own comrade.

Now Untara faced only two enemies. But blood streamed freely from the wound in his shoulder. His limbs grew weak. Death was stalking him, nearer with each drop spilled. He could not delay. He must fight on.

His two opponents closed in. The young man with the sword advanced cautiously. The large man, now unarmed, began circling, searching for an opening to strike with his bare hands.

They had seen the blood. They could see how pale Untara’s face had grown, how his shoulders sagged. If they dragged this battle out, he would fall. How proud they would be to say they had slain a Pajang officer—Untara, no less! A name respected even among enemies.

The youth struck again—fast, clever. His blade flicked like a serpent’s tongue. Untara acknowledged his skill inwardly. But he could not afford admiration. Every heartbeat counted. His blood loss threatened not just his life, but the lives of many.

He had no choice. If he didn’t kill them, Sangkal Putung would burn.

But the youth was fast. Too fast. His strikes forced Untara to move more than he wanted. And with each movement, more blood flowed. Still, Untara held back from rage. Rage would waste his strength.

He fought with discipline. He struck hard—but not wildly.

His strength had waned, yet so had theirs. Gradually, they began to falter. Then, another scream. The large man collapsed, never to rise.

Only the agile youth remained. He saw Untara’s weakness. But he also knew his own limits.

Suddenly, he leapt back. His voice rang out:

“You win tonight, Untara! But one day, you’ll regret sparing me. Especially your cowardly friend—he’ll never sleep peacefully while I still live!”

Untara didn’t answer. He lunged to strike—but his body was slow, like iron rusting in the rain. He stumbled.

He feared the youth would stay and wear him down. But instead, the young man turned and fled into the night.

Untara staggered to Sedayu.

“Sedayu…”

Sedayu, still frozen with fear, suddenly rushed to him.

“Big brother! Are you hurt?”

Untara’s breath came in short gasps. His whole body trembled. His eyes, dulled with fatigue, locked on his brother’s pale face.

He touched his wounded shoulder, and whispered, “Help me… bind the wound.”

Sedayu’s stomach turned at the sight. But he forced himself to act, tearing cloth from Untara’s robe and pressing it to the gash.

“Sedayu,” his brother hissed, “I’ve lost too much blood. You must help me walk.”

“Of course!” Sedayu replied.

He looked around for the horses—but they were gone.

“Don’t waste time,” Untara groaned. “They’re not here.”

Without a word, Sedayu lifted his brother’s arm over his shoulders. They began to walk.

Mud sucked at their feet. The forest loomed on either side.

Untara growled now and then—not only from pain, but from frustration. He feared not for himself alone, but for Sedayu. And for Widura. If that young rogue returned with reinforcements, or if he guessed their path and accelerated the strike on Sangkal Putung… disaster.

Sedayu walked as if in a trance. He could not think. Could not feel. Could not remember. Only moved, because Untara needed him.

Untara’s mind blurred. His eyelids sagged. Darkness crept in.

He knew the signs—his blood was running dry. He would pass out soon. Unless he found help.

He prayed silently. God… Save us.

Then a thought came.

“If only I could reach Ki Tanu Metir,” he murmured.

“What did you say?” Sedayu asked.

“Ki Tanu Metir’s house.”

Sedayu had been there before, with their late father. In Pakuwon village. But it was far.

Suddenly, he realized the danger.

Bushes. Trees. Shadows.

“It’s so dark ahead,” he whispered. “What if… a tiger?”

Untara ignored him. “We’re going to Ki Tanu Metir.”

“It’s far.”

“If this wound isn’t treated,” Untara said grimly, “I will die.”

The word die hit Sedayu like ice.

He said no more. Fear clawed at him, but fear of his brother’s death was greater than fear of the forest, the dark, or even tigers.

So he helped Untara toward Pakuwon.

Untara weakened with every step. He fought to stay conscious. He would rather die pierced in battle than bleed dry in the dirt. Yet he clung to hope.

He prayed with each breath. That help would come. That he would see morning.