Six

They moved quickly. Wisnumurti took hold of Jaladri’s horse while Bajul swiftly lowered the wounded man to the ground.

“The same throat wound?” Wisnumurti asked.

“Exactly the same,” Jaladri replied. “This man probably wasn’t in the village when it happened. He must have run into the aftermath and tried to escape. The other injuries are different. Maybe a tiger got him. Or a wild boar.”

Wisnumurti and Bajul crouched beside the man, who looked about the same age as Ki Soma. He lay unconscious, drenched in blood. Deep gashes covered his chest, stomach, even his neck. The wounds certainly looked like the work of a wild animal.

He had lost far too much blood. There was no saving him.

But he was still alive.

His chest rose and fell in ragged, desperate breaths, every inhale a battle against pain that must have been unbearable. Ordinary people—those without the heavy physical training as soldiers or martial artists—often died not from the wounds themselves, but because their bodies simply surrendered to the agony.

Wisnumurti pressed several pressure points along the man’s body, slowing the bleeding.

“What are his chances?” Jaladri asked.

“None,” Wisnumurti said quietly. “But I can wake him once. Maybe long enough so he can tell us who did this.”

A chill crawled up Jaladri’s spine as he watched.

Moments later, the man’s breathing steadied slightly. Then Wisnumurti touched a nerve in his neck.

The man’s eyes snapped open. Jaladri winced. If Wisnumurti was right, this would be the last time he could open his eyes.

“Ki Sanak,” Wisnumurti said gently, speaking as one would to a frightened child, “can you tell me who did this to your village?”

The man’s lips parted. No sound came out.

“What?” Wisnumurti leaned closer.

The dying man’s eyes widened. Gathering the last scraps of strength left in his body, he forced out a single name.

“K-Ki Ja... Ki Jalung...!”

Wisnumurti frowned.

“Ki Jalung?”

The man nodded weakly.

“Who is Ki Jalung?”

He drew another agonizing breath, spending it all on two words.

“A guest... an important man...”

“Is he a nobleman? A religious leader?”

The man shook his head. Then he went still.

Wisnumurti froze for a moment. Quietly murmuring a prayer, he reached out and closed the dead man’s eyes.

“Ki Jalung...” Jaladri muttered as he folded the corpse’s hands across his stomach.

“Apparently, the killer was looking for this Ki Jalung,” Wisnumurti said. “He passed through Srumbung, then Jati. Probably on his way to see Ki Gede Nipir. When the killer couldn’t find him, he took his anger out on the villagers.”

“Who do you think this Ki Jalung is?” Bajul asked.

“Most likely someone from the martial world. If he really was headed to Kenipir, he may already be under your uncle’s protection,” Wisnumurti turned toward Jaladri. “What villages lie between Jati and Kenipir?”

Bajul stared at him.

“You’ve wandered around the east and north so long you forgot the map? Or is your memory finally rotting from old age?”

Wisnumurti laughed.

“Old age, my ass. I’ve just been away awhile. Besides, villages get wiped off the map often enough. New ones appear.”

“No new villages.” Bajul shook his head. “Still the same as before you disappeared. Between Jati and Kenipir there’s only Brabo.”

He grinned.

“Remember? We spent a night there. Jaladri got chased around by a lonely widow. Hah!”

Both men laughed. Jaladri managed only a painful smile. The story was true.

During one of Ki Soma’s caravans, they had spent the night in Brabo. Jaladri’s clean-cut appearance and obvious wealth had attracted more than a little attention, including from a widow who had been without a husband for years and was actively looking for a replacement.

“But that means we need to reach Brabo fast,” Wisnumurti said, striding toward his horse. “If Ki Jalung passed through there too, the place may already look like this.”

A shiver ran through Jaladri.

“Good point.”

As if whipped forward by the same thought, all three mounted up and galloped away from Srumbung.

They passed through Jati without stopping. Bodies still littered the village exactly where they had fallen. There was nothing they could do. Wisnumurti could only hope they might reach Brabo before it suffered the same fate.

Beyond Jati, the road cut through dense mountain forest. The scenery was beautiful in the fading afternoon light.

None of them noticed.

By late afternoon they reached Brabo, a larger settlement with a far bigger population. The village sat close enough from Kenipir, many residents traveled there daily for work and returned home before nightfall.

They slowed their horses as they entered the farming district.

The air grew cooler. The sun sank lower. Dusk was approaching.

Soon a house appeared ahead, partially hidden among shrubs and trees.

Then they heard it. A woman screaming.

Again. And again. Sobbing. Begging.

Wisnumurti cursed viciously and snapped his reins.

Dust exploded behind them as three horses surged into a full gallop.

They reached the scene moments later.

In front of a villager’s house, six armed men were dragging an entire family outside by force, a middle-aged husband and wife and a teenage girl no older than thirteen or fourteen.

The men shoved them to the ground.

Only then did Jaladri notice the infant cradled in the woman’s arms.

The baby slipped loose when she fell and immediately began wailing until she snatched it back.

Rage shot straight to Jaladri’s head. He leapt from his horse and charged forward.

For one reckless instant, he forgot that all his martial arts training had never once been tested in a real fight against real enemies.

Then a voice thundered across the yard.

“DON’T INTERFERE!”

The command carried terrifying authority.

Jaladri stopped cold. Only then did Wisnumurti and Bajul notice the man—and the crowd surrounding the house.

Dozens of villagers knelt silently along one side of the yard.

Not one dared move. Not one dared speak. They knelt in deference to a high-ranking official.

The very man who had shouted.

He stood before them with several hard-faced retainers at his side, a drawn kris gleaming in his hand.

The man was heavily built, dressed entirely in black, wearing an elegant headband. His mustache was so meticulously groomed it looked as though it required a specialist’s care.

Wisnumurti and Bajul immediately dismounted. Not out of fear.

Out of respect.

From his bearing alone, the man was clearly a noble warrior—likely a senior commander. A senopati.

“This is a matter of the Royal Court!” the man barked again. “I am Senopati Natpada, acting under the direct authority of His Highness Prince Candrakumala. Their lives and deaths are mine to decide. No one may interfere. My words are the Prince’s words. My will is the Prince’s will.”

Wisnumurti held his breath. He tugged at Jaladri’s sleeve, forcing him to kneel respectfully. Bajul did the same.

All three instantly understood what was happening. The cause was almost certainly the teenage girl.

She was undeniably beautiful.

Her skin carried the weathered tone of a village girl from the interior, but that only sharpened her appeal.

It was hardly unusual for regional rulers, their relatives, and their officials to claim any woman they desired.

And no one—not even a husband—was supposed to stand in their way.

Which made one question impossible to ignore. What exactly had happened here to provoke a confrontation like this?