Sixteen tumultuous days had passed since the outbreak of the devastating attack that erupted and raged across Trowulan, leaving the atmosphere in the valley village thick with an unsettling tension, as if nature itself were mirroring the turmoil within the community—a pulsing heartbeat amidst an imminent storm that shook the very ground beneath their feet. A blanket of thick fog rolled in from the north, intertwining with the unrelenting torrential rain that had drenched the land since midday, transforming the ditches that were once stalwart defensive barricades into treacherous, slippery swamps. Meanwhile, the heavy, thorny bamboo surrounding the village seemed to bow down under the weight of the moisture, its oppressive presence shadowing the villagers. The bonfires that typically served as a beacon of hope, warmth, and communal gathering were now frustratingly difficult to ignite, leaving the residents enveloped in a chilly gloom. As the days unfolded, food supplies had dwindled to a critical state; the sweet potatoes, once a plentiful source of sustenance, began to rot in the damp conditions, and there was only enough rice left to last three harrowing days. Compounding the dire situation, the plague had claimed yet another portion of the population, tragically taking the lives of fifteen more individuals. The mounting desperation and fear amongst the refugees boiled over, leading to panic and heated arguments; some voiced a desperate desire to flee south in search of safety, while a faction of former soldiers remained steadfast, arguing passionately for an immediate offensive to confront the approaching threat without delay.
Amidst this palpable uncertainty and chaos, Sengkala stood resolutely in the village hall, his body shrouded in a raincoat made of palm leaves that offered scant protection against the elements, as he led an urgent emergency meeting illuminated by the flickering light of lanterns swaying precariously in the night breeze. Even as he battled the discomfort of an infected shoulder and the oppressive grip of a slight fever that disrupted his body temperature, Sengkala's determined gaze remained sharp and unwavering, reflecting his resolve in the face of adversity.
"How many bandits are left out there?" Sengkala's voice came out hoarse, his focus shifting to Suradipa, who had just returned from a perilous patrol.
"There are approximately eighty of them, sir. They comprise a volatile mix of Purwawisesa's troops and wild bandits of unknown origin. They have taken shelter in the eastern cave, which lies about a two-hour walk from here. The continuous rain serves to obscure their movements, but we must remain vigilant; we are certain that they will not hesitate to advance by tomorrow morning," Suradipa reported cautiously, his words punctuated by labored breaths as he regained his composure.
As fatigue etched deeper lines upon his face, Lurah brought forth even graver news. "The messenger from the south whom we have been anxiously awaiting has been missing for two whole days. No food aid has arrived from that direction. In the neighboring villages, chaos reigns supreme; desperate residents are attacking one another, fighting over the increasingly scarce food supplies."
Ki Jaka shook his head grimly, adding to the grim tally of woes. "The refugees are beginning to feel the sting of extreme hunger. Children cry out in hunger pangs, and women are growing agitated, consumed by desperation. Just this afternoon, Ms. Sari faced near violence for allegedly distributing sweet potatoes unfairly."
In a show of courage, Srintil, now recognized as the village's primary source of intelligence, raised her voice above the increasing din. "From my observations at the cave earlier, I overheard troubling news: Purwawisesa has sent an envoy to Wikramawardhana with an offer of false peace. However, they are reportedly plotting to encircle our village. They believe you hold the 'secret of the keris', a legendary artifact that is said to possess the power to alter the course of this war."
Sengkala paused momentarily, his gaze drifting towards the lontar that held his secret notes, tucked away in a corner of the room—a long and mysterious piece of their shared history that seemed to whisper forgotten tales. "That secret is nothing more than an old story, long buried in the annals of time. They are merely seeking a pretext to pillage and devastate us," he asserted firmly.
Suddenly, Ms. Sari burst through the door, her face ashen and her eyes wide with urgency. "Sir, new refugees have arrived—five individuals from the palace. They seek an audience with you to deliver a message from Wikramawardhana."
The village became a flurry of hushed whispers and anxious anticipation. Suradipa's voice was edged with caution as he interjected, "This could be a trap, sir! Exercise caution and do not go!"
"I'm determined to meet with them," Sengkala responded with a steady calm that belied the turmoil swirling around them. "This is the moment that will test our commitment to neutrality. If Wikramawardhana offers true peace, then perhaps we might find salvation. But if this is indeed a trap... then at the very least, we shall uncover the identity of our true enemies."
As he prepared to leave the hall, Dewi Laras grasped his arm, her expression a blend of anxiety and hope. "Son, the rain is torrential; your wounds are serious. Let Suradipa represent us instead."
"Mother, this is about trust and authority. If I back down now, the seeds of doubt will rot this village from within." He embraced her tightly, feeling the weight of responsibility and concern settle heavily on his shoulders. With his hand clutching the 'Giris Pawaka', he followed Ms. Sari to the flimsy refugee tent where the newcomers awaited him.
Inside the dimly lit tent, permeated by moisture and uncertainty, five men clad in dripping cotton robes passed the time in anxious silence—among them stood a leader with a thin beard and a jade ring on one finger that caught the faint light. "Are you Empu Sengkala?" he asked, his voice tinged with respect.
"Yes, I am. What news does Wikramawardhana bring?" Sengkala inquired, his heart pounding in his chest.
The leader rose to his feet, extending a wet roll of cloth toward Sengkala. "Our lord has returned victorious from the central palace. Purwawisesa has retreated, but he has dispatched bandits to harass neutral villages such as yours. Our lord now offers protection for your village, alongside a month's worth of food, contingent on your willingness to craft one hundred spears for the central army. Furthermore… you must surrender the secret of the keris in your possession."
Sengkala unfurled the scroll, revealing an official letter adorned with a garuda stamp that attested to its authenticity. "I possess no secret keris, and I will not create weapons for any faction embroiled in this war."
A thin, cold smile curled on the man's lips. "Our lord considers you clever. Should you refuse, your village will be regarded as safe from Purwawisesa's threats, yet you may find yourselves beset by 'uncontrollable' bandits tonight."
The threat was unmistakably clear, and Sengkala locked eyes with the man, his resolve burning bright against the adversity he faced. "Convey to your lord: this village has chosen to maintain its neutrality. The weapons we possess are solely for defense, not to ignite the flames of a civil war. A true king, if Wikramawardhana is such, will protect his people without resorting to intimidation or force."
The man merely shrugged, a dismissive gesture that belied the gravity of the situation. "The choice remains yours." With that, they departed, vanishing into the increasing downpour that enveloped the night.
Returning to the village hall, Sengkala recounted the dramatic encounter in vivid detail, inciting an uproar among the gathered villagers. A farmer, driven by emotion, shouted, "We must mount an attack against the bandits before they strike first!"
"No!" Sengkala snapped, urgency lacing his voice. "If we launch the first attack, we will become entangled in their conflict. We must stand firm and defend ourselves! I urge everyone to be on high alert tonight. Srintil, return to the cave and gather accurate intelligence on their numbers. Village chief, prepare additional oil for any traps we might need."
The rain intensified as the hours dragged on, enveloping the village in an oppressive silence. As midnight approached, three fire signals blazed forth from the hilltop, a harrowing warning of the enemy's approach! Sengkala bolted toward the hill through the downpour, feeling the rain sting his face like the lashes of a whip. Suradipa intercepted him with swift news: "One hundred bandits, sir! They are advancing through the eastern valley, brandishing waterproof torches!"
"Consolidate all troops at the main barricade!" Sengkala ordered with unwavering authority. The village jolted awake from its fitful slumber: women rushed to conceal their children, while the soldiers quickly grasped their spears, bracing themselves for the impending confrontation.
The storm of bandit attacks descended upon them with a ferocity that rattled the very core of their being: their cries echoed like thunder amid the pelting rain. The bandit leader—a towering figure wielding a menacing axe—bellowed commands, "Attack! Seize all the food and weapons!"
The initial wave slammed violently against the barricade: bamboo poles splintered, and blood-curdling screams permeated the air. Sengkala stood at the forefront, brandishing his 'Giris Pawaka', now slick with blood mingled with rainwater. He fought valiantly, felling three bandits before the pain in his wounded shoulder flared again, blood trickling down anew.
"Lurah, oil!" he shouted, aiming to maintain focus amidst the chaos. The Lurah, responding quickly, poured oil into the trench, and Suradipa ignited the arrows, which flew through the air with a deafening 'whoosh!' igniting a massive explosion that engulfed twenty bandits, their screams horrified and lost in the storm.
The bandit leader leaped over the trench, facing Sengkala with fury blazing in his eyes. "You, traitor! You shall die!" His axe came down upon Sengkala's shoulder—blood gushed once more.
Sengkala nimbly dodged, retaliating by plunging his weapon into the bandit's gut. "You, bloodthirsty marauder! This village will not cower in fear before looters!"
The bandit collapsed, a casualty of the conflict, and panic ensued among the remaining bandits, who fled in chaos, their fervor extinguished beneath the relentless rain. Victory, albeit temporary, belonged to the village—forty enemies lay dead, but the cost was high, with fifteen villagers wounded in the fierce struggle to protect their existence.
Yet, in the aftermath of the conflict, Sengkala crumpled to his knees, overcome by a fever that threatened to consume him. Srintil rushed to his side, offering help. "Brother, you have once again saved us," she spoke, her voice thick with gratitude.
In the village hall, as gentle hands tended to his injury with dedicated care, Dewi Laras voiced her concern, tears brimming in her eyes. "Son, you must rest completely tomorrow. This village needs you alive."
Sengkala's voice was a mere whisper as he gazed out at the unyielding rain. "Tonight is truly shadowed without stars... but dawn shall inevitably come. We must continue to endure."
However, within the silent darkness of the night, the unseen shadow of Wikramawardhana's spies lurked, their watchful eyes peering into the depths of despair, revealing the secret that Sengkala kept buried. As the threat of a significant attack orchestrated by Purwawisesa drew nearer, the tension rose relentlessly, signaling that the village was on the brink of a harrowing trial. A heavy tribulation awaited this small enclave of resilience, casting a long shadow over the fate of its inhabitants.