Datu Dumaalon
The morning mist still clung to the river as Datu Dumaalon and his party paddled northwest. The waterway carved a path through dense jungle, its surface broken only by the occasional drift of floating vegetation and the gliding figures of crocodiles, their dark eyes watching from the shallows. The rhythmic strokes of their paddles sent ripples across the water, carrying them further from their home and toward the seat of the Rajah.
Dumaalon remained silent, his sharp eyes sweeping the riverbanks for any sign of movement. He knew these waters well, but familiarity did not breed complacency. The inland rivers were treacherous, not just because of the creatures lurking beneath the surface but because of the men who prowled the edges. Runaway slaves often turned to banditry, desperate and dangerous. Rival datus, short on tribute, might see an ambush as their only option. And then there were the stories, whispers of beings that were neither man nor beast, lurking in the depths, waiting for the unwary.
As the sun bled into the horizon, Mayon Volcano rose before them, its near-perfect cone slicing through the tree line. Even from the river, its presence was undeniable, a slumbering giant, both creator and destroyer, its fertile slopes a promise and a warning. They were close now, though the journey was not yet over.
The Rajah had uprooted his people and moved his village here only a few years prior, drawn by the rich earth and the strategic, diplomatic, and cultural weight of the great volcano. Mayon was more than just a landmark, it was a throne carved by nature itself, a symbol of power that no rival could ignore.
He had once ruled from the island's western coast, growing fat on trade with spice merchants and island peoples, his coffers brimming with gold. But wealth alone was a brittle shield. Gold could buy allies, but it could not ward off the hungry blades of ambition.
Once, his strength had been enough. As a younger man, Datu Bugtas had swept through villages like a typhoon, seizing lands, forging warriors, and stamping his name into the earth. Dumaalon had been a boy then, watching his home fall under the shadow of Bugtas' conquest, plucked from the ruins and hammered into something new, something useful.
But that strength, the raw force that had once bent lesser datus to his will, was no longer enough. The world had grown sharper, hungrier. And so, like a great tree sinking its roots deeper to brace against the coming storm, the Rajah had moved inland, seeking not just wealth, but dominion.
The move inland was a calculated shift, away from the ever-present threat of coastal raiders and closer to the fertile lands fed by Mayon's restless heart. Here, in the shadow of the volcano, the Rajah would fortify his rule, not just through trade and diplomacy, but through the sheer presence of power. It was no accident that he welcomed guests and merchants where the mountain loomed behind him, an unspoken reminder that his strength, like Mayon's, was not to be challenged.
As the boats reached the shallower waters, they had no choice but to disembark and continue on foot. But with dusk fast approaching, Dumaalon knew better than to risk traveling through the mystical forests at the foot of the mountain after dark. The trees there whispered with unseen forces, and not all spirits were friendly. He ordered the group to make camp by the riverbank, positioning the boats as an added layer of defense against whatever might lurk in the night.
By morning, the final stretch of their journey led them through tangled undergrowth, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the distant traces of hearth fires. As they neared the Rajah's village, the signs of heavy fortification became clear. Watchtowers loomed above the treetops, their thatched platforms manned by sharp-eyed sentries gripping spears and bows. Wooden palisades, reinforced with sharpened stakes, encircled the settlement, a silent warning to any who might test its defenses.
As Dumaalon and his warriors approached, they were met by guards stationed at the outer gates, their grips firm on their swords, expressions unreadable. Only after a brief but scrutinizing inspection were they allowed through. Beyond the walls, the village pulsed with life. Tall bamboo structures stood proudly, their nipa roofs rustling in the breeze, while the marketplace hummed with activity. Traders bartered in hushed tones, wary of the ever-present patrols, their voices rising only when coins or goods changed hands. Warriors in hardened leather armor strode between the stalls, their presence a constant reminder that peace here was maintained through strength.
The escort moved with purpose, carrying their tribute, bundles of woven mats, jars of salt, and strings of dried fish, toward the village center. There, seated on a raised wooden platform, Rajah Bugtas awaited them. Draped in fine textiles and adorned with gold jewelry, he radiated power, but his sharp gaze spoke of expectation, not mere ceremony.
Dumaalon stepped forward and bowed his head in deference. "Rajah," he greeted, his voice steady despite the weight of their meeting.
Bugtas studied him for a moment before breaking into a broad smile. "I am glad you were able to accompany this season's tribute. Are you well now? Was my daughter able to heal you?"
I actually think your daughter caused my illness. But instead, Dumaalon gave a measured nod. "Yes, Kaluna has been most helpful."
Bugtas' eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Good, good. And how is she? Is she settling well? And my grandson, he is strong, yes?"
Dumaalon bowed his head slightly. "Yes, Rajah. Kaluna serves the village well, and Rakun is growing into a strong and healthy boy."
Bugtas laughed, the sound deep and pleased. "That is very good, my friend. Very good news indeed."
Then, his tone shifted, lighter but laced with something pointed. "Now, tell me of your tribute. I don't see any mangoes. Surely, you're not holding out on me, Dumaalon?" His gaze sharpened just slightly, a playful edge hiding something more calculating.
Dumaalon met his eyes and gave a small, knowing smile. "I would not do that to you, Rajah. Instead, I bring you something far better."
He gestured to Alunay. Without hesitation, she stepped forward, carrying a small pouch, woven from fine abaca and tied securely, the kind used only for storing the most valuable goods.
Alunay bowed deeply before the Rajah. He regarded her with an appraising gaze before speaking, his voice warm yet weighty with expectation.
"Tales of your strength have reached my ears, and I see now that they were not exaggerated." His attention shifted solely to her. "We eagerly await the day you take the datuship from your father."
Alunay remained motionless, her face unreadable as she held her spear. She neither confirmed nor denied his words.
The Rajah, satisfied with her composure, gestured for a servant to take the pouch from her hands. The finely woven container was placed before him, and as he loosened its ties and glimpsed the pearls within, his expression brightened instantly.
"Ah, very good, Dumaalon. It seems Kaluna is ensuring the spirits favor you and your village." His fingers sifted through the smooth, iridescent treasures before glancing back at Dumaalon with a knowing look. "This is beyond your expected tribute. I assume you wish to barter for something in return?"
Dumaalon inclined his head respectfully. "If my Rajah permits, we would like to purchase two carabaos and two pigs, a male and a female of each."
He studied the Rajah's reaction, catching the flicker of emotions crossing his face, pleasure at the tribute, but also the flickering indignation at the request.
For a brief moment, the Rajah's expression wavered, but he quickly mastered it, settling into a practiced smile. "My friend, I am sorry, but I can only offer you a male carabao. Livestock is more valuable than ever, and I cannot afford to part with any more."
Dumaalon clenched his fists beneath the folds of his garment, willing himself to remain composed. "Surely, the great Rajah, blessed with wealth and abundance, can spare at least one more animal?" His voice was measured, respectful, but firm.
The Rajah appeared to ponder the request, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest of his seat. But Dumaalon knew better. This wasn't contemplation; it was calculation. He was not deciding whether to give, only how little he could offer while still appearing generous.
Had the Rajah always been like this? Had greed always lurked beneath his gilded benevolence, unnoticed until now? Or had the years hardened him, turning a once-great leader into a man who saw even loyalty as something to be taxed?
Finally, the Rajah spoke. "Very well. I will grant you one female pig." He chuckled, the sound rich with amusement. "In the end, your request is granted, yes? One male, one female."
The laughter faded just as quickly as it had come, his expression turning serious. "Thank you for your tribute, Dumaalon. I am grateful. You may stay as long as you wish, just be sure that the tribute arrives on time."
As if I would linger in your nest, Rajah. But outwardly, Dumaalon merely inclined his head and replied, "Thank you for your generosity, Rajah."
As the afternoon faded into night, Dumaalon set out to find Vikraman, one of the merchants who made the journey to the Rajah's village, eager to profit from the tributes brought to his lord.
The moment Vikraman spotted him, he broke into a grin and pulled Dumaalon into a firm embrace. They had fought side by side in their youth, warriors forged in battle, until Vikraman retired from the sword and turned to trade, using his father's wealth to build a thriving business.
"You look absolutely old, my friend," Vikraman teased, stepping back to examine him. "Did your illness leave its mark?"
For a moment, Dumaalon was tempted to ask if his friend knew of any cure for a curse, but he held his tongue. Instead, he forced a smirk. "No, just the weight of years catching up to me." Then, lowering his voice, he added, "I need to ask, do you have a way to procure a female carabao or a male pig?"
Vikraman's interest sharpened instantly. "Ah. I take it the Rajah reminded you how scarce livestock has become." He folded his arms, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Rumors say the coastal villages are under constant attack. Not just by the island raiders, but also by the northern tribes."
Dumaalon reached into his belt and produced a small pouch, the weight of it speaking for itself. "Surely you can make it happen with this much."
Vikraman's gaze flickered to the pouch as he opened it a little bit to show at least a dozen pearls. For a moment, Dumaalon swore he could see the glint of pure opportunity flash in his eyes.
"This would be dangerous, Dumaalon," Vikraman mused, though his tone was anything but reluctant. "I'd be going against the Rajah's wishes."
Dumaalon smirked, knowing his old friend too well. The moment Vikraman started talking about risk, it meant his negotiation hat was firmly on. Rather than entertain the game, he simply said, "Tell me the best you can do, my friend. You know I have no patience for haggling."
Vikraman rubbed his chin, considering. "I can get you a female carabao for twenty pearls. The pigs, however… those are under heavy scrutiny. I doubt I could move one without attracting attention."
Dumaalon exhaled slowly. So it wasn't just greed driving the Rajah's stinginess. If even Vikraman was struggling to move livestock, then the situation must truly be dire. The Rajah wasn't just hoarding, he was safeguarding.
Without argument, he gave the pouch to Vikraman "Take this."
Vikraman's grin widened as he weighed the pouch in his hand, the extra pearls clinking softly. "You're feeling generous today, Dumaalon. I'm glad to see you in such a charitable mood."
Dumaalon's expression darkened slightly as he leaned in. "I need information. Have you ever heard of a village called 'Makati'? Or a datu named 'God'?"
Vikraman arched a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You still haven't lost your sense of adventure, I see. I assume you won't tell me what this is about?" He chuckled before adding, "Fine. For five pearls, I'll ask around, quietly."
As Dumaalon made his way back to the hut assigned to him by the Rajah, he caught sight of Alunay deep in negotiation with Bugtas' blacksmith. Even from a distance, he could see the tension in her stance, the way her fingers curled into fists, barely restraining her frustration.
By the time he reached them, her voice was already rising. "Ten pearls for a short sword? Are you out of your mind?"
The blacksmith, unfazed, merely shrugged. "These are all reserved for the Rajah. If you want one, you'll have to pay extra."
Dumaalon narrowed his eyes. So, even weapons were being rationed. That was telling. Supplies didn't become scarce without reason. Who had the Rajah angered this time? Was a new datu rising in the north? Or was another rajah slowly encroaching on his lands?
Earlier, he had given Alunay two pearls, tasking her with finding a gift for Aso, a small token to ease the weight of gratitude she carried. A gesture to satisfy the spirits, to grant her a moment's reprieve from the ever-watchful eyes that judged debts left unpaid.
Dumaalon turned to the blacksmith. "And what will two pearls get?"
The blacksmith glanced at a nearby basket before shrugging. "A small knife."
Dumaalon eyed the selection and countered, "Make it a steel one, and we have a deal."
With a grunt, the blacksmith rummaged through the basket and pulled out a crude steel knife. He tossed it toward them. "Here." The blade was chipped along the edges, far from pristine, but serviceable.
Dumaalon gave Alunay a slight nod, the signal to pay. Her fingers lingered on the pearls, rubbing them while her gaze wandered the blacksmith's hut, hunting for something more worthy than a short knife.
At last she countered, voice careful. "How much for that white arm guard?"
The blacksmith followed her pointing finger and chuckled. "One pearl."
Their startled faces drew a grin from him, and he went on, "It's brittle, like stone, but heavy as a blade. Came from a falling star. We thought it would be good against steel, but… we only tested after making a few."
"I'll give you two for a pearl." The blacksmith quickly added, sensing their initial interest.
Sensing a good deal, Dumaalon plucked the pearls from Alunay's hand and passed one to the smith. "Deal."
He turned to her with a small smile, giving back the remaining pearl, offering consolation. "Give this to Luban and have him gild it. Then it will be a gift worthy of you."
When the trade was done, he led her back toward their hut. At the entrance, he paused, his voice low but firm. "Rest well. We leave at first light."