"For the love of God, please tell I am hearing it wrong!" I stord out of the bedroom into the dimly lit corridor of the convent, the last traces of sleep flushed out of my system. The candles along the hallway flickered with each passing gust, their weak light throwing long shadows on the walls.
Too many tis I had been roused from sleep to attend to sothing serious.
I never did get use to it.
God must know this old man deserves at least a mont’s rest.
"I’m really sorry about this, Heneral... but we’ve been attacked..." Sargento Guzman followed close behind, adjusting his belt as he tried to keep up with my brisk, determined pace.
"Attacked?" My voice cracked sowhere between disbelief and fury. But even as I said it, I knew better.
The staccato bursts of gunfire outside shattered any hope of misunderstanding. The reports echoed from multiple directions, a layered cacophony of rifles clapping and voices shouting. This wasn’t a skirmish. It was an exchange of fire between several dozen combatants.
If there was any small comfort to be found, it was that the shots didn’t sound too close. Nothing near the sharp volu of bullets cracking within the streets or yards. That ant the fighting was still at the periphery—our periter had not been breached.
"Yes, Heneral," Guzman confird grimly, his voice low. "The attack started just minutes ago. Our lookouts spotted them early enough to raise the alarm and prepare defenses. We’re being hit from two directions—north, from the riverbanks, and east, out of the forestline."
This was unmistakably reinforcents from Torrijos.
Paras had responded faster than expected. I had half-expected him to hesitate after losing the so-called Pulajan Pope and a hundred of his crazed followers in Buenavista. I had hoped he would entrench and await our offensive or even co to the table.
Or was this Sadiwa’s move? Perhaps the more than a hundred rifles he stole in Santa Cruz had given him the confidence. I clenched my jaw at the thought.
Oddly enough, by the ti we arrived at the sacristy, the sound of gunfire had begun to falter. The once-constant cracks of gunshots were growing fewer, and by the ti we reached the church, occasional monts of silence punctuated the battle.
My skin crawled with dread. We had brought just enough ammunition for the earlier battle, and exhausted, I had forgotten to ask either Eduardo or Alcantara to fetch more ammunition from Boac. What if we were running dry? What if the defenders were too low on bullets to hold the line?
Inside the church, a grim scene awaited —one that should not have disturbed as much as it did. The dead had been laid out reverently in front of the altar, each body wrapped in a thin white shroud, now stained with blotches of red. The scent of blood lingered beneath the sll of lted wax from the candles flickering beside each corpse.
Above them, the shattered figure of the Virgin Mary watched silently from her damaged pedestal, her head missing, her arms broken.
The whole thing looked like sothing from a nightmare, or a horror movie.
"Sixteen?" I whispered, stopping short when I realized there were more bodies there than I had expected. Sixteen dead. Not fifteen.
"One of our wounded passed away just minutes ago," Guzman murmured behind . "He was the one who got shot in the arm, the last victim of the sniper you took care of from the bell tower. Lost too much blood."
I gave a slow nod. Yes, I rembered now. Historillo had taken out the sniper just after that. A clean shot—but not fast enough to save his comrade. Out here, in this ti and place, blood loss was a death sentence more often than not.
The other four wounded rested on the pews along the side aisle, each with various bandages and makeshift splints. One had a nasty graze across the scalp—the one who escaped death re inches away, after the sniper had gotten his first kill. Another clutched a bloodied hand wrapped in cloth, the recruit who got hit by a wooden splinter during the defense of the presidencia.
The others looked pale but alert. Minor wounds, thankfully.
The escolta, reduced now to six n, stood loosely at their posts near the windows and doors. They peered outside every few monts but otherwise conversed in low voices, keeping their rifles near. I didn’t bla them for relaxing. They had been through hell.
Through the windows, I spotted movent—two soldiers rushing toward the church from the rear, an ammo crate between them. The sight reminded of my earlier worry—our ammunition must be running low after the earlier fight.
I moved quickly to et them as they passed through the main doors, sweat-soaked and breathless.
"You two are from Cristobal’s platoon, yes?" I asked as they entered. "Where are Teniente Triviño and Kadete Madrigal?"
They halted imdiately, startled, snapping quick salutes. One looked to the other, who took the lead.
"They’re holding the presidencia, Heneral," he answered. "Leading the defense there."
"How are we faring?" I asked, bracing for bad news.
Their faces brightened in unison, like boys eager to brag about a successful hunt.
"The enemy’s breaking, Heneral," one of them said with barely concealed excitent. "They tried charging through the open field behind the presidencia. We mowed them down like wheat."
"At one point, we got ten of them in a single volley!" the other added.
"We’re painting the green fields red, Heneral!"
I smirked, then let out a surprised chuckle.
Of course.
Why was I so pessimistic in the first place?
Sadiwa may have stolen my rifles, but he hadn’t stolen my military knowledge. I had only trained him in parade ground movents and basic marksmanship. He helped build the training grounds in Landi but hadn’t yet trained in it.
He had no real grasp of terrain, no understanding of enfilade, of kill zones, of coordinated discipline in the field.
I turned to one of the escolta standing by the doorway. "Fetch my horse," I ordered.
The man snapped a salute and rushed outside without hesitation.
Guzman stepped forward. "Shall I go with you, Heneral?"
I shook my head. "No, no. You stay here," I said, placing a hand on his shoulder before walking past him. "Make sure our dead don’t rise."
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