The Wrath of the Unchained
Chapter 42 - The March to War

Chapter 42: Chapter 42 - The March to War

Matenje’s execution was swift, his rebellion crushed before it could take root. His body, along with those of the four spies, was left for the vultures beyond the city walls—a message to any who still harbored treasonous thoughts.

But their deaths did not erase the damage. The rumors he and Simiyu had spread to trap Matenje had sown doubt, and doubt was like rot—it lingered even after the infected limb was cut off.

That morning, Lusweti stood in the eastern barracks square, his presence a storm waiting to break. Hundreds of warriors and civilians gathered, their eyes wary, their minds unsettled.

He let the silence stretch, making them sit with their own uncertainty. Then he spoke.

"How dare you?"

The accusation cut through the crowd like a blade. Some flinched. Others dropped their gazes.

Lusweti’s voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the fire beneath it. He took a slow step forward, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

"How dare you forget who we are? What we have fought for?"

His sharp gaze swept over them, searching for hesitation. A young warrior swallowed hard, shifting his stance. An elder woman, her hands wrinkled from years of work, clenched her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"You let a snake slither into our home, whisper poison into your ears, and instead of crushing it, you listened!"

Shame rippled through the gathered Nurians. Lusweti’s boots scuffed against the stone as he paced, his movements slow but deliberate.

"I built this kingdom with blood and steel!" He slammed his staff against the ground, the sharp crack echoing through the square. "We stood together against slavers, against warlords, against those who would see us broken! And now you hesitate? Now you question me?"

A murmur of unease passed through the crowd.

He took another step forward, his shoulders squared. His shadow loomed over them, cast long by the morning sun.

"Do you know what we were before Nuri? Slaves. Exiles. Forgotten."

The murmurs stilled.

"Do you know what we are now? Warriors. Builders. A nation."

The words struck deep. Some warriors pressed their fists to their chests, nodding.

"Our people in Kilwa suffer because they dared to dream of a better future for you. And still, you hesitate?"

His voice turned sharper, slicing through the last remnants of doubt.

"Let me make something clear. The world will try to destroy us. Foreigners will come with honeyed words and hidden knives. But we will never reveal our strength until the time is right."

A fire rekindled in the people’s eyes.

"Matenje sought to divide us. He failed. If any of you think as he did, speak now. Stand before me and say it. And I will deal with you as I dealt with him."

Silence.

Then, a roar erupted from the crowd—a roar of renewed loyalty. A roar of warriors who remembered their purpose.

Lusweti looked at them, his expression unreadable. But inside, he knew.

Nuri stood united once more.

Lusweti strode into the dimly lit prison where Duarte was held. The scent of damp stone and sweat filled the air. He pulled up a stool and sat across from the chained man, his sharp gaze steady.

"A man of your skill and cunning," Lusweti began, his voice even. "Why did you not take Matenje up on his offer? You could have left here alive if you ran once he let you go."

Duarte scoffed, leaning his head back against the wall. "I would never have left here alive. You are too careful to let that happen."

Lusweti chuckled. "I see you’re not completely foolish like your allies."

Duarte smirked. "Are you here to end my suffering?"

Lusweti’s eyes darkened. "You think this is suffering? Foreigners must be softer than I thought."

He leaned in slightly, his presence pressing.

"Suffering is watching your people treated worse than cattle. Suffering is watching your parents and loved ones killed in front of you while you stand helpless. Suffering is watching your wife wake up each night, plagued by nightmares because of slavers."

Duarte swallowed, caught off guard by the raw intensity in Lusweti’s voice.

For the first time, he saw the true weight of Nuri’s cause. This was not just a king. This was a man forged by hardship, leading a people who refused to bow.

Lusweti continued, his tone unwavering. "I swore that my people will never suffer again at the hands of slavers. I swore that my people will have hope and prosperity. I swore to obliterate slavery, and if I die along the way, my son will take my place and he will burn this world to the ground before our people become enslaved again."

Duarte felt something stir in his chest—something he had not felt in years.

He let out a breathless laugh.

"Hey, King, would you mind not killing me?" His grin was half-mocking, half-serious. "In all my years, I have never seen a ruler as passionate as you. You can use me as you like. I will even bark like a dog if that’s what it takes."

Lusweti laughed heartily, shaking his head. "Begging for your life, are we? That seems out of character even for you."

Duarte’s grin widened. "Maybe. But I would like to fight for something meaningful for once in my life. So what do you say?"

Lusweti studied him for a long moment before nodding. "I have no use for pawns. Nuri welcomes all who have suffered. It is a beacon that will stand tall long after I am gone. If you are willing to die fighting for something worthwhile, I have no reason to turn you away.

His voice sharpened. "But you have to prove yourself. Every warrior here has earned their place through blood and sweat. Gain their trust, and you will fly the flag of Nuri with pride."

With that, he rose and left, issuing orders to the guards.

Duarte exhaled slowly.

For the first time in years, he felt like he had a purpose.

The air in the Kilwa dungeons was thick with the stench of rot, sweat, and human waste. The stone walls dripped with moisture, a slow, mocking reminder of water that none of the prisoners could drink. Shackles clanked as the delegates of Nuri shifted in their places, their bodies weak from hunger, their spirits heavy with despair.

Jumba, the eldest among them, leaned his head against the wall, his once-proud frame now hunched under the weight of exhaustion. His lips were cracked, his throat raw from lack of water. The guards had long since stopped questioning them, but their torment did not end.

Days bled into nights in the dimly lit chamber, where sleep brought no relief. Those who closed their eyes would wake to rats gnawing at their toes or the sharp bite of a whip lashing against their backs—just to remind them they still belonged to their captors.

Mutiso, a younger delegate, whimpered in his sleep, his body shivering from fever. He had been the first to break, screaming for mercy when they had driven a rusted nail through his palm, demanding he renounce Lusweti. But even in his delirium, he had refused.

"We are... Nuri," he muttered in his fevered state, his voice barely above a whisper.

Amboka swallowed hard. He did not blame him for breaking. They had all broken in some way. The guards ensured it.

When the torturer had come last night, he had chosen Akolo, the stout warrior among them, for his amusement. Akolo, who had once led Nuri’s diplomatic guards, had endured silently as they stripped the flesh from his feet with a hooked blade. He had bitten his lip until blood dripped down his chin, but not a single cry had left his mouth.

Now he sat in the corner, his breathing ragged, his body trembling as if he were cold—though they all burned under Kilwa’s humid heat.

Mshale clenched his fists weakly. He could still hear the Sultan’s men laughing.

"Break their spirits, and their king will fall. Make them curse the day they swore loyalty to Nuri."

But they had not cursed Lusweti.

Not yet.

The dungeon doors groaned open, and the sound sent a ripple of fear through the prisoners. The guards were back.

Mshale’s cracked lips parted, and for the first time in weeks, he prayed—not for rescue, but for the strength to die without betraying his people.

The Kilwa General, Malik, entered the throne room, his face grim.

"The Nurians won’t break."

The Sultan’s face twisted with fury.

He slammed his goblet down, wine splattering across the floor. "What use is an army general if he cannot break a few old men?"

Malik’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

The Sultan paced the room, his heavy robes dragging behind him. His hands clenched and unclenched as he muttered curses under his breath.

He turned sharply, his eyes landing on Almeida.

"You!"

The Portuguese ambassador barely looked up from his seat, his expression one of amused disinterest.

The Sultan’s nostrils flared. "You will break them for me!"

Almeida leaned back, his smirk cold. "You should have sent someone after the ones who escaped," he said lazily. "But instead, you wasted time torturing old men."

The Sultan’s hands trembled in rage.

Almeida held his gaze, his smirk widening.

This man—this fool—still thought he was in control.

But by the time he realized the truth, it would be far too late.

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