The Wrath of the Unchained
Chapter 43 - The March of Fate

Chapter 43: Chapter 43 - The March of Fate

The weight of leadership pressed heavily on Lusweti’s shoulders, but he stood firm, unwavering. The decision to let Duarte go had already sparked debate, but now, with the army ready to march, Simiyu could no longer hold back his frustration.

Simiyu approached Lusweti at dawn, his expression grim. The cool morning air did nothing to temper the fire in his voice.

"You should have killed him." The words were blunt, direct.

Lusweti, adjusting the straps on his armor, sighed but didn’t turn around. "Duarte was a prisoner. He was shown mercy."

"Mercy?" Simiyu scoffed. "You’re a fool if you think he will not return to his masters. He has no loyalty to us, Lusweti. That man is a snake, and you set him free to bite us later."

Lusweti turned now, his gaze steady, his tone calm but firm. "And what of us, Simiyu? Were we not once enemies?"

Simiyu clenched his jaw but said nothing.

"I remember a time when you thought I was unfit to lead. That my vision of Nuri was weak. That we would fail." Lusweti took a step closer, his presence commanding. "And yet, here you stand, not as my enemy, but as my greatest warrior. Because Khisa showed us another way."

Simiyu’s eyes flickered with something—resentment, maybe, but also reluctant understanding.

"Duarte has yet to prove himself," Lusweti admitted, "but I believe he will. Nuri is not just a land of warriors, Simiyu. It is a land of hope."

Simiyu exhaled sharply. "Hope does not win wars. Swords do."

Lusweti chuckled, but there was steel behind it. "Then fight for our hope. And let me fight for the people who still need it."

For a moment, Simiyu said nothing. His hands flexed at his sides, wrestling with his instincts. Then, with a deep breath, he relented. "You’ve never led us astray, Lusweti. I’ll follow you. But if Duarte betrays us..."

Lusweti’s smile faded. His voice was ice. "Then I will kill him myself."

---

Duarte walked through the streets in the eastern barracks. The people looked at him with fear and distrust. He had seen firsthand how slaves were treated—he had been one of the slavers not too long ago. He knew earning their trust would not be easy. The first thing he had to do was ensure Nuri’s victory.

Duarte sat across from Lusweti, his gaze sharp as he traced the rim of his wooden cup with his fingers. The air between them was tense, a silent challenge hanging in the dimly lit war tent.

"You wanted to speak," Lusweti prompted.

Duarte nodded. "I owe you information. And you need to hear it all, no matter how much you may not want to."

Lusweti gestured for him to continue.

"Your enemy is not just the Sultan. It is Francisco de Almeida." Duarte’s voice was measured, but the weight behind it was undeniable. "A ruthless man. A man who sees nothing but profit in people’s suffering."

Lusweti narrowed his eyes. "Yet you followed him."

Duarte exhaled, nodding. "I did. Once. But there is something you do not know. Almeida is a ghost, Lusweti. A man abandoned by his own country."

Lusweti leaned forward. "Explain."

Duarte’s fingers tightened around his cup. "Almeida and his men were sent on a trade mission. But when they found Dutch merchants in these waters, he saw an opportunity. He struck first, forcing a naval battle between Portugal and the Dutch."

Lusweti listened intently.

"It was a disaster. The Dutch retaliated, and the war escalated beyond control. Portugal had to pay reparations to end it, and Almeida’s entire regiment was blamed. They were branded as traitors. Disavowed." Duarte’s lips curled bitterly. "They were told never to fly the Portuguese flag again. Never to return home."

Lusweti frowned. "Then why are they still here? Why do they still fight?"

Duarte’s voice dropped. "Because they have nowhere else to go."

A silence fell between them before Lusweti asked, "And what of the slaves?"

Duarte looked away for a moment, then met Lusweti’s gaze again. "We’ve been out at sea for months, Lusweti. Almeida’s men have sold slaves across the world. To Arabia. To Persia. Even as far as India."

Lusweti’s fists clenched. The scale of it sickened him. Slavery was worse and much bigger than he had thought. His people were scattered across the world. Bringing them all home would not be easy.

"Those who row the warships..." Duarte hesitated, then continued. "They are starved. Beaten. Some are chained so tightly they have not stood in years. The sea has become their prison."

Lusweti stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. His chest heaved with anger. "They must be freed."

Duarte shook his head. "It’s impossible to save them all."

Lusweti’s gaze burned. "My people will return home." His voice was steady, but the fire in it was undeniable. "That is why Nuri was built. Once they hear the name of the Kingdom of Nuri, they will know they have a place here."

Duarte studied him, something shifting in his expression. A grudging respect.

"You cannot save them all in this generation."

"Then the next one will." Lusweti’s voice was unwavering. "As long as Nuri stands, slavers will never win."

The banners of Nuri rose high as the army began its march.

Dust swirled in the air, kicked up by thousands of feet. The rhythmic pounding of war drums echoed across the land, mingling with the steady thud of hooves and the creak of wooden carriages.

1,000 on horseback.

1,000 in carriages.

3,000 on foot.

Lusweti rode at the front, his heart burning with purpose. He gripped his sword tightly, lifting it high. The sun gleamed off the blade, reflecting the fire in his soul.

"For our people! For freedom!" he roared.

A thunderous cry answered him.

And so, the march to Kilwa began

In Kilwa, the Sultan was pacing, his face twisted with frustration.

"No one followed them? No one thought to track those barbarians?" He struck a servant across the face, sending them sprawling.

Malik stood nearby, arms crossed. "It was chaotic. We were more focused on quelling the chaos they caused, we were only following your orders."

"How dare you speak that way to your master!" He slapped Malik across the face. Malik, a decorated general has been reduced to a pawn for an immature Sultan. He gritted his teeth in frustration.

"I do not care what the nobles were doing!" the Sultan roared. "We lost an opportunity! Those savages should be kneeling before me!"

Malik remained silent.

The Sultan’s rage turned toward him. "You. Take the army and find their home. I don’t care how long it takes you, the next time I see you I better have their king in chains before me."

Malik’s brow furrowed. "If we leave, Kilwa will be defenseless."

The Sultan’s nostrils flared. "You are a sword, Malik. Your job is not to think. Do as you are told."

Malik exhaled but bowed. "As you command."

As he left, Almeida watched from a distance, a smirk on his lips.

The Sultan was proving himself even more incompetent that he thought. All his schemes were not even necessary. At this rate Kilwa and Nuri will belong to him before the month is over.

"The fool doesn’t even realize he’s handing Kilwa over to me. The barbarians of Nuri although a bit smart, a slave was just a slave."

Outside the walls of Nuri, a small group of merchants arrived, their eyes scanning the barely guarded entrance. They whispered among themselves.

"This is it?" one sneered. "A kingdom with no security?"

"We expected more," another muttered, adjusting the satchel at his waist.

They moved cautiously, watching the people go about their day. No guards patrolled the gate. It was almost laughable.

"Too easy," one of them murmured.

Then, a shadow shifted behind them.

"You shouldn’t have come."

The voice was cold. The merchants spun around—only to find themselves staring at figures cloaked in darkness. The Watchers.

One merchant’s breath caught. "Who...?"

A blade glinted.

"The last thing you’ll ever see."