The Wrath of the Unchained
Chapter 48 - Pride Against Purpose

Chapter 48: Chapter 48 - Pride Against Purpose

The time Weche and Kibet had bought them was worth it.

Malik clenched his jaw as he surveyed the devastation around him. The landslide had sealed them in the valley, a natural prison of rock and debris. His men scrambled to clear a path, their frustration evident in the grumbles and occasional curses that filled the air. Some soldiers lay wounded, their groans adding to the weight of their predicament. The Kilwa army was trapped—exposed, exhausted, and vulnerable.

Yet Malik remained composed. Anger simmered beneath his calm exterior, but he could not afford to lose control. He recognized the brilliance of Nuri’s strategy. This wasn’t just an ambush—it was a calculated attempt to break them before the true battle began. And what stung even more was that it was working. Their scouts had not returned. Likely dead. Or worse, captured.

For the first time, doubt crept into Malik’s mind. His army, which he had once believed to be an unstoppable force, had been outmaneuvered at every turn. Their incompetence had cost them dearly.

Then, another realization struck him—the river had dried up.

He turned to his officers, his voice even but firm. "No water source for miles. No way to climb out without being picked off. We are sitting ducks."

A heavy silence followed. Some of his men exchanged uneasy glances. They were seasoned warriors, but exhaustion and thirst gnawed at their resolve.

Malik’s gaze swept over them, his voice dropping to a low, cutting tone. "Look at yourselves." He gestured at the battered, sweat-streaked soldiers. "Is this what the mighty warriors of Kilwa have become? Trapped like prey? Outwitted by villagers?" He spat on the ground, his disgust evident.

The men stiffened. Murmurs of protest rippled through the ranks.

"We allowed this," Malik continued, his voice rising. "We let arrogance blind us! And now, we are here—dehydrated, wounded, humiliated. This is shameful! This is disgraceful!"

A growl of agreement spread through the soldiers, fists clenching, backs straightening.

"Feel the shame! Let it burn inside you! But do not let it break you," Malik snarled. "We are Kilwa! We do not beg! We do not kneel! We rise!"

A roar erupted from his men, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten. The fires of their pride reignited, hotter than before.

"We dig our way out," Malik commanded. "And when we do, we will carve through Nuri’s warriors and remind them why they should fear us!"

The soldiers echoed his words, their voices carrying through the valley, a chorus of vengeance and fury.

On the other side of the valley, the war drums of Nuri thundered, sending vibrations through the earth. The rhythmic pounding echoed like a heartbeat, steady, unyielding.

King Lusweti stood before his warriors, the fire of battle already in his eyes. The scent of burning wood from the campfires mingled with the fresh morning air, and the sound of sharpening blades whispered through the encampment.

He raised his spear, his voice carrying over the army like rolling thunder. "Tomorrow, we ride! And when we do, we ride not for ourselves, but for our people! For our families! For Nuri!"

A resounding cheer shook the night.

He pointed toward the valley. "The Kilwa dogs fight for their own pride. They fight because they fear shame. But we... we fight for our home! We fight for our children, for the future! If we fall, Nuri falls! If we falter, our people will suffer! But hear me now—we will NOT fall!"

The warriors pounded their shields, the sound rising in waves. Their blood burned with righteous fury.

"Tomorrow, we remind them whose land they stand upon! We remind them why they should never have come here!"

The war drums grew louder, drowning out the night, filling every soldier with an unshakable resolve. They did not fight for pride. They fought for something far greater.

At dawn, they rode.

Lusweti’s army, well-rested, sharpened by strategy and the fire of a kingdom worth protecting.

Malik’s army, battered but unbroken, hardened by failure and the thirst for redemption.

The inevitable clash approached.

Meanwhile, beyond the walls of Kilwa, two scouts arrived, breathless and dust-covered. Their eyes, wide with urgency, locked onto the white gates.

"The race has begun," one of them gasped. "And time is not on our side."

Almeida sat in his lavish office, the scent of exotic spices and parchment filling the air. His fingers traced the edges of a finely detailed map, eyes flickering with amusement as he reviewed his carefully laid-out plans. His war was not fought with swords but with deception and patience. He did not need brute strength—he needed chaos. And chaos was already unfolding beautifully.

His merchants had begun their work, poisoning Nuri from within, whispering in the ears of greedy men, planting doubts in the minds of the wavering. His mercenaries, supposedly allies to the Kilwa soldiers, waited for the perfect moment to strike—turning on them when the time was right. The battlefield was merely a distraction; the true war was happening in the shadows.

He leaned back, letting out a low chuckle. "The only victor in this war will be me."

The Sultan, in contrast, was drowning in overconfidence. Reclined on a silk-covered couch, a goblet of wine in his hand, he laughed heartily, his belly shaking with mirth. His palace, though heavily adorned, had a stifling emptiness to it—his best men were gone, his halls quieter than they should have been.

He was not worried. Why should he be? He had sent only a fraction of his forces, holding back his true strength. Let the battle play out. Let Malik struggle. When the time was right, he would send his full force and crush those savages.

"They will bow," he slurred, taking another sip. "They always do."

His remaining guards exchanged glances but said nothing. The arrogance of their ruler blinded him to the tides shifting beneath him.

In a dark, cold cell deep in Kilwa, Mshale and the rest of the Nuri delegates sat with their backs against the stone wall. Their bodies were weak, their lips cracked from thirst, their stomachs hollow.

But they did not break.

Mshale clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain upright. His breath was shallow, but his will remained unyielding. Around him, his fellow captives sat in silent determination. They had lost count of the days, but they knew the war raged on without them.

"We cannot fall," one of the delegates murmured. "Not before we see Nuri’s victory."

Mshale nodded. "We endure."

Though their bodies trembled, their eyes remained steady. No matter how much pain they endured, they refused to surrender. Nuri’s fight was not over.

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