The Wrath of the Unchained
Chapter 49 - The First Blood and a Whisper of Hope

Chapter 49: Chapter 49 - The First Blood and a Whisper of Hope

The Nuri and Kilwa armies faced each other across the vast battlefield, the air thick with tension. The sun beat down upon their armor, glinting off the steel as each side stood in formation. Nuri soldiers, clad in iron-plated leather, gripped their swords and spears tightly, their shields firm in their hands. Across from them, the Kilwa warriors, donned in iron armor, stood resolute, with Portuguese mercenaries among them, muskets at the ready.

King Lusweti, atop his black warhorse, stared down Malik, his expression unreadable but his presence unwavering. Malik, adorned in gold-trimmed armor, regarded him with disgust, his lip curling at the sight of the young king.

"You don’t belong on this battlefield, boy," Malik sneered. "Nuri should have surrendered when they had the chance. I will make sure your kingdom burns."

Lusweti’s grip tightened on his reins. "You speak of fire as if you are the sun, yet you cower behind foreign guns. We will not kneel, not now, not ever."

Malik scoffed. "Then you will die on your knees."

The horns blared, and both commanders spurred their horses forward, charging straight at each other with a thunderous roar. Their armies followed, steel clashing against steel, war cries filling the air.

The first wave was brutal. Nuri soldiers fell to Kilwa blades, their iron armor dented and broken. Muskets fired, and screams of pain tore through the battlefield as bullets pierced through flesh. Blood splattered across the dirt, mixing with the sweat and tears of the fallen.

Lusweti fought like a man possessed, his blade slicing through Kilwa soldiers with precision. He pushed forward, urging his men, his voice carrying above the chaos. "Do not falter! If your brother falls, take up his sword! If your sister bleeds, carry her will! We do not retreat!"

The Nuri warriors answered with a furious battle cry, hacking through enemy lines. Spears found their marks, arrows whistled through the air, and bodies crumpled to the ground.

Malik, from his position, seethed with rage as he witnessed the unrelenting advance of Lusweti’s forces. "Kill them! Crush them!" he bellowed to his men, his face twisted with fury. He charged into the fray, his sword cutting down any Nuri soldier in his path.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, exhaustion set in. Soldiers, slick with blood, gasped for breath as they fought on. Limbs were severed, bodies collapsed, and the once-green field was now a graveyard of the fallen. Lusweti bore cuts across his arms and chest, his armor dented and stained, yet he refused to fall. His horse, just as battle-worn, moved forward with him, step by step.

By nightfall, both armies staggered back to their camps, weary but unbroken. The Nuri had managed to push back the Kilwa forces, but the cost was heavy.

At the Nuri camp, the fallen were laid to rest, their bodies lined with honor. The warriors sang songs of remembrance, their voices rising into the night, carrying the names of the dead to the heavens. Lusweti walked among his soldiers, placing a hand on each shoulder, whispering words of gratitude, reinforcing their resolve. He would not allow their sacrifices to be in vain.

Across the battlefield, Malik sat within his war tent, his fury mounting. His forces were weakened, his supplies dwindling, and clean water scarce. His soldiers tended to their wounds with what little they had. This was a mistake, he realized. He had underestimated Lusweti, underestimated the spirit of Nuri.

With gritted teeth, he wrote a message and handed it to a trusted scout. "Ride to Kilwa. We need reinforcements. Now."

Meanwhile, within Kilwa itself, two Nuri scouts moved through the tunnels beneath the city, tracing their way toward the palace. Their mission was clear—they had to reach the captured delegates.

The tunnels were damp and cold, yet their footsteps were careful, their breaths controlled. The palace was heavily guarded, but the dungeons were left unguarded, a sign that the Sultan deemed the prisoners insignificant.

As they entered the dimly lit chamber, their fists clenched at the sight of their countrymen. The delegates were weak, their bodies thin, their spirits worn but not broken.

One of the scouts knelt before them. "Hold on just a little longer. Nuri fights for you. Lusweti fights for you. We will not let the Sultan win."

Jumba, the eldest of the captives, looked up, his eyes tired yet burning with renewed hope. "Then we still have time. Nuri will win."

The scouts nodded and vanished back into the tunnels, their mission complete. They raced back to the Nuri camp, where King Lusweti awaited.

The war was just beginning, and the fight for Nuri’s future was far from over.

While the Sultan was indulging himself in wine and women celebrating his premature victory, Almeida was putting his plan into action he gathered the nobles and ministers in his fortress.

"Good men of Kilwa, as you know the Sultan has declared war on the small backwater kingdom. I can’t help but worry for our future." Almeida said acting concerned.

"Surely our army will crush that tiny kingdom, and their supposed riches will be ours," Wazir Fahad said smugly.

"Especially with your help Almeida, we will make quick work of those savages." Another added.

"As true as that is I’m afraid it’s not that simple, his decision to send the entire army out there, it has left Kilwa defenseless. I have received word from Portugal, they intend to seize Kilwa soon. Warships are almost here."

Almeida said solemnly.

"What? Aren’t you their ambassador? You can stop them right?" The nobles panicked.

Murmurs of uncertainty spread across the room.

’The Trap is se. What a bunch of fools.’ Almeida thought to himself.

" I don’t see how my few mercenaries can repel the entire Portugal. I am afraid I can’t help."

"What if we make the slaves fight? They are worthless insects anyway." One suggested.

"That won’t be possible, slaves are weak with no combat experience. They will simply be cannon fodder." Almeida added.

"That will at least give us enough time to escape."

"The only solution I can give is to surrender the port, but the Sultan will never agree to that."

"That greedy bastard will only try to save his own skin."

"What if we replace him?" Wazir suggested.

"A leader who can negotiate on our behalf so we don’t have to lose our gold or land."

"Who do you propose?" Another asked.

"Almeida, please help us. If we give you the throne to Kilwa, please ensure we still keep our share of wealth?"

"I couldn’t possibly do that, Kilwa belongs to you," Almeida feigned reluctance.

"Please Almeida only you can help us."

"I won’t disappoint you."

’Checkmate’ Almeida thought.

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