The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 52 - Smoke, Blood and Betrayal

While Kilwa burned, Lusweti raced toward it, his heart pounding against his ribs. Uncertainty gnawed at him—he had no idea what awaited him. But he didn’t care. This war would end today. No matter what it took, Almeida would fall.

Malik, on the other hand, awaited news from the scout he had sent. With the war dragging on, reinforcements from Kilwa would be a godsend. He had no idea the man he depended on was already dead. He had no clue that Almeida—the Sultan’s most trusted man—had already claimed Kilwa for himself. They were fighting for a kingdom that no longer existed.

The scout reached the outskirts of Kilwa, his horse gasping for breath, foam flecking its mouth. He, too, was exhausted, his muscles burning from the relentless journey. But his hope for reinforcements pushed him forward. Then he saw it. Smoke.

Thick, black, and endless, the smoke blanketed the city like a funeral shroud. The sky itself seemed choked by it.

His heartbeat faltered. His lips went dry. He urged his horse forward, dread curling in his stomach. This can’t be right.

As he neared the gates, mercenaries lounged carelessly, their rifles propped up beside them. Their relaxed posture didn’t match the devastation beyond the walls.

"What is happening?!" The scout barely recognized his own voice, thick with panic. "Why is there so much smoke?! Were we attacked?!"

One mercenary turned, a grin splitting his face. Too wide. Too cruel.

"Oh, look who’s here! More merchandise for us."

The words didn’t register at first. "What did you say?"

The man only laughed.

"I don’t have time for this! Open the gates! I need to speak to the Sultan!"

The mercenaries exchanged a glance before breaking into laughter—cruel, mocking, wrong.

"You know what? Go right ahead! Please, give the Sultan my regards."

Their laughter rang in his ears as they stepped aside, letting him through.

The moment he entered, his stomach dropped.

Kilwa was unrecognizable.

Bodies lay rotting in the streets—some hacked apart, others burned to the bone. Children’s corpses lay beside their mothers, their small hands reaching out as if seeking comfort. Blood pooled in the gutters, turning the earth black and slick.

His breath hitched. The smell.

Rotting flesh. Burnt hair. Smoke mixed with the stench of death, coating his tongue, invading his lungs.

A severed hand lay in the dirt near his feet. A child’s toy—a simple carved elephant—was clutched in its stiff fingers.

His body rebelled. He doubled over and vomited, his empty stomach wrenching in agony.

Beyond the flames, the sounds reached him.

Screaming. Pleading.

Gunshots rang out—sharp, final.

He stumbled forward, legs barely carrying him. He reached the square, where the surviving citizens of Kilwa were herded like cattle. Chains rattled as men, women, and children knelt, their faces streaked with tears and soot.

Portuguese mercenaries surrounded them, guns casually pointed at their heads.

A young girl—no older than seven—clung to her mother’s arm, sobbing silently. A mercenary yanked her away, and the woman screamed. Begged.

The mercenary laughed. Then he shot her in the head.

The little girl’s scream tore through the air, high-pitched, broken. The mercenary only grinned, dragging her away.

The scout’s mind fractured.

This is not happening. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Kilwa was supposed to win.

His hands shook violently. His breath came in ragged gasps.

I can’t save them.

A soldier beside him collapsed, a bullet lodged in his skull. Blood splattered across the scout’s cheek—warm and sticky.

Panic seized him.

I need to run.

He turned, grabbed his horse, and bolted for the gates.

The mercenaries laughed harder. Like hyenas over a fresh kill.

"How was the Sultan?" one mocked. "I hope your message reached him."

The scout didn’t stop. Didn’t breathe.

He rode like the devil himself was at his heels.

A shot rang out.

A hot, searing pain burst in his skull.

Everything went black.

Days passed. The war between Nuri and Kilwa dragged on. Bodies piled up on both sides. The Kilwa soldiers fought like men with nothing left to lose—because they didn’t.

Behind the tents, the Portuguese mercenaries gathered in secret.

"Do you think Almeida’s done?" one asked, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather.

"Of course he has. Now it’s our turn to have some fun."

"Those savages did most of the hard work for us. They cut off their own supplies, wasted their best men. Didn’t expect so many of us to die, though. They’re more skilled than we gave them credit for."

"All the more reason to remind them where they belong."

They laughed. One ran a thumb across his knife, grinning. "Did you see Duarte fight for them?"

"Probably just gaining their trust. Duarte would lay with the enemy if it meant the mission was successful."

"We should contact him. If we get him on our side, he can lead us to that village. We can take whatever we want. Women. Gold. Burn the rest."

More laughter.

For men like them, war was entertainment.

In the command tent, General Simiyu studied the maps, exhaustion weighing on him.

Duarte entered. "We need to deal with the mercenaries. They’re plotting something."

Simiyu exhaled sharply. A war of wits, on top of everything else.

"None of them can leave this battlefield alive," he said. "Lusweti will handle things in Kilwa. We need details."

Duarte hesitated. Then: "I have a plan."

Simiyu looked at him, distrust etched into his face.

"I’ll pretend I’m still one of them. Tell them I infiltrated the army and manipulated Lusweti. They’ll believe me. Then, once we have what we need—we set an ambush."

Silence. Simiyu’s jaw tightened.

"King Lusweti trusts you. You’ve proven yourself in battle. But I still don’t trust you. A man like you isn’t easily swayed."

Duarte’s hands curled into fists.

"I know you doubt me. But Lusweti showed me redemption is possible. Let me prove it to you."

Simiyu studied him, then gave a single nod.

"Don’t fail me, Duarte."

Duarte steeled himself. If this war was to end, he had to play his part.