The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 79 - The Smell of War

Zeila Port

The western wind howled as the team approached Zeila—a wind that carried the scent of the sea, the stench of death, and the faintest traces of spice. Akumu and Tiriki dismounted a mile outside the port, hidden among thorny acacia bushes and dry brush.

The soldiers took the wagon into the city, carrying wares and questions. Meanwhile, Akumu and Tiriki slipped through the crags and dunes like shadows.

Zeila was no longer the proud trade hub it once had been.

The port had grown bloated with vice. Smoke stained the whitewashed walls. Banners bearing the crescent moon and star hung beside those of the Sultanate, but none flew clean. Pirates wandered the streets in packs, their laughter too loud, their blades too loose. The city smelled of sweat, salt, and rotting ambition.

Akumu wore the clothes of a spice merchant’s apprentice, his head wrapped in a saffron-dyed scarf, his sleeves rolled up to show calloused hands. Tiriki donned a soldier’s cast-off tunic, charred at the edges, torn at the shoulder. He walked with a bow-legged gait, mimicking an old injury.

Their eyes, however, were wide open.

Zeila wasn’t just a port—it was a marketplace of secrets.

Slave traders whispered beneath curtained stalls. Foreign envoys from the Arabian coast made quiet deals in smoky rooms. And the streets ran with gold, bribes, and blood.

By day, Akumu followed the scent of cinnamon and myrrh into the marketplaces. He listened as women gossiped over piles of cloth and spices. One Somali merchant, draped in white, spoke of a new threat to the north—a kingdom that refused to bend. Another warned of missing caravans along the eastern coast.

By night, Tiriki ventured into the port’s underbelly—gambling dens, dock taverns, and brothels where secrets spilled faster than drinks. He posed as a runaway mercenary, bitter and broke. It worked.

On the fourth night, a drunken sailor leaned too close and whispered of a foreign blockade being planned.

"Portuguese dogs will strike Nuri, that new kingdom down south," he slurred. "They say it’s protected by mountain freaks with only swords and spears for weapons and rules. No slaves, no coin, just... rules." He spat. "They burned our bribe wagons. Executed three captains."

"Who leads them?" Tiriki asked, eyes narrow.

"Some king... Lu...Lusweti? I dunno. They say he walks with death behind him."

Another voice chimed in. "They’re not just a thorn anymore. They’re a storm. The Ottomans might crush them before the Portuguese even arrive."

"They messed with the wrong man. Almeida brought the biggest profit here, of course the Ottomans will retaliate."

Tiriki didn’t drink that night. He listened. And learned.

Back in their hideout—an abandoned shrine tucked behind an alley of fishmongers—he shared what he’d heard with Akumu.

"They’re afraid of us," he said slowly, more to himself than to Tiriki. "But also eager. They see Nuri as fresh meat."

Tiriki nodded. "They think we’re isolated. Vulnerable."

"And they plan to prove it. I am surprised though, I didn’t expect Nuri expanded to the coast. King Lusweti is amazing."

They rendezvoused with the Abyssinian soldiers at dawn near a crumbling fort wall. There, a second pigeon waited—black-feathered, sharp-eyed, and silent.

Akumu penned the message with precise strokes:

"Zeila crawling with Ottoman and Portuguese interests. Pirates allied with both. Nuri seen as threat. Foreign powers preparing to strike. Zeila critical intelligence point. Await further orders. Will continue surveillance."

The bird launched into the pale sky, flapping toward Shewa as the first calls to prayer echoed through the broken streets.

Tiriki turned to Akumu, voice low. "You think we can hold them back?"

She didn’t answer right away.

"I think we don’t have to," she said finally. "We just have to see them coming."

Assab Port

Dust clung to the wagon wheels as Zuberi, Simba, Biruk, Wasike, and their three Abyssinian escorts made their way along the salt-stung coast. Assab was the smallest of the three ports, but its silence made it all the more unsettling.

Where Massawa was chaos and Zeila a masquerade of civility, Assab felt like a place half-devoured by ghosts.

It was a port town in decline—once prosperous, now worn thin by too many hands and too few morals. Shuttered buildings lined the shore, their doors hanging open like mouths mid-scream. Ships still docked here—small slave vessels, rusted Ottoman patrol boats, Portuguese scouts disguised as merchants—but the energy was low, coiled like a snake waiting to strike.

The group arrived at dusk.

Zuberi took lead, posing as a merchant dealing in obsidian blades and incense. Her voice was confident, disarming, her Amharic intentionally broken to play the part of a foreign trader from the highlands.

Simba, ever silent, worked as her bodyguard—his muscles doing most of the talking. He watched everything: shadows that moved too fast, men who smiled too easily.

Biruk and Wasike posed as hired hands, carting goods and fetching water, slipping easily between taverns and shipyards where tongues loosened over drink.

Assab was colder than it should’ve been. Not in temperature, but in spirit.

The people were thin and wary. Children didn’t laugh in the streets. Dogs barked only once before disappearing. Everyone kept their distance unless coin was shown. Even then, hands trembled slightly when accepting payment.

They heard whispers quickly.

A secret prison on the outskirts of town. Ottoman warships using the bay for repairs. A Portuguese envoy staying at a once-abandoned fortress just above the cliffs. Pirates arriving by the dozen—not to trade, but to wait.

"To wait for what?" Zuberi asked a toothless vendor selling spoiled dates.

The old man shrugged. "Blood. Always blood. Something’s coming."

Simba didn’t believe in ghosts, but the hairs on his arms stood on end.

On the third day, Wasike spotted it—a meeting held under moonlight near the old fortress. Five men, all armed, all foreign. One wore a deep blue cloak etched with golden symbols—a Portuguese officer. Another had Ottoman colors, though they spoke Arabic, not Turkish. The others? Pirates with no allegiance but coin.

Wasike listened from the shadows.

"They say Nuri has a mountain fortress," one pirate muttered, voice low. "Walls of stone, warriors like lions. We need numbers if we’re going to breach it."

"Numbers are easy," the Ottoman replied. "We need justification. The world still watches. For now."

The Portuguese officer snorted. "Who will care about a few thousand savages in the hills? Once the trade routes are restored, no one will even remember their names."

"Assab will be our staging ground," said another. "Nuri won’t see it coming. They’ve made too many enemies."

The next morning, Wasike relayed everything to Zuberi. No flourish. Just facts. Zuberi stood silent for a long time, staring out at the sea.

"Nuri has declared war," she finally said, "without ever raising a sword."

They sent the third pigeon at noon, tucked behind a rotting shed where no one looked twice. Zuberi wrote the message herself, her handwriting careful and bold:

"Assab chosen as future launch point. Secret alliance forming between Ottoman, Portuguese, and pirates. Nuri viewed as obstacle to empire trade. They are organizing. War is coming."

The pigeon took to the sky with a single flap and vanished over the surf.

Simba watched it go, then turned to the others.

"We should disappear before they realize we’re watching."

Zuberi nodded. "And keep watching."

The Assab team split once more—into the alleys, the markets, the dark corners of the city—just shadows among shadows.