The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 57 - Smoke and Steel

The tunnel air was damp, thick with the stench of mildew, sweat, and old blood. Footsteps echoed like whispers of ghosts, hushed and cautious, each step weighted by the gravity of what they’d seen. Lusweti and his warriors reassembled beneath the city, every face a canvas of shadow and tension. Dirt clung to their skin, blood—some of it theirs, most not—splattered their tunics and weapons.

Irungu was the first to speak, kneeling beside Lusweti. "The delegates were still alive... barely. Skin clinging to bone, breath rattling in their chests. But they’re safe now. The palace is crawling with mercenaries—lazy, drunk, distracted. We thinned their numbers but couldn’t get a full count."

Oduor followed, fists clenched tightly. "The docks are worse. Slaves penned like cattle. The fort... it’s a fortress. Cannons line the walls, mercenaries patrol every inch. Almeida has doubled the guard since the attacks. They know we’re here. They don’t know who... but they’re on edge."

Lusweti rubbed his temples, a dull throb building behind his eyes. He felt the weight of leadership like a millstone across his back. Ten warriors. That was all he had. Ten warriors against a fortress of steel and cruelty. "We should’ve acted sooner," he muttered, voice barely a whisper. "We should’ve moved before the city locked down."

He felt it again—that clawing helplessness that had once gripped him during the Angwenyi siege. That sick feeling of knowing lives hung in the balance and he couldn’t save them all. His knuckles tightened around his blade’s hilt.

"What now?" a young warrior asked. His voice trembled, not from fear but from the sheer pressure of impossibility.

Jumba, still weak and wrapped in a wool cloak, lifted his head. His lips were cracked, his voice dry, but his words were fire. "We were forgotten. Beaten. But we endured because we believed Nuri would come. And you did. Don’t doubt now, son of Nuri. You carry more than a sword—you carry the will of a kingdom that rose from ashes."

Another delegate, Mutiso, scarred across his brow, coughed and nodded. "Your people don’t need you to be perfect. They need you to lead. You’ve already broken fear with fire."

Rehema the priestess, a gaunt woman with cracked lips, nodded. "You are our light in the dark, Lusweti. Even if we die here, we will not die chained. Let our final stand mean something."

Lusweti stared at them. These people, once warriors and diplomats, now half-dead and huddled in filth, still believed. And they were right. He was their flame in the dark. He had no right to let it dim.

Irungu stepped forward. "We found a weapons stash in the palace—barrels of the black powder, hidden in a collapsed storehouse. We stole two of them, carefully wrapped them in cloth to avoid setting them off."

Above, the mercenaries were restless. One of them—a wiry man with a scar across his jaw—stormed into the barracks, tossing a goblet against the wall. "Gomez, Serrano, and Delos are dead. Slit throats. Quiet kills. Someone’s here."

Panic buzzed through the barracks like bees from a shaken hive. Boots stomped, weapons were unsheathed. "Search everything," barked a lieutenant. "Check the tunnels. Lock the gates. Nobody leaves. If it breathes and it’s not us, kill it."

Lusweti’s team felt the ripple of movement above. The tunnels began to vibrate with distant thunder—mercenary boots on cobblestone.

"We don’t have days," Lusweti said, his voice steady now. "If we wait, we’re dead. The slaves are gone. The delegates are dead. Kilwa becomes a scar Nuri will never heal from."

Oduor stepped forward. "What’s the plan?"

Lusweti closed his eyes, breathing deep. The scent of iron, mold, and fire filled his lungs.

"We collapse the tunnels—funnel them into dead ends. Set fire to the docks. Smoke them out. Scatter their forces. Then we strike the fort. Not through the gate—through the sewers beneath it. Almeida doesn’t expect us to come from below. We’ll make the earth itself our ally."

One warrior grinned. "Shadow and fire. Just like Khisa would’ve done."

Lusweti allowed himself a small, grim smile. "Then we become shadows. For Nuri. For Kilwa."

Around him, the warriors straightened. They weren’t many. But they were Nuri’s finest—honed in war, tempered by loyalty. And tonight, they would become the storm.

Just outside, in the dim barracks lining the fortress, Almeida stood with his fists balled at his sides. The news of the dead mercenaries had spread quickly—men found with their throats slit, some dragged into alleys, others vanishing entirely.

"They are here," he spat, his Portuguese laced with venom. "These Nuri dogs... they stalk us like shadows. Ghosts."

His commander, a grizzled mercenary with half an ear missing, slammed his fist on the table. "My men are jumpy. Paranoid. One claimed he saw someone in the mirror—gone in a blink. They’re slipping, boss. Some want to run."

Almeida slammed a goblet into the wall. "No one runs. They’ll hold the fort or die on these shores. Double the watch. Kill anything that moves. I want heads, not excuses."

The fort became a crucible of fear. Soldiers marched in tighter formations, rifles clutched too tight. Whispers of curses echoed through the halls. The thought of a force taking out their brothers one by one without being seen haunted them.

Back beneath the city, Lusweti gave the final nod. The plan was in motion. Shadows moved.

Oduor and his group would create a fire near the docks—spread smoke to obscure the sightlines and set panic among the guards. Irungu and two others carried the barrels up through the hidden drainage tunnel leading to the eastern wall.

Lusweti watched them vanish into the dark, then turned to his small team. "Tonight, we strike terror into the hearts of slavers."

The fire started small—just one tent set ablaze. Then two. Then a row of crates erupted. Mercenaries came running, barking orders, not realizing the noose tightening around them.

A thunderous BOOM shattered the night.

The eastern wall of the fort exploded in flame and smoke, sending debris flying into the sea. Screams erupted. Confusion. Panic.

Lusweti and his warriors stormed in like death itself, cutting through dazed mercenaries. One lunged at him with a curved saber—Lusweti ducked, pivoted, and drove his short blade under the man’s ribs.

Another came from behind—Maina blocked the blow and crushed the man’s skull with a mace.

Irungu charged forward, his blade catching the torchlight as he cut down a gunman fumbling with powder. "Free the slaves!" he shouted.

Oduor burst into the cages, hacking the locks apart as captives crawled forward, dazed but alive.

"Rise! Take up arms! Help us take back Kilwa!"

Some collapsed in tears, others surged with rage, grabbing fallen weapons, screaming battle cries with hoarse, cracking voices. frёewebηovel.cѳm

And in the tower above, Almeida looked down, white-knuckled, as Kilwa rose in rebellion.