The council eting was tense.
Lusweti sat at the center, his expression sharp and unreadable. Around him, the surviving Angwenyi warriors sat with the Abakhore, still uncertain of their new alliance. So Angwenyi elders whispered among themselves, exchanging doubtful glances.
One finally spoke up. "You expect us to follow the orders of a child?" His voice carried the weight of years of war. "Lusweti, I know you fight with strength, but a true leader is more than a warrior. Can you truly lead us?"
Another elder nodded. "You killed our chief. Who's to say you won't turn on us the sa way? What stops you from betraying us as he did?"
Lusweti's gaze darkened. He leaned forward, his voice like a blade. "What stopped your chief from betraying you?" He let the silence stretch before speaking again. "You say I am young. But age does not make a leader—strength does. Will. A man who is too afraid to fight for his people is no leader."
The room fell silent.
Khisa then spoke, his voice asured. "You fear we will turn on you, but what choice do you have? If we do nothing, the slavers will return, stronger than before. They don't care if you are Abakhore or Angwenyi. To them, we are all cattle."
Murmurs of unease spread through the warriors.
Khisa's expression remained calm, but his words were deliberate. "We need to strike first. But before that, we need information. Two of your n will go ahead, on horseback. They will tell the slavers that the Angwenyi have defeated the Abakhore. That the mines are yours again. That way, the slavers will co to you, thinking they are coming to do business as usual."
The room was still. Then one of the older warriors, Baraza, stood. "I will go." Another warrior followed. "And I."
Lusweti smirked. "Then we move at dusk.
The slavers rode in fueled by greed, their figures silhouetted against the fading light. Ten of them. Ard. Confident.
Hidden among the trees, Khisa held his breath. Lusweti crouched beside him, his grip on his spear tight.
"Five with guns," Khisa whispered. "Take them first."
A mont later—
Thwip!
An arrow struck the first slaver in the throat. Another hit his companion's chest.
Shouts of alarm rang out as the remaining slavers reacted swiftly. One lifted his musket and fired—
A scream. An Abakhore warrior fell. Another gunshot. A second warrior crumpled.
Lusweti snarled. "Enough!" He surged forward, spear in hand.
The remaining slavers turned, but before they could react, Lusweti was on them. He drove his spear through the closest slaver's ribs, twisting it free in a spray of blood. The archers loosed more arrows, dropping another.
One of the slavers, a towering man with a curved blade, lunged at Lusweti. He parried the strike, spinning his spear and slamming the shaft into the slaver's knee. The man stumbled—just enough for Lusweti to drive his blade into his gut.
The last two slavers turned to flee. One made it three steps before an arrow found his back. The other tried to reload his musket, hands shaking—too slow. Lusweti reached him first, grabbing the man's head and slamming it into the ground. A sickening crack ended the fight.
Khisa exhaled. "We need to move."
The scouts had returned. They had seen the slaver camp. Hundreds of captives. A hundred slavers. Fifteen with guns.
Khisa's voice was quiet. "We attack at night."
The slaver camp sat in a valley, surrounded by a tall wooden palisade. Smoke curled from cookfires. The scent of unwashed bodies, sweat, and blood lingered in the air.
Inside, hundreds of captives—n, won, and children—were packed into crude cages.
At the center of it all stood a large tent. And within it, their true enemy.
His na was Cornelis van Dijk. A Dutch slaver with weathered skin, sharp blue eyes, and a mouth that rarely smiled. He was broad-shouldered, dressed in a fine leather coat, his pistol holstered at his hip.
When the first screams broke out, he was already reaching for his weapon.
Lusweti and his warriors stord the camp under the cover of darkness. The plan was simple—silence the guards, take their weapons, and unleash chaos.
But Cornelis van Dijk was no fool.
By the ti Lusweti reached the center of the camp, the Dutchman was waiting, a group of his strongest slavers beside him. They held curved sabers, their postures calm, confident.
At Cornelis' side, a trembling young man stood—one of the captives, a Luhya speaker, his eyes wide with fear. Cornelis had forced him to act as a translator, holding a knife close enough to remind him of his place.
Cornelis spoke in Dutch, his tone light, amused. "Tell the savage he is wasting his ti."
The young man hesitated, glancing at Lusweti before translating in Luhya his voice shaking.
Lusweti's grip tightened on his sword. "You trade people like cattle. Steal mothers from children. What kind of man does that?"
Cornelis chuckled, speaking again. "A rich one. But, tell him—I am a reasonable man." He gestured at Lusweti with his free hand. "Why fight? These fools die for nothing. I could use a new partner."
The translator swallowed hard, relaying the words. Lusweti's expression remained cold.
Cornelis smirked, adding, "Tell him he could be very wealthy. More wives, more land. All he has to do is hand over the slaves and let business continue as usual."
The young man translated, barely able to et Lusweti's eyes.
Lusweti let the words hang in the air for a mont. Then he spoke, his voice like a storm on the horizon.
"Tell him," he said, "that his wealth dies with him."
The translator hesitated before repeating it in Dutch. Cornelis' smirk faded.
Lusweti lunged.
Their blades clashed, ringing like a hamr striking steel. Cornelis was fast, his movents precise. He parried Lusweti's strikes with practiced ease, stepping back just enough to keep the fight on his terms.
"You think you're better than ?" Cornelis sneered, twisting his blade to cut a shallow wound along Lusweti's arm. "You're just another savage. And when I kill you, your people will be my next shipnt."
Lusweti bared his teeth.
He feinted left, then drove his elbow into Cornelis' ribs. The Dutchman stumbled back, and in that mont of weakness, Lusweti struck.
His blade slashed across Cornelis' chest.
The slaver gasped, blood spilling onto his fine coat.
Around them, the battle raged. The freed captives, ard with stolen weapons, turned on their captors. The night air filled with the sounds of gunfire, clashing steel, and dying screams.
Khisa ran through the camp, his heart pounding. He found the first cage—bodies huddled together, shackled and afraid.
"We're here to free you," he whispered, breaking the lock. "Go, now!"
A woman grasped his hand, tears in her eyes. "Is this real?"
"Yes," Khisa said. "You're free."
He moved to the next cage. And the next. The horror of what he saw filled him with fury.
Ayaan's voice echoed in his mind.
[ Stay focused.]
Khisa clenched his fists. He wanted to kill every last slaver himself. But that wasn't his role. He turned—
And saw a slaver standing before him.
The man sneered. "You shouldn't be here, boy."
Khisa barely dodged as the slaver swung. The blade missed him by inches.
Too close.
Ayaan's voice was calm.
[Use his montum.]
Khisa ducked, grabbed a discarded chain from the ground, and wrapped it around the man's wrist. With a sharp pull, he yanked the slaver forward—and slamd a rock into his temple.
The man crumpled.
Khisa stood there, breathing hard. The weight of what he had done settled over him.
'I killed him.'
His hands trembled.
'He was going to kill .'
Ayaan's voice was gentle.
[And you are still here. Keep moving.]
Khisa swallowed, nodding.
"Later. I'll think about it later."
He ran.
Cornelis fell to his knees, his breath ragged. His once-arrogant eyes were now filled with sothing else.
Fear.
"You should have run when you had the chance," Lusweti murmured.
Then he drove his sword through Cornelis' heart.
The Dutchman collapsed, lifeless.
The camp belonged to them.
At dawn, the freed captives stood before Lusweti and Khisa, silent. The night had changed them.
So still trembled, their eyes darting to the dead slavers around them. But others—especially the young n—looked at Lusweti with sothing else.
Awe.
They had watched him fight. They had seen what a man could do when he refused to kneel.
A murmur spread among them. A desire. A hunger.
To fight.
Lusweti studied their faces. "You are free," he said. "You may return to your hos, or you may co with us. The Abakhore will welco you as family."
A heavy silence.
Then, a man stepped forward. "Our hos are gone," he said. "If you'll have us, we will fight beside you."
Others followed. So left, desperate to see their villages again. But many stayed.
Lusweti turned—just in ti for Nanjala to throw her arms around him and Khisa.
Lusweti hesitated before wrapping an arm around her. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "For being late."
Nanjala squeezed them tighter. "You ca."
And for now, that was enough.
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