The night air was cool and restless. Flickers of orange light from campfires swayed across the darkened field, casting long shadows that danced over the faces of soldiers. The metallic rasp of steel against stone echoed rhythmically — swords being sharpened, spears honed to cruel edges. The scent of smoke and oiled metal mixed with sweat and earth, the familiar perfume of an army awaiting war.
Men huddled in clusters, speaking in low, tense voices. Some laughed hollowly, forcing mirth into the gloom. Others stared silently into the flames, lost in thoughts of home or vengeance. Every so often, a horse snorted or pawed the ground, restless as their masters.
Inside the largest tent at the camp’s heart, Khisa bent over a map illuminated by a single lantern. His commanders, Ole Samoei among them, lingered nearby, discussing terrain and routes.
The flap burst open suddenly. Ole Samoei entered, his breath heavy, dust clinging to his cloak.
"Prince Khisa," he said, his tone urgent, "the scouts have returned from the border."
Khisa straightened, eyes sharp. "And?"
"They’ve seen movement," Ole Samoei replied. "An army, marching north of our position. Large numbers — shields, banners, maybe two days’ march away."
Khisa exhaled slowly, his gaze falling back to the map. "So they finally move."
Within moments, the tent filled. His commanders and the three generals from Buganda’s army filed in, their armor creaking, faces grim.
Khisa waited until the murmurs died down before he spoke. "We have found the location of our opponent," he said evenly. "The next battle will not be an easy one. Our goal is not to destroy them completely, but to preserve as many lives as possible."
A murmur rippled through the generals. Khisa’s tone sharpened. "I understand this will be difficult. But we cannot afford a drawn-out war. Our goal is to hold them off, to buy time until King Nzinga of Kongo takes full control of the situation."
One of the Bugandan generals, a tall man with a scar cutting across his cheek slammed his fist against the table. "Preserve lives? You speak of mercy for murderers? These people brought death to our kingdom, hidden in food and clothing. I have buried brothers, friends. You expect us to spare them?"
Khisa’s expression softened, though his eyes held firm. "I understand your pain, General. But a quest for revenge now is foolish. The men you fight tomorrow are not the architects of your suffering. They are being used as pawns in a greater game."
The scarred general’s voice broke with fury. "You call our anger foolish? I buried my wife with these hands!" His voice trembled, rage mixing with grief. "You dare tell me to calm my anger?"
Ole Samoei stepped forward, his hand resting on the dagger at his hip. "Calm yourself, General," he said sternly. "You forget your place."
The general turned his glare toward Khisa. "I do not understand why our king allows a child to command us. Do you think age grants wisdom, boy? These are men who’ve fought more wars than you’ve lived seasons!"
The tent fell silent, thick with tension.
Khisa rose from his seat slowly. The light from the lantern caught his face, casting sharp shadows that made his youth seem carved from stone. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, yet it carried the weight of command.
"Let’s get one thing clear, General," he said. "Your king did not allow me anything. This is a collaboration, a partnership because our goals align. I stand here by choice, not by your king’s permission."
The general opened his mouth to reply, but Khisa pressed on, voice rising.
"Your short-sightedness blinds you. Kongo is as much a victim as Buganda. The ones who poisoned your lands, who unleashed plague and betrayal, sit beyond those borders — Lumingu and his masters, the Portuguese. Aim your rage there, not at the innocent soldiers being used as fodder."
The air hummed with silence. Even the fires outside seemed to dim.
Finally, one of the quieter generals, older, gray at the temples, with eyes that had seen too much — spoke. "Prince Khisa is right," he said gravely. "Our blades must find the true enemy. The king trusted his command to the prince, and we must honor that trust whether our hearts agree or not."
A few reluctant nods followed. The scarred general looked away, jaw tight, but said nothing.
Khisa inclined his head. "Thank you, General. We all fight for the same future — even if our reasons differ."
He looked around the tent, eyes meeting each man’s in turn. "We move at dawn. We must catch up to the northern army before they breach the border. We will hold the line as long as we can, until King Nzinga arrives. I do not know how long that will take — but we will do all we can to save as many as possible."
One of the generals raised a brow. "And how exactly is the king to take control when he arrives?"
Khisa answered without hesitation. "He will carry a letter from Onyango — a seal of Nuri. Once he reaches us, we bring him to the command center. No matter what happens, he must be kept safe."
Ole Samoei nodded. "I’ll see to the scouts. I will have them keep an eye out for him. We’ll be ready." Latest content publıshed on novel_fіre.net
Khisa turned back to the generals. "Tell your men we march at first light," he said. "Let them rest well tonight, it may be the last quiet they’ll know for some time."
The generals saluted, some out of respect, others out of duty, and filed out into the cold night.
Khisa lingered, staring at the map. The small wooden pieces marking armies and borders looked almost harmless, toys in a game too vast to see its end.
Outside, the murmurs of soldiers rose again, the sharpening of steel continued, and somewhere in the dark, the wind carried the low hum of a war song, a quiet reminder of what awaited at dawn.
Khisa sighed, "I hope this ends soon," he murmured.