Duarte knew he had been caught, but surrender had never been in his nature. His muscles coiled as he sprang forward, twin daggers flashing in the dim torchlight. His target was clear—Lusweti’s throat.
Lusweti met him with steady eyes and sharper steel. His sword cut through the air, intercepting Duarte’s first strike in a shower of sparks. The force of the parry sent a jarring vibration through Duarte’s wrists, but he barely hesitated, twisting to attack from a different angle. He was fast, almost impossibly so, his daggers a blur as he aimed for Lusweti’s ribs, then his side, then his heart.
But Lusweti was disciplined, precise. He met every attack with the same ruthless efficiency he brought to battle. Instead of matching speed with speed, he let Duarte’s aggression overextend him.
A missed lunge. A fraction of a second too long to recover.
Lusweti’s sword shot forward, cutting into Duarte’s shoulder. Not deep, but enough to stagger him. First blood.
Duarte hissed, but before he could react, Rodrigo burst into the fight.
The scarred warrior—Duarte’s second-in-command—moved with brutal force, his curved sword slashing for Lusweti’s exposed side. The king barely turned in time, parrying Rodrigo’s attack while dodging Duarte’s renewed assault.
Rodrigo swung wide, aiming for Lusweti’s legs, while Duarte struck high. The timing was perfect, but Lusweti countered with a dazzling display of footwork—twisting between their strikes with hair’s breadth precision.
Rodrigo snarled. "We should have just slit your throat when we had the chance."
Lusweti smirked. "You still can’t."
He kicked Rodrigo’s knee, sending the man stumbling back before pivoting into a savage riposte against Duarte. Their blades clashed, but Lusweti’s strength was undeniable. With a powerful shove, he knocked Duarte back into Rodrigo, forcing both men to regain their footing.
Meanwhile, the battle between Nuri warriors and the remaining spies had erupted into chaos.
The foreigners were quick, deadly, and unafraid to use dirty tactics. One of them threw a knife at a warrior’s throat, only for the blade to be deflected at the last second by a well-placed shield. Another spy ducked beneath a spear thrust, rolling forward and slicing at the warrior’s leg before being tackled from behind.
Nuri’s warriors, however, fought as a unit. They adapted, adjusted, and cornered the enemy. One by one, the spies fell—some wounded, some surrendering, but none victorious.
Rodrigo and Duarte were the last ones standing.
Duarte’s fury burned. He had never been bested by an inferior force. Never.
Rodrigo, seeing the inevitable, growled, "This isn’t over."
Lusweti smiled, stepping forward. "It is."
With that, he drove the hilt of his sword into Rodrigo’s temple, sending the man collapsing to the ground. Duarte barely had time to react before three warriors seized him, forcing him to his knees. Defeated. Captured. Humiliated.
For the first time in his life, Duarte felt powerless.
The prison cells in the barracks were cold and silent, the flickering torches casting restless shadows.
Duarte sat in iron chains, his wrists bound to the wooden chair across from Lusweti. The king watched him like a hunter studying wounded prey.
"You’re good," Lusweti admitted. "But you weren’t fighting for your life. You were fighting for a mission. A mission that failed."
Duarte’s jaw tensed. He refused to speak.
Lusweti continued. "A man of your skill wouldn’t serve Kilwa’s rulers. Foreigners see us as nothing more than barbarians, which means... you serve someone else."
Duarte’s fingers twitched.
Lusweti chuckled. "You work for a foreign master. And if my warriors are correct, that foreigner is working with the Sultan of Kilwa."
Duarte still said nothing, but his breathing hitched—just slightly.
Lusweti leaned in, his voice calm but cutting. "Which means this foreigner wants Nuri. Not for the Sultan. For himself. And men like him do not share power; he will crush the Sultan and rule alone. If I had to wager, you don’t even know the full extent of his plans. How long before you become a loose end?"
Duarte’s body went rigid.
Lusweti smirked. Got you.
"Greed is a powerful thing," he mused. "Men will kill for gold. Betray for power. And you... you were just a tool. A weapon to be discarded when no longer useful."
Lusweti leaned back. "And since you won’t betray your employer, that makes you useless to me. Which means..." He gave Duarte a sharp smile.
"I have no need to keep you alive."
Duarte clenched his fists, frustration simmering beneath his skin. He had always been in control. Always one step ahead.
He was shackled, his mission in ruins, his life in someone else’s hands.
Lusweti stood, turning toward the door. "But before I kill you, I’ll make sure you serve one last purpose."
Duarte didn’t ask what that meant.
Lusweti walked into the night, inhaling the cool air. His mind was already five steps ahead.
Matenje had been too quiet.
A man like him—hungry for wealth, power, and the throne—would never sit idle when war loomed. So Lusweti would force his hand, spreading whispers of Duarte’s presence, allowing rumors of hidden gold and new alliances to trickle into his ears. He would make Kilwa’s wealth seem within his grasp, an irresistible temptation for a man ruled by ambition. And when Matenje moved, when he reached out to claim his prize, Lusweti would be waiting.
One decisive strike. No distractions.
Nuri would not fight a war on two fronts.
Mshale and the others were dragged before the Sultan.
The golden throne loomed above them, the ruler’s dark eyes shining with arrogance.
"You will lead me to Nuri," he declared. "A land full of gold belongs to me."
Mshale widened his eyes, playing his role. "T-this was just trade! We—"
The Sultan’s laughter cut him off.
"Trade? Fool." He waved a hand. "Throw them in the dungeons. Torture them until they tell me where Nuri is."
The guards seized them.
Rehema struggled. "You—!"
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Mshale let his fear show, playing the part of the broken man.
But in his mind, he was already thinking.
Time was running out.
Far from the Sultan’s throne, Jabari moved.
Return the map of the tunnels to Nuri.
Failure meant defeat before the war even began.
He gritted his teeth, pushing his horse faster.
There was no time to waste.