Chapter 39 - The Art of Playing the Fool

The days passed swiftly in preparation for what all sides knew was inevitable.

In Kilwa, the Sultan's forces swelled, their training intensifying under the weight of an impending conflict. Their ruler, arrogant as ever, believed himself untouchable. He saw Mshale and his warriors as insects buzzing around his grand kingdom, unworthy of concern.

Almeida, however, was far from complacent. He polished his plans with ruthless precision, moving his disguised agents like chess pieces across the board. His goal was clear: let Kilwa and Nuri exhaust themselves, then seize everything in the aftermath.

And in Nuri, Lusweti and his warriors sharpened their blades, both literal and metaphorical. They knew war was coming, but instead of rushing headlong into battle, they honed a different strategy—one that would lull the enemy into overconfidence before striking them down.

A lone rider approached the eastern barracks under the blistering sun. His horse, foaming at the mouth, galloped with the last of its strength before Kibet finally pulled it to a stop.

The soldiers stationed at the barracks rushed forward, recognizing the exhausted scout.

"Kibet! You made it!" one of them exclaimed, gripping his arm.

Kibet barely nodded, his body aching from the journey. "I must see the King."

They wasted no time, leading him through the settlement to Lusweti's war chambers. The king sat with General Simiyu, poring over maps, but as soon as he saw Kibet, he gestured for him to speak.

Kibet did not waste words. He described Kilwa in grim detail—the sprawling wealth, the lavish markets, the military might being gathered, and the opulence that contrasted sharply with the suffering of its people.

"Some of the nobles despise the Sultan," he said. "They tolerate him because they either fear him or are benefiting from his rule. But deep down, they would see him fall if they had a guarantee of victory."

He then told them of his desperate escape from the ruins, the relentless pursuit, and the warriors still making their way back.

"They will come," Kibet finished, his voice hoarse. "I did my best to shake them off, but they are not fools. We must assume they are already tracking us."

The war chamber fell into silence for a moment.

Then the murmurs began.

Some of the elders exchanged uneasy glances. "So, the Sultan prepares for war," one muttered. "And we are to stand against him?"

"He is a tyrant," another said. "It was only a matter of time before his greed reached our borders."

"But are we truly prepared?" one of the younger warriors asked. "Kilwa is rich, powerful. The Sultan commands seasoned warriors and warships. Do we have the strength to match them?"

"King Lusweti will prevail, their war ships are useless to them here, we are surrounded by nothing but mountains and forests." an older warrior declared firmly.

A few nodded in agreement, but there was still doubt lingering in the room.

"If we follow the King, we will bring victory to Nuri," one of the councilmen said confidently. "His mind is sharp, his strategies are unlike any we have seen before."

"And if his mind is not enough?" a skeptical trader questioned. "If we fail, we doom everything we have built."

Lusweti finally raised a hand, silencing the murmurs.

"We do not cower before men who think their wealth makes them gods," he said evenly. "We fight with more than weapons. We fight with our minds. And that is why we will win."

Simiyu smirked. "Let them think we are nothing."

Lusweti nodded.

"They will fall into our trap willingly."

A week later, the rest of the warriors returned, their journey arduous but successful. However, they were not alone.

Duarte and his spies had followed them, tracking their every move. Among them was Rodrigo, whose hatred for Kibet burned in his chest after the brutal ordeal he had suffered in the jungle. His wounds had begun healing, but his pride had not.

Duarte, however, remained cautious. Nuri's warriors acted foolish, but he knew better than to trust appearances.

They spent a week in the outskirts, watching, waiting. Then, finally, they approached the eastern barracks.

Their performance was pitiful.

They dragged themselves toward the gates, their faces hollow, their clothes torn, their bodies caked in dirt.

One of them stumbled and fell to his knees, letting out a ragged breath. "P-please," he croaked. "Water… we need… water…"

Another staggered, collapsing onto a bundle of dry grass. "Food… the beasts in the wild… they almost took us…"

The guards exchanged glances.

One of them feigned concern and rushed forward. "By the spirits! Look at you poor souls!"

Duarte suppressed a smirk. They were taking the bait.

The warriors ushered them in, treating them with kindness—feeding them, tending to their wounds, even allowing them to roam freely.

For all their vigilance, Duarte and his men saw nothing.

They wandered through the streets, speaking to traders and civilians, trying to gather information.

One of Duarte's men leaned against a merchant's stall, his voice casual. "Your people seem peaceful."

The merchant, an elderly man with dark, knowing eyes, chuckled. "That is because we have always been peaceful."

"You have no need for war?" the spy pressed.

"Why would we?" the merchant said, scooping dried fish into a customer's basket. "We live well here. War is for fools."

Another spy sat beside a group of children, who giggled and played with pebbles. He leaned toward a woman watching them.

"And your King? I have heard many tales of him," he said.

The woman laughed lightly. "Oh, our dear Lusweti? He is a kind king. A fair king."

"But is he a warrior?"

She shrugged. "Why should he be? Nuri has never needed warriors."

The spies began to doubt themselves.

Where was the mighty Nuri the delegates had spoken of? Where were the brilliant warriors?

Was it possible they had overestimated their enemy?

Duarte still wasn't sure.

And that uncertainty gnawed at him.

They requested to see the King.

Their request was denied.

They requested again.

Denied.

Again.

And again.

For an entire week, Lusweti refused them an audience, further stoking their frustration.

Then, finally, the King relented.

When Duarte and his men were brought before Lusweti, they did their best to mask their irritation.

"We come from a great land," they said, their voices honeyed. "Our people are wealthy, prosperous. We have silks, gems, and gold beyond imagination."

They painted the picture of a rich and generous nation willing to trade in exchange for protection.

"A powerful force is pursuing us," one of them continued. "They will likely reach Nuri's borders soon. If you aid us, we will ensure that our homeland sends an army to stand beside you."

Lusweti listened in silence, his expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he rose from his seat.

"An unknown nation, offering help against an unknown enemy?" he mused, walking toward them. "And I am supposed to take you at your word?"

Duarte clenched his teeth. Lusweti wasn't supposed to be this sharp.

Before he could formulate a response, Lusweti moved.

His blade flashed, slicing through the air toward one of the foreigners.

Duarte's instincts kicked in. His men reacted instantly, drawing their concealed weapons.

But Lusweti only smiled.

"So," he said, voice amused. "Since when do ordinary merchants carry blades with such skill?"

Silence.

Duarte felt a cold weight settle in his gut.

He had been played.

They knew.

Lusweti sheathed his sword, his smirk widening.

"Welcome to Nuri," he said.

And Duarte knew, with absolute certainty, that he had underestimated his enemy.