The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 146- Shadows in the Streams

Wasike began his investigation the following morning, moving through the villages like a whisper on the wind. Wanjiru pulled him aside before he left the edge of camp, her eyes sharp beneath the linen wrap that covered her hair.

"Be careful," she warned. "You may walk with Nuri’s colors, but you’re in enemy territory. Not everyone here has accepted our help."

Wasike nodded once. "I’m not here to step on pride. Just find truth before more die."

With Bakemba as their translator and guide, Wasike led a small team—two mkono wa giza medics, four Watchers, and a pair of Nuri soldiers—into the heart of Buganda’s countryside. The days blurred into one another, a slow rhythm of questioning villagers, inspecting food stores, mapping wells and latrines, and tracing the flow of rivers and rainfall.

Bakemba, ever vigilant, smoothed interactions with local warriors and spiritual leaders. Some Buganda warriors accompanied the group—not as friends, but as watchers and reluctant students. The presence of Nuri’s famed Watchers unnerved them, but Wasike made it clear: this was not conquest, but caution.

For a week they listened, probed gently, and learned what they could without prying into the deeper layers of Buganda’s pride. Wasike avoided sensitive questions about rituals, politics, or the royal family. Anything that could be mistaken for espionage was kept far from their tongues.

But the limits became clear quickly. Villagers gave vague answers. Some offered silence. A few spat on the ground and turned away. The language barrier remained a stone wall that could not be scaled—at least, not by stealth.

"We can’t even eavesdrop properly," Wasike muttered to Tiriki one night as they reviewed their notes beneath firelight. "Every clue we chase dies in translation."

He stared down at the hand-drawn map, frustration gnawing at his restraint. "If Khisa were here, he’d have solved it in two days. Man speaks every tongue like he was born in them."

Tiriki chuckled softly. "You’ve forgotten the limits of mortals, Wasike. Prince Khisa spoke languages he has never even heard fluently. He just told us the ancestors blessed him."

"I speak four languages," Wasike said with a sigh. "Buganda isn’t one of them."

Despite their best efforts, the disease spread—slowly, but persistently. Nearby villages reported symptoms: fever, diarrhea, fatigue, and in some cases, death. Their intervention had bought time but not peace. Every healed patient was matched by two more falling ill. Smoke rose from newly dug burn pits. Children cried for parents. Entire homesteads were hollowed out by grief.

Relief came in waves—first in the form of new medics led by Ajuma, a coastal specialist whose sharp wit and vibrant presence brought energy to the exhausted camp. Her medicines, a colorful mix of imported herbs and refined powders, worked wonders in treating symptoms.

She greeted Wanjiru with a strong embrace and immediately divided their forces to cover more ground. Within hours, her team was moving with purpose, drawing up charts, disinfecting tools, and sending runners between villages.

But the true surprise came behind her—Prince Khisa of Nuri.

Clad not in royal silks, but in traveler’s linen and leather, he arrived quietly, flanked by two guards. He stepped through the dust and shadow of the village.

Wanjiru wasted no time. She pulled Bakemba aside and introduced him to Khisa.

"Bakemba," she said, "this is Prince Khisa of Nuri."

The translator turned, bowed shallowly—then paused, startled, as Khisa greeted him in fluent Buganda.

"You honor us with your help," Khisa said. "May we speak openly?"

Bakemba blinked, recovering quickly. "Y-Yes. Of course. I did not expect..."

Khisa smiled. "Many don’t. I would like to request an audience with the Kabaka—on behalf of King Lusweti of Nuri.

The investigation would continue. The disease would not wait. And though the new medicines bought time, time was slipping fast.

The shadows in the water still whispered of something worse.

The royal palace of Buganda stood tall, carved from dark timber and capped with an intricate thatch dome that spiraled into the sky like a crown. Guards lined the entrance in ceremonial posture, their shields polished, their spears upright, their eyes still as stone. Khisa followed Bakemba’s lead, every step measured and respectful.

Inside the palace hall, the Kabaka waited on a raised platform of mats and carved wood, his advisors arrayed beside him. The drumming slowed and faded as Khisa entered.

He paused at the threshold, then bowed—not deeply, but with dignified formality, the way one prince greets another sovereign ruler. He kept his back straight, his eyes level.

The Kabaka’s brow rose ever so slightly at the greeting—measured, polite, yet not submissive.

"You may approach," the Kabaka said in his native tongue, then continued in Swahili, "You honor us, Prince of Nuri."

Khisa stepped forward and stood across from the Kabaka—not below him, not seated, but poised in a way that signaled diplomacy, not deference.

"And we thank you for welcoming us, even in these difficult times," Khisa replied, his tone even.

The Kabaka gave a small smile. "I thank you in return. Without your aid, many more of my people would be dead."

Khisa’s expression turned solemn. "And yet... too many already are."

There was a long pause. The Kabaka’s face darkened.

Khisa continued gently, "I do not come to speak of politics or alliances. Not today. Not while the smoke of burning fever still rises over your villages."

The Kabaka tilted his head, intrigued.

"I come to speak only as a son of a people who know what it means to suffer. Nuri has seen war. And now we see disease. Our hands are full, but our hearts still reach."

The Kabaka’s brow furrowed. "That is what confuses me, Prince. You say your kingdom is at war, yet you send medics freely to aid a land that is not your ally."

Khisa smiled faintly. "Because survival is no longer something we can do alone. If this disease spreads beyond your borders, Nuri will suffer too. And if our enemies sense weakness in any part of this land, they will strike—not just at us, but at all of us."

The Kabaka’s fingers tapped the arm of his throne, thoughtful.

Khisa went on. "Nuri is not perfect, but it is a place where we try. A place where old enemies have laid down spears, and different tongues share one table. We believe it is possible to coexist—to build, not just endure."

He paused to let the words settle.

"If ever your people wish to learn what we have built... they would be welcome. We have schools, trades, and technologies drawn from many lands. We have stories and songs from clans once divided, now united under one banner."

The Kabaka looked at him sharply. "Tell me, Prince—do you have a port?"

Khisa blinked, slightly caught off guard. "Yes. Nuri has a large port on the eastern coast, open to trade with many kingdoms. We’ve hosted merchants from far beyond the mountains and oceans."

The Kabaka’s gaze deepened. "Is it possible, then, to arrange a trade agreement?"

For a moment, Khisa was stunned. This was the outcome he had hoped for—carefully planned, not expected in their first meeting.

He bowed his head respectfully. "Of course, Your Majesty. We could always use more allies."

"But," he added carefully, "such a decision should not be rushed. Speak with your council first. Let them weigh this path. And once this disease has been defeated... send envoys to Nuri. I will ensure they are given a tour of all we have to offer—our ports, our industries, our schools, and our farms."

The Kabaka leaned back slightly, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.

"You are young," he said, "yet you speak like one who has seen much."

Khisa chuckled softly. "I’ve seen enough to know that isolation is no longer strength."

The Kabaka nodded. "Then we will see, Prince of Nuri. Perhaps after this storm, a new sun will rise."

Out in the fields, Wasike’s patience began to bear fruit. Days of tireless interviews, quiet observation, and cautious prodding were beginning to reveal something troubling. He had noted that many of the earliest victims of the disease had not lived near each other. Some came from villages far apart—too far for the infection to have spread naturally in such a short time.

Then, a breakthrough. One of the Watchers, a quiet woman named Nyiva, brought him a small leather pouch they had found discarded near one of the smaller streams. Inside it was a powdered substance wrapped in old cloth—moldy, foul-smelling, and unfamiliar.

Ajuma inspected the substance and her face darkened. "This isn’t natural rot," she said, voice low. "Someone mixed this. Fungal spores—amplified. You spread this in water, and it would poison faster than anything I’ve seen in a while."

Wasike’s jaw tightened. It was what he feared: sabotage. Someone had weaponized the disease.

He immediately ordered a secure quarantine of the affected stream and quietly dispatched word to the Shadows still embedded in the villages. If the disease had been spread deliberately, they needed to find out who and why—without tipping their hand too soon.

Meanwhile, Ajuma’s medicine was saving lives.

Her coastal remedies—strong-smelling balms and tinctures brewed from far-off herbs—were working faster than the previous treatment. The worst of the fevers began to break in the villages they reached, though not without difficulty. Some patients still died. Others lingered in painful recovery.

But for the first time in weeks, hope returned. Villagers began to speak of the "sea-woman with fire hands," revering Ajuma and her assistants for their speed, kindness, and tireless effort.

Still, Wasike’s mind stayed fixed on the pouch.

"Someone did this," he murmured to Wanjiru one evening. "Someone wanted Buganda to suffer."

"And maybe someone from Buganda itself," she replied. "Be careful, Wasike. This might not be about disease anymore."