The dry season tightened its grip on Unyamwezi, baking the earth to a cracked hardness and stripping the acacia trees to thorny skeletons. The air in Jabari's ikulu was similarly taut, not with the promise of rain, but with the growing certainty of conflict. The Wasumbwa war drums, once a distant, unsettling murmur to the north, now beat with a more insistent, arrogant rhythm, their echoes carried on the hot, parched winds. It was a primal communication Kaelo's modern mind found unnerving, yet Jabari's Nyamwezi blood understood its raw challenge.
Scouts, led by the increasingly skilled Juma, who now wielded the brass spyglass with an almost reverent expertise, brought daily, then hourly, reports. Wasumbwa raiding parties, larger and bolder than before, were sighted near the borders of Kazimoto's Watch, the Batembo's new outpost on former Banyonga land. One particularly audacious group had even dared to raid a small, outlying Batembo cattle post, closer to the core territory than any had ventured in years. Though the cattle had been recovered after a brief, sharp skirmish, two herdsmen had been slain, their bodies ritually mutilated. Fear, a corrosive acid, began to eat at the edges of the clan's newfound confidence.
Jabari, Kaelo's analytical mind working ceaselessly behind the young chief's resolute facade, received these reports with outward calm but mounting internal pressure. He spent hours with Hamisi, poring over Juma's crude but increasingly effective maps drawn in the dust of the council hut. They plotted Wasumbwa movements, identified likely avenues of approach, and debated defensive strategies. The handful of muskets they possessed, along with their precious, limited supply of gunpowder and lead, were meticulously inspected and allocated to their steadiest marksmen.
"They test us, Hamisi," Jabari said one evening, his voice tight as he traced a line on Juma's map indicating a recent Wasumbwa incursion. "They see a young chief, a healing wound, and a clan that has already bled. They think us weak, ripe for the plucking. We must show them how deeply the lion's tooth can bite, even a young lion."
It was into this charged atmosphere that Lبانجى, son of Ntemi Gwala of the Wanyisanza, arrived. He came with a small retinue of five wiry trackers, their eyes darting constantly, taking in every detail of the Batembo ikulu. Lبانجى himself was perhaps a year or two older than Jabari, his frame lean and whipcord-strong, his face dominated by a pair of burning, restless eyes. He carried himself with a fierce, impatient energy, the resentment of Wasumbwa dominance a palpable aura around him. His greeting to Jabari was formally correct, but Kaelo sensed a deep skepticism, a young warrior sizing up another, wondering if this much-vaunted new Ntemi of the Batembo was truly a savior or just another ambitious chief who would ultimately exploit his people.
Jabari received him with all the honors due the son of an allied chief, though the alliance was still little more than a hopeful whisper. He housed Lبانجى in a guest hut near his own, shared meals with him, and made a point of including him in some of the less sensitive council discussions. Kaelo used these interactions to meticulously assess the Wanyisanza prince. Lبانجى was indeed hot-blooded, and his hatred for the Wasumbwa was a consuming fire. But beneath the youthful arrogance, Kaelo discerned a sharp intellect, a deep love for his own people, and an almost desperate hunger for a means to break the cycle of predation they endured. He also possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the Wasumbwa – their leadership under a notoriously cruel chief named Makendenge, their preferred fighting tactics, their internal clan rivalries, and the secret paths they used through the dense miombo woodlands. This was intelligence gold.
"Your father, Ntemi Gwala, is a wise man to seek strength in unity, Lبانجى," Jabari said one afternoon, as they watched the Batembo warriors drill in the central clearing, their movements showing a discipline that clearly impressed the Wanyisanza prince. The crack of the few muskets, though still not perfectly synchronized, added a new, fearsome note to the usual sounds of spear and shield. "The Wasumbwa are like a pack of hyenas; they prey on those who stand alone."
Lبانجى's eyes flashed. "My father is… patient, Ntemi Jabari. Perhaps too patient. The Wanyisanza tire of being the hyenas' meat. We need action, not just words of brotherhood and the training of a few youths." He gestured dismissively at the ten Batembo warriors who had indeed been dispatched to his father's village.
Kaelo, speaking through Jabari, smiled faintly. "Action without foresight is a bushfire, Lبانجى – impressive for a moment, but quickly consuming itself and leaving only devastation. The Batembo build their strength carefully, stone by stone." He then, with deliberate casualness, handed Lبانجى the spyglass. "Look towards the northern ridge, where the vultures circle. Tell me what you see."
Lبانجى, after a moment of fumbling, put the instrument to his eye. His breath hitched. "By the ancestors… I see… I see Wasumbwa scouts! Three of them, trying to conceal themselves in the tall grass! They are… far, yet I see them as if they were within spear-cast!" He lowered the spyglass, his face a mask of astonishment and dawning understanding. "This… this changes everything."
"It is but one tool, Lبانجى," Jabari said quietly. "Wisdom, discipline, and unity are the true weapons. But a good tool, in the right hands, can indeed change much."
The Wanyisanza prince's skepticism began to melt, replaced by a fervent, almost boyish enthusiasm. He spent hours with Juma and the other scouts, learning to use the spyglass, sharing his knowledge of Wasumbwa tactics, his earlier impatience now channeled into a desire to contribute. He saw the systematic way Jabari was organizing his small territory, the focus on food security, the attempts to improve their smithing – Seke, Mfumu's son, had proudly shown Jabari a new spearhead, still crude, but visibly harder and sharper than their usual make, a result of his tentative experiments with higher heat and different quenching techniques. Lبانجى was witnessing the birth of a new kind of leadership.
Then, the inevitable happened. A dust-streaked, frantic runner, one of Juma's proteges, stumbled into the ikulu, his chest heaving. "Ntemi! A large Wasumbwa war party! Hundreds strong! They march south, along the dry riverbed of the Mtswaki. Juma saw them with the long-eye glass. Their path… it leads directly to Kazimoto's Watch!"
A cold silence fell over Jabari's council hut. This was it. The direct challenge. Makendenge, the Wasumbwa chief, was not just probing anymore; he was coming to crush the Batembo outpost and reclaim his dominance over the region.
Jabari felt Kaelo's mind achieve a state of icy calm, the familiar adrenaline of a crisis sharpening his focus. "Hamisi," he snapped, "sound the call. All warriors to assemble. Lبانجى, your knowledge of the Mtswaki riverbed and Makendenge's ways – is there a place where a smaller force might hold an advantage? A narrow pass? A place with good cover?"
Lبانجى, his eyes blazing, nodded eagerly. "Yes, Ntemi! Two hours march from here, where the Mtswaki cuts through the Black Rock Hills. The path is constricted, with steep, broken slopes on either side, thick with thornbush. Makendenge favors direct assault; he will likely try to force his way through."
"Then that is where we will meet him," Jabari declared. He would not simply wait for the Wasumbwa to besiege Kazimoto's Watch. He would take the fight to them, on ground of his choosing, using the element of surprise if possible. He quickly outlined his plan. He would lead a force of one hundred and fifty of his best warriors, including all fifteen men now proficient with muskets, and Hamisi. Boroga, his ambition momentarily eclipsed by the gravity of the situation, would be left with the remaining warriors and the older men to defend the ikulu. He would take Lبانجى and his five Wanyisanza trackers with him.
The march was swift and silent, the Batembo warriors moving with a disciplined urgency that was a testament to their recent training. Lبانجى's trackers fanned out ahead, their knowledge of the terrain invaluable. They reached the Black Rock Hills as the sun began to dip towards the western horizon, casting long, ominous shadows. The chosen spot was perfect: a narrow, winding defile, perhaps fifty paces across at its widest, littered with boulders and dense thickets of acacia.
Kaelo, through Jabari, directed the deployment with precision. The fifteen musketeers, under the command of a steady veteran named Fundi, were positioned in small groups on the higher slopes, concealed amongst the rocks, with clear fields of fire into the pass below. The spearmen were hidden amongst the boulders and thornbush on either side of the defile, ready to pour down on the enemy once they were engaged and disorganized by the gunfire. Jabari, with Hamisi and a small reserve, positioned himself on a slight rise that offered a commanding view of the kill zone. He held his father's spear, its familiar weight a comfort. The spyglass had been left with Juma, positioned on an even higher ridge further back, with instructions to signal the moment the Wasumbwa main force entered the defile.
They waited, the silence broken only by the chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of wind through the dry grass. The tension was a living thing, coiling in Jabari's gut. Kaelo's mind reviewed every contingency, every possible outcome. This was his first true command in a major engagement. The lives of his men, the fate of his chieftaincy, perhaps even the viability of his audacious long-term plans, rested on the next few hours.
Just as dusk began to truly settle, a runner from Juma arrived, breathless. "They come, Ntemi! The main body enters the pass now! Makendenge himself leads them, bold as a drunken buffalo!"
Jabari took a deep breath. "Let them come deep into the trap," he ordered. "No one moves, no one makes a sound, until my horn blast."
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Then they heard them – the tramp of many feet, the clatter of weapons, the low, guttural war chants of the Wasumbwa. They poured into the defile, a dark, confident tide, Makendenge, a huge, bull-necked man adorned with ostrich feathers, at their head, clearly visible even in the fading light. He clearly expected no resistance this far into Batembo territory.
When the bulk of the Wasumbwa force was within the narrowest part of the pass, Jabari raised his kudu horn to his lips and blew a single, piercing blast that echoed off the rock walls.
Instantly, the silent hills erupted. From the slopes above, Fundi's musketeers unleashed their first volley. The effect in the confined space was devastating. The roar of the muskets, magnified by the echoing rocks, was like the voice of an angry god. Several Wasumbwa warriors at the head of the column screamed and fell, their comrades thrown into immediate confusion by this unseen, thunderous attack. Makendenge himself bellowed in rage and surprise.
Before they could recover, Jabari's horn sounded again, and with fierce war cries, the Batembo spearmen burst from their hiding places, pouring down the slopes like an avalanche of black iron and fury, crashing into the disorganized Wasumbwa flanks. Hamisi, roaring Kazimoto's old battle cry, was among the first, his spear a blur.
The battle was a maelstrom of desperate, brutal, close-quarters fighting. The Wasumbwa, though outnumbering the Batembo force in the defile, were caught in a deadly crossfire, their numbers a hindrance in the narrow pass. The musketeers, reloading as quickly as their shaking hands allowed, continued to pour a sporadic but effective fire into their packed ranks. Kaelo, observing from his command post, felt a cold detachment mixed with a visceral thrill. His plan was working. His men were fighting with a courage and discipline that filled him with a fierce pride that was wholly Jabari's.
Jabari himself, seeing a section of his line begin to buckle under a ferocious Wasumbwa counter-charge, knew he could not remain a mere observer. Handing command to Hamisi with a curt nod, he gripped his spear and plunged into the fray, his personal guard of ten warriors around him. He was not Kaelo, the strategist, in that moment, but Jabari, son of Kazimoto, Ntemi of the Batembo, avenging his people, defending his land. His healed wound screamed in protest, but he fought with a cold, focused rage, his spear finding its mark, his shield turning aside enemy blows. He saw Lبانجى and his Wanyisanza trackers fighting like demons nearby, their smaller, quicker spears darting in and out, taking a heavy toll on the bewildered Wasumbwa.
The fight lasted less than an hour, but it was an eternity of terror, courage, and bloodshed. Finally, with Makendenge himself falling to a well-aimed musket ball from Fundi, and their flanks caving in, the surviving Wasumbwa broke, fleeing back up the defile in a panicked rout, pursued by the triumphant Batembo.
As darkness fully enveloped the Black Rock Hills, the sounds of battle died away, replaced by the cries of the wounded and the low lamentations for the fallen. The Batembo had won. It was a decisive, stunning victory. They had met the main Wasumbwa war party and broken it.
Jabari, leaning heavily on his spear, surveyed the grim scene. Nearly thirty of his own warriors lay dead or dying, a heavy price. But the Wasumbwa losses were far greater, their bodies littering the narrow pass. Lبانجى approached him, his face grimy with sweat and blood, but his eyes shining with a fierce joy.
"You did it, Ntemi Jabari!" he exclaimed. "You showed them the lion's tooth indeed! The Wanyisanza will sing of this day for generations!"
Jabari nodded, too weary for elation. Kaelo's mind was already cataloging the costs, the gains, the next steps. They had won a battle, a crucial one. But the war for survival, for the future he envisioned, was far from over. They had drawn first blood, yes, but the scent of it would attract other predators. He needed more guns, more trained men, stronger alliances. The whispers of war drums had been answered with thunder, but silence was a luxury he could not yet afford.