Page 64 of Wrath of the Oracle

“You know about my tattoos?” Ojore’s voice was barely a whisper.

“You should ask your father who you are.” King Gusiwaju gave him a weak grin before his gaze turned to the great eagle’s statue. “The prophecy has come to pass. I, Gusiwaju Ndlovu, perished under the shadow of Lord Keita. May Lord Ashe accept me as I cross the three doors of rebirth.” With that, the King of Mukuru took his last breath, and his head fell on his chest. His crown fell and rolled toward Ojore’s feet. Ojore placed two fingers underneath the king’s nose. He wasn’t breathing anymore.

Ojore raised his head and met the sharp eyes of the eagle perched on Lord Keita’s statue.

“No man can change his fate,” Ojore shouted in the empty hall. “Is that why you keep following me? To make sure I don’t divert from the set path?”

The large head of the statue moved and gazed down upon Ojore. Its golden eyes burned bright like coals of fire. Ojore concluded he was tired, for the vision didn’t seem real. He rubbed his eyes and turned back to the statue, but the golden head was back to its original position.

He picked up the crown of King Gusiwaju and walked out of the court. An applause of cheers filled the air as he waved the crown in the air.

“King Gusiwaju has fallen. Mukuru Kingdom is now under the command of Dembe!” he shouted to his men, amidst loud cheers. Horns were blown, and more Mukuru banners toppled as the soldiers of Dembe celebratedvictory. Soldiers ran inside and dragged the limp body of King Gusiwaju outside to hang it on the city gates.

“General, it’s done.” Akima appeared at Ojore’s side with a dark look on his face. His sword dripped fresh blood, and some had splashed on his face. “King Gusiwaju’s male descendants in the palace have ceased to exist.” He wiped his hand across his face and painted it with more blood. The deep crimson color contrasted with his dark skin.

“It’s necessary for the stability of the state.” Ojore closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sharp pain attacked his head.

“You don’t look so good. Why don’t we get Litonde to check on you?” Akima held onto Ojore’s forearm to stabilize him.

“Get men and ride to Lake Alokove. Get Sholei back here,” Ojore said before his legs gave out and he crumpled forward.

“Ojore.” Akima released his sword and held Ojore up. The metal clanged against the stone of the palace stairs.

“Do everything you can to bring her back.” Ojore clasped Akima’s arm and tried his best to remain conscious, but his world went dark.

Murmurs floatedto Tula’s ears, but she struggled to open her eyes. The voices sounded like the buzz of bees droning in and out. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she forced them open. She was greeted by a blinding light as she winced and groaned. Tula adjusted to the brightness andsquinted through the pain that shooting through the back of her head.

“Be careful. Your wound is still fresh,” a deep male voice warned.

Her vision cleared to reveal a tall, lithe man before her. The man was dressed in the distinctive rustler’s long red tunic. A lengthy spear was strapped to his back, and he held a small wood bowl with steaming liquid. A lone gold stud was in his right ear, and it glinted in the light.

”Who are you? Where am I?” Tula clutched her head.

“You are in the Vipingo Gorge with other alliance soldiers,” the man said. “My name is Leikun, and I saved your life.” He placed the bowl on a small table beside her bed.

Tula tried to remember where she had heard that name, but her thoughts were muddled.

Her vision cleared, and she focused on the strange man before her. Good looks, a sly smile, and bright red curls bounced off his head. She lay on fur bedding covered with dark, warm covers. The bed was positioned by the window, hence the bright light. She peeked outside to see similar tents lining the gorge.

“Better cover yourself before everyone around here notices a female in their midst,” Leikun said and threw the covers around her shoulders. Tula grasped them and stared daggers at him.

“How dare you?” she hissed, her tone hushed, conscious they weren’t the only ones around. She looked around to see if anyone had overheard Leikun’s words. The men in the room lay on makeshift beds with various wounds.

Her memories flooded back—the battle at Keseve, the alliance’s stampede, and the relentless onslaught by the Dembe army. Tula couldn’t forget the acrid smell of burning flesh or the agonized cries of both men and beasts trying to escape the wildfire. General Ojore had cut through fire and smoke in the middle and struck down his enemies. A huge eagle had screeched above him.

Tula shuddered. How did she survive?

“The alliance lost the war, with most soldiers dead. The few survivors gathered here to recuperate,” Leikun explained as he placed the medicine beside her. His red braided locks bounced with every step. His knee-length robes were dyed the same red as his hair, giving him a boyish, youthful look.

“Where is Prince Gane?” she dreaded to ask.

“He is heavily wounded and fighting for his life. It will be a miracle if he survives,” Leikun said as a shadow crossed his eyes.

“Why is a woman parading around like a man and fighting in wars?” Leikun arched his red-painted straight eyebrow at her. Tula scooted back, cautious of the question in his eyes. His clothes shifted, and she saw the dagger strapped to his waist. Thick copper armlets hugged his sinewy biceps.

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Tula held the covers tight to her chest, glad that the heavy band she used to flatten her breasts was still intact.

“You are either brave or foolish for pretending under these circumstances.” Leikun stood up. “Check the largest tent outside. Gane is resting there.” He walked away as he mumbled under his breath.

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