Ahmed woke to the pale gold of dawn filtering through the wooden slats of his quarters, the thin blanket slipping from his shoulders. His body ached with the bittersweet memory of Abdi’s touch—the first genuine warmth he’d known since the war began. He sat up slowly, muscles stiff, mind racing. The space beside him was empty, her scent lingering like a ghost. Yesterday’s chaos—Hawke’s death, Tishworth’s message—paled next to the violence of their night: raw, desperate, her nails’ marks still stinging across his back. He splashed cold water on his face, the chill washing away sleep but not the dread.

  A distant shout broke his reverie. Boots clattered on stone. He drew his tunic over his head and grabbed his rifle as Yahya, the quartermaster, burst in. “Ahmed! To the council circle—now!”

  Moments later, he joined a rough circle of rebels in the courtyard. Faces were drawn—Yusuf’s young eyes wide, Leyla’s jaw taut, Farah’s fists clenched. At the center stood Abdi, her single eye blazing beneath a furrowed brow. Before her lay Field Marshal Hargrove’s blood-slicked uniform, the body gone but the wound a silent scream.

  Zubeyr, always the first to speak, trembled as he pointed. “Found him by the gate, no sign of struggle—just that throat slash.”

  A murmur rose:

  “Not rebels’ work—no frenzy, no splatter.”

  “Too precise, too… deliberate.”

  “He died in grown-up hands.”

  Abdi’s voice cut through the whispers. “Enough!”

  Silence snapped into focus.

  “This is Tishworth’s calling card,” she said, stepping forward. “A blade for a Field Marshal, served cold. He sends us a promise: when he arrives, he will have our heads on spikes.”

  Anger flared among the rebels.

  Mahad, broad-shouldered and grim, spat. “Then we die like cattle. What choice?”

  Leyla’s spear-tip rattled. “I’ll gut Tishworth myself—”

  Ahmed raised his hand. “He has the Empire. We have mud, spears, and resolve. Alone, we fall.”

  Abdi’s gaze swept the crowd. “We will not fall. But we cannot stand as we are.” She paused, letting the weight sink in. “We need allies.”

  Silence again. Then Yusuf whispered, “Who would fight with us?”

  Abdi met his gaze. “The Miireey.”

  A collective intake of breath.

  “Miireey?” Farah scoffed. “They’re isolationists—no one leaves their valley, no one enters unless they bring tribute.”

  Abdi’s voice was steady. “Isolation is their strength—but also their fear. They see invaders, British or rebel, as threats. Yet we can offer something they value more than solitude: weapons and purpose.”

  Ahmed frowned. “And they’ll accept?”

  She nodded. “Tonight, I, Ahmed, and Khaalid—Miireey on his mother’s side—will ride at dusk. We’ll ask for spears, steel, riders. We offer half the British weapons we seize. Nothing less.”

  A hopeful murmur rose. Leyla exhaled. “Half? We’ll be left with scraps.”

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  Abdi’s look was steel. “Better scraps with allies than spoils on bones.”

  Mahad hefted his rifle. “Then let them accept.”

  ---

  Two days later, the three crested the final hill into the Miireey basin. Terraced fields glowed copper, smoke curled from forges, and the din of the Kaaraan—village square—drifted up: hammers on anvil, shouted orders, children sparring under elders’ eyes.

  They were met by a guard of six, painted faces, spears at rest. At their signal, an escort formed, leading them through winding paths into the Kaaraan Hall—an enormous circular hut of polished cedar, bone-adorned beams, and two ebony thrones.

  On one sat Duubow Haruun, the male sovereign: broad chest, braided hair shot with silver, eyes like flint. Opposite him sat Balwo Baido, the female co-sovereign: lean, unflinching, eyes that saw steel in flames.

  Abdi knelt. Ahmed and Khaalid followed.

  Haruun’s voice rumbled. “You come seeking swords. Few do.”

  Baido’s tone was ice. “State your terms.”

  Ahmed swallowed. “Great Duubow, noble Balwo, Tishworth brings fire to Mogadishu. When he strikes, the smoke will reach these fields. You will starve—or be slaughtered.”

  Haruun raised a hand. “We have seen smoke for centuries. Salt caravans burned, cattle driven off, children taken. We survive by steel and silence.”

  Baido leaned forward. “What makes you think we stand for others’ wars?”

  Abdi rose and laid the satchel before them. Under the flap: British rifles, ammunition belts, mortar fuses. “For every cache we capture, fifty percent goes to Miireey.”

  Haruun glanced at Baido. She inclined her head. “Fifty—bold. But insufficient. We raise half our warriors, you hold the rest.”

  Ahmed’s jaw tightened. “That means eighty percent of arms go to you.”

  Baido’s lips curved. “Eighty, then. You keep twenty.”

  Haruun focused on Abdi. “Clans in Somalia: Hawiye for pride, Darod for ambition, Dir for legacy, Isaaq for vengeance, Rahanweyn for cattle. Each fights its own war. You ask us to fight yours.”

  Abdi stepped closer. “This is not just our war—it is all Somali blood spilled by British steel and terror. A united front makes us all stronger.”

  A new voice interrupted, sharp and weathered. Elder Gaani, a wiry man with a scarred face representing a wary sub-clan, stood from the council circle. “And what if we gain more by waiting? The British offer gold, not just steel. Why spill Miireey blood for your rebellion when neutrality keeps us whole?”

  The hall tensed. Murmurs rippled among the elders. Baido’s eyes narrowed, and Haruun’s hand twitched toward his blade.

  Abdi faced Gaani, unflinching. “Neutrality is a slow death. The British will come for your fields, your forges, your children—whether you fight now or later. With us, you have a chance to strike first. Without us, you’re prey.”

  Gaani sneered. “Pretty words. But your rebels are ragged—half-starved dogs barking at an empire. I say we demand more than weapons. Give us your maps, your plans, or we sit this out.”

  Khaalid stepped forward, voice low. “Elder, my mother’s blood ties me to Miireey. I swear our maps are yours if you ride with us. But hesitate, and Tishworth’s boot crushes us all.”

  Gaani’s gaze flickered, unconvinced, but he sat, muttering a curse. The other elders exchanged glances, the air thick with unease.

  Baido broke the silence. “Enough. We vote.”

  The council deliberated, voices hushed. At last, Haruun spoke: “We ride—for eighty percent and the maps. But mark this, Abdi: one misstep, and Miireey turns its spears on you.”

  Abdi bowed. “My life on my word—and on Ahmed’s honor.”

  Haruun’s hand closed on Abdi’s. “Then we ride at dusk.”

  ---

  That evening, the basin thrummed with preparation. Women fitted swords at the forge, men strapped leather bandoliers, elders chanted blessings. Among the crowd, Ahmed found Abdi staring at the horizon, her expression unreadable.

  “You pushed Gaani hard,” Ahmed said, stepping beside her. “He could’ve broken the alliance.”

  Abdi’s eye met his, softer now. “He could’ve. But I knew you’d back me. You always do.”

  Ahmed tilted his head. “You trust me that much?”

  She hesitated, then spoke, voice low. “I told you things I’ve buried for years—how the British took my family, my eye, my peace. I don’t share that with anyone. But with you… I did. Because you listened, because you stayed. That’s why I trust you, Ahmed. You see my scars and don’t flinch.”

  He touched her arm, a quiet vow in the gesture. “I’d die before I let you down.”

  She nodded, a rare vulnerability flickering across her face. “I know.”

  Khaalid approached, interrupting. “Miireey riders will outnumber rebels when we march. We have chariots, too. No one expects Miireey cavalry.”

  Ahmed grinned despite himself. “Then Tishworth will learn to expect the unexpected.”

  Abdi watched the valley glow under torchlight. “This alliance is fragile as glass—but stronger than our fear. Tomorrow, we march on Mogadishu. Tomorrow, we show Tishworth that Somali blood flows not in rivers, but in storms.”

  To be continued