Swahgu collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath as the toll of the hour-long battle finally overwhelmed him. His muscles burned, his vision blurred, and every inch of him was soaked in sweat, blood, and grime. The sheer weight of exhaustion pressed down on him, and his limbs trembled, barely able to hold him upright.
The air around him was thick with the metallic tang of iron and something raw, almost primal. Through the haze, a familiar voice reached him, trembling with fear and urgency.
"Father, are you all right? Please speak to me."
Swahgu looked up, his vision sharpening just enough to make out his son, Okonta, who had dropped to one knee beside him. Okonta's mohawk was damp with sweat, and his sharp, familiar features were etched with worry. His eyes, normally calm and steady, flashed with anxiety as he placed a firm but gentle hand on his father's shoulder, taking in the severity of Swahgu's injuries.
Swahgu shook off his son's hand with what strength he could muster.
"I'm fine," he rasped, though his voice was weak. "Gather the wounded. Take them to the healers at the main camp. Quickly. There is no time to lose."
Okonta hesitated, his gaze lingering on his father's wounds with deep concern, but after a moment he gave a firm nod, casting one last worried look over Swahgu before rising and hurrying out into the cold night.
Swahgu exhaled heavily, letting his gaze sweep across the tent in the eerie quiet that followed the battle. The scene before him was gruesome, almost nightmarish. His men, his loyal guards, lay scattered around him in various states of brokenness. Their lifeless bodies mingled with discarded weapons and spilled blood. Shattered pieces of armor, severed limbs, and other remnants of the clash littered the floor in a macabre mosaic of war.
His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching in silent fury. They had prepared for this meticulously, with the advantage of surprise and the strongest warriors their kingdom could offer, and yet, even with the help of powerful enchantments and magic, this was the outcome. His men were dead or dying, their loyalty repaid with nothing but agony and silence.
Through gritted teeth, he forced himself to look at the Fallen King. The once imposing figure lay sprawled and lifeless, his face a mask of grim defiance even in death. With a rough motion, Swahgu flipped the king's body onto its back with his foot, then yanked his spear free from the king's throat. Blood coated its tip, dark and glistening, as he wiped it clean on his cloak with a practiced motion.
Something nearby caught his eye—a glint of metal, an object half hidden beneath the king's outstretched arm. Swahgu bent down, reaching out to claim the legendary sword, Udelehkehze, the Ugly Bird. The blade was smooth, polished, and flawless, not a single dent or scratch marring its deadly surface despite the carnage it had unleashed.
Swahgu's gaze grew steely as he turned the sword over in his hands, feeling the quiet hum of power that pulsed from its hilt to its tip.
"The Ugly Bird," he murmured, his tone edged with reverence and bitterness.
He had seen the king wield it countless times, watched it slice through enchanted armor and shields as if they were made of paper. Now, even after his own men had fought to their last breath, this artifact remained pristine, untouched by the death it had sown. And yet, he knew he held it only by her command.
"This is what she wanted," he muttered under his breath, a grim look settling on his face. "A weapon like this. It's no wonder she insisted I retrieve it."
His thoughts turned to the mysterious woman whose motives were as elusive as smoke. He could not help but wonder what her next move would be now that the sword was in his hands. Swahgu's instincts told him to be wary.
A soft rustling at the tent's entrance drew his attention back to the present, and Okonta returned, his face pale but determined. He looked between his father and the sword. Swahgu's gaze hardened as he sheathed the weapon at his side.
"You are back," Swahgu managed, his voice rough. "How many survivors?"
Okonta's face twisted, his jaw tightening as he shook his head slowly.
"Only one, Father. Iskaba. And even he…" Okonta looked down, unable to mask the sorrow in his eyes. "He's lost his left hand. I'm afraid he will never be the same again."
Swahgu exhaled heavily, frustration and grief contorting his features as he steadied himself against a nearby tent pole.
"Damn it. This situation is even worse than I originally thought."
"Father," Okonta's voice cut through his thoughts, gentle yet insistent. "You need to see a healer. You've lost a lot of blood. Let me handle things from here. I'll make sure everything is taken care of."
Swahgu blinked, trying to clear his vision as he swayed slightly. His son's face came in and out of focus, but the concern there was unmistakable. He nodded slowly.
"Yes, you are right. I trust you, Okonta. You know what needs to be done."
His voice was steady but lacked its usual strength, each word a struggle to force out.
Okonta's brows furrowed.
"Will you be able to make it back to the main camp on your own? You look like you're on the verge of collapsing."
A low chuckle escaped Swahgu's lips, though it quickly turned into a cough. He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, forcing a grin.
"I am not some ordinary warrior," he rasped, managing a faint smirk despite the pain pulsing through his entire body. "It will take more than a few scratches to bring me down."
His words were defiant, a reminder of the warrior's spirit that burned within him, yet even he knew he was pushing his limits.
Okonta's mouth twisted into a half smile as he placed a steadying hand on his father's arm, urging him to take one careful step after another. With a final resolute nod, Swahgu squared his shoulders and moved forward, trying to keep his head held high even as his legs trembled beneath him.
Okonta watched him until Swahgu disappeared into the darkness.
Swahgu awoke to the soft morning light spilling into the healers' tent, his body heavy with fatigue and pain. Outside, the camp was eerily quiet. A solemn calm had settled over it, revealing the deep unease that gripped the warriors.
Pushing through his aches, he managed to sit up, his gaze catching Okonta just outside the tent, instructing a group of soldiers. Seeing his father stirring, Okonta turned and entered. His expression was steady but carried the weight of responsibility. With the king gone and Swahgu unable to lead, Okonta had assumed command, the highest authority left in the camp.
Swahgu felt a glimmer of pride as he looked at his son.
"Give me your report," Swahgu said, his voice low but resolute.
Okonta took a steadying breath, meeting his father's eyes with calm determination.
"The king has been prepared for the journey. His body, as well as those of his guards, have been wrapped. The men are ready to bring them back to the kingdom so their families can lay them to rest with honor."
Swahgu nodded solemnly.
"What about the warriors?" he asked, glancing toward the soldiers outside.
"They are uneasy, Father," Okonta answered, a trace of worry in his tone. "They know the king has fallen, and with so many of his guard gone, some are questioning what comes next."
Swahgu listened with understanding. The sudden loss of the king had rattled them all, yet he knew they could not afford to falter.
"Then we need to strengthen their resolve," he said firmly, forcing himself to rise. "They need to know that even without the king, our purpose remains."
Okonta nodded, watching as his father steadied himself, his gaze focused.
"The men will listen to you, Father. They respect you and trust your leadership."
Together, they walked to the center of the camp, where the warriors stood in small, uneasy groups. As Swahgu stepped forward, the men turned to him, their faces filled with questions and uncertainty, silently seeking guidance.
Swahgu took a deep breath, meeting their gazes with unwavering strength.
"Our king has fallen," he began, his voice resolute, "and his guards gave their lives in his defense. But though they are gone, their memory lives on in us. We honor them by pressing forward, by standing firm for what they defended. We carry on, not only for them, but for the glory of our kingdom."
The warriors listened intently, absorbing his words. Okonta nodded in agreement, and a murmur of approval moved through the crowd. Some still looked uncertain, exchanging glances, but their spirits were beginning to lift.
Swahgu continued, his voice firm with renewed urgency.
"Our rest is over. Prepare the camp to move. We press onward. As soon as everyone is ready, each step brings us closer to home and to the strength we need to rebuild."
The warriors looked to one another, understanding his call with a renewed sense of purpose. They began gathering their gear, assisting one another as they prepared to break camp.