The days in Kelechi's hut bled into one another, a slow, painful river of time measured by the changing light through the doorway and the regular, unsentimental application of her poultices. Amadioha's body was healing. The fire in his wound had banked to a dull, manageable ache, and the fever had broken, leaving his mind clear and unbearably lucid. The flesh was knitting, but the wound to his spirit, inflicted by Kelechi's question, festered.
He spent his hours in a silence that was heavier than the forest's gloom. He watched her work—crushing herbs, weaving baskets, sharpening her skinning knife on a smooth stone with a rhythmic shhh-click, shhh-click. She moved with an economy of motion that spoke of a life built on necessity, not ceremony. She rarely spoke to him unless it was to issue an instruction.
"Eat this."
"Drink."
"The dressing needs changing."
He obeyed, the once-great god reduced to following the orders of a mortal woman who looked at him and saw only a failed promise. The weight of Mmaagha Kamalu, leaning against the wall near his pallet, was a constant, mocking presence. He had tried to lift it again, just once, when she was out gathering. He had strained until the half-healed wound threatened to tear open, but the sword had barely shifted. It was not just a weapon; it was his condemnation, made manifest in iron.
One evening, as the light outside turned to a deep, bruised purple and the first crickets began their nightly chorus, a new sound cut through the forest's familiar symphony. It was the distant, frantic beating of a drum. Not the steady, rhythmic heartbeat of a village celebration, but a staccato, panicked tattoo that spoke of alarm.
Kelechi, who had been mending a net by the fire, froze. Her head snapped up, her needle poised in mid-air. The color drained from her face, leaving the web of scars on her neck stark and pale. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on the doorway as if she could see through the walls and deep into the heart of the village.
"What is it?" Amadioha asked, his own senses, though dulled, prickling with unease.
She didn't look at him. "The alarm drum," she whispered, her voice tight. "From the village."
She stood so abruptly her sewing basket tipped over, spilling its contents onto the hard-packed earth. She moved to the doorway, peering out into the gathering dark. The drumbeat continued, a relentless, pounding heart of fear.
Then, they heard the screams. Faint, but unmistakable. Human voices, twisted by terror, carried on the wind.
"The slavers," Kelechi breathed, the words barely audible. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled as she clutched the doorframe. The memory of that other day, the dusty ridge, the chains, was alive in her eyes, paralyzing her.
Amadioha pushed himself to his feet. The movement sent a spike of pain through his side, but he ignored it. A different kind of fire was kindling in his chest—a faint, guttering echo of the righteous fury that had once been his birthright.
"You must hide," Kelechi said, turning to him, her fear momentarily overriding her scorn. "They will check the huts on the outskirts. If they find you…"
"No," Amadioha said. The word came out rough, but with a force that surprised them both.
She stared at him. "Have your wits completely left you? You can barely stand! What do you think you can do?"
He didn't answer her. His gaze was fixed on the sword. Mmaagha Kamalu. The Shining Justice. In the presence of true, willful evil, it was said to glow with a searing, righteous red light, a beacon that could blind the wicked and hearten the just. He had not seen that light since his fall.
He took a limping, painful step towards it. Every movement was a negotiation with his own weakness. He reached out, his hand hovering over the worn leather of the hilt.
"Don't be a fool," Kelechi pleaded, her voice cracking. "That is just a piece of metal. It cannot help you. It cannot help any of us."
Amadioha's fingers closed around the hilt. The familiar grip, once an extension of his own will, felt alien and cold. He took a deep, shuddering breath, gathering every ounce of strength, every shred of will that remained in his broken body.
He pulled.
The weight was still immense, a dead, leaden thing that strained the muscles in his arm and shoulder. But this time, he did not let it defeat him. He gritted his teeth, his biceps trembling, and dragged the blade from its scabbard.
It emerged into the dim firelight, and his heart sank.
The blade was dark. As dull and lifeless as it had been in the rain-soaked forest. There was no righteous glow, no hum of celestial power. It was just a length of tarnished, heavy iron.
But then, a flicker.
A faint, hesitant pulse of light, the color of a dying ember, traveled the length of the blade. It was so weak, so pathetic, that it was almost more disheartening than the complete darkness. It was a memory of light, a ghost of what it should have been.
"What… what is that?" Kelechi whispered, her eyes wide with a confusion that momentarily eclipsed her fear.
Amadioha felt a grim, hollow satisfaction. "It knows," he rasped. "It knows evil is near. It just… lacks the strength to answer."
He adjusted his grip on the hilt, the sheer weight of the sword forcing him to adopt a two-handed stance. He was no longer a god summoning a storm. He was a wounded man holding a piece of metal that was too heavy for him. But he was standing. And he was facing the direction of the screams.
"Stay here," he commanded, his voice gaining a sliver of its old authority.
He did not wait for her reply. He staggered out of the hut and into the twilight.
The path to the village was a blur of agony and determination. He used the sword as a crutch, its tip scoring a deep furrow in the earth as he lumbered forward. The drum had fallen silent, but the screams were louder now, punctuated by the harsh, guttural shouts of men and the sharp crack of splintering wood. An orange glow flickered through the trees—fire.
He emerged from the tree line into chaos.
The village of Ama-udo was a scene from a mortal nightmare. Several huts were ablaze, their thatched roofs vomiting thick, black smoke that stung the eyes and choked the lungs. The air was thick with the smells of burning palm fronds, spilled palm wine, and blood. Women and children cowered in the shadows, while the men of the village, armed with farming tools and hunting spears, formed a desperate, buckling line against the invaders.
The slavers were a stark contrast to the villagers. They were big men, their bodies hardened by cruelty and a life of violence. They wore a motley collection of stolen finery and practical leather armor. Some held muskets, their shots roaring like miniature thunderclaps, spewing acrid smoke and punching holes in the village's defense. Others wielded cutlasses and whips.
And at their center stood a man who was different.
He was tall and gaunt, dressed in robes of stark, undyed linen that seemed to repel the dirt and blood around him. His head was shaved, and his face was a mask of serene, detached authority. In one hand, he held a staff topped with a carved, leering wooden face, its mouth open in a silent scream. This was Priest Dike. Amadioha could feel it—a cold, nullifying aura emanating from the man, a void where faith should be. This was the source of the poison that had felled him. This was the faith that severed connections.
One of the slavers, a brute with a neck as thick as a tree trunk, backhanded an old man who stood in his way, sending him spinning to the ground. He then grabbed a young girl by the arm, her terrified shriek slicing through the din.
Something primal and ancient stirred within Amadioha. It was not the controlled, divine wrath of old, but a raw, human fury. A memory of what it was to stand for something.
He stepped into the circle of firelight, heaving the massive sword up before him.
"Release her," he said, his voice not a thunderclap, but a low, carrying growl that nonetheless cut through the noise.
The fighting stuttered to a halt. The slavers turned, their faces registering first surprise, then amusement at the sight of the limping, wounded man with the comically oversized sword.
Priest Dike's serene eyes found Amadioha. A slow, condescending smile spread across his lips.
"The fallen one stirs," Dike said, his voice a smooth, oily ripple in the chaos. "I felt the severing. I did not think you would have the strength to crawl from your grave. Why emerge now, only to die in the dirt with these cattle?"
The slaver holding the girl laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "He thinks he's a warrior! Look at him shake!"
Amadioha ignored them. He focused on the sword. Remember, he pleaded silently with the blade. Remember the storms we wielded. Remember the justice we served.
He poured his will into it, his entire being focused on that single, desperate command: LIGHT!
Mmaagha Kamalu flickered. A weak, pathetic pulse of reddish light, like a drowning man's final gasp for air. It was barely visible in the glare of the burning huts.
Priest Dike laughed. It was a dry, soundless thing, more terrifying for its lack of mirth. "Its voice is silenced. Its heart is still. It is just a weight in your hands, false god. A symbol of your irrelevance."
The brute with the girl shoved her towards another slaver and drew his cutlass. "I'll shut him up for good."
He charged, not with skill, but with brute force, his cutlass raised for a killing blow.
Time seemed to slow. Amadioha's body, though broken, remembered. Millennia of combat, of parrying blows from demon and deity alike, were etched into his muscle memory. He saw the arc of the attack, the shifting of the man's weight, the opening.
He did not try to meet the cutlass with the full weight of his own blade. Instead, he moved, his body twisting with a painful, grinding grace. The cutlass whistled past his shoulder, and as the slaver overextended, Amadioha brought the pommel of Mmaagha Kamalu around in a short, brutal arc. It connected with the man's temple with a sickening crunch. The slaver's eyes rolled back in his head, and he dropped like a felled tree.
A stunned silence fell over the clearing.
Amadioha stood panting, the pain in his side a white-hot brand. The move had cost him dearly. But he was still standing.
He adjusted his grip on the sword. "I may have fallen," he snarled, his voice gaining strength from the rush of battle, "but I am still Amadioha."
The display of skill, however fleeting, broke the spell. Two more slavers roared and came at him at once. What followed was not the beautiful, terrifying dance of a god of war. It was a desperate, ugly struggle for survival. Amadioha fought with a shadow of his old power—flashes of preternatural insight, bursts of speed that were mere echoes of his former self. He used the sword's sheer, unwieldy mass as a bludgeon, deflecting blows that would have cut a normal man in half, turning the slavers' own strength against them.
But he was one, and they were many. He was wounded, and they were fresh. A cutlass blade, deflected from his neck, bit deep into his already-injured side. He cried out, stumbling back, the fire in his flesh rekindled with a vengeance. Another slaver scored a line of fire across his thigh.
He was being overwhelmed. The villagers, heartened by his stand, fought with renewed fury, but the slavers' numbers and steel were telling. Amadioha found himself cornered against the burning wall of a hut, the heat searing his back. Three slavers closed in, their eyes gleaming with the promise of an easy kill.
Priest Dike watched, his expression one of clinical interest. "See how a god dies," he announced to no one in particular. "Not with a bang, but with a whimper."
Amadioha raised Mmaagha Kamalu one last time. The blade was dark. Completely dark. He had nothing left. The ember was extinguished.
As the lead slaver lunged, a flicker of movement came from the tree line.
There was a soft, almost musical whirr through the air.
The slaver stopped, his lunge freezing mid-step. A look of profound surprise crossed his face. Protruding from his throat was the feathered shaft of a hunter's knife. He made a wet, gurgling sound, then collapsed.
All eyes turned.
Kelechi stood at the edge of the clearing, her arm still extended from the throw. Her face was pale, but her eyes were hard as flint. In her other hand, she held her skinning knife.
Her intervention created a moment of perfect, shocked stillness.
It was all the distraction Amadioha needed.
With a final, guttural roar that tore from the depths of his soul, he shoved himself away from the burning hut and brought Mmaagha Kamalu around in a wide, desperate sweep. The sheer weight of the blade, combined with his last reserves of strength, smashed into the two remaining slavers, sending them sprawling.
But the effort emptied him. His legs buckled. He fell to his knees, the sword clattering to the ground beside him, now just a dead weight once more. The world swam in and out of focus. The last thing he saw was Kelechi, not looking at him, but staring with cold hatred at Priest Dike. The last thing he heard was Dike's calm, unruffled voice.
"A minor delay. Take the able-bodied. Kill the rest. We have what we came for."
Then, the darkness took him.
---
He awoke to the smell of smoke and blood, and the softer scent of Kelechi's poultices. He was back in her hut, lying on the pelts. The fight had reopened his wound, and the familiar, fiery agony was back, freshly bandaged.
Dawn was breaking, its pale, gray light doing little to dispel the shadows in the hut or the heavier shadows in the room.
Kelechi was sitting by the dead fire, cleaning her throwing knife with a piece of cloth. She did not look up as he groaned and tried to sit up.
"Don't," she said, her voice flat. "You'll just start the bleeding again."
He lay back, his body a tapestry of pain. The memories of the fight returned—the screams, the fire, the desperate, failing light of his sword, the thunk of her knife finding its mark.
"You saved my life," he said, the words feeling inadequate.
She finally looked at him, and her eyes were not scornful, nor were they grateful. They were simply exhausted. "I delayed the inevitable. They took twelve. Mostly young men and women. They burned the grain store." She looked down at her knife. "My blade did what yours could not."
The statement was not a boast. It was a simple, devastating fact.
Amadioha looked to where Mmaagha Kamalu lay on the floor where she must have dragged it. In the dim dawn light, it was utterly, completely dark. The flicker of hope he had felt when it pulsed with that faint, dying light was gone. The sword that had once judged kings and scourged armies had been unable to shine in the face of true evil. Its silence was a verdict.
He had fought. He had been brave. He had even been skilled. But it had not been enough. He was not a god protecting his people. He was a man who had failed to protect his neighbors.
The weight of the sword was no longer just a physical burden or a symbol of his lost power. It was the weight of his own futility. It was the weight of a justice that could no longer be delivered, a light that could no longer shine. And as he lay in the grim, quiet aftermath, Amadioha understood that this was a heavier burden to bear than any mountain. It was the crushing weight of hope, extinguished.