Book 1

Prologue: Nsugbe’s stand

Nsugbe had endured but at a price.

Bodies lay on the red earth, spears shattered, shields splintered. Women wailed softly as they tended to the wounded, pressing palm leaves against bleeding flesh. Children clung to their mothers, wide-eyed, whispering questions no one could answer.

At the heart of the obi, Nnenna stood, her wrapper torn and stained with blood—some hers, some not. A cut ran across her arm, but she held herself tall, her jaw clenched. She had fought alongside the warriors, and though her body ached, her spirit did not bend.

Eze Ukwu stood nearby, his great ofo staff planted in the earth. He spoke words of endurance to his people, but grief lined his face. He had lost men in the fight..men he had called sons.

“Papa,” Nnenna said softly as she approached him.

He looked at her, saw the blood on her arm, and frowned. “You fought.”

“I could not stand aside.”

A pause. Then, to her surprise, he nodded slowly. “The land remembers those who defend it. You are no longer a child, Nnenna. You are Omambala’s daughter.”

Her heart surged with pride, though the weight of sorrow pressed upon her.

Near the shrine, warriors dragged forth Okoro, the man who had betrayed them. His face was bruised, his lip split, his eyes darting like a trapped animal. The crowd hissed, some throwing stones, calling him onye ohi—a thief of trust.

“Bind him!” the Eze commanded. “The elders will judge his fate.”

Okoro spat blood. “Fools! You think you have won? The Fulani will return! With fire, with horsemen, with more guns! Your stubbornness will drown this land in blood!”

Chinaka, a broad-shouldered warrior, struck him hard across the mouth. “Silence, traitor.”

The crowd roared approval, but Nnenna’s eyes drifted to the stranger among them—Onye Nkuzi, the Ghost of the River, as the people whispered. He leaned against a tree, his short sword resting at his side. He had fought like a spirit in the night, cutting down raiders with a ferocity that made even the boldest pause. Yet now his gaze was faraway, haunted.

When the crowd thinned, Nnenna approached him. “You stood with us. Without you, Omambala would have fallen.”

He shook his head slowly. “I only delayed them. The jihad will not stop. Their emirs hunger for land, and their horses thirst for rivers like Omambala.” He swept his hand toward the ruins. “This was but a warning.”

A shiver ran down her spine. “Then what must we do?”

His eyes met hers, sharp and steady. “We strike not just on the land, but on their march. Cut their lines, burn their supplies, break their will. Horses cannot run without food. Men cannot fight without fear.”

Before she could answer, young Chukwudi ran up, breathless, clutching something wrapped in cloth. “Sister! Look what I found near the riverbank!”

He unwrapped it to reveal a strange metal charm, etched with markings in Arabic.

The Ghost’s expression darkened. “This is the seal of Mallam Dan Musa, one of the jihad’s fiercest captains. If he has come this far south, then their hunger is great indeed.”

The air grew heavy. Even the youngest child understood the weight of the name.

Moments later, Chinaka arrived, his spear still wet with blood. “Eze Ukwu demands the stranger’s presence,” he said, glaring at the Ghost. “The council must decide—ally or danger.”

Nnenna’s heart tightened. “Danger? He fought with us!”

Chinaka’s voice was cold. “Strangers carry shadows. And shadows hide secrets.”

The Ghost only inclined his head. “Let them decide.”

That evening, the council gathered beneath the flame of the udu lamp. Okoro was dragged forth in chains, still cursing. The Ghost stood beside the elders, his hood pulled back, his scarred face revealed to all.

Eze Ukwu raised his staff. “Two matters stand before us. First, the traitor who sold our land’s secrets to the invaders. Secondly, the Ghost who fought beside us yet walks in shadows. What shall be their fate?”

The courtyard buzzed with voices, some crying for Okoro’s death while others demanding exile. As for the Ghost, suspicion and gratitude clashed in equal measure.

Then Nnenna stepped forward, her voice carrying across the courtyard. “Without him, our land would already be ash. He knows the jihad better than we do. If we drive him away, we drive away our best hope.”

All eyes turned to her—elders, warriors, children alike. A woman, standing unshaken before men of rank.

Okoro sneered. “She is bewitched by him! Can you not see? He will lead us to ruin!”

But Nnenna stood tall, her gaze fixed on the Ghost.

Eze Ukwu’s voice cut through the murmurs. “Tell us, River Ghost—why do you fight them? What binds you to our war?”

Slowly, the stranger stepped into the light of the fire. His voice was low, but it carried across the obi.

“Because once, they chained me too. And I swore never again.”

Gasps rippled through the assembly. Some stared in horror, others in awe.

And in that moment, the war for Omambala had found not just defenders, but a leader born of fire and chains.