Three Months Later…
Salahuddin's War Tent
The parchment hit the breakfast table with a wet slap, its stench of Acre's fish markets overpowering the aroma of cardamom coffee. Taimur watched Salahuddin's nostrils flare as he examined the broken Templar seal—the wax cross smeared from the messenger's frantic midnight ride through the Homs Pass.
"Intercepted by one of our Sand Foxes in the most poetic place possible," Taimur said, tapping the watermark with a calloused finger. "The privy of a brothel called The Scented Veil, where Templar officers go to confess sins they'd never dare tell their priests." He traced a faint brown smudge near the signature. "Note the ink drag—scribe was left-handed. Brother Arnulf, the Templar chancellor's aide. Still hasn't learned to angle his quill properly."
Salahuddin's lips moved silently as he parsed the Frankish script, his brow furrowing at the coded mercantile shorthand. Then his head snapped up, eyes blazing with the same fire Taimur had seen at Montgisard.
"They're funneling weapons to the Zengid remnants? With this?" His finger stabbed the inventory list like a dagger:
200 Milanese crossbows (each marked with the smith's crescent moon stamp—proof of Sicilian manufacture)
40 barrels of naphtha-tar mixture (a crude precursor to Greek fire, requiring skilled archers to ignite)
1,000 dinars stamped with the Krak des Chevaliers mint mark (Raynald's personal currency, betraying his Hospitaller connections)
"Not just arming," Taimur said, flipping the letter with a magician's flourish to reveal a charcoal-rubbed impression on the second page. He dipped his fingers into a bowl of onion juice—a trick learned from Mongol traders during his university fieldwork—and smeared it across the parchment. Ghostly Frankish script emerged, like a spirit rising from the grave:
"Payment of five thousand dinars upon successful raid of Damascus grain caravans during next moon's darkness. God wills it."
Salahuddin's teacup shattered against the tent pole. Shards of Isfahan porcelain skittered across the Anatolian rug like fleeing scorpions.
"Where would that jackal Raynald get such funds? Krak's treasury is—"
"Borrowed," Taimur interrupted, unrolling a separate scroll—a Genoese merchant ledger obtained by Muezzin's Daughter. The girl had spent three weeks disguised as a deaf scribe in Acre's customs house.
"See these entries? 'LC' doesn't mean 'letters of credit' here. It's Lupa Corsa—the She-Wolf of Genoa. The maritime syndicate's code for mercenary financing."
He pointed to a cramped marginal note: "10% vig to Tripoli harbormaster for silent docks."
"The Templars aren't acting alone," Taimur continued. "The Genoese are backing them in exchange for trade concessions. And this—" His nail tapped a list of ship's manifests, "—proves they're smuggling Sicilian steel through Tyre while pretending to transport pilgrims."
Salahuddin's hand hovered over his sword hilt. Outside, the morning call to prayer echoed through the camp, the muezzin's voice blending with the clang of armorers at work.
"So." The young commander exhaled slowly. "We face not just rebels and fanatics, but merchants who would sell their own mothers for a dinar."
Taimur smiled. "Fortunately, merchant princes share one universal weakness." He produced a palm-sized ledger from his sleeve—the personal account book of Genoa's trade envoy in Antioch. "They keep better records than kings."
[System Notification: New Intelligence Uncovered]
[+500 Merit Points: Templar-Genoese Alliance Identified]
[+500 Merit Points: Sicilian Arms Smuggling Route Exposed]
[Total: 6,800 / 10,000]
A thunderous knock. Barsbay shouldered through the flap, dragging a jailor by his grease-stained tunic. The man's face was a mosaic of fresh bruises, one eye swollen shut.
"Caught this rat sneaking into Tughril's cell," the general growled. He flung a scrap of vellum onto the table—a crude map of Damascus's sewers, one route marked in red ochre: a path straight under the city walls to a 'safe house' near the Armenian Quarter.
Taimur laughed. "Right on schedule."
Salahuddin's brow furrowed. "This is—"
"Bait," Taimur confirmed, tracing the false tunnel route. "The 'safe house' is a ruined caravanserai we've rigged to collapse. When Tughril escapes, he'll lead every Zengid rebel, Templar spy, and Assassin in Damascus straight into our ambush." He grinned at the jailor's whimper. "Isn't that right, Muqaddam?"
The title—Muqaddam—made the traitor sob. Barsbay's grin turned feral as he hauled him away.
That Night – Damascus Prison
Moonlight bled through the grate as Tughril unrolled the smuggled map. His hands shook—not from fear, but from the heady rush of impending vengeance.
Freedom.
The jailor had been cheap to bribe—three silver coins and a promise of Templar protection. The map's ink smelled faintly of walnut gall, its lines too precise to be fake. He traced the red route with a grimy fingernail, contemplating his next steps:
Escape during Isha prayer (when the guards changed shifts).
Navigate the sewers (marked with Frankish crosses).
Rally at the "safe house" (a caravanserai near the Armenian Quarter).
Outside, a child's laughter echoed through the prison yard—a girl with sun-browned knees skipping rope beneath Tughril's window. Had the Emir looked closer, he might have noticed three deliberate flaws in her performance:
The Rope's Colors – Though woven with the red and white threads favored by Templar sergeants, the dye was freshly applied. A keen eye would spot crimson pomegranate stains still smudging her fingertips from yesterday's dye work.
The Rhyme's Rhythm – Her Frankish-accented Arabic clipped the verses too sharply, like a child mimicking Crusader knights after hearing the rhyme only once. The true giveaway was in the third line—she substituted Qal'a for Hisn, the Frankish term for "fortress" slipping through.
Her Gaze – Though her mouth chanted and her hands spun the rope, her eyes remained fixed on Tughril's window like a hawk tracking prey. No child at play watched a single window so intently.
But the Emir, trembling with visions of revenge, saw only what she meant him to see—a half-Frankish urchin, proof that Templar influence reached even here. He tucked the map into his boot and dreamed of slaughter.
The girl waited until his shadow left the cell window before snapping the rope taut. The motion signaled two bread-sellers by the gate, who began arguing loudly about moldy flour. Their shouts masked the metallic click of the prison's side gate being unbarred from within.
As Taimur sat in his tent, waiting, a soft chime confirmed the success of his gambit.
[System Notification: Deception Strategy Successful!]
[+500 Merit Points]
[Total: 7,300 / 10,000]
As the cell door creaked shut, Tughril allowed himself a smile.
He didn't see:
The second child—a beggar boy with a bone whistle—signal the Sand Foxes from the alley.
The jailor pocket not silver, but a bronze token stamped with a fox's paw.
The map's true purpose: its "safe house" was a death trap where Salahuddin's forces would annihilate the entire Zengid–Templar conspiracy in one perfect strike.
Somewhere in the shadows, Taimur exhaled.
The web was woven.
Now—let the flies come.
The metallic groan of the Damascus prison gate echoed through the winding alleys as Taimur watched Emir Tughril's silhouette disappear into the pre-dawn gloom. Moonlight glinted off the forged map clutched in the Emir's hand—every crease and stain meticulously aged by the Scholar's Disgrace to mimic three months of secret use. A bait more elegant than any blade.
Taimur waited until the last echoes of Tughril's footsteps faded before slipping into a disused tannery. The stench of rotting hides masked his presence as he summoned the System interface. The blue holographic display illuminated floating dust motes, casting dancing patterns across walls still stained with the brown ghosts of old blood.
"System, how many Merit Points do I have?"
[Current Balance: 7,300 / 10,000]
"Display military innovations," he whispered, fingers tracing glowing nodes in the air.
The schematic tree unfurled like an arcane manuscript:
[Tier-1: Unlocked (Available):
Greek Fire Enhancement (1,500 MP)
Advanced Siege Mechanics (2,500 MP)
Advanced Gunpowder Formula (3,500 MP)
----------------------------------------------------------]
His fingertip hovered over the gunpowder entry, making the description flare gold:
[Saltpeter purification via fractional crystallization.
Optimal sulfur ratios (nitrate : sulfur : charcoal = 75 : 15 : 10).
Granulation techniques for stable transport.
Pressure-triggered ignition chamber schematics.]
A memory surfaced—his professor at KU, ranting during a lecture: "The Chinese had it for fireworks, but the Arabs perfected military applications during the Mongol…"
"Purchase," Taimur commanded.
The points deducted with a resonant chime that vibrated in his bones. A scroll case materialized midair, clattering onto the tannery's stone table. The ivory cylinder felt unnaturally warm as he cracked its seal.
[Remaining Merit Points: 3,800]
Day 1: Saltpeter Extraction
The abandoned pottery kiln outside Bab al-Faradis reeked like a thousand chamber pots. The 'Scholar's Disgrace' had secured it—perfect cover for the work ahead. Taimur stood at the center, overseeing twelve carefully vetted workers, all former prisoners who owed Salahuddin their lives.
"Layer the dung and soil like pastry," he instructed, demonstrating with a wooden shovel. "Urine-soaked earth goes between the straw. Moisture is our enemy now."
By nightfall, they'd completed three leaching beds:
Bed A: Fresh stable waste, rich in nitrates.
Bed B: Market latrine scrapings, partially composted.
Bed C: Cemetery soil, infused with calcium from bones.
Day 3: The First Crystals
The 'Muezzin's Daughter' arrived at dawn.
"Tughril's in the Armenian Quarter," she reported, brushing soot from her cloak. "Old caravanserai. He thinks he's safe."
Taimur barely looked up from the steaming vats. "And the letters?"
"Half delivered," she replied, wrinkling her nose. "The Assassins are sniffing around. Watching the caravanserai."
"Good." He lifted a hemp rope coated with frost-white crystals—saltpeter. "Let them watch empty alleys. The real welcome is still brewing."
Day 7: Sulfur and Secrets
The 'Merchant's Shame' appeared with two camels and casks labeled Sicilian Medicinals. Beneath the pungent top layer of ointments lay sulfur bricks, clean and yellow as sunlight.
"Cost me three Venetian mirrors," the merchant grunted, rubbing his oily beard. "The Templar quartermaster asked why we needed so much 'skin remedy.'"
Taimur rubbed the sulfur between his fingers. "And what did you tell him?"
"That our boys are fond of Frankish whores." The merchant grinned, gap-toothed. "He laughed—and charged me double."
Day 12: The Final Mix
Granulation required precision and luck. Taimur had modified an olive press, its crushing stones lined with parchment to prevent sparks. Workers wore damp wool tunics to reduce static, and moved with the caution of bomb-makers.
The formula was exact:
75 parts saltpeter—pure after three recrystallizations.
15 parts sulfur—ground smooth in marble mortars.
10 parts charcoal—from willow, baked in sealed clay jars.
The powder was pressed into wax-sealed clay pots, sheep intestines used for fuses, bamboo tubes fitted for ignition triggers.
[System Alert: Production Complete]
[Yield: 420 lbs stable gunpowder]
[Efficiency Rating: 94%]
While fire brewed in kilns and pots, a quieter war spread across Damascus.
The 'Scholar's Disgrace' worked by candlelight, his gnarled hands steady for once. He mimicked Tughril's handwriting flawlessly, even the smudge where the Emir's signet dragged across wet ink.
Then he forged letters—each tailored to a different ally.
To the Zengids: "The usurper's weakness is revealed. Bring all your men to the Armenian caravanserai at moonset."
To the Assassins: "The false Sultan walks into our arms. Come armed and ready."
To the Templars: "The infidels gather. Strike while their backs are turned."
He aged each parchment with coffee, scorched the edges with incense, and left just enough wear to suggest desperate haste.
The Sand Foxes were already in motion.
Orphan couriers delivered letters hidden inside hollowed melons.
The Leper left drops for Assassin watchers in broken cisterns.
Brothel workers—paid in silver and secrets—tucked summons into Templar wine cups between whispered promises
After the gunpowder was ready, the Merchant's men moved in, disguised as humble construction workers. Under the pretense of repairing a "leaking roof," they surveyed the old caravanserai and quietly marked four load-bearing columns.
Each column base was hollowed out using long augers, and the cavities packed with compacted gunpowder charges. The workers then plastered over the holes with mud and lime, leaving no trace.
The ignition system had three layers:
A slow-burning hemp rope soaked in saltpeter served as the primary fuse.
A bamboo tube filled with granulated powder acted as a backup trigger.
And for a failsafe—an old candle suspended over a powder trail, timed to ignite should all else fail.
No escape was left unchecked. Every window was barred with iron rods disguised as repairs. Secret passages were sealed with rubble. The cellar stairwell was lined with caltrops hidden beneath a scattering of straw. Outside, child lookouts armed with bone whistles kept watch for any suspicious activity.
By the end, the abandoned caravanserai had been transformed into a beautifully inescapable death trap.
On the eve of the ambush, Taimur made his final rounds.
The Merchant's Report:
"Three Templar sergeants arrived today. They're bringing 'wine shipments' tomorrow."
The Muezzin's Daughter's Surveillance:
"Tughril paces like a caged lion. No messages, no allies. He's nervous."
The Scholar's Warning:
"The Assassin courier hesitated before taking the letter. He suspects something."
At midnight, Taimur climbed into his observation post—a weaver's attic overlooking the kill zone. Through a narrow crack in the lattice wall, he watched shadows converge on the caravanserai.
[System Notification: All Targets Approaching]
[Estimated Enemy Count: 87 and rising]
He opened the system map.
Red dots flared across the streets—Zengid rebels slipping through alleys, Assassins emerging like smoke, Templars clanking in chainmail with arrogant purpose.
He rested a hand on the ignition trigger—an improvised crossbow mechanism rigged to the master fuse.
Below, somewhere in the dark, Emir Tughril was pacing, unaware he was moments from greeting all his "allies" in one final assembly.
The Muezzin's Daughter appeared beside him, her breathing steady despite the climb.
"All messages delivered, my lord," she whispered. "They're all coming."
Taimur handed her the ignition lever.
"For your father," he said, remembering the old muezzin—stabbed by Zengid blades in a mosque courtyard.
Below, the last of the enemy slipped into the building. The night held its breath.
Somewhere inside, Tughril must have begun to realize the timing was too perfect… the arrivals too synchronized… the silence outside too complete.
[System Notification: Trap Prepared]
[All Targets Acquired]
Taimur exhaled.
The feast was about to begin.