The fires of Damascus burned low in the braziers, casting flickering shadows across the war room. Taimur unrolled the map across the heavy oak table, the parchment crackling as it settled. Salahuddin leaned forward, his calloused fingers tracing the outline of Ascalon's walls. The coastal city gleamed under the candlelight, its seaward defenses strong and imposing, its landward side vulnerable and exposed.
"They rely on our grain," Taimur said, his voice quiet but sharp as a honed blade. His finger tapped the map where the supply routes were marked. "Cut their supplies, and they will starve. Break their walls, and they will fall."
Salahuddin's dark eyes flicked up from the map, studying his advisor's face. The candlelight deepened the lines of worry on his brow. "And if they receive reinforcements from Jaffa?"
A cold smile touched Taimur's lips, the expression more threat than amusement. "Let them come. The Sea Wolves will feast."
The other commanders in the room shifted, some exchanging glances. Yusuf, the grizzled captain of the naval forces, chuckled deep in his throat. "The Franks won't know what hit them."
Taimur straightened, rolling his shoulders. "The city is weak where it believes itself strong. Their walls face the sea, but their belly is soft." He traced a line across the landward approach. "The Desert Hawks will strike here, cutting off their supplies. The Asad al-Harb will break through the weakest point in the northern wall."
Salahuddin nodded slowly, his fingers drumming against the table. "And the people? The civilians?"
Taimur's expression did not change. "Riots will do half our work for us. Once the grain runs out, they will turn on their rulers."
A heavy silence settled over the room. Salahuddin exhaled through his nose, then gave a single decisive nod. "Then we move at dawn."
The commanders rose, the scrape of chairs and rustle of robes filling the chamber. Taimur remained standing over the map, his gaze fixed on Ascalon. The first move in the greater game was about to be played.
Outside, the night air was cool, carrying the distant sounds of the city. Somewhere, a dog barked. The scent of woodsmoke and spices lingered. Taimur stepped onto the balcony, looking out over Damascus. Soon, another city would fall.
Salahuddin joined him, his arms crossed over his chest. "You are certain of this plan?"
Taimur did not look at him. "I am certain of nothing. But I have calculated every possibility."
A faint smile tugged at Salahuddin's mouth. "Then let us see if your calculations hold."
The wind picked up, carrying the promise of change. Somewhere beyond the horizon, Ascalon slept, unaware of the storm gathering at its gates.
The merchant caravan rolled through Ascalon's gates at dusk, its wooden wheels creaking against the worn stones of the road. The wagons were laden with Egyptian grain, the golden kernels shifting slightly with each bump. The drivers, thin and sun-darkened men with tired eyes, kept their heads low as the Frankish guards waved them through with barely a glance. None of the soldiers noticed the small glass vials hidden beneath the sacks, nor the careful way the merchants avoided touching them.
Inside the city, the Sand Foxes moved like shadows. They slipped through the narrow alleys, their robes blending with the gathering darkness. Rafiq, a wiry spy with the face of a beggar and the eyes of a hawk, crouched beside a crumbling wall. He watched the granary from a distance, his fingers tapping restlessly against his knee.
"The storehouse is guarded," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "But the guards are lazy. They drink after sunset."
Beside him, Zahra nodded. She was one of Taimur's most trusted agents, a woman who could slip through a crowded market without leaving a trace. Her hands were steady, her movements precise. "Then we act before they sober up," she said.
They waited as the sun dipped below the horizon, as the torches flickered to life along the streets. The two guards stationed at the granary doors were already passing a wineskin between them, their laughter growing louder with each swallow. By the time the moon had risen, their heads were nodding, their words slurred.
Zahra moved first. She crossed the open courtyard like a breath of wind, her bare feet silent against the stones. The guards did not stir as she slipped past them, as she eased the heavy door open just enough to slide inside. The granary was vast, the air thick with the scent of wheat and dust. Sacks were stacked high, their contents waiting to be milled into flour, baked into bread.
She pulled one of the vials from her sleeve, the glass cool against her fingers. The white hellebore powder inside was fine as ash, deadly in even the smallest doses. She worked quickly, sprinkling it over the grain, letting it settle deep between the kernels where it would dissolve without a trace. By the time she slipped back out into the night, the guards were snoring.
Dawn came, and with it, the first screams.
"The bread is poisoned!" a baker shrieked, clutching his stomach as he staggered into the street. His face was pale, his lips flecked with foam. Around him, others began to collapse, their bodies writhing in pain. The people of Ascalon, already hungry from months of dwindling supplies, turned on their rulers with the fury of starving men.
Fights broke out in the marketplace. A mob stormed the governor's palace, their voices raw with rage. Reynald, the Frankish lord who ruled the city, stood on the steps, his sword drawn, his face twisted in fury. "Find the merchants!" he roared. "Bring me their heads!"
But it was too late. The grain had already been distributed. The poison had already done its work. By midday, the streets were in chaos, the people tearing at each other in their fear and hunger. The merchants were dragged from their homes and hanged from the city walls, but their deaths brought no relief. Distrust festered like an open wound.
In the shadows, Zahra watched it all unfold. The first phase was complete.
The first light of dawn painted the eastern sky in pale gold when the Desert Hawks struck. They came riding hard from the barren hills, their horses' hooves pounding against the dry earth like rolling thunder. Flames followed in their wake as they torched the last remaining farms outside Ascalon's walls, the crops burning bright and quick, sending plumes of black smoke into the morning air. The granaries were already empty, the people already starving—now even the hope of scavenged food was gone.
On the city walls, the Frankish sentries shouted the alarm. Bells clanged, their harsh tones cutting through the morning stillness. Soldiers scrambled to the ramparts, their eyes fixed on the horsemen circling beyond arrow range. The riders moved like ghosts in the half-light, here one moment, gone the next, their bows loosing arrows that found their marks before the defenders could raise their shields.
From his vantage point on the ridge overlooking the city, Salahuddin watched the chaos unfold. His fingers rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, his expression unreadable. "They focus on the horsemen," he observed. The wind carried the distant shouts of the defenders, the panicked cries of their commanders. "They do not see the storm coming."
Beside him, Taimur stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the weakest point of Ascalon's northern wall. A slight curve of his lips was the only sign of satisfaction. "Then let us remind them."
The command was given silently, a raised hand, a nod. The gunners had been waiting all night, their weapons primed and ready. Now, they moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting the angle of the massive cannon known as 'The Executioner'. Its rifled barrel gleamed dully in the growing light, a monster of iron and fire.
The first shot tore through the morning air with a sound like the world splitting apart. The stone tower shuddered under the impact, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. Before the dust had even settled, the second shot struck true, sending chunks of masonry tumbling to the ground. The third hit with finality—the weakened structure groaned, then collapsed inward in a roar of shattered stone and billowing dust.
A cheer rose from the Muslim ranks as the gap in the wall was revealed. Before the dust had even cleared, the Asad al-Harb were already moving.
"Allahu Akbar!"
The battle cry echoed across the field as the elite cavalry charged, their polished armor catching the first true light of dawn. They hit the breach like a tidal wave, their curved blades flashing as they cut through the dazed defenders. The Frankish knights, already weakened by hunger and the chaos of the poisoned grain, fought with desperate fury, but they were outmatched. The momentum was with the attackers, and the tide of battle turned in moments.
Reynald, his face streaked with soot and blood, bellowed orders from the rear. "Fall back!" His voice was raw with strain. "To the citadel!"
But there was no retreat. Even as the Frankish forces tried to regroup, the Desert Hawks harried their flanks, cutting down any who broke from the main force. The Muslim infantry pressed forward in disciplined ranks, their spears a wall of steel that pushed deeper into the city with every passing moment.
The streets of Ascalon ran red. The defenders fought for every alley, every courtyard, but the outcome was inevitable. By midday, the citadel itself was surrounded, its gates battered and broken. The banners of the Crusaders were torn down, their proud symbols trampled underfoot.
As the sun reached its zenith, the last resistance crumbled. Ascalon, the so-called impenetrable stronghold, had fallen. Its fate had been sealed the moment the first cannon roared. Now, it belonged to Salahuddin.
[System Notification: Conquest of Ascalon Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 52,800 / 100,000]
The siege was over. The conquest had begun.