The merchant caravan creaked to a halt before Kerak's gates just as the first light of dawn painted the desert sands in pale gold. The lead trader, a wiry man with a face weathered by sun and wind, offered the guards a toothy smile as he wiped sweat from his brow.
"Blessings upon you, noble sentries," he called out in heavily accented Frankish, gesturing to his wagons. "We bring fine Aleppan grain and Damascus wine for your lord's table."
The guards barely glanced at the convoy. The older one, his helmet tilted back to reveal a face pockmarked by old battles, waved them through with a grunt. "Get on with it then. The quartermaster's in the west yard."
As the wagons rolled through the gates, the younger guard squinted at one of the merchants—a tall man whose eyes seemed to linger too long on the gatehouse winches. "You there—"
The lead trader quickly pressed a skin of wine into the guard's hands. "A taste of our finest, good sir. Aged in oak from Cyprus."
The guard's suspicion melted as he uncorked the skin and took a deep sniff. "Well then. Move along."
Inside the castle walls, the merchants dispersed like water through cracks in stone.
In the kitchens, a Sand Fox operative leaned close to a scullery maid as she kneaded dough. The girl's hands trembled slightly as he pressed a gold dinar into her palm, the coin warm from his grip.
"The guards will be thirsty tonight," he murmured in flawless Arabic. "See that their bread is... special."
The maid's eyes darted to the doorway before she pocketed the coin. "The head cook checks the flour," she whispered.
The operative smiled, producing a small vial of clear liquid. "Then add this to their wine instead. Just a few drops per cask—enough to make them sick, not dead." He tilted his head. "Unless you'd prefer we speak to your brother about those letters he's been smuggling to the Bedouin?"
Her face went pale. The vial disappeared into her apron.
By nightfall, the castle's halls echoed with the groans of knights clutching their stomachs. The garrison captain stumbled from the latrines, his face slick with sweat, and collapsed against a wall. "Fetch the physician!" he croaked to a passing squire.
The squire didn't answer. He was too busy vomiting in the corner.
The Lord of Kerak stormed into the war chamber, his boots kicking up rushes from the floor. The assembled knights snapped to attention, their faces drawn from lack of sleep and lingering illness.
"Where are the eastern patrols?" Reynald demanded, slamming his gauntleted fist onto the oak table. A goblet toppled, staining the maps with wine like blood.
Sir Gaston, his second-in-command, swallowed hard. "The scouts haven't returned, my lord. Perhaps the sandstorms—"
"Sandstorms don't eat men whole!" Reynald's face turned the color of raw meat beneath his beard. Spittle flew from his lips as he rounded on his commanders. "Double the watch! Triple it! And I want every damned merchant in the lower town hanged by dawn!"
From the shadows near the spice sacks, a Sand Fox operative listened, his face hidden beneath a hood. His fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger at his belt as Reynald continued his tirade.
Too late, my lord, the operative thought. Far too late.
That night, the stablemaster awoke to a hand clamped over his mouth. His eyes bulged as cold steel slid across his throat. The last thing he saw was a pair of dark eyes glinting in the torchlight before the world faded to black.
Near the postern gate, two guards slumped against the wall, their throats cut so swiftly they had no time to cry out. A shadowy figure relieved them of their keys before melting into the night.
Out in the desert, Bedouin raiders descended on a supply caravan like wolves upon sheep. Steel flashed in the moonlight, and soon the sands ran red. When the slaughter ended, the raiders arranged the drivers' heads in a grinning row facing Kerak's walls—a message written in flesh and bone.
A week later, the first riot broke out near the granaries. A mob of townspeople, their faces gaunt from dwindling rations, clashed with guards over a spilled sack of moldy grain.
"Thieves! Traitors!" The garrison captain swung his mace, crushing a baker's skull. The crowd scattered, but the damage was done. That night, whispers slithered through Kerak's alleyways like venomous snakes:
"The Muslims are coming."
"The wells will be next."
"Reynald has doomed us all."
In his chambers, the Lord of Kerak stared at the reports of missing patrols, poisoned supplies, and vanished sentries. For the first time in his brutal life, Reynald de Châtillon felt the cold finger of fear trace down his spine.
Somewhere beyond the walls, unseen enemies were tightening a noose around his neck. And he couldn't even see the rope.
The first light of dawn crept over the desert, painting the sky in pale gold. The Ayyubid army appeared on the horizon, their banners fluttering in the cool morning breeze. They moved slowly, their numbers modest—barely three thousand men. Behind them, their siege engines lay disassembled, scattered like forgotten toys.
From the high walls of Kerak, Reynald de Châtillon watched, his lips curling into a sneer. His knights, clad in gleaming mail, gathered behind him, restless for battle.
"Look at them," Reynald barked, strapping on his sword with a sharp snap of leather. "Allah's favor has abandoned them! They come with no siege, no plan—only their own foolish pride!"
His men roared in agreement, their voices thick with confidence. The gates of Kerak groaned open, and the Crusader cavalry surged forward, lances lowered, hooves pounding the earth like thunder.
The Ayyubid forces barely resisted. At the first clash, their lines wavered, then broke. Men turned and fled, their retreat chaotic, their cries of fear ringing across the sands.
Reynald laughed, spurring his horse faster. "After them! Cut them down before they reach the pass!"
The Crusaders thundered after the fleeing Muslims, their blood hot with the promise of an easy victory. Dust swirled in their wake as they chased the enemy toward the narrow valley, where the high cliffs loomed like silent sentinels.
From his hidden perch atop the eastern ridge, Taimur watched, his expression calm. Beside him, a Bedouin scout crouched, his fingers tightening around his bow.
"Now," Taimur said, his voice quiet but firm.
The desert itself seemed to come alive. Bedouin warriors rose from the sands, their forms hidden until the last possible moment. A storm of arrows darkened the sky, hissing as they rained down upon the Crusaders.
Reynald's triumphant grin vanished. His horse reared as an arrow struck its flank, and around him, men screamed, their armor no protection against the deadly volley.
"Ambush!" a knight bellowed, his voice raw with panic.
Too late.
Boulders, hidden along the cliffs, were sent crashing down, crushing men and horses alike. Pits, carefully dug and concealed beneath thin layers of sand, swallowed charging knights whole. The narrow pass became a death trap, the Crusaders packed too tightly to flee.
Reynald wheeled his horse, his cloak torn, his face streaked with blood and dust. He snarled a curse, his eyes wild with fury—and fear.
"Retreat!" he roared. "Back to the castle!"
But the way back was already closing. The Bedouin closed in, their blades flashing. The Ayyubid forces, no longer fleeing, now turned with disciplined precision, cutting off escape.
Reynald spurred his horse through the chaos, his surviving knights struggling to keep up. Behind him, the valley echoed with the screams of dying men, the once-proud Crusader charge reduced to slaughter.
Taimur watched him go, his face unreadable.
"Let him run," he murmured. "Kerak's walls won't save him for long."
The trap had been sprung. The first move of the siege was his.
And Reynald had played right into his hands.
The first cannon blast shook Kerak's walls just before dawn. A thunderous roar split the morning air, followed by the sharp crack of stone breaking apart. Dust and debris rained down on the defenders as they scrambled to their posts, their shouts lost in the chaos.
Taimur stood atop a low ridge, watching as his engineers loaded the next round of "sandstorm bombs" into the massive cannons. The weapons, forged in Damascus under his exacting specifications, had been hauled across the desert for this moment.
"Again," he ordered.
The cannons fired in unison, their projectiles slamming into the fortress walls. But these were no ordinary stones—they burst on impact, releasing thick clouds of fine dust that swirled like a sudden sandstorm. The defenders coughed and stumbled, blinded, their vision reduced to a hazy, choking fog.
Through the billowing dust, Taimur's siege towers lurched forward, their wheels groaning under the weight. The men inside held their breath, their hands tight around their weapons.
"Allah be with us," murmured one of the sappers, his fingers tracing the hilt of his dagger.
Beside him, a grizzled veteran spat. "Save your prayers. Today, we fight."
The towers reached the walls. Grappling hooks bit into stone, and ladders swung into place. The first wave of Ayyubid soldiers surged upward, their scimitars gleaming in the pale light.
Inside the castle, panic spread like wildfire.
"They're at the walls!" a sentry screamed, his voice raw with terror.
Reynald de Châtillon stormed into the central hall, his face streaked with soot, his once-fine surcoat now filthy and torn. His remaining knights—those who hadn't deserted or fallen to sickness—gathered around him, their expressions grim.
"They will not take me alive," Reynald growled, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.
One of his captains, a grizzled Frank with a broken nose, stepped forward. "My lord, we can still—"
"Still what?" Reynald snapped. "Fight? Die like fools? Look around you!" He gestured wildly at the crumbling walls, the smoke-filled corridors. "This fortress is a tomb, and we are already buried."
Silence fell over the hall. The distant shouts of Ayyubid soldiers grew louder.
Reynald's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Then let them find nothing but corpses."
When Salahuddin's troops finally breached the inner sanctum, they found the hall eerily quiet. The air stank of blood and smoke. Reynald's body lay slumped against his throne, his dagger still clutched in his lifeless hand. A dark river of crimson seeped across the stone floor, pooling around his boots.
Taimur stepped over the body, his boots leaving faint prints in the blood. He studied the dead lord for a moment, then turned away.
[System Notification: Conquest of Kerak Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 66,800 / 100,000]
"Tiberias and Belfort next," he said, his voice calm.
One of Salahuddin's commanders, a broad-shouldered Kurd, frowned. "The men need rest. The siege took its toll."
Taimur didn't look back. "Then let them rest on the march. The longer we wait, the stronger our enemies grow."
Outside, the sun climbed higher, its light washing over the broken fortress. The banners of the Ayyubids fluttered atop the walls, their colors bright against the smoke-streaked sky.
Kerak had fallen.
And the war was far from over.