The rising sun painted the coastal plain in hues of gold and crimson as Salahuddin's army formed their battle lines. Before them stood Gaza, its ancient walls baked hard by centuries of relentless sun, its gates reinforced with iron bands newly placed to withstand a siege. The city had long been a thorn in the side of the Muslims—raiding their caravans, sheltering Frankish bandits, and disrupting trade along the coast. Today, Salahuddin's forces would put an end to that nuisance once and for all.
Taimur stood tall atop his horse, lowering his brass farseeing tube to survey the city's defenses. The morning light glinted off its polished surface. He studied the walls for a long moment, his sharp eyes scanning every inch.
"Thick walls," he muttered. "Deep wells. And that—" He pointed towards the heavily fortified gatehouse, where Crusader banners fluttered in the wind. "—is where they'll make their stand."
Nasir al-Din Muhammad, Salahuddin's fiery young cousin, sat beside him, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. His impatience was palpable. "Then let the cannons speak first," he said with a smirk. "We'll pound them to rubble before they even know what hit them."
Taimur's eyes flicked to Nasir. He could sense the eagerness in the young man, but he knew better than to underestimate the defenders. "They are prepared. Don't be so quick to celebrate."
A Bedouin scout approached them, his weathered face darkened by years under the scorching sun. He spat into the dust at his feet and looked up at Taimur. "The Franks didn't come unprepared. They've hired mercenaries—Gascons and Lombards. Nasty fighters, all of them. They drink like fish and brawl like devils."
Taimur snapped the tube shut with a sharp click. "Then we'll give them a sobering lesson," he replied, his voice low but full of promise.
Nasir grinned at the comment, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a fire lighting in his eyes. "I hope they're ready for it."
Taimur didn't respond. His mind was already on the next step. He motioned to the artillery units, and the order was given.
The Ayyubid cannons, positioned just out of bowshot, roared to life. The earth trembled as the first volley of "sandstorm bombs" was launched towards the gatehouse. The sound was deafening, a sharp crack followed by a series of explosions. Clouds of dust and debris exploded into the air, thickening the atmosphere.
The defenders in Gaza staggered back, coughing as the smoke choked them. The blast had scattered their ranks. They had no time to recover before the next volley struck.
"Again!" Taimur commanded, his voice steady and firm.
The gunners worked quickly, reloading with practiced speed. Another thunderous salvo echoed through the plains, the force of the blasts rocking the walls once again. This time, stones cracked and crumbled. A section of the parapet gave way, and Crusaders were sent tumbling to the ground below in a shower of rubble.
Inside the city, the sound of the explosions reverberated through the stone streets. A Frankish captain bellowed orders, his voice hoarse and strained from the dust in the air. He had seen enough—he knew the city would not hold long if the bombardment continued. "Hold the breach! For God and gold, hold it!" he shouted to his mercenaries, his voice cracking with desperation.
The mercenaries—burly Gascons with scarred faces, and Lombards in dented armor—rushed to form a shield wall in front of the damaged gate. Their pikes bristled outward, sharp and threatening, like the spines of a great beast.
"Don't let them in! Hold the line!" the captain roared, his eyes wild.
But as they stood there, the ground beneath them began to tremble.
The Asad al-Harb, Salahuddin's elite heavy cavalry, came charging across the field with terrifying speed. Their lances dipped as they closed the distance, their hooves drumming against the earth. The cavalry struck the Crusader mercenaries like a hammer against an anvil.
The shield wall was torn apart in an instant. Men screamed as they were trampled under hooves, their armor useless against the fury of the charging cavalry. The mercenaries' pikes splintered as the riders crashed into them, and the sharp edge of the Muslims' scimitars tore through their ranks.
Nasir al-Din led the second wave himself, his face alight with battle lust. His sword was already slick with blood before he even reached the fray. "Allahu akbar!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise of the battle.
The Gascons and Lombards, notorious for their ferocity, were no match for the discipline and skill of the Ayyubid heavy cavalry. Many of them turned to flee, abandoning their weapons as they ran. Others threw themselves to the ground, begging for mercy.
Nasir rode through them with a cold fury, his sword flashing through the air as it struck down one man after another. "Push forward!" he shouted to his men. "The gate is ours!"
With the mercenaries in full retreat, the gate was swiftly secured. The city of Gaza, once a symbol of defiance, had fallen within hours.
Inside the city, the remnants of the Frankish defense fled into the heart of Gaza. They had been defeated, but the Frankish governor was not yet ready to accept the inevitable. He had barricaded himself in his tower, his men falling around him like flies.
Salahuddin's soldiers found him there, surrounded by the corpses of his last loyal guards. His fine surcoat was stained with wine and blood, his face pale with a mixture of fear and defiance.
"You'll hang for this," the governor spat, his voice hoarse and laced with hatred.
Taimur stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the defeated man. He reached out, taking the governor's jeweled dagger from his side and turning it over in his hands, examining its fine craftsmanship.
"This one goes to Qaraqush in Kerak," Taimur said coolly, tossing the dagger to one of the Sand Fox operatives standing nearby. "Let him explain to his fellow Franks why Gaza fell in a single day."
The governor's face flushed with rage. "You think you've won? You're still nothing but dogs, you—"
Taimur silenced him with a single gesture, and the governor was dragged away, still cursing beneath his breath.
As the governor was led off, the city's imam, an elderly man with a weary expression, approached Salahuddin. His face softened as he looked upon the Sultan, relief clear in his eyes. "And the people, my Sultan?" he asked, his voice low with concern.
Salahuddin sheathed his sword, his gaze unreadable. "The mosques will reopen. The jizya will be collected. Gaza is ours now."
His voice was firm, the decision final. There would be no reprieve for those who had resisted. The city's fate had been sealed.
By dusk, the sails of the Sea Wolves, Salahuddin's fleet from Damascus, appeared on the horizon, cutting through the calm sea towards Gaza's newly secured harbor. Their arrival marked the completion of the conquest. The captured Crusader ships, once symbols of resistance, now smoldered in the shallows, their decks littered with arrows and the bodies of those who had fought to the bitter end.
Taimur stood on the city's newly reinforced battlements, watching as laborers worked tirelessly to strengthen the gates with the captured Frankish steel. The sight of the walls being fortified, the once proud city now under Muslim control, filled him with a quiet satisfaction. This city would not fall again.
"One more stone in the wall," he murmured to himself, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Salahuddin joined him on the battlements, his cloak tugged by the sea wind. He, too, surveyed the work being done to fortify Gaza. "Jerusalem can wait," he said, his voice thoughtful, distant. "But not too long."
Taimur nodded, his gaze following the distant ships as they docked. "The world does not rest. Neither can we."
Just then, somewhere far to the north, a lone trumpet sounded—a call to rest, signaling the end of the day's battle.
For now, Gaza was secured, but the war was far from over. The winds of war continued to blow across the lands, and Salahuddin knew that the next challenge was already looming on the horizon. But for today, they had won. Today, Gaza was theirs.
"Rest, my cousin," Salahuddin said quietly to Nasir, who had joined them on the battlements. "Tomorrow brings another fight."
Nasir's eyes were still alight with the thrill of battle, but he nodded. "Tomorrow," he agreed. "But for now… tonight, Gaza is ours."
[System Notification: Conquest of Gaza Complete]
[+5,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 77,800 / 100,000]
And as the night descended over the city, the fires of victory burned bright on the horizon, while the streets of Gaza, newly liberated, echoed with the quiet sounds of soldiers and citizens alike preparing for what would come next.