The evening air in Damascus was thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant murmur of the city settling into night. Salahuddin stood on the palace balcony, his fingers drumming against the marble railing. Below, the lights of the city flickered like scattered stars.
Taimur approached, his footsteps silent on the polished stone. He knew what was coming. Salahuddin had that look in his eyes—the one that meant Jerusalem was weighing on his mind again.
"You're thinking about it," Taimur said, joining him at the railing.
Salahuddin didn't look at him. "Every day."
Taimur exhaled slowly. "We can't march yet."
Salahuddin turned, his gaze sharp. "Why not? Gaza is ours. The coast is nearly secure. What more do we need?"
"Security," Taimur said. "We can't ride for Jerusalem with our backs exposed. The Zengids in Mosul still have teeth. And Syria needs its own navy—proper control of the sea, not just scattered victories."
Salahuddin frowned. "The Zengids are broken."
"Broken, but not gone," Taimur countered. "And a cornered wolf is the most dangerous kind."
There was a long silence. The distant call of the muezzin floated over the city, a reminder of the hour. Salahuddin finally sighed. "Then what do you propose?"
Taimur leaned against the railing, his voice low and deliberate.
Phase One: Latakia
"It's the weakest link in the northern coast. Minimal defenses, demoralized garrison. We take it, and we have our first true naval base in Syria. The Sea Wolves can dock there, resupply, and strike deeper into Crusader waters."
Salahuddin nodded slowly. "And after?"
Phase Two: Tartus
"Tartus is still infested with Frankish collaborators. We take the city, hang the traitors publicly, and establish a second base. Let the others see what happens when they resist."
A shadow passed over Salahuddin's face, but he didn't argue. "Go on."
Phase Three: Jableh
"Small but vital. Once it's ours, we control the entire Syrian coast. No more Frankish ships slipping past to resupply Tyre or Beirut."
Phase Four: Cyprus
Taimur's voice grew colder. "We use the ports to launch raids on Cyprus. Burn their docks, sink their ships, make sure no help reaches the Crusaders when we finally march on Jerusalem."
Salahuddin was quiet for a long moment. Then, grudgingly, he nodded. "You're right. We do this your way."
Taimur smirked. "I usually am."
Salahuddin shot him a look, but there was no real anger in it. "Don't push your luck, Scholar."
A servant approached, bowing low. "My Sultan, the emissary from Aleppo has arrived."
Salahuddin straightened. "We'll continue this later."
As he walked away, Taimur remained at the balcony, staring out at the city. The path to Jerusalem was long, but every step was calculated.
And he would make sure they took those steps on his terms.
Latakia
The morning mist clung to the coastal road as Salahuddin's army advanced toward Latakia. The city's silhouette emerged from the haze—its walls less imposing than Gaza's, but still a stubborn obstacle. The Sea Wolves' galleys lurked just offshore, their sails furled, waiting for the signal.
Taimur rode beside Salahuddin at the vanguard, his eyes scanning the defenses. "The garrison commander is a Frank named Henri—more merchant than warrior. He'll talk before he fights."
Turan-Shah, ever impatient, scoffed. "Then why not just storm the gates? We'd be done by noon."
"Because dead men can't pay tribute," Taimur said flatly. "And we need this port intact."
Under a white flag, Taimur approached Latakia's main gate with only two Sand Fox bodyguards. The Frankish envoy who met him was pale, his silk robes too fine for a soldier.
"Emir Henri demands to know why you besiege a neutral city," the envoy stammered.
Taimur smiled. "Neutral? Your warehouses feed Crusader armies. Your docks shelter their spies." He tossed a scroll at the man's feet—a list of ships that had smuggled weapons to Acre. "Your 'neutrality' is a lie."
The envoy swallowed. "What terms do you offer?"
"Open the gates by sunset. Your people keep their homes, their goods, their lives. Refuse..." Taimur nodded toward the Sea Wolves' fleet. "...and we burn your precious harbor to the waterline."
Henri folded before dusk.
The gates creaked open to reveal a delegation of trembling merchants. The Frankish commander knelt in the dirt, offering his sword to Salahuddin.
"Spare the city," Henri begged.
Salahuddin took the blade but didn't raise it. "Your ships are now ours. Your tariffs will fund our navy. Swear loyalty, and you may keep trading."
The merchants gasped—this was better than they'd hoped.
Taimur watched, satisfied. Fear had won the day, but gold would secure it.
By nightfall, Ayyubid banners flew over Latakia's docks. The Sea Wolves' sailors swarmed the harbor, inspecting every vessel.
Turan-Shah kicked a crate of Venetian silk. "This is what we fought for? Spices?"
Taimur pried open another crate—Milanese steel ingots. "No. 'This' is." He turned to the ship's captain. "Who paid you to smuggle these?"
The man's silence was answer enough.
"Chain him in the hold," Taimur ordered. "He'll confess in Damascus."
As the stars emerged, Salahuddin stood on the newly conquered docks. "One port down."
Taimur joined him, watching the dark waves. "Tartus next. Then Jableh."
The Sea Wolves' drums began to beat—a rhythm like a slow-building storm.
Tartus
The morning sun burned away the last traces of coastal fog as Salahuddin's army arrayed itself before the walls of Tartus. Unlike Latakia, this port city had been a Crusader stronghold for generations—its high walls scarred by previous sieges but still standing defiant. The Frankish garrison here was larger, better trained, and led by a grizzled veteran of the Holy Wars: Sir Guy de Montferrat.
Taimur studied the defenses through his brass farseeing tube, noting the positions of the ballistae atop the gates. "They've reinforced the seaward walls," he observed. "The Sea Wolves won't find an easy approach here."
Beside him, Salahuddin's brother, Turan-Shah , flexed his mailed fingers around the hilt of his sword. "Then we go through the front gate. Let them see the strength of Allah's warriors before they fall."
A Sand Fox operative materialized from the ranks, his face half-hidden by a dusty scarf. "The Franks have been stockpiling Greek fire, my Emirs. And Sir Guy has promised his men that no Muslim will set foot inside Tartus alive."
Taimur snapped the tube shut with a click. "We'll see about that."
At noon, the Ayyubid cannons roared to life. The newly forged "stone-splitter" rounds—carved from black Damascus granite—slammed into the main gates with earth-shaking force. Wood splintered, iron bands twisted, but the heavy doors held.
From the walls, Sir Guy's laughter carried across the battlefield. "Is that the best you can do, heathens?"
Turan-Shah snarled and turned to Salahuddin. "Let me lead the assault, brother. I'll tear that Frank's tongue from his mouth!"
Salahuddin held up a hand. "Patience." His eyes met Taimur's. "You have another plan."
Taimur nodded. "The Sand Foxes have been busy."
As dusk fell, chaos erupted inside Tartus.
First, the granaries burst into flames—Greek fire turned against its masters, set ablaze by Sand Fox infiltrators. Then the screams began near the eastern water gates, where half the garrison had been drinking from wine barrels "gifted" by a seemingly friendly merchant. The wine had been cut with a slow-acting poison, one that left men writhing in the dirt, clutching their bellies as blood foamed at their lips.
Sir Guy roared orders, but his voice was lost in the panic.
At midnight, the Sea Wolves struck. While the Franks fought the fires, Muslim warships slipped into the harbor, their decks packed with Nubian berserkers who scaled the seaward walls with grappling hooks. By the time the alarm was raised, the Ayyubid banner already flew from the lighthouse.
They found Sir Guy in the citadel, surrounded by his last twenty knights. The old warrior's surcoat was torn, his sword notched from battle, but his back remained straight.
"So," he spat as Salahuddin entered the hall. "The Lion of Islam comes to gloat."
Salahuddin stepped forward, his scimitar still clean. "Surrender, and you will be ransomed."
Sir Guy's laugh was bitter. "To what end? So I can rot in some Damascus prison?" His eyes flicked to Taimur. "Or does your pet sorcerer have other uses for me?"
Taimur said nothing. He didn't need to.
With a final, wordless snarl, Sir Guy charged.
The fight was over in moments.
At dawn, the people of Tartus emerged to find their city forever changed. The bodies of Frankish collaborators swung from the rebuilt gallows, while the remaining Christians were herded into the main square to hear Salahuddin's decree.
"This city is now under the protection of the Ayyubid Sultanate," he announced. "Those who swear loyalty will keep their homes. Those who resist..." He gestured to the corpses. "...will join them."
As the crowd dispersed—some relieved, others seething—Taimur climbed to the top of the citadel. Below him, the Sea Wolves' ships jostled for space in the harbor, their crews already unloading supplies for the next campaign.
"One more port to go," he murmured.
Somewhere to the south, Jerusalem waited.
Jableh
The coastal winds carried the scent of salt and smoke as the Ayyubid army assembled before the walls of Jableh. The smallest of the Crusader-held ports, Jableh had long been a thorn in Salahuddin's side—its shallow harbor perfect for Frankish raiders to slip in and out unseen. But today, that would end.
Taimur studied the city through his farseeing tube, noting the patched sections of the sea wall where previous repairs had been made. "They've reinforced the gates," he observed, "but the northern section is still weak. The stones are crumbling."
Beside him, Turan-Shah grinned, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword. "Then we hit them there. A quick strike, and the city is ours before noon."
A Sand Fox operative, his face hidden beneath a dusty hood, stepped forward. "The garrison is small—no more than two hundred Franks. The rest are local levies. They won't fight hard for Crusader masters."
Taimur lowered the tube. "Good. Then we give them a reason not to fight at all."
Under a white flag, Taimur approached Jableh's main gate with only two Nubian bodyguards. The envoy who met him was a thin, nervous man in a stained surcoat—clearly a minor noble pressed into service.
"Commander Reynard demands to know your terms," the envoy stammered.
Taimur held out a scroll. "These are Salahuddin's conditions. Open the gates, and the people keep their homes. The Franks may leave with their lives, but their weapons and gold stay behind."
The envoy's hands shook as he took the parchment. "And if we refuse?"
Taimur glanced past him to the walls, where faces peered down from the battlements—locals, not Franks. He raised his voice slightly, ensuring they heard. "Then we burn Jableh to the ground. And when the ashes settle, there will be no one left to remember its name."
A murmur rippled through the defenders.
Commander Reynard refused the terms.
But by midnight, the Sand Foxes had done their work. The local levies, bribed with promises of amnesty, turned on their Frankish masters. The gates creaked open under cover of darkness, and by the time Reynard realized what was happening, Ayyubid soldiers were already flooding the streets.
The Frankish commander barricaded himself in the citadel with his last loyal men.
"Traitors!" he roared from the battlements. "You'll all hang for this!"
From below, Taimur watched, unmoved. "No," he said. "Only you will."
At dawn, the citadel gates gave way.
Reynard fought like a cornered lion, his sword cutting down two Nubians before Turan-Shah's scimitar found his throat. The remaining Franks threw down their weapons, their faces pale with defeat.
In the main square, Salahuddin addressed the people of Jableh. "You are under Ayyubid protection now. Your homes are safe. Your lives are your own."
The locals, though wary, did not mourn the fallen Franks.
By noon, the Sea Wolves' ships docked in Jableh's harbor, their crews already unloading supplies to repair the damaged walls. Taimur stood on the newly conquered battlements, watching the horizon.
"Three ports," Turan-Shah said, joining him. "The coast is ours."
Taimur nodded. "Now we turn our eyes inland."
[System Notification: Conquest of Latakia, Tartus and Jableh Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 80,800 / 100,000]
Somewhere to the south, beyond the hills, Jerusalem waited.