The first light of dawn crept over the Judean hills, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and amber as Taimur stood motionless atop the command ridge. Below him, Jerusalem's ancient walls rose like a slumbering beast, its towers and battlements dark against the waking sky. The air hung heavy with the scent of oiled chainmail, smoldering fuses, and the metallic tang of anticipation. Every breath tasted like impending steel.
Taimur's gaze never wavered from the western gate as Al-Zahir Ghazi approached, his boots crunching softly on the gravel.
"Begin the bombardment," Taimur said, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "Make it loud. Make it relentless. I want every Frankish knight in that city staring at these walls when death comes from the east."
Al-Zahir's teeth flashed white in the predawn gloom. "They'll think Judgment Day has come early." He turned, raising a gloved hand high.
A heartbeat later, the signal fires blazed.
The world erupted in thunder.
The first cannonball struck with the force of a falling mountain. The western gate shuddered violently, wood splintering like dry bones beneath a warhammer. Before the echoes faded, a second impact followed, then a third—each blast timed with cruel precision.
On the battlements, Frankish sentries stumbled as the stones beneath their feet trembled.
"To arms! To arms!" roared a barrel-chested sergeant, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. He grabbed a fleeing squire by the collar. "Sound the alarm, boy! Wake every last whoreson in this city!"
High in the Tower of David, glass shattered as the vibrations rattled the stained windows. A young knight crossed himself fervently, his lips moving in silent prayer.
"Hold the gate!" bellowed the castellan, his face streaked with sweat and soot. "Archers to the walls! Pikemen to the courtyard!"
The Frankish defenders scrambled into position, their movements frantic but disciplined. Archers nocked arrows with trembling fingers, their eyes scanning the smoke-choked horizon for the first signs of scaling ladders or siege towers.
"Where are their ladders?" muttered a grizzled longbowman, squinting through the dust.
His companion spat over the parapet. "They mean to batter the gate down first. Cowards won't even give us a clean fight."
Below in the courtyard, knights checked their armor straps for the tenth time, their swords gleaming in the eerie half-light of dawn. A banneret paced before his men, his voice carrying over the din.
"Remember Acre! Remember Hattin! Not one step back!"
The men roared in response, their voices thick with fear and fervor.
Back on the ridge, Taimur watched the chaos unfold through his farseeing tube. Every Frankish banner, every reserve unit, every last knight was now rushing toward the western gate—just as planned.
Al-Zahir wiped black powder from his hands. "They've taken the bait. Every defender in the city is staring at these walls."
Taimur nodded once. "Then we've already won."
The cannons roared again, their fury unrelenting. The gates groaned under the assault, their iron hinges screaming in protest.
But no Muslim soldier advanced.
No ladders touched the walls.
Only the endless, earth-shaking thunder—a symphony of misdirection playing its final, devastating movement.
The first pale light of dawn had barely touched the eastern walls of Jerusalem when Al-Muzaffar Umar gave the signal. The massive siege cannons, carefully positioned under cover of darkness, now stood ready to unleash their fury upon the ancient stones of St. Stephen's Gate. The air was still, heavy with the scent of damp earth and gunpowder.
"Ready the first volley," Al-Muzaffar commanded, his voice barely above a whisper.
The gunners moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting the elevation of their cannons, packing the black powder, and ramming home the heavy stone shot. The fuses hissed as they were lit, the sparks crawling toward their deadly payloads.
A tense silence followed—the breath before the storm.
Then, the world exploded.
The first cannonball struck with the force of a falling mountain. The ancient masonry of St. Stephen's Gate shuddered violently, cracks spiderwebbing through the weathered stones. Before the dust could settle, a second blast followed, then a third—each impact precise, methodical, brutal.
Inside the city, the Frankish sentries stumbled back in shock.
"By God's wounds!" cried an aging sergeant, clutching at his helmet as debris rained down around him. "They're attacking the east!"
A young squire, his face pale with terror, turned to flee—only to be grabbed by a grizzled knight.
"Sound the alarm, boy! Wake the entire damned city!"
But it was already too late.
With a final, deafening crash, a massive section of the wall collapsed inward, sending a cloud of dust and shattered stone billowing into the streets. The breach yawned wide—a gaping wound in Jerusalem's defenses.
Al-Muzaffar did not hesitate.
"Now!" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos.
The first wave of Ayyubid warriors surged forward, their war cries rising like a storm. Scimitars flashed in the growing light as they poured through the shattered gate, their charge unstoppable.
The handful of Frankish defenders—old veterans and untested recruits—barely had time to raise their swords before they were overwhelmed.
The alarm bells of Jerusalem clanged in frantic, discordant peals as the truth became clear—the city had been breached.
Balian of Ibelin, sprinting through the chaos, grabbed a fleeing squire by the arm. "Where is the attack?"
"The east!" the boy gasped. "They've broken through St. Stephen's Gate!"
Balian's blood ran cold. "Rally every man you can! We must hold them in the inner quarter!"
But it was too late.
The Ayyubid forces poured into the city like a flood, their advance unstoppable. The narrow streets became killing grounds, Frankish knights fighting back-to-back as Muslim warriors pressed in from all sides.
Just as panic began to spread among the defenders, a new horror unfolded. The deafening sound of the bombardment, which had rattled the city's bones for days, suddenly ceased. For a moment, there was an eerie silence—a pause that seemed to stretch forever. It was a brief reprieve, but the sense of dread was palpable. No one dared to relax; they knew what was coming. Then, from the smoke and dust that still clung to the air, a terrible new sound reached the ears of the Crusaders.
A thunderous crash echoed from the western gate. The massive wooden doors, cracked and splintered from the repeated cannon fire, trembled violently as if they were alive. The ground shook beneath their feet, and the sound of galloping hooves filled the air. It was no longer the heavy bombardment that threatened to break their lines—it was the charging cavalry of Salahuddin's elite forces.
Balian, his armor soaked with the blood of his comrades and enemies alike, turned just in time to see the Asad al-Harb, the fierce Ayyubid cavalry, emerge from the haze of smoke. They were a wall of lances, their points lowered, the cruel iron tips gleaming like the jaws of wolves. They came at the Crusaders like a tidal wave, their war cries rising above the din of battle. The sound was guttural, primal, and filled with a terrifying certainty that this was the end.
Balian's heart raced, and his breath came in sharp, desperate gasps as he saw the first of the cavalry crash into the ragged lines of Crusader defenders. The force of the charge was overwhelming. A knight beside Balian screamed in agony as a lance pierced his chest, the sheer force of the blow knocking him off his feet. His body crumpled to the ground, leaving a bloody trail behind him.
The defenders, already stretched thin and worn down by days of relentless siege, broke under the impact. A knight, his face pale with terror, turned to Balian, his voice hoarse with fear. "We're surrounded!" he screamed, his sword trembling in his hands.
Balian's sword was slick with blood, his grip unsteady as he looked around. His mind raced, calculating, searching for a way out. But it was hopeless. As the smoke cleared, he saw the truth of it—the Ayyubid banners now flew at both ends of the street. The Crusaders were caught in a vise, squeezed on all sides by the relentless Ayyubid forces. There was no escape. No salvation. The western gate had fallen, and with it, any chance of a victory.
"Hold the line!" Balian bellowed, but even his voice, fierce and commanding, couldn't disguise the fear gnawing at his gut. The streets were packed with soldiers, both friend and foe, and the battle had devolved into a desperate, bloody melee. Swords clashed against shields, shields splintered under the force of blows, and the sounds of men dying filled the air. The blood of the fallen soaked the cobblestones, turning the once-proud streets of Jerusalem into a river of crimson.
A Crusader knight, barely a boy by the look of him, stumbled past Balian, his face stricken with terror. He had seen the cavalry charge, had watched helplessly as his comrades fell beneath the hooves of the Ayyubid cavalry. His eyes were wide with fear, his voice shaking as he shouted, "They're everywhere! We can't—there's no way out!"
Balian grabbed him by the arm, his grip iron-hard. "Focus, lad. Focus! You fight for your life, for Jerusalem. Do not let fear take you!"
But even Balian knew the truth. His own heart raced, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but there was no denying the grim reality that faced them. The Ayyubid cavalry was relentless, and the Crusaders were outmatched, outnumbered, and demoralized. The walls had fallen, the gates had crumbled, and the streets were now a battlefield with no clear victor.
As the cavalry swept through the defenders, Balian was thrown into the thick of it. His sword was a blur, cutting down an Ayyubid soldier, but even as he struck, more enemies appeared, their faces twisted with fury. The Crusaders' resistance was faltering. They fought like cornered animals, but the Ayyubids pressed on with unyielding force, their discipline and training evident in every strike. Balian's movements became sluggish as exhaustion overtook him. His body ached, his vision blurred, but he fought on, because that was all he could do.
"Push them back! For God's sake, push them back!" a voice shouted from behind him, but there was no strength left to obey the command. The Crusaders' line was crumbling, their swords growing heavier with each swing, and their shields weaker with each deflection. The Ayyubid cavalry were on all sides now, forcing the defenders into smaller and smaller pockets of resistance.
The first wave of cavalry had passed, but more were coming. It seemed as if they would never stop. Each charge was a wave, relentless and unyielding. Balian saw one of his knights—an old friend—cut down before him, the man's head taken clean off by a swift stroke of an Ayyubid sword. His body crumpled like a puppet with its strings severed.
The knight's death sent a surge of fury through Balian. He roared, charging into the fray, his sword striking down two soldiers with a single swing. But his actions were futile; the Ayyubids just kept coming, like a storm that would not end. His breath was ragged, his hands slick with sweat and blood as he continued to fight, but deep down, he knew it was all in vain.
A terrified scream cut through the air, and Balian turned just in time to see a Crusader, his face pale with fear, trying to flee down a narrow alleyway. His armor clattered against the stones as he ran, but he didn't get far. A cavalryman on horseback appeared in the alley, his lance aimed with deadly precision. The Crusader didn't stand a chance. The lance found its mark, and the man's body was impaled, blood spilling across the street as he crumpled to the ground.
Balian's stomach twisted with horror. The Crusaders were no longer fighting for victory. They were fighting for survival, but even that was slipping away with each passing moment.
"We can't hold! Fall back!" a voice cried from the rear of the lines. It was the command Balian had feared, the one he knew would come but had hoped would never be uttered. The remnants of the Crusader army, broken and shattered, began to retreat, but it was no longer an organized withdrawal. It was a rout, and the Ayyubids showed no mercy.
Balian's mind raced, his heart heavy with the weight of defeat. There was no way to save Jerusalem now. The city, once the jewel of Christendom, was lost. And with it, the Crusaders' dream of victory.
As the last of the Crusaders fled toward the citadel, Balian paused for a moment to look back at the western gate. The Ayyubid forces had overwhelmed them completely. Their banners fluttered triumphantly above the fallen gates, a symbol of the Crusaders' final failure.