The lamplight flickered as Taimur weighted the corners of the map with daggers, the parchment stretching across Salahuddin's war table like a captured beast. The scent of ink and burning olive oil thickened the air as the two men stood shoulder to shoulder, studying the intricate web of smuggling routes Taimur's spies had uncovered.
"We need to strike here," Taimur said, pressing his finger to the port of Latakia. The skin around his nail was still stained from the onion juice he'd used to reveal the hidden manifest. "The Genoese ship Santa Lucia makes port in three nights. Its hold carries enough Sicilian steel to arm a hundred knights."
Salahuddin's gaze traced the coastline from Latakia to Tripoli, his brow furrowing. "Raiding a Genoese vessel risks open war with their navy."
"Which is why we don't raid it." Taimur's finger slid inland to a narrow goat path winding through the hills. "We intercept the caravan here—after the cargo's unloaded, when the Templars think it's safe." He tapped a hidden valley marked on the map. "The terrain funnels them into a killing ground. Cliffs on both sides. No escape."
The young commander's eyes darkened as he absorbed the plan. Outside, the sounds of the camp settling for the night surrounded them—the clang of armor being removed, the low murmur of soldiers at prayer, the distant braying of donkeys.
"You'll need to move fast," Taimur continued. "The Muezzin's Daughter reports the Templars have bribed the watchmen at the northern gates. They'll expect surveillance on the coast road, not the mountain passes."
Salahuddin nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of his sword hilt. "And you?"
"I'll prepare our special welcome for Tughril and his friends." Taimur's smile didn't reach his eyes. "By the time you return with Genoese steel in your wagons, we'll have eliminated three threats at once."
They worked through the night, refining the plan. Salahuddin insisted on taking only Kurdish cavalry—men who knew the mountain trails like their own tent lines. Taimur arranged for Bedouin scouts to monitor the coast, their desert-bred eyes sharp for any changes to the Genoese schedule.
As dawn painted the sky in streaks of rose and gold, Salahuddin strapped on his lamellar armor. The steel plates whispered as he moved, a sound like wind through dry reeds.
"You're sure about splitting our forces?" he asked, tightening the straps on his vambraces.
Taimur handed him the forged customs pass taken from the captured spy. "The Genoese won't expect an attack so far inland. And Tughril won't suspect his allies are walking into a tomb." He pressed a small ivory token into Salahuddin's palm—a fox's head, carved in exquisite detail. "If anything changes, send this with your fastest rider."
Outside, the cavalry was already forming up. Five hundred of Salahuddin's best warriors sat their horses in perfect silence, their breath misting in the cool morning air. The only sounds were the occasional stamp of a hoof and the creak of leather saddles.
Salahuddin mounted his stallion, the animal sidestepping with barely contained energy. He raised one hand in salute to Taimur, who stood watching from the tent entrance.
"Allah be with you," Taimur said.
"And with your trap," Salahuddin replied. Then he wheeled his horse and led the column out through the camp gates, their hooves kicking up puffs of dust that hung glittering in the sunrise.
Taimur watched until the last rider disappeared around the bend in the road. Then he turned back to the war table, where the map of Damascus waited—its carefully marked caravanserai like the beating heart of a waiting beast.
The game was in motion now.
[System Notification: Dual Operations Initiated]
[Allied Forces Deployed: 500 Cavalry Units]
[Enemy Supply Lines Marked for Interception]
The real work was about to begin.
The mountain pass lay silent under the pale light of a waning moon. Salahuddin crouched behind a weather-worn boulder, his breath steady despite the cold that bit at his exposed skin. Below him, the narrow trail wound through the cliffs like a coiled serpent—the perfect place for an ambush. His Kurdish cavalry waited in the shadows, their horses' hooves muffled with strips of cloth, their weapons blackened with soot to avoid any betraying glint.
A soft whistle cut through the darkness—the signal from his forward scout. The caravan was approaching.
Salahuddin pressed his palm against the stone, feeling the faint vibrations before he heard the sounds. The distant clink of harnesses. The creak of wagon wheels. The occasional muttered curse in Genoese dialect. The Templars had been clever enough to avoid the main roads—but not clever enough to question why this "secret" route felt so conveniently deserted.
The first wagon rounded the bend, its wooden axles groaning under the weight. Moonlight revealed the angular shapes beneath the canvas—crates of weapons, not bolts of silk as the manifest claimed. Behind it marched a dozen Templar knights, red crosses hidden beneath dark cloaks, hands never far from their swords.
Salahuddin waited until the entire caravan was swallowed by the pass. Then he raised his hand—and brought it down in a sharp motion.
The night erupted into chaos.
Arrows hissed from the cliffs above, striking gaps in armor with deadly precision. The lead wagon's horse screamed as a shaft pierced its neck, collapsing and blocking the path forward. From the rear, Salahuddin's cavalry charged, curved blades flashing as they cut off escape.
The Templars died well. He would give them that. They formed a tight circle around the wagons, their greatswords cutting down two of his men before they fell. But surprise and terrain favored the Muslims. Within minutes, the last knight slumped against a wagon wheel, lifeblood seeping into the earth.
The Genoese merchants proved less brave. They threw themselves to the ground, wailing offers of ransom in broken Arabic. Salahuddin's men dragged them up, binding their hands with the same ropes that had secured their cargo.
"Search the wagons," Salahuddin ordered, wiping his blade clean on a fallen knight's cloak.
What they found confirmed every suspicion.
Beneath layers of straw and cheap trade goods lay:
Two hundred Milanese breastplates, each stamped with the crescent moon of Sicilian manufacture.
Fifty barrels of naphtha mixture, carefully packed in sawdust.
A locked iron chest containing letters of credit from Genoese banks to the Templar treasury.
But the true prize came from the mouth of a trembling merchant. "There—there is another shipment," the man stammered. "Coming by sea to Tripoli. In eight nights' time."
Salahuddin smiled. The hunt was just beginning.
As dawn painted the cliffs in rose and gold, his men loaded the captured weapons onto their own horses. The dead Templars were left where they fell—a message. The Genoese prisoners were taken along, their knowledge worth more than any ransom.
The pass fell silent once more, save for the cawing of crows gathering for their grim feast. By the time the Templars at Krak des Chevaliers realized their shipment was gone, Salahuddin would be halfway to Damascus, his men singing victory songs—his enemies' plans crumbling to dust.
[System Notification: Supply Line Severed]
[+500 Merit Points: Major Arms Cache Captured]
[+500 Merit Points: Genoese Prisoners Taken]
[Total Merit Points: 7,800/10,000]
The road ahead was long, but the first blow had been struck. And it would not be the last.
The rider arrived as the first call to Fajr echoed over the Damascus camp, his horse slick with sweat, its flanks heaving from the relentless ride through the night. Taimur stood at the entrance of the command tent, already awake—roused moments earlier by the watchmen's horn. The messenger dismounted stiffly, fingers caked in dust as he fumbled with his saddlebag before producing two items: an ivory fox-head token, and a sealed parchment marked with Salahuddin's personal sigil.
Taimur broke the seal with his thumbnail. The crisp snap of parchment unfurling echoed in the predawn silence. Salahuddin's message was concise but potent—details of the intercepted caravan, the captured Genoese merchants, and most critically, intelligence about a second shipment bound for Tripoli in eight nights. The phrase "three hundred more breastplates" had been underlined twice, the ink slightly smudged, as if scrawled in the blood-stained aftermath of battle.
Dawn had barely begun to kiss the horizon when Taimur's response was ready. His message held not only approval for the Tripoli raid, but an execution plan laced with surgical precision—guard rotations, tide schedules, weaknesses in Tripoli's harbor defenses, even the name of a harbor master willing to trade silence for gold. Instead of his ring, he sealed it with a drop of black wax and pressed his thumb into it—a mark that meant the message was for Salahuddin's eyes alone.
The same exhausted courier departed again, though now with a fresh horse and armed escort. As they rode north, Taimur turned back toward the unfolding Damascus operation, sparing a single whispered prayer to whatever power had aligned the timing so perfectly. The Genoese would soon understand the price of trading with wolves.
Seven nights later, Salahuddin stood atop a rocky outcrop overlooking Tripoli's harbor, the salt wind tugging at his cloak. Below, the Genoese cog San Giovanni rested at anchor, its sails furled, gangplanks busy with dockworkers under the eyes of Templar guards. To a passing observer, it was a peaceful scene—another merchant vessel unloading goods under cover of night.
But the Sand Foxes had pierced the veil.
Salahuddin's men moved like phantoms through the dark. The harbor master, properly bribed, had seen to it that the night's watch was skeleton-thin, with several key guards summoned conveniently away to a tavern. A team of swimmers slipped into the black waters, skin glistening with oil as they cut toward the ship's anchor chain like shadows beneath the waves.
The distraction came first—a warehouse fire blooming orange and hungry against the night sky. As predicted, the Templar guards broke formation, half of them racing toward the blaze. The remaining few were still shouting orders when Salahuddin's men struck from three directions at once.
The clash was brutal and swift. Templars died defending their cargo, red crosses soaked crimson as their blood seeped into the deck. The Genoese crew surrendered with little resistance, their loyalty to coin vanishing under Kurdish steel.
Below decks, the prize was richer than expected. Not only the promised three hundred Milanese breastplates, but five hundred crossbows, their cords lacquered and sealed in oiled cloth. Casks of wine concealed sacks of Venetian gold stamped for Templar accounts.
As dawn broke, Salahuddin's warriors loaded the captured arms onto stolen mules. Behind them, the San Giovanni burned—rigging aflame, sails curling in the heat—a message written in fire to all who dared supply the enemy. The Genoese prisoners were gagged and bound, their fate postponed. For now, Damascus awaited.
The gates of Damascus opened to thunderous cheers. The returning column gleamed with captured steel, and the prisoners stumbled behind like condemned men in a parade of victory. Townspeople lined the streets, casting flower petals and praises in equal measure. The smell of rosewater and woodsmoke hung heavy in the morning air.
Taimur stood atop the citadel steps, his gaze sweeping across the spoils. His face betrayed little, but when Salahuddin dismounted and gripped his forearm, the quiet gleam in his eye said everything.
Together, they strode through the armory where the captured weapons were being tallied—row upon row of Milanese breastplates now destined for Muslim warriors. The gold would fill the war chest. The crossbows would be handed to Taimur's elite formations.
As the sun dipped low and the city prepared for Maghrib, two men stood on the palace balcony, watching Damascus bathe in twilight. The first major blow against the Templar-Genoese alliance had landed, clean and brutal.
But it would not be the last.
[System Notification: Major Strategic Victory]
[+500 Merit Points: Second Arms Cache Captured]
[+500 Merit Points: Genoese Supply Lines Severed]
[Total Merit Points: 8,800/10,000]
The game had changed. And Taimur intended to rewrite all the rules.