The Next Morning
The first light of dawn seeped through the heavy canvas of the tent, and Mike Bai, his stomach churning from the excesses of the previous night, was rudely awakened by Sassan's voice. The wine still clouded his mind, and he shook his head, trying to shake off the fog that lingered in his consciousness.
The bloody chaos of yesterday's battle weighed heavily on his mind, and the consequences had been immediate: he had drowned his exhaustion in wine at the celebration, numbing himself to the world. He couldn't even remember how he had stumbled back to the camp.
A splash of cold water soon cleared the worst of the haze, and Mike Bai stepped out of his tent, the cool morning air brushing against his face. The camp was bathed in soft sunlight, but the ground was littered with the bodies of mercenaries—some still deep in drunken slumber after the fierce battle. It was no surprise. They, too, had used alcohol to dull their pain, just as Mike Bai had. The cost of victory was steep for all involved.
What did please Mike Bai, however, was that his personal guard still upheld the discipline he had set. The sentries remained alert, ever vigilant. Yet, seeing William snoring near his tent, and Patrick, his head resting on an empty wine bottle, Mike Bai could only shake his head in quiet amusement. He draped his fur cloak over the two of them, hoping it would offer some comfort.
"Milord, we must hurry! King Baldwin summoned you for a meeting this morning," Sassan urged.
Mike Bai, his mind still groggy, finally recalled the summons. "Ah, yes… I suppose I'd better get going," he muttered. With Sassan's help, he quickly mounted his horse and galloped toward the castle.
As they neared the hall, an uneasy murmur reached Mike Bai's ears. The voices inside were raised in heated argument.
"There's only one way forward, and it leads to our doom! You fool!"
"But if we retreat to Jerusalem, we won't have the time to prepare!"
Sure enough, the hall was in disarray. King Baldwin sat at the head of a long table, maps spread before him, depicting rivers, mountains, and scattered fortresses.
Mike Bai had intended to slip in unnoticed, but just as he entered, Count Reynard spotted him.
"Well, well, if it isn't our little hero, Baron Mike Bai!" Reynard teased, his voice laced with sarcasm.
But before Mike Bai could respond, General Audod, a large, imposing man, barked, "Get over here, you reckless fool!"
Mike Bai quickly bowed his head, grateful for the support he had bought with his coin, and hurried to the table.
King Baldwin glanced up briefly but waved him off, returning his attention to the map.
Rather than the noble bickering, Mike Bai's focus shifted to the map. On the western edge, a small fortress was marked, with three pawn-like infantry pieces holding shields and spears, and a knight riding out. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and Mike Bai immediately recognized the pieces as representing his own forces.
Not far to the north of Ascalon, however, there was a cluster of pieces representing Saladin's army, and though Mike Bai didn't want to count, he could sense the overwhelming numbers.
"If Baron Mike Bai could recreate the miracle of yesterday, we might easily cut off Saladin's head," Count Reynard suggested, his tone dripping with temptation.
Lost in thought, Mike Bai was suddenly brought back to reality when his name was called. He looked up to find everyone staring at him with expectation.
"I'm sorry, but I can't help you anymore," Mike Bai said, raising a hand in regret. Seeing their disappointed faces, he sighed. "The truth is, I accidentally discovered that the gunpowder for fireworks, when sealed in a confined space, can create an explosion. However, the nitrate needed to make the gunpowder only comes from the Saracens, and it's in limited supply. The stock from yesterday was all I had left from these past few years."
There was a collective sigh of disappointment. But King Baldwin remained unfazed. He scanned the map, looking from Jerusalem to Ascalon, before suddenly asking, "Mike Bai, which route did you take to get here?"
Mike Bai pointed to the map, tracing his path from Jerusalem directly southwest to Ascalon, crossing the desert in a near-straight line.
Baldwin frowned, his mind working quickly. "At least 120 kilometers… How did you arrive so quickly?"
Mike Bai explained, "My army is small, so we brought plenty of carts and draft horses. We traveled light, which allowed us to move faster."
Baldwin seemed to mull over this, turning to General Audod. "If I remember correctly, didn't Taqi-ud-Din say that Saladin's forces plan to march north from Ascalon along the coast?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Audod replied, his tone growing serious. "Saladin's army is large, and supplies along the way are scarce. He wouldn't cross the desert but would stay close to the populated towns to ensure supply lines."
Baldwin's eyes followed the towns and cities along the coast, from Ascalon to the north, then eastward, finally resting on Jerusalem.
"Baron Mike Bai, take us there!" Baldwin suddenly commanded, pushing a piece on the map with a sharp, decisive movement. "There! There is where we will face Saladin and decide our fate!"
The Night of the Following Day
By the time night had fallen, a heavily wounded Mamluk cavalryman raced along the coastline, not daring to slow down. His mount, now reduced to a single horse after several had been replaced, was on its last legs, and the rider was barely able to stay upright in the saddle. With every crack of his whip, he urged the horse forward, its breath coming in ragged gasps.
Finally, a camp appeared on the horizon, its distant lights flickering like stars. Seeing it, the rider's spirits lifted, and he renewed his efforts.
But as they neared the camp, the horse collapsed, its body convulsing in agony before finally succumbing. The rider tumbled from the saddle, barely managing to stand, his legs shaking with exhaustion. He stumbled toward the camp, the sound of his footsteps growing weaker with each step.
The guards at the gate heard the commotion and rushed to his aid, only to find the messenger sprawled on the ground, blood oozing from his wounds.
"Urgent military news! I must see the Sultan!" the messenger rasped, his voice hoarse from dehydration.
The wounded man was carried to Saladin's royal tent, where the Sultan, who had already retired for the night, rose at once, his usually calm demeanor replaced by anger.
"Physician! Where is my physician?" he shouted.
The messenger, barely holding onto life, reached out and took Saladin's hand. With his final breath, he whispered, "Taqi-ud-Din… has been defeated! The King of Jerusalem… the entire army… is retreating northeast… to reinforce Jerusalem…"
As the messenger passed, his body went limp, and the last flicker of light in his eyes faded.
The tent, once full of noise, now fell into a heavy silence. Saladin stared down at the faithful soldier, grief and sorrow filling his heart. He knelt beside the body, gently closing the soldier's eyes and muttering a prayer. Those around him also knelt, joining the Sultan in a silent prayer.
The entire camp fell quiet.
Long after the prayer ended, Saladin rose slowly, his face a mask of sorrow. He took an oil lamp from a servant and moved to the map. His piercing gaze swept across the regions, from Ascalon to the northeast, to Jerusalem. His mind worked tirelessly, seeking some clue, some pattern in the movements.
"You're afraid, aren't you, Baldwin?" he muttered to himself.
After a long moment, Saladin opened his eyes and gave his command.
"Send word. Half of the army will disperse tomorrow and begin raiding the villages and towns along the way."
With a final glance toward the map, Saladin's voice was cold.
"Will you come out of Jerusalem, Baldwin?"