As the rhythmic sound of the horn echoed through the air, Saladin's formation began to shift. The vanguard, composed of several battalions, started to rotate and veer toward the left flank of the Crusaders, while the royal standard remained in place at the center. The rear forces continued to move out from the valley, reorganizing in front of the royal flag.
Watching Saladin's army still adjusting their ranks, Baldwin smiled. The movement of the forces had caused a gap between the vanguard and the royal standard.
"Go ahead, Duke Reynald," Baldwin commanded, his voice weak as he waved his hand. "Go do what you've been longing to do."
The frail king then turned to the Grand Master of the Hospitallers. "Sir, please lead your forces to hold the left flank. Slow Saladin's vanguard. We must buy time."
Baldwin paused, his body swaying as if it might collapse. "Infantry, follow the knights. Once they break the gap, order the charge."
Turning to the Grand Master of the Templars, he continued, "You stay with me and observe for now. If things change, I'll call for reinforcements."
With those final commands, Baldwin sank back into the saddle, his body betraying his weakening state. His attendants quickly helped him dismount and laid him down on a soft couch.
Lying there, Baldwin stared at the approaching armies, murmuring to himself, "All that can be done by man is finished... Now, it's in God's hands."
Reynald of Chatillon, a man marked by years of suffering and humiliation, had gathered 300 knights and their retinues. Together, they began their steady advance toward Saladin's royal encampment.
As they moved forward, Reynald's mind flashed back to the fifteen long years he spent as a prisoner of Saladin. The daily torments, the abuse, had left scars deeper than any wound. His face, once handsome, was now twisted by bitterness and rage. He had sworn, in the name of the Almighty, that no matter the cost, he would make Saladin pay in blood for every humiliation he had endured.
"And today," Reynald muttered with a savage grin, "is the day Saladin will pay his debt."
With a loud bellow, he raised his lance, rallying his knights. "Kingdom's knights! If we defend this sacred ground, we may die here today. But if we turn and flee, our lives will be filled with shame and regret!"
"Honor is our life!" the knights shouted in unison.
"Then let us fight like men, and die like men!" Reynald finished, his gauntlet snapping shut over his helmet, the faceplate clinking into place. Slowly, he urged his steed forward.
The knights began to accelerate, about fifty in total, formed into a wedge formation, their discipline impeccable as they sped forward, creating a piercing triangle that sliced through the air.
The pounding of hooves gradually intensified, joined by the distinct sounds of armor clashing and the rattling of chainmail, growing into the thunderous roar of a storm.
In the face of this approaching wave, Saladin's right flank visibly faltered. Their movements slowed, and the soldiers, shouting and threatened by their officers, could no longer hold the line.
A few scattered arrows flew out from Saladin's troops. Some found their targets, but the armor-clad knights and their heavily armored horses were largely impervious to the missiles.
As they closed in on the enemy, the knights lowered their lances, aiming them at the enemy lines. Saladin's troops hesitated, and some even began to flee, dropping their weapons in terror before the fearsome charge.
With thunderous impact, the knights crashed into the frail formations, their momentum tearing through the lines. The sharp tips of the lances punctured bodies, and despite a few knights being struck by the enemy's spears, most delivered lethal blows to their foes.
The knights, without losing speed, trampled the enemy underfoot, their swords flashing as they cleaved through the hapless foot soldiers. The thin line of infantry was unable to withstand the onslaught of armored cavalry. The sound of steel tearing through flesh and the shrieks of the dying filled the air.
One knight, his armor drenched in blood, tore through the front lines and urged his steed forward once more, charging toward the next formation. Behind him, a trail of dead bodies marked his path.
More knights followed, each leaving a trail of destruction—some slain by sword, others crushed by the horses' hooves.
Saladin's right flank was shattered. The enemy formations, once united, were now torn apart as knights surged through the gap, splitting the forces into chaos.
Mike Bai, observing from the rear, saw for the first time the terrifying power of a cavalry charge. Coming from the modern world, he had never truly understood the devastating effect heavy cavalry could have on an army without professional infantry. It was clear to him now that few had the courage to stand in front of a knight fully armored and mounted on a powerful warhorse.
"Follow me! Move, quickly!" Mike Bai shouted, urging his soldiers to hurry. The knights had carved through the gap, and now it was time for the infantry to advance.
The Hospitaller knights, few in number, held the left flank, fighting fiercely to buy time for the main force. Meanwhile, the Kingdom's infantry followed the opening created by the cavalry and began pressing into Saladin's center.
Facing them was a better-equipped enemy. Many of Saladin's foot soldiers wore chainmail or padded armor, carrying traditional round shields and spiked helmets. But seeing the knights tear through the enemy lines like a scythe through wheat, doubt began to creep into their ranks. The once-imposing formations now looked vulnerable, their resolve beginning to crumble.
"Charge!" Without waiting for the usual volley of arrows, Mike Bai led his men in a swift, forceful advance.
The mercenaries, fueled by the knights' success, shouted in a frenzy as they sprinted forward, shields raised and spears in hand. The clash was brutal. Soldiers met each other in a storm of steel—swords, spears, maces, and even stones were wielded in desperate battle.
In the chaos, soldiers were trampled, screaming as they were lost in the tide of bodies. The line twisted and buckled, soldiers using anything at hand to survive the onslaught.
The fighting grew more intense. There was no time to hold back, for each moment could be their last. As curved swords came down, soldiers blocked with their shields or armor, striking back with whatever they could hold.
But Mike Bai's men had the advantage of rest, while the enemy had marched long distances and now faced a sudden onslaught. After a fierce struggle, Mike Bai's troops broke through the enemy's lines.
With the gap torn open, Saladin's remaining formations were now surrounded.
A low, mournful horn sounded from the Saracen ranks. At the sight of their retreating comrades, the remaining soldiers began to fall back, dropping weapons and armor in their haste to flee.
Mike Bai panted, his chest heaving, watching the retreating enemy with confusion. Had they won?
But then, his heart sank.
As the broken enemy scattered, rows of heavily armored cavalry appeared—Saladin's elite Mamluk riders, mounted and ready for battle. They formed a perfect line, their scimitars gleaming in the sun as they advanced, a new storm of steel heading straight for Mike Bai's forces.