The Leper King

The courtyard below the royal chambers echoed with the sound of clashing wood and shouted instruction. Ethan leaned on the carved stone balustrade, watching as a dozen young townsmen stumbled through a mock spear drill. Their movements were ragged—too loose, too eager—but the intent was there. He could work with intent.

Balian stood beside him, arms folded. "Not bad for bakers and cobblers."

"Better than nothing," Ethan replied. "But not good enough to hold a line when the Mamluks come thundering."

Balian gave him a sidelong look. "You're planning something."

Ethan nodded. "Monthly training. Every town and village within the kingdom's reach. Once every moon, the local levy gathers—not just to swing a sword, but to drill. Line work. Formation. Discipline."

Balian raised an eyebrow. "Militia like that will start to think they're soldiers."

"That's the idea," Ethan said. "We'll never match Saladin's numbers or his cavalry. But if our common men can hold ground—if they can lock shields and drive spears—we'll make his charges bleed."

Balian gave a low chuckle. "That's what you were sketching last night? Those... long spears?"

"Pikes," Ethan said. "Fourteen feet, maybe sixteen. Ash shafts, iron tips. I'll have the smiths in Bethlehem begin forging prototypes this week. We'll start with fifty."

"Hard to carry. Slow to move."

"Harder to break," Ethan countered. "You plant them. You don't chase with them. They're for stopping what comes at you."

The Armory, Two Hours Later