Chapter 44: The Masked Hammer
Dawn Prayers and Blessings
Before the clash of swords, before the volley of bolts, Ethan—King Baldwin IV—sat among his men in the dusky tent of the Templar Grand Master. Candles flickered against the linen walls, casting dancing shadows on the faces of knights, infantry captains, and engineers. A priest in simple habit knelt before them, holding a golden chalice and reading in Latin.
"Grant, O Lord, wisdom in counsel, courage in battle, and mercy in victory," the priest intoned. Around him, men bowed their heads. Many had knelt for the first time that morning, humbled not by choice, but by the weight of what came next.
Ethan knelt, too—masked, but bowed—feeling the leprosy ache in his joints. The priest drizzled holy water on the chalice. "For Baldwin, your servant and king," he said, lifting the cup. The men drank: a sip of wine diluted with water, a promise of divine presence.
As the priest finished, men embraced—knights clasped mailed fists, infantry patted each other's backs. The engineers adjusted straps on stormracks with renewed purpose. Even the militia—farmers and townsfolk drilled into soldiers—stood straighter. The rite was not superstition; it was union. A covenant.
Ethan rose last, silence filling the tent as he looked over the faces of his 5,000 men: 500 knights, 3,500 infantry, and 300 engineers and stormrack crews. Above them, banners fluttered: red crosses on white, silver lions, and a silent emblem of faith.
"There is no greater fight," Ethan spoke quietly, masking his raspy tone, "than one fought for the land we build, the people we protect, and the faith we trust."
Then he turned to steel.
The First Charge
By midmorning the mist had burned off. The blue sky was crisp. From vantage points in the ridge, Ethan saw the glint of Saladin's banners six miles away. The Sultan had arrived with speed—fast cavalry plus his light infantry. No siege ladders, no catapults—just swift steel and faith in surprise.
Suddenly, drums sounded below.
The Muslim cavalry charged first.