CHAPTER 26 - 26: ENGINES OF GOD

The workshop beneath the Tower of David buzzed with the low, methodical rhythm of men shaping iron and wood. Shafts clattered into sorting bins. Coils of rope hung in loops from ceiling beams. The scent of pine resin and forge smoke settled thick in the air.

In the center of the chamber, flanked by lamps and parchment drawings, stood two models—each unlike anything the Holy Land had seen.

Balian, still in dust-covered riding boots from a circuit of the eastern patrols, stepped forward and ran a hand along the wooden spine of the larger machine. Dozens of tightly-packed arrow shafts rested in individual slots along a shallow wooden platform set at a steep angle. Below it, a sliding rack and a linked torsion crank waited for demonstration.

"This is your new miracle?" Balian asked, skeptical but not dismissive.

Ethan grinned faintly. "Not a miracle. A repeatable mechanism. It's based on a Roman war engine, but this version is entirely mechanical. No fire."

He gestured toward the loaded frame. "Spring-tension arms beneath the rack. A rotating cam pulls them back evenly. Then a release catch looses all the bolts at once. Fifty arrows in a spread."

Balian gave a low whistle. "No smoke. Just death."

"Exactly," Ethan said. "Quiet, sudden, and devastating. Perfect for shocking a massed charge or breaking siege formations. It's a volley machine, not a ranged one—it's not going to shoot a hundred paces, but at fifty or sixty, the bolts hit like a storm."

"Can it be reloaded fast?"

"With trained crews, five minutes. Each arrow is short-fletched and fire-hardened. Some we wrap in oilcloth for fire use—but only if the wind favors us."

He walked to the side and picked up a sample bolt—shorter than a crossbow quarrel, thicker than a standard arrow, the iron tip wicked and flanged.

"This one punches through wood shields," he said, handing it to Balian.

The lord of Ibelin weighed it in his palm. "Feels heavy."

"Good," Ethan said. "It shouldn't feel safe."

They moved across the workshop to the smaller scale fortress mock-up, laid out on a slate table with models of battlements and towers carved from limestone. Ethan set down four miniature siege engines—identical to the prototype behind them: counterweight trebuchets, with tapered throwing arms and lead-weighted slings.

"You've seen the weight trebuchet before," Ethan said. "But now we mount them permanently on walls—just like I said at Krak."

He gestured to the model.

"We build wooden overhangs with stone ballast beneath. Each one is fitted with a protected mechanism: pivot axle, counterweight box, and reinforced throwing arm. Reload is slow—one shot every three or four minutes—but each stone will weigh over one hundred pounds. One hit from above will shatter siege towers, crush rams, even break command tents."

Balian raised an eyebrow. "And you'd build them on top of the walls?"

"Yes," Ethan replied. "It's no longer enough to wait out a siege. We control the battlefield, from elevation."

"And these—" Balian motioned back to the volley launcher— "you'd place where?"

"Wall recesses, inner courtyards, city gates. Even open field positions if we have time to dig in. I want five per fortress, minimum. Two on the outer walls, three in mobile carts that can be wheeled between levels."

Balian frowned thoughtfully. "Do we have that many carpenters?"

"We will. I've hired a dozen from Tripoli and another twenty from Nablus. I've tasked Hugo to draft a training corps—engineers, not just soldiers. Apprentices, too. They'll learn to maintain torsion ropes, tension arms, and gears. Each engine will have its own crew."

"And what will you call this monstrosity?"

Ethan smirked; I'll call it a stormbed—the name should inspire dread."

Balian gave a small, grim chuckle. "I think it will."

Late that evening, the engineers staged a field test in the old Roman stadium outside Jerusalem's eastern walls.

A single stormbed—mounted on a wheeled platform—was rolled into position, flanked by two wooden barricades and lit by torchlight. A dozen short-range straw dummies stood arranged in staggered rows downfield.

The crew stepped into place. Ethan and Balian watched from the parapet above.

"Signal ready," Ethan called.

The lever ratcheted backward with a sharp series of clicks as the cam engaged the torsion springs. The line pulled taut.

"Release."

With a deep thump, fifty iron-tipped bolts snapped forward in a devastating wave. The arrows fanned outward in a high arc before slamming into the dummies. Seven collapsed instantly. The rest bristled with shafts. Dust billowed. Silence followed.

From above, Balian spoke first.

"They won't know what hit them."

Ethan said nothing for a moment. The wind tugged at his cloak, catching in the firelight.

"It's not about fear," he said finally. "It's about buying time. Every volley, every shot from a wall—it gives us one more hour, one more day. Time for relief to arrive. Time for settlers to evacuate. Time to decide the war."

Balian turned. "You're thinking like a man who expects to be besieged."

"I'm thinking like a man who knows it will happen eventually," Ethan replied. "And I intend to be ready."