CHAPTER 44 - 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.

From the east the fast horsemen descended the slope toward the Ford. Roughly 2,000 strong, they moved like a wave, confident that they would sweep through the militia before the stormracks had time to volley.

But Ethan had prepared.

More than a thousand militia pikemen, drilled monthly for the past year, had been hidden in terraced fields behind low walls. Their 12‑ to 15‑foot pikes glinted in the sun. Kneeling crossbowmen, braced behind shields and fallen logs, waited behind staggered pavises.

When the cavalry neared—first with loose arrow volleys, then with trumpets blowing for shock—the militia held their ground. The pikes didn't waver as horses thundered into them. The crossbows fired: bolts thudding into leather and iron. Riders and mounts tumbled, screams piercing the roars of hooves. A thousand-year tradition of cavalry dominance cracked against pole and crossbow.

The charge faltered. Cavalry spun, scattered, recoiled. The discipline of Baldwin's men held firm, immovable as stone.

Saladin Commits

Saladin watched from a ridge along with his amirs, fury and shock in his eyes. His first strike, he realized, had failed.

"Bring forward the infantry!" he commanded.

He rallied foot soldiers—mamluks, Bedouin archers, and auxiliary infantry—toward the ridge overlooking Jacob's Ford. Their banners advanced slowly, in method and formation.

They reached the unfinished gatehouse wall and began to push up—some clambered over wooden scaffolding, others defended low parapets with burning pitch. The defenders atop the curtain wall poured boiling oil and hurled stones. Crossbowmen peered through arrow loops and sniped at exposed faces.

Saladin's men leapt again, trying to seize the north tower. They nearly gained purchase on a scaffold, but then a volley from another stormrack raked across their flank, forcing them back into the dust.

At this moment, Ethan lowered the spyglass.

"They believe we defend the fortress," he said to Odo. The Grand Master nodded.

"Let them believe our strength resides there," Odo answered.

The Trap Closes

Ethan pressed his lips and mouthed the words. His signal was sent.

Now:

From the east ravines and shaded tree lines, stormrack volleys launched again—this time into the dense pack of infantry assaulting the gatehouse.

Pike squares lurched into action, pivoting from center to flank. Saladin's infantry, jammed near the wall, found themselves caught between iron points and bolts.

Meanwhile, engineers released the flood from the upstream dam. A sudden torrent roared down a narrow creekbed behind Saladin's advancing ranks. Mud and churning water stalled foot soldiers; horses fell, grasping uselessly. Shouts and panic rose.

As the water surged, two hundred knights led by Lord Amaury of Jaffa broke from concealment and thundered into Saladin's rear guard—then swept across captured wagons and supplies, severing retreat routes.

Simultaneously, Balian and 300 infantry

, half shield, half pike, marched out from the ridge in a wedge and slammed into Saladin's left flank.

Ethan descended from the ridge with fifty elite crossbowmen. They moved with calm precision, firing into the Sultan's highest officers. Arrows thudded into saddles and mail. Officers fell; soldiers paused.

Saladin rode close to the center, trying to rally his men—but now they were surrounded: river in front, broken flank on one side, heavy cavalry carving through the other. His column collapsed into confusion.

The Retreat and Restraint

Balian's voice drifted up the slope: "They break! They break!"

Saladin reined in his horse. His bodyguards formed a tight circle around him. The Sultan, wounded but unbowed, spurred his horse back toward the west ridge—where darkness and retreat awaited.

On the ridge, Ethan signaled the warriors to stand fast.

From the valley below, hoofbeats, screams, and panic echoed.

"Do not pursue the Sultan!" Ethan shouted—his voice carried by heralds. "Let him go. Let him flee. Let this ground bear witness—and let the story carry north, east, west. Let them fear the Masked King."

Odo reined in a few eager knights. "A royal hunt would be glorious," he said. "But you preach fear."

Ethan nodded into the wind. "Fear is currency."

The Aftermath

By nightfall the battlefield quieted. Wisdom whispered through the camp. Fires were lit carefully. Wounded were tended. The captured were gathered. Over 1,200 of Saladin's men lay dead or bleeding; several hundred more lay bound.

Miles to the west on the ridge, Ethan walked beside Balian as campfires glowed below the fortress walls.

"We gambled—and we won," Balian said, voice soft in the night.

Ethan looked up at the silent towers partially rising against the sky.

"But this fortress is still unfinished," Ethan replied. "Saladin now knows we are clever. He will rebuild. He will retaliate."

As dawn broke the next morning, the golden cross of Jerusalem fluttered above the unfinished stone walls. The wolves of rumor and fear stalked far beyond the field. The Masked King—wounded, enigmatic, alive—remained the blade poised between thought and steel.