Building a stone fortress on a desert oasis was a near-impossible undertaking. Kawkab's lands, in particular, had no river to float building materials down.

Abdullah talked as they rode. "I know Kawkab. He is cold, ruthless, and not weak. His personal troops alone number several hundred elite cavalry. Given time, he can summon thousands more from the clans and sheikhs sworn to him."

Lothar frowned. This was a lord whose power outstripped even Baron Godfrey's. If his holdings hadn't been stuck in this barren waste, too poor even for a proper castle, Lothar would never have entertained the thought of striking him.

"He won't have time."

Lothar's face was set, radiating confidence. "We'll take the fort before the enemy knows what's happening. Abdullah, we can do this."

Abdullah touched his hand to his shoulder and bowed his head. "I never doubted it."

The Kurdish soldiers were busy rounding up scattered horses, stripping the dead of their armor, picking through the scales for any still usable, discarding the heavy, damaged coats.

Scale armor offered less protection than chainmail, but it looked finer than blackened rings and was far easier to mass-produce. Assembly was simple, and repairs required only the replacement of damaged scales. For centralized powers such as the Eastern Empire, Sassanid Persia, and the Ayyubid Sultanate, it was a natural choice. The Eastern Empire's cataphracts even layered scale over fine mail for maximum protection.

Lothar's party changed out of their bloodied clothes and disguised themselves as the Bedouin tribute caravan. Camels, horses, blades hidden beneath the carts' coverings. They crept toward the wooden fort.

---

Kawkab's fort sat in the very center of the oasis, beside a lake as still and bright as a mirror.

The sentries on the gate and walls spotted them from a distance and shouted for them to halt.

"We serve Lord Kaimur, of the Urd clan!" Abdullah called out. "We bring tribute to the esteemed Governor Kawkab."

"Lord Kaimur's men?"

The gate guards approached, wary. "Hasn't it always been Aladdin who brings the tribute? Who are you? I've never seen you before."

The Kurdish soldiers went still. Their breathing grew audible in the heavy air.

The guard sensed something wrong. He opened his mouth.

Fringilla nudged her horse forward two paces. Her voice rang out, clear and sharp: "Are you certain you've never seen me?"

"You…?"

The guard's expression slackened.

Fringilla's eyes glowed dark red, nearly invisible in the blinding sun. The man's sentence died halfway out of his mouth; he seemed to have forgotten what he meant to say.

He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I have seen you. You serve Lord Kaimur. That is right."

"Open the gate. Let our guests from afar enter the city."

The gates swung open.

Abdullah shot Lothar a questioning look. Lothar's face remained calm. "We enter. This tribute includes fine porcelain from the Song Empire, spoils we took from a Saladin caravan. Handle everything with care. If anything breaks, Lord Kawkab will not forgive you."

His expression remained steady, though sweat beaded at his temples. Fringilla's charm worked only on the weak-willed. Against Governor Safadin, it had nearly betrayed them; Abdullah's quick thinking had saved the company. Fortunately, men of Safadin's will were rare.

They entered the fort without resistance. The guards didn't even ask them to disarm. Two men lifted the felt covers over the tribute, glanced at the contents, and covered them again.

It was going impossibly smoothly.

Inside the walls, serving women and servants peered at the newcomers with idle curiosity. Lothar scanned the ramparts. The sentries were lax. In the blistering sun, barely anyone had stayed on the wall.

He raised his hand and spoke quietly: "Go. Kill anyone who takes up a weapon."

A servant noticed the sudden movement and drew breath to shout. A throwing axe hissed past Lothar's ear and split the man's skull with a wet crack, spraying the woman beside him with blood.

Screams tore through the fort.

Lothar drew his bastard sword and surged in with the Kurdish soldiers. Their heavy armor turned aside most of what came at them.

The Kurds were elite by any measure. Mounted or on foot, the company could match twenty knights and their retinues. Lothar wanted them badly, but Godfrey had entrusted the men to him. Trying to poach them would be contemptible.

Shouts and clashes of steel. Smoke boiled from the watchtower.

"We have to finish this fast," Abdullah said urgently. "Once Kawkab's cavalry reinforcements arrive, there'll be nowhere to retreat."

Lothar kicked a man to the ground, pinned him, and drove his sword through his throat. "I know. Abdullah, clear the walls. I'll find Kawkab."

A servant sprang up from the floor and wrapped himself around Lothar's leg, hammer raised to strike. Then his eyes bulged. They burst with a wet pop, blood jetting from the sockets.

Lothar nodded his thanks to Fringilla and pressed deeper into the manor at the fort's heart.

The interior was richly appointed: fine murals on the walls, exotic vessels and furniture in orderly display. Half-clad foreign serving girls shrieked and scrambled away from the blood-soaked killer marching through their halls.

Lothar had no time to admire any of it. He pushed through a threshold.

A war-hammer crashed into his helm. His skull rang like a bell. He bulled forward with his shield through the dizziness, ramming the attacker off balance. A Kurdish soldier's throwing axe split the man's forehead. A bare-chested giant with a blacksmith's hammer, dead before he could swing again.

The speed of the assault had decided the battle. Half the soldiers inside the manor had not even managed to don armor before the attackers reached them. Lothar scooped up the dead man's hammer; in these cramped rooms, it was handier than a bastard sword.

They pushed deeper. The farther in they went, the quieter it became. The fort's interior was a small maze: too many places to hide.

Lothar caught a scent. Familiar. Gorse flower, maybe. He followed it to a cupboard and pulled the door open.

Behind it, an exotic woman, completely bare.

"You understand Kurdish?"

She nodded frantically, her face a mask of terror.

"Where is Kawkab?"

She pointed behind him. The moment Lothar turned, she produced a dagger and drove it at his throat.

But Lothar had already stepped back in anticipation. His hand closed around her neck like an iron clamp.

Frustration flashed in her eyes.

Lothar frowned. "You overplayed it. You weren't afraid at all. One of Kawkab's trained killers?"

The woman said nothing. Pure venom in her glare.

"Kawkab raised you to send you into some rival lord's bed: to wait for the right moment to put a blade in him. Kill Kawkab, and I'm setting you free."

Still nothing. Her expression was stubborn and hateful in equal measure. Whatever bound her to Kawkab ran deep.

"I don't have time for this."

A sharp crack. Lothar released the body and turned to Fringilla. "She wasn't dressed, and there's no bath in the room. She was with Kawkab just now. Can you track him?"

Fringilla sniffed the air and nodded. "Follow me."

They trailed her through a warren of corridors and a small garden, arriving at a quiet chamber behind the manor.

"Come out, Kawkab. Your woman gave you away."

The door burst open. An armored bear of a man charged out, snarling.

Lothar glanced at one of the Kurdish soldiers beside him. The man shook his head. "Not Kawkab. Leave him to me." He drew his weapon and met the man head-on.

Lothar circled past the duel. He exchanged a look with Fringilla and Prajna, was about to enter the chamber.

Prajna stepped through first.

A war hammer whistled from the darkness and struck Prajna with the force of a siege ram. It stopped against her as though it had hit a mountain. She neither slowed nor blinked. Prajna drove forward like an avalanche and flattened the armored giant beneath her shield.

Kawkab scrambled up from the floor, a pick-hammer in each hand, and bellowed: "Who are you? Who dares attack me, the great Kawkab? My soldiers will be here any moment. They will butcher every last one of you!"

Lothar's voice was cold. "Wretched creature. You should have known this day would come the moment you insulted my lord Saladin. We are not Assassin dogs. I will give you a fair fight."

Kawkab's expression changed. "Fine!"

He settled into a fighting stance.

Lothar raised a hand. In Fringilla's palm, a spear of crimson blood materialized.

"Devilry! This is devil's work! You lied: you said you would give me a fair fight!"

Lothar smiled. "This is fair."

The blood-spear punched clean through Kawkab's armor and nailed him to the wall behind him. Lothar stepped forward, swung his sword, and took the man's head from his shoulders.

He walked out without a backward glance, helped the Kurdish soldier finish his opponent, and called out: "Collect the spoils. We're short on time. Take only what's valuable and easy to carry."

Behind him, from the chamber, came a wet detonation: the blood-spear exploding, spraying crimson across the walls.

Lothar climbed the wall, raised Kawkab's severed head high, and roared: "Your lord Kawkab is dead! Throw down your arms now! Surrender, and you will be spared!"