Kawkab's bloodied head passed from rider to rider, each glimpse striking another hammer blow against the defenders' courage.

Even on foot, the Kurds were formidable. They hunted in pairs like desert jackals—swift, efficient, and utterly indifferent to a fair fight. They carried out Lothar's order without mercy: anyone still holding a weapon died.

Lothar did not join them. He did not want to reach the point where he saw living men as nothing more than experience points to be harvested.

At length, the shouting died. The Kurdish soldiers herded the disarmed survivors, guards and servants alike, into the open ground before the manor.

Abdullah approached with a gore-slick pick hammer in hand. He studied Lothar's profile. The young Frank looked perfectly composed, as though every death had unfolded according to plan. A faint chill crept through the Kurdish captain.

He lowered his head. "May the Holy Fire burn eternal. Kawkab's diehards have been eliminated. All prisoners who laid down their arms are gathered under guard."

"Spread out and collect the spoils. Our time is short: remind everyone not to let the gold blind them. And stay in pairs. Watch for survivors hiding in ambush."

Abdullah's face split into a grin. A frontier lord like Kawkab would have accumulated considerable wealth over the years. Even if they took only the gold and silver vessels and coin, it would be a handsome sum. However pious a Mamluk might be, however fierce in battle, no man turned his nose up at money.

"Rest easy, my lord. My lads are seasoned fighters. None of them will do anything foolish."

The System chimed in Lothar's ear.

Milestone activated: Storm the Castle — You have led your soldiers and Retainers in the capture of a hostile lord's stronghold, and killed the lord himself, displaying his severed head.

Reward: Spoils Store unlocked.

Spoils Store: You may sell spoils to the System Store. The System will assess their value and pay in gold and silver coin.

Lothar's expression shifted. This was a godsend. He'd been fretting over how to select the most valuable loot. With only four people in his own party, they could carry very little.

"Abdullah — let's go."

He abandoned all pretense of dignity and strode toward the manor.

A Kurdish soldier burst into a chamber, ready to ransack it. And froze. The room was empty. The furniture. The carpets.

The wall hangings. The vessels. Everything had simply vanished.

"By the Holy Fire — what in God's name happened here?"

He checked room after room. All of them stripped bare.

"A plague of locusts couldn't have done a cleaner job."

His comrade shouted from down the corridor: "Go that way: we've already searched these ones! Lord Lothar gave us first pick of the spoils."

"Searched? How do you search a room this clean?"

The soldier scratched his head, utterly baffled.

Lothar swept from chamber to chamber: silver chamber pots, red-pine cabinets, velvet mattresses, glazed porcelain vases.

Tables, chairs, stools—anything that could be unbolted, unscrewed, or pried loose vanished into the Spoils Store. By the time he finished, he had left little but the floor.

A bandit lord sweeping a village would have shown more restraint.

A single touch was all it took. One brush of his hand, and the object vanished.

The final tally, after rounding: eight hundred gold System-minted coins, each stamped with his own profile. He could withdraw them at any time.

Having his own face on the coinage did feel a touch embarrassing. But it wasn't actually presumptuous: plenty of local lords in this age held minting rights.

The real question was whether your fief had gold or silver deposits. Melt down higher-value coins and debase them with lead and tin, and your liege might well demand an accounting. But System-minted coins of reliable quality were hard currency anywhere. And they'd help spread his name.

"Only eight hundred?"

Lothar was disappointed. He'd swept through every room the Kurds had already searched, selling off every large item they'd left behind. And that was all? He refused to believe a frontier lord like Kawkab's entire estate was worth only this much.

Lothar and the Kurds had also gathered portable treasures: gold and silver cups, plates, and ornaments whose craftsmanship made them worth more than their metal. He kept those rather than selling them to the System. Unfortunately, the Spoils Store would not accept livestock or warhorses. As for human captives, he had not sunk low enough even to test the possibility.

"Everyone, double-mount. Move fast. Don't overload yourselves: prioritize provisions, water, and feed."

Lothar's voice rang across the courtyard. He strode toward the prisoners. Under the terrified gaze of the man at the front of the huddle, he brought his sword down, and cut the ropes binding the man's wrists.

"You're free."

The captives gaped at one another.

"Go on. Free your companions."

"My lord Saladin is merciful. Your lord Kawkab was dealt with harshly only because of his insolent disrespect. Carry this message to the Sassanid Shah: if any lord sworn to him dares to insult my lord Saladin again, I promise you — they will meet the same end."

He turned, mounted, and led the Kurdish riders out of the fort in a storm of hooves and wind.

Black cloaks and the flaming-eagle banner receded into the distance as the captives watched. Only then did a few loyal servants scramble for the inferior horses Lothar's party had abandoned and ride hard toward the nearest oasis garrisons.

---

At an oasis near Kawkab's holdings, Safar, Kawkab's eldest son, was already mustering his hundred armored cavalry, preparing to ride for the wooden fort. Smoke was rising from its watchtower.

No one had raided this deep in years. Safar could not imagine what army was mad enough to strike a desert fort without regard for its supply lines.

A servant on horseback burst through the column and threw himself to the ground.

"Lord Safar, Lord Kawkab has been killed! An army sent by Saladin: they murdered him!"

The messenger's face was red, his voice thick with grief. "My lord, we must avenge Lord Kawkab! The Saladin riders: they haven't gone far!"

Safar stared. "Say that again."

"Lord Kawkab is dead!"

"Muster the troops at once! We ride back to save Lord Kawkab!"

"But — Lord Kawkab is already dead."

"Shut your mouth! Lord Kawkab is not dead!"

Safar's sword took the messenger across the throat. He raised his bloodied blade and roared: "Lord Kawkab is under attack! He has placed me in command of all forces — we ride to his rescue at once!"

Of all Kawkab's scattered cavalry, Safar's company lay closest to the fort. If he arrived first, the stronghold—and every coin his father had hoarded over a lifetime—would fall into his hands.

Pursue Saladin's cavalry? Absurd. Any force capable of storming the fort so quickly was plainly elite. Safar had no intention of wasting the soldiers he had spent years cultivating on such a fool's errand.

Heart pounding with anticipation, Safar rode at the head of his company, dust boiling behind them, and plunged straight into the fort.

"Seal the gates! If anyone else arrives, keep them out!"

Then he saw the interior. His heart dropped into his stomach.

"What… what is this?"

The manor, which had once been as lavish as a royal court, looked as though a sandstorm had scoured it clean. Not just the valuables. Even the large stone statues that had flanked the manor entrance were gone.

"They dug three feet into the ground! Are they imbeciles? Carrying that much weight — how can they possibly outrun us? After them! They can't have gotten far!"

He was nearly frothing.

A guard burst in. "My lord, trouble! Lord Lund is here with his men. He demands entry at once!"

Lund. Kawkab's second son. Safar's greatest rival for the inheritance.

Safar's face stiffened. He had expected a treasure vault and found an empty shell. Worse, he was the first heir through the gates. What conclusion would everyone else draw?

Panicked and furious, he gritted his teeth. "Let them in."

Lund stormed in at the head of his men. Then stopped dead, jaw hanging. "Safar… did you do this?"

"How could I? How long have I even been here? And where would I hide all this? The Saladin curs took everything.

"But don't worry: with that much weight, they can't move fast. Muster the troops — we chase!"

But when they followed the trail Lothar's party had left, the hoofprints were shallow. No wagon ruts anywhere.

Lund's face darkened with rage. "Safar, do you take me for a brainless fool? I've already interrogated the weak-spined peasants. Saladin's men barely took anything with them!"

Safar's blade came out. "Did your interrogation also happen to reveal that I only arrived minutes before you?"

"Don't play games, Safar. You're not fit to call yourself father's son. Father is murdered, and instead of hunting his killers, you strip his legacy bare."

Lund raised his voice to a battlefield shout: "Soldiers! Look at this wretch! This is the man you serve? Or will you serve me, the great Lund?"

"Shut your mouth!"

Safar, beyond reason, swung his sword.

His loyalists followed.

The two factions crashed together in a shriek of steel. No one thought of pursuing the Kurdish cavalry now. It would not have mattered; with two mounts per rider, Lothar's company was already a dozen miles away.