Campfires burned beneath the open desert sky. The Kurdish riders lounged cross-legged on the sand, eating and drinking as they traded boasts over who had killed the most enemies or struck the finest blow. Every man had emerged from the raid richer.

In a feudal kingdom, each of them could have bought a manor back home and lived as a landed gentleman. But the Kurds were a nomadic people. A single man, however wealthy, could not survive alone. They had to hold together.

Lothar sat on a woolen rug spread over the sand. He cupped a clay bowl of broth in both hands, drinking in small sips.

"Has word of Kawkab's death spread yet? I'm wondering whether Safadin and his Mamluks will be waiting for us on the return route."

Mamluks: slave soldiers, similar to the ghulam system that had been in use for centuries, but more elite. Every king had his Mamluks. Every governor had his. Saladin's Khasagiya Guard were the flower of the Mamluk corps: one of the few infidel forces in existence capable of matching Crusader knights in combat.

And Crusader knights, man for man, were arguably the finest fighting men of the age. Anna Komnene, the Eastern Empire's princess, had written of them: "A Frankish knight could punch a hole through the walls of Babylon." That was the standard Saladin's Khasagiya had to measure up to.

"News of Kawkab's death won't reach the Ayyubid court that quickly," Abdullah said. "Not unless they're sending messages on eagles' wings." He was slicing meat from a roasted rack of lamb with a silver-patterned Damascus blade, the grease dripping into his thick beard.

"But every lord loyal to the Sassanid Shah will act fast once they hear. They'll be more alert. Harder to catch."

Lothar took a rib and nodded through a mouthful of meat. "I know. I don't plan to strike another target. We've taken enough."

In rank, Kawkab had stood not far below Safadin, the Governor of Syria. His frontier territory even appeared larger on a map, though most of it was worthless sand and his subjects were nomadic sheikhs following their herds between watering places. His death would shake the entire border—especially because the killers had claimed to serve Saladin, ruler of fertile Egypt, the land once called the Empire's granary.

Abdullah glanced at him sideways. "I was afraid you might get carried away. An easy victory can do that to a young man."

Lothar sighed. "I'd hoped my performance these past days had earned your trust."

"It has. That's precisely why I worried, you're still young." Abdullah smiled. "But among young men, you are the finest I have ever met. By a distance."

"Thank you." Lothar chewed his lamb. His eyes drifted to the carpet beside him, where Fringilla chattered ceaselessly into Prajna's ear. The journey had bored her nearly senseless. Prajna silently turned the yellowed pages of an old book, apparently untouched by the torrent of words pouring over her.

"There is… one more thing." Abdullah hesitated.

Lothar spread his hands. "Whatever it is, say it. Ever since we left Kawkab's fort, everyone's been looking at me like I'm some kind of monster."

"The men say you made a pact with a devil. That you sacrificed the wealth we couldn't carry to some demon of the underworld."

"Do you believe that?"

Abdullah shook his head. "No. Devils don't lack for riches. If anything, they use wealth to tempt men into corruption."

"You are a merciful man, Lothar. You respect our faith. You generously gave us first choice of the spoils. It has been an honor to fight for you."

Lothar's mouth curved. "You don't need to flatter me, Abdullah. I doubt Baron Godfrey withheld the truth from you."

Abdullah paused, then admitted it. "He did. You have the allegiance of two witches. They command mysterious powers."

"But does their power come from your Heavenly Father? If so, why have your priests not been granted the same might?"

Lothar paused. He knew perfectly well that a witch's power had nothing to do with God, but only a fool would say so aloud.

"The Heavenly Father grants witches power beyond that of ordinary men — and with it, a sacred duty. Some honor that duty and serve righteous lords. Others withdraw to a quiet corner and indulge their every whim."

He paused. "Much like your own holy men. Some live in honest poverty, giving every coin to the faithful. Others wear jeweled rings on all ten fingers and squeeze their peasants until there's nothing left to bleed."

Remembering certain holy men of his homeland, Abdullah nodded with feeling. "You have the allegiance of two witches. Are you saying you are the Heavenly Father's chosen?"

"Perhaps. I cannot claim to know God's will." Lothar frowned.

"But I do feel I am meant to do something. Something different from the other Crusader lords. This is my purpose."

"To do what? Rise through the ranks in Jerusalem: baron, count, duke, king?"

Lothar shook his head. "Those are only steps along the way. What I truly want is to end the endless bloodshed here. To make it so that peoples of every tongue, every faith, every color of skin can live side by side in this land. To build a mighty empire that unifies all the Levant, and bring peace to a land that has known nothing but war."

"Impossible." Abdullah shook his head hard. "Absolutely impossible."

Lothar understood the scale of the task. In his old world, multiethnic states without a dominant majority had fractured or were already coming apart. Add the blade of religious conflict, and unity seemed almost unimaginable. This was no game where one click erased an unrest modifier.

That was precisely why it deserved to be called an ambition.

With the System at his back, he had never doubted that he would climb the ranks: first to higher title, perhaps all the way to a crown. And in this age, national identity was still so thin, so unformed. Reforging a culture was not impossible.

"Why is it impossible? The Eastern Empire managed it once. Why not me?"

Abdullah fell silent. His first instinct was to say: The Eastern Empire failed. But in the end, he only said: "Lothar — perhaps a man chosen by the divine should have ambitions that ordinary men cannot fathom. May the Holy Fire guide you. May you see your wish fulfilled."

"Thank you."

"Once we reach Kaimont, we'll be inside Crusader territory. That's where we part ways."

Lothar looked up, surprised. "You're leaving Baron Godfrey's service?"

"For now." Abdullah hesitated, then spoke.

"King Nur ad-Din's son is summoning the old guard. We intend to join him: to rally the resistance against Saladin at Aleppo. With Kawkab dead, the frontier will be in chaos. This is our chance."

Lothar was silent.

"You know the odds are nearly hopeless. Saladin may be merciful, but he will not spare rebels."

Abdullah's voice was heavy. "Our true lord calls. We cannot refuse."

Lothar did not argue. He wanted these men badly: the Kurdish riders were everything he could ask for in a cavalry force. But they had a conviction that went deeper than any words he could offer.

His eyes drifted to Hans, who was setting up the tents, drenched in sweat. Lothar's one and only "cavalryman." In an age where mounted warriors were king, building an elite cavalry company like this Kurdish band was ruinously expensive.

Perhaps I should join a knightly order. Or found one.

He had no plans to marry soon. Once his power had grown, he could leave the order—or secularize it outright. Men in this age feigned conversion and later recanted; surely a vow of lifelong celibacy could also be escaped when the time came.