"Halt! Rest in place."

The dust-caked Kurdish riders halted in the open desert, a wretched place to rest with not a sliver of shade in sight.

Abdullah stared up at the sky, his face grim. "That hawk. It's been circling above us for a long time."

A falcon wheeled overhead. It had been there for a good while now.

"Can you shoot it down?"

"No. The filthy thing is clever. It stays too high." Abdullah lifted the bow from his saddle and sighted along the shaft, then shook his head. "It seems we have a bloody fight ahead of us."

"Let's hope it's only a coincidence."

"No, Lothar. There is no such thing as coincidence on the battlefield. If something looks like one, treat it as the enemy's design regardless.

And falconry is an Arab tradition. In this desert, no wild raptor follows a party of living men for this long. Only a trained hunter does that."

Lothar took the lesson without argument. He straightened in the saddle and shouted the order: "Rest and re-form. Switch mounts. Prepare for battle."

Lothar was only the company's nominal commander, yet he never hesitated to issue orders. One word from Abdullah could return every rider to his true leader, but until then Lothar intended to wring the opportunity dry. He wanted to learn how to command cavalry and wage war in the desert.

Abdullah understood this too, and taught without reservation. Of course, if Lothar had been one of those arrogant Crusader noble sons, full of bluster and self-regard, the treatment would have been very different. If he had meddled too much or issued foolish commands, these men who were nominally his "subordinates" might well have killed him without a second thought and left his body in the sand.

Lothar pulled the fine feed from his saddlebag and fed his mount. The constant hard riding had left the big Arab warhorse sheened in sweat, its mane soaked through. No chance of charging on this animal. Even the remount, the one that hadn't been carrying a rider, was in poor shape.

A spent force against a fresh enemy. How do we fight?

He looked at the swallowtail banner on his lance. With it, they could possibly run: outpace the enemy and escape. But what then? What if they ran into another enemy after that? They were not far from the heart of Ayyubid Syria.

His expression shifted. "They're here."

Dust was boiling on the horizon. The heavy drumming of hooves trembled through the sand and stone.

The System chimed: Milestone activated — One Rider Against a Hundred. (Single-handedly punch through a cavalry formation of over one hundred riders.)

Damn your "one rider against a hundred," Lothar thought. What do you think I am, Lu Bu reborn?

Abdullah drew up beside him and spoke quietly in Gaulish: "A commander must never let joy or rage, fear or despair show on his face. At all times, you must project confidence."

The rebuke struck like a slap. Lothar had let his composure crack.

Over a hundred riders emerged from the dust cloud and halted a short distance away. Armor glinting. Blades and spears a small forest. Behind them, a large camel train swayed closer to the chiming of bells; these horsemen had ridden camels for the long haul and switched to warhorses only when they drew near.

In the desert, camels had far greater endurance and carrying capacity than horses. Which meant their mounts were still fresh.

Lothar scanned their gear, their armor. A chaotic assortment: not Mamluks. Short spears, maces, curved swords, straight swords, composite bows. Kite shields, round shields. Gilded lamellar, blackened scale, dun-colored cloth armor.

Nothing like the uniform equipment and doctrine of Mamluk elites.

That didn't mean they'd be easy.

Lothar looked back. Every battle-hardened face had tightened. The Kurds understood their position: exhausted, outnumbered, and facing an enemy that had prepared for them.

The logic was plain. Kawkab's men had used their falcon to guide this force onto their trail. What Lothar couldn't understand was why. Why, in this frontier zone where most lords were weathervanes spinning between the Sassanid Shah and Saladin, would anyone risk Saladin's wrath just to hunt a small elite company? The cost-benefit made no sense.

"By the Holy Fire! We are riders in the service of King Saladin. Who are you?"

Abdullah spurred forward. His voice carried across the stony plain.

The enemy commander, a man in gilded lamellar armor, nudged his horse forward.

He raised his riding crop and roared: "Saladin's curs. Just as I thought. This is the territory of the King of Kings, of the Sassanid Empire. You crossed the border without cause and murdered an imperial governor.

"The crime is beyond pardon. Hand over what you stole from Kawkab, and perhaps I will let you live."

Lothar rode forward.

"Coward. Do you dare speak your name? The city of Irbid lies just ahead; that is where Lord Safadin himself holds court. Lay a hand on us, and Lord Safadin will not let you live."

He had abandoned any thought of flight. If they exhausted their horses running, the company would have no way to fight back at all. Besides, Irbid was still about thirty miles away. And they were no true soldiers of Saladin.

But the enemy commander didn't know that. His expression tightened. Lothar's "Lord Safadin", Saladin's nephew, governor of Syria, had lately marched into the old territories of the County of Edessa and brought several Turkic princes to heel. His name carried weight across this land.

"That clumsy Kurdish of yours: you're a Frank. Since when does Saladin's army answer to a Mamluk?"

The commander's voice dripped contempt. "Frank" was the Arab term for all the peoples of Gaul, Albion, and Germania alike.

Lothar had not expected the flaws in his carefully practiced Kurdish to be spotted so quickly. Being mistaken for a Mamluk made sense, however. Many of Saladin's slave soldiers were trafficked Franks, especially Poor Crusaders who reached the East with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Turkic horsemen from Asia Minor captured them and sold them into courts across the Sassanid, Ayyubid, and North African realms.

Lothar said no more. He exchanged a look with Abdullah, stall them, and fell back.

The strongest liar was one who believed his own story. Lothar threw himself into the role of Safadin's trusted officer, concerned only with delaying the enemy until reinforcements arrived.

"You are truly determined to make an enemy of my lord?" Abdullah drew his Damascus blade. "It took us a quarter-hour to storm Kawkab's castle. How long do you think it will take us to deal with you?"

The enemy commander's frown deepened.

He raised his arm. A piercing cry. The falcon plunged from the sky and latched onto the leather bracer of his forearm with razor claws.

Abdullah poured oil on the flame.

"We are only so many men. How much wealth could we possibly have carried away? Whatever was truly valuable is still back in Kawkab's fort.

"If you are a clever man, you know what choice to make. Whether to break your teeth on our small but hardened company or to feast on the fat, tender meat elsewhere. The choice is yours."

Behind him, the Kurdish riders drew their blades and lances as one, and roared a single phrase in Kurdish. They showed no trace of exhaustion from the days of hard riding. The sheer ferocity radiating off them made the enemy ranks shift uneasily.