The battle never came.

The enemy's appetite had vanished the moment they realized Lothar's party had no wagons or camel trains groaning beneath stolen gold. They had approached only to test whether threats might wring out an easy payment.

In this age, the great fish devoured the small—but even a predator had to weigh profit against cost. Too many dead retainers could undermine a commander's own position, and Lothar's company offered little plunder. Worse, Safadin's reinforcements might still strike the enemy from behind.

The enemy withdrew. Their commander had refused even to give his name when challenged, which told Lothar all he needed to know. The man was no hot-blooded fool willing to gamble everything on pride.

"Lothar, surrendering our wealth would have been the worst possible choice. No code or law restrains your enemies in this desert. Giving them your gold would not make them leave. It would only expose your weakness."

Abdullah rode beside Lothar, teaching as they went.

Lothar followed his reasoning. "And it would crush the men's morale while emboldening the enemy. Even if they meant to let us leave, they might change their minds once they smelled weakness."

"Exactly."

---

Two more days passed.

They skirted wide around Irbid, where Safadin was garrisoned in person, choosing a longer, more desolate route to avoid any possible encounter. Lothar had no confidence he could bluff his way past Safadin a second time.

"Beyond that rise, that's Kaimont."

Abdullah smiled and drew rein at the foot of a dune.

Lothar studied him for a moment. "So this is where you leave us."

Abdullah nodded. "By the Holy Fire — Lord Lothar, it has been an honor to fight at your side. If I survive what comes next… I may bring my men and seek you out."

He grinned. "I do hope by then you'll have a fief prosperous enough to keep us. My lads don't come cheap."

"I promise you will," Lothar said.

He clasped Abdullah's shoulder. Then he turned to the Kurdish riders behind him.

"You are the bravest, finest cavalry I have ever fought alongside. I am proud to have been your commander, however briefly. I pray your journey ends in safety."

He pressed his right hand to his shoulder and bowed his head. "May the Heavenly Father watch over you. May the Holy Fire burn eternal."

One after another, the Kurdish riders returned the salute with hands pressed to their shoulders. Their days beside Lothar had softened their view of Crusader lords. His mysterious "witchcraft," however, had left a stronger impression still: three parts goodwill, seven parts dread.

Abdullah was moved, but he laughed it off. "Lothar, you just prayed to two different gods. That is not very devout."

Lothar smiled. "Perhaps my God and yours are the same god, in the end. They are both the Creator, after all."

"Perhaps."

Abdullah let the blasphemy pass without comment. He stepped away from Lothar, nodded to Hans, then turned to the two "witches" and offered each the hand-to-shoulder salute in turn. "Farewell, honored ladies. Farewell, brave and industrious squire."

Hans hurriedly returned the salute, flattered until he heard the word "industrious." His pride promptly soured. So even Abdullah thought he was merely the man who handled every thankless chore?

Abdullah met Lothar's eyes one last time. His sun-darkened face split in a smile, teeth startlingly white. Then, one by one, the riders turned and filed away.

Lothar stood watching until their figures dwindled into the desert haze. An old scene from his former world rose unbidden: Gao Jianli playing the zither beside the Yi River as he sent Jing Ke toward a king's throne—and almost certain death.

He let out a long breath.

What storm could a few dozen riders raise in Syria against a garrison said to number one hundred thousand? Even if the claim was inflated tenfold, ten thousand men remained a giant no tiny cavalry band could topple.

"They are men worthy of respect," Hans said, his voice full of feeling. "Their loyalty to their lord surpasses that of most knights in this age."

Lothar clapped him on the shoulder. "You've worked hard these past few days."

Hans nodded with deep sincerity. "Indeed, my lord. You gave every menial task to me. I pitched two tents and fed eight horses by myself. I most earnestly hope you find me some companions soon."

Lothar's face darkened.

Damn it. Was the boy cursing him to draw nothing but one-star cards from now on?

"Don't give me that. I helped plenty!" He didn't wait for a reply. "Pick up the pace. Let's get inside the town and rest."

More than anything, he wanted a cold bath. He had gone nearly a week without washing, marching day after day beneath the desert sun. Even with Prajna's chill easing the heat, sweat had soaked him from dawn to dusk.

---

Kaimont was a crumbling frontier town. Great sheets of plaster peeled from its neglected walls. Caravans passed through only occasionally, pausing just long enough to resupply before hurrying inland. No fountain graced the streets; a filthy drainage ditch cut through the town center, its greasy sludge reeking like an outhouse baked beneath the sun.

The town sat at the northeastern frontier of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. To the north lay what had once been the Principality of Antioch, now the Syrian governorate of the Ayyubid Sultanate. As a gateway city, it lived under the constant shadow of Saladin's ten thousand blades sharpening just beyond the border. Even the town's own lord had abandoned his fief and fled to Jerusalem, where he'd taken up the post of Royal Stablemaster.

The tavern held only a handful of patrons.

Lothar pushed through the door, the two women settling into a corner while he and Hans made for the bar.

A man at a table grinned. "Ha! Two noble knight-lords, sitting at the same table as common folk. Will you drink with us?"

Lothar's smile was easy and courteous. "Of course. My treat." He flipped a silver coin onto the table. "A round of ale for these gentlemen, and for myself and my companion."

"Bless you, generous lord!"

"May the Heavenly Father keep you, sir knight."

The patrons beamed.

Lothar laid two more silver coins on the bar. "Two clean rooms. And enough bathwater for four."

He turned back to the patrons. "Tell me, gentlemen, has anything of note happened in the Holy Land these past few days?"

The men traded uncertain looks. What counted as noteworthy to a knight? Perhaps he wanted to hear how the stonemason's wife entertained another man whenever her husband left town.

At last, a man who had the look of someone who'd traveled rose to speak. "You're from Germania, aren't you, sir knight?"

"I am. Lothar of Aargau, from Swabia, in the Swiss lands."

"I heard from a merchant yesterday," the man said. "Your emperor — he's gone to war with the Lombards. Down in the Italies. They say the Lombards refused to pay the Crusade tithe, even after the Emperor commanded it. So he finally lost patience."

Lothar stared. Emperor Heinrich was nothing like history's red-bearded lion, Frederick Barbarossa, whose ambition had shaken Europe. Heinrich had always treated his vassals gently, especially the northern Italian lords beyond the Alps. Why unleash such violence now, just as relations with the Pope were beginning to thaw?

"Then it will be a long while before the German Crusade arrives," another man said, worried.

"That is indeed serious news." Lothar nodded and took a long drink of ale. The tavern's brew was faintly bitter with the scent of malt, its strength so low it barely counted as alcohol. Perfect for quenching thirst.

"There's one more thing," the traveler said. "Balian of Ibelin — they say he's going to duel Guy of Lusignan."

The man's face lit up as though he'd witnessed the events himself. "Both of them have fallen at Princess Sibylla's feet. To decide who is more worthy of becoming her husband, they have agreed to settle the matter by knightly combat: three days from now, in Jerusalem."