Jerusalem. Constance Manor.

Laine watched with mounting boredom as Modell put the recruits through their drills: form ranks, march with staves, turn left, turn right, kneel, rise, form a square, form a circle.

Dozens of shuffling feet churned the once-pristine courtyard into a choking haze of dust.

"All of you, stand at attention! No talking. No movement of any kind. You will hold this position until the church bell rings!"

Modell's full beard and permanent scowl made him a far more convincing drillmaster than Laine. Riding crop in hand, he lashed anyone who so much as twitched out of position.

Under the blazing sun, the recruits stood in full armor, drenched in sweat. If Constance Manor didn't pay better than the kingdom's own army, and feed them far better besides, none of these men would have tolerated such tedious drills.

To the recruits, this was pointless torment with no bearing on a real battle. They would rather spend the hours hacking at target dummies with wooden swords.

A full quarter-hour passed before the church bell finally tolled.

The recruits let out a collective groan of relief and collapsed into loose, slouching heaps on the ground.

"Remove armor and rest!" Modell ordered. "Next, I will teach you how to maintain your armor and weapons. You know what that gear on your backs is worth: it costs more than you do. And it is what will keep you alive on the battlefield."

The recruits exchanged sober looks. They knew exactly what a suit of armor was worth. Back before they'd come to the Holy Land, when they'd been peasant levies or city militia, no lord would have dreamed of giving them armor. That was a privilege reserved for a lord's own personal guard. It was another reason they endured the training.

Laine lounged beneath a tree while Modell explained the basics. The moment the lesson ended, the recruits began another interminable exercise in standing perfectly still.

Modell trudged over through the heat, pulling off his helmet to pour out a stream of water. "I know the lord wants to drill 'discipline' into these men: make them follow orders on the battlefield, keep them from shattering the moment cavalry hits their line. But this training is mind-numbingly dull. And those followers we brought from Austria: not one of them is good for it."

"Modell." Laine frowned. "Training new soldiers is always tedious. But you know that this company is going to be our command someday. How well we train them will decide our futures."

Modell's eyes burned with ambition. "Don't you want it? To ride across a battlefield in gleaming armor, like one of those knights?"

"Of course I want it. But look at them. Half these idiots can't tell left from right. A simple turn and they scatter like startled sheep. How is the lord supposed to be satisfied with that?"

"Then we drill them harder." Modell's jaw tightened.

The recruits were undeniably disappointing. They had strength and stamina, but most were illiterate, and barely a handful had attended a church school. Men who could not tell left from right could hardly form close ranks and march in step. Without discipline, they were only levies wrapped in expensive armor.

Hoofbeats sounded in the street outside.

A rider in dark Saracen-style scale armor walked his horse through the manor gate. Laine and Modell stared.

"Halt! This is Lord Lothar's private estate! No visitors!"

"Infidel, you defile this holy ground!"

Laine and Modell snatched up their weapons and closed in. Several of the guards, the long-trained followers, fell in behind them, already showing the first signs of real combat readiness.

"Barely two weeks apart, and you can't even recognize me?"

The voice was unmistakable.

Laine, Modell, and the followers' faces broke into stunned delight.

"It's the lord's voice!"

"The master is back!"

Without Lothar, the household had lost its backbone. Laine and Modell were capable soldiers, but neither was ready to stand alone.

The knight pulled down his face-veil and scarf. "Laine. Modell. My followers. It's been a while."

His eyes went to the recruits, still standing at attention. Despite their obvious shock and curiosity, not one had broken ranks to gawk. Modell's harsh training was already showing results.

Lothar pressed his reins into Laine's hand and strode straight to the formation.

"We meet for the first time, my soldiers. I am your lord and the man to whom you have sworn your oaths. I am also the man who pays your wages. You've trained well. Keep at it."

He turned to Modell. "Extra rations tonight. Meat for everyone."

A cheer went up from the ranks.

"Hurrah!"

"God bless you, generous lord!"

"Praise be!"

Hans, Prajna, and Fringilla entered the manor at a more sedate pace.

"My brothers, it's been too long!" Hans, his eyes glistening, threw his arms around Laine and Modell.

"It's… it's been a while." The two of them were taken aback by the force of his embrace.

"Brothers, find some reliable men to unload the saddlebags and tend those poor beasts. The road has been brutal." The prospect of escaping menial labor made Hans feel reborn.

Lothar called out: "Modell, continue the training. Laine, with me. I need to know what's happened at the manor while I've been away."

---

"My lord, this way."

Laine led Lothar to the storehouse. The weapons and gear were laid out in neat rows. "One hundred iron spearheads. Sixty hide-covered round shields, heater shields. Spare armor scales for repairs. A dozen war-hammers and one-handed hammers. Three bows. Two crossbows."

Pope Innocent III had issued a ban on crossbows and bows: forbidding their use against fellow Christians. Not a single feudal ruler had paid the edict the slightest attention. Banning ranged weapons was asking to be disarmed in a world of enemies. Besides, this was Jerusalem. The men Lothar would be shooting at were infidels.

"Well done. Bows and crossbows are good to have, but don't sink too much effort into them. For now, the armored sergeants are the priority."

Lothar had no intention of building a large light-infantry force. Light troops excelled against unarmored targets, but against a fully equipped knight or armored sergeant, they were little more than a nuisance.

Nor did he intend to raise horse archers. For anyone not raised in the saddle, even shooting from a stationary mount demanded years of training; accurate fire at a gallop was harder still. The short bows of this age also lacked the power of infantry bows and struggled against iron armor. In hastily trained hands, they would be a costly novelty.

The Tatars had not conquered through mounted archery alone. Their true strength lay in organization, strategic mobility, and a large core of heavy cavalry whose armor coverage surpassed nearly every army of the age, Crusaders included.

Reducing warfare to a neat circle—Crusaders beat Mamluks, Mamluks beat Tatars, Tatars beat Crusaders—was nonsense.

A crude comparison from his old world put a Crusader knight in a Tiger tank and a Tatar rider in a T-34. Each possessed different strengths. Yet the Crusaders' loose discipline, cult of personal valor, and rigid tactics left them ill-equipped to face the Tatar war machine.

He had taken considerable wealth from Kawkab's fortress. What he would build with it was the true king of the battlefield: heavy cavalry. Where the riders would come from, he was still weighing.

---

Back outside, Lothar watched the recruits drill and gave a quiet, approving nod. Unlike Laine and Modell, he wasn't expecting a miracle. To have recruited and trained a force like this in two short weeks was already an achievement.

Many of the sergeants had already seen blood. The pilgrim roads were thick with danger, and no man reached the Holy Land without both luck and ability. They were already halfway to becoming soldiers.

Another month of training, and they might be ready for the field.

Lothar clapped Modell on the shoulder. "You two have done well. When training ends for the day, go and buy seed, tools. Look for a smith and a carpenter while you're at it: I don't want the forge and the woodshop sitting empty."

"Is there someone tending the stables? These fine animals need careful handling. If any of them falls sick, quarantine him at once."

The eight Arab warhorses they'd brought back were all top-quality stock. Together, they were worth at least three hundred gold coins.

He was still talking when hoofbeats pounded outside the manor.

A Royal Knight of Jerusalem in his red-and-white surcoat reined up at the gate. His voice was urgent. "Sir Lothar, His Majesty summons you. You are to appear at the palace at once."

Lothar nodded quickly. "Understood. Only let me change my clothes first."

The knight shook his head. "That won't be necessary. There will be attendants at the palace to bathe and dress you."