"This is my new Retainer. Introduce yourself, Malleus."

Lothar stepped out of the manor with the others. A vast shadow fell across the courtyard, momentarily blotting out the sun.

The man behind him possessed the build of Mars, the war god from the old pagan tales. His sheer physical presence seized every gaze in the courtyard.

Heavenly Father above.

Laine and Modell swallowed. The two-meter giant looked carved from granite. Clad him in heavy armor and unleash him on a battlefield, and neither man could imagine what might stop him.

"If he were a knight," Laine breathed, "I don't know what kind of horse could even carry him."

Modell put it more simply: "He belongs in the Varangian Guard."

The Varangian Guard of the Eastern Empire: the finest infantry in the world.

"Malleus is strong, yes. But he's a blacksmith. A master smith. Not a battlefield soldier."

Lothar had no intention of risking so valuable a craftsman in battle. Malleus might resemble a war god, but his Stamina was only twice an ordinary man's.

Hans studied the giant's face. His eyes widened. "You — you're the Chief Master Smith. From the Commonwealth."

Malleus looked down at him. At the black-and-white cross on his surcoat. A rare flicker of distaste crossed his face. "A Teutonic whelp. Here, of all places."

Laine and Modell traded baffled looks. Neither knew what Commonwealth Hans meant or which order Malleus despised, but the hostility between their former factions needed no explanation.

"Malleus." Lothar's voice carried a warning. "Remember — this is Jerusalem. Your allegiance is to me now. Not to any commonwealth. Not to any order."

Prajna stepped forward without a word. A nearly imperceptible pressure rolled from her, dissolving the oppressive presence Malleus had brought into the courtyard. His history meant nothing to her. He was a mortal craftsman, incapable of forging an artifact like the Demon-Faced Shield upon her arm.

Fringilla, who had been about to step forward herself, stopped and muttered under her breath: "The big lump is quick, I'll give her that."

Malleus was silent for a moment. Then he bowed deep. "My lord — I am yours to command."

"Good. Let me show you the smithy. Make a list of what you need. We leave for the fief tomorrow morning at the latest."

As they walked away, Laine muttered: "How does the lord keep pulling talented people out of thin air? Do you think he's actually — not the count's son at all, but the Emperor's bastard?"

"Shut your mouth. Do not gossip about your lord." Modell sounded stern, though the same question troubled him. How could an ordinary landless knight attract the service of two witches?

"In any case — this is good. All of it is the Heavenly Father's will." Modell crossed himself with genuine piety.

"The Heavenly Father's will. Yes." Laine nodded with deep conviction, espousing a theology that might have earned him a beating from the Pope.

---

Knightly duels were common in Jerusalem. Landless men poured in from the Continent dreaming of winning fortunes in the Holy Land, and disputes followed them. A duel over Princess Sibylla, however, commanded the entire city's attention.

By the afternoon, the parade ground was packed. Wandering knights, pilgrims not yet enlisted, nobles, monks: the streets were a crush of bodies. Guards bellowed at the commoners to clear the way, shoving them back with halberds to carve out space for their lords.

Balian licked his cracked lips. Beneath his helm, his face was tight with nerves. He had arrived before Guy of Lusignan. He had drunk the Dragon's Blood potion. He could feel it: a terrifying power surging through his body.

The power frightened him as much as it thrilled him. Was it sacrilege to bring strength so clearly not granted by the Heavenly Father into a sacred trial?

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

"God above — is that a giant from Rhodes?"

"Whose men are those? They look like elites!"

On the viewing platform, nobles and ladies rose from their seats, their faces slack with disbelief.

A massive figure forced a path through the crowd. Behind him marched armored soldiers in perfect formation, eyes forward and strides matched. White surcoats bearing the red lion rampant covered their armor. Their sharp, precise movement projected a discipline that drove onlookers back. A knight brought up the rear on a warhorse clad in black leather barding.

"That's Lothar of House Habsburg?"

"He's back in the Holy City?"

"I heard the King raised him to baron?"

"Where's his fief? How can His Majesty grant such a thing without the council?"

"Jogelsburg, I heard. Some backwater. Crown land."

The murmuring spread like ripples. Balian, the center of the storm only moments before, was suddenly eclipsed by this rising new star: Baron Lothar.

Count Raymond, Regent of Jerusalem, ascended the viewing platform in his blue surcoat. Close behind him came Count Reynald of Oultrejourdain. The tall, red-haired man had, for once, been carefully groomed and looked almost handsome in a lean, wolfish way. Baron Godfrey mounted the steps last.

He spotted Lothar's company at once. The force was so imposing it had carved out a clear island in the sea of bodies. Godfrey beckoned him up.

Lothar climbed the platform with Prajna, Fringilla, and Hans. He'd thought about leaving the two women at home. Prajna had insisted she must remain at his side to protect him. Fringilla simply liked a spectacle, and the moment she heard Prajna's reasoning, she'd latched on as well.

"Quite the show," Godfrey remarked. "This army really has only been training for two weeks?"

Lothar noted the baron's relaxed manner with some surprise, but nodded. "Two weeks. They have the basics. They're still nothing like veterans."

"You've made an impression. Did you see the looks on Raymond and Reynald?"

Lothar inclined his head. "It is time I began carrying part of your burden, my lord."

Today, Lothar formally stepped onto the kingdom's political stage.

---

Guy of Lusignan arrived. The young Gaulish knight radiated arrogance. He walked with his hand resting on his sword, each stride measured.

"A sacred duel is a privilege the Heavenly Father bestows upon the nobility. All must submit to its law. But Balian — you did not take up the gauntlet Guy of Lusignan threw at your feet. Therefore, you retain the right to refuse this duel, and to name a squire or sworn man to fight in your stead."

William, Archbishop of Tyre and Chancellor of the Kingdom, delivered the judgment with one hand resting on his sword hilt, every word ringing with stately authority.

Balian shook his head. "Your Grace — I will honor the terms. I cannot abandon my pursuit of Lady Sibylla. Her title has nothing to do with it."

"Nor can I, Your Grace." Guy's expression was unreadable. He lifted his head toward the veiled princess, who could not be said to be looking at either man in particular, and called out: "Let the Heavenly Father decide which of us is worthy of the honor."