10. Tears of the Desert
In the small market village on the outskirts of Damascus, nestled along the banks of the Barada River—Souk Wadi Barada—the air began to take on a noticeably heavy texture around the time I was carving the hundredth mace handle in Barakah's forge.
At first, it was just idle rumors drifting in like dry dust from afar. But the news from Antioch and Edessa in the north grew darker by the day. Tales of a massive Frankish army crossing the sea and pounding at the northern gates spread across the Levant on the ragged breaths of messengers. And that news reached this place, Souk Wadi Barada, which sustained itself on logistics from nearby Damascus—a spot where no army's shadow had yet fallen. Yet the chill in the atmosphere was palpable enough to raise gooseflesh, putting the once-bustling village on edge.
No military shadow had touched here, but people felt it in their bones first. Terror lurked in the eyes of merchants coming down from the north, and the market wives' chatter hid itself in the silence. Quick-witted traders like Hamar locked their warehouse doors just in case. The peaceful riverside village sank into the hush of a storm's eve.
But shattering that fragile quiet with a sharp ring was the steady, heavy clang of metal from the village's sole forge, Barakah. Amid the growing chaos, the bellows never paused for a moment.
The Galilee Hills lay more than ten days' steady march north of Barada.
"Don't retreat! We can't yield the holy path to these infidels!"
The Crusaders' vanguard clashed with the forces of the local Malik and his amirs who ruled the area. It was a desperate bloodbath between those securing supply lines and those defending them. In the hellish mire where winter's damp winds gnawed at the soldiers' stamina, screams mingled with the clash of steel.
Clang!
The valiant Bohemond mounted his horse, relieved by the reassuring weight of his chainmail. Crafted by the finest artisans of the Holy Roman Empire, no arrowhead could pierce the dense links—it simply bounced off. Each swing of his sword lightly cleaved the backs of fleeing foes with acceleration and mass; his sturdy breastplate crushed chests protected by lesser mail, shattering ribs.
"Did these sand-munchers think they could stop us with gear like that?"
Fierce winter winds whipped through the narrow canyons of the Galilee Hills. With half the hills already occupied, momentum had swung to the Western forces. Outmatched by the vanguard's ferocity—and with ample reinforcements following—the locals had no terrain advantage to reverse the tide. Soldiers and begs reluctantly yielded the vital supply route per their amirs' orders, retreating beyond the hills to join Malik's main force.
Bohemond smirked coldly at the fleeing backs.
"Pursue them! The man who brings me the heads of begs and amirs shall have a portion of the holy land and gold to match!"
His troops surged into the narrow pass after the stragglers. Their path seemed clear of obstacles.
But at the canyon's narrowest throat, a band blocked their way: the Desert Claw mercenaries.
Thrown forward as a rearguard to buy time for the main force, they showed no sign of being sacrificial pawns. Under their captain and vice-captain, the mercenaries from various bands wielded not their usual mismatched arms, but identical Mi'yar swords and strange flanged maces with hexagonal wings.
"What are those? Some half-finished blacksmith's trash they grabbed in a hurry?"
One of Bohemond's knights charged with a sneer, trusting his chainmail as he swung wildly. The blocking mercenary didn't flinch. He deftly parried with his shield and drew his heavy new weapon.
Thud—!
Crunch—!
What returned to the lone charger diving into their tight formation was a baptism of iron death. A single massive swing sheared through helm and the looser chains of his mail; the downward shoulder strike pulverized collarbone and joint; the abdominal swing ruptured organs; the overhead blow compressed the slack space in his helm.
Bohemond yanked his reins, watching the knight crumple from front and flanks without even a scream.
The mercenaries didn't engage recklessly. Using the rugged Galilee terrain, they layered shields and gifted incoming foes the maces' crushing power, sealing the pass tight. Each rush of Bohemond's elites met dull silver-gray bludgeons flashing from behind square shields, mercilessly smashing armor and bone.
In this cramped canyon, their new weapons were perfect for turning it into their fortress.
From horseback, Bohemond eyed the bizarre scene. Mercenaries who should be tactically outmatched were stalling a great host with superior arms and terrain alone. Seeing his chainmail-clad men—each a walking fortress—crumble to crude metal lumps was galling. Arrows had limits here, forcing him to hammer these unknowns longer than planned.
As the melee raged, Bohemond bit his lip, watching the enemy main force slip away over the hills. The mercenaries' stand succeeded. He vowed to uncover the source of those dull silver-gray bludgeons and their commanders.
That was the best he could do after shoving them aside. His troops were Europe's battle-hardened elite, their chainmail the fruit of his care—nullifying slashes, stopping arrows. Wasting them on nameless mercenaries left him with only that vow.
Meanwhile, atop a distant hill, the retreating Malik, amirs, and begs halted at the unbelievable sight.
"Are those... really the mercenaries we know?"
A beg asked in a trembling voice. Crusader heavy cavalry that had steamrolled their own elites—even if not as fine as Askaris—were stalled at a pass bolted shut by mere dozens of hireswords.
Malik swallowed hard, staring at the dull-gleaming weapons in their hands.
"That gear meshes perfectly with the terrain, holding strong... but we need to investigate."
Instead of hasty retreat, he hinted at probing the miracle-workers' backers. He sensed the vital need to trace those weapons' origin.
"Vanguard, keep distance and hold formation! Archers, rain arrows overhead!"
Bohemond's grim shout echoed, but results were poor. The Desert Claw had hunkered into rocks and cover, controlling only the narrow pass. Arrows snapped on stone; only careless fools became pincushions.
His prized knight-grinders could break shields fast, but at the cost of mounting losses—a dilemma.
Gazing at Malik's main force vanishing beyond the canyon, Bohemond tasted a novel defeat. Not tactical failure, but utter impotence against insurmountable tool disparity.
Where did those weapons come from? Who's targeting us with them?
As he ground his teeth beneath his weathered helm, Malik on the hill drank in the scene longer. Remembering their clean retreat stemmed not from God but those strange flanged maces, he issued further orders.
"No repeating myself—scour their approach direction thoroughly. Find who forged those weapons. Trace every path they came from and every source of those arms."
Unlike the Galilee Hills' blood-scented, chill sticky winds, Souk Wadi Barada's forge ruled only by scorching dry heat and hammering steel.
I'd thought them all done, but one last mace unearthed from a corner of the handles got its fill of antimony powder mixed into the crucible and melted down. Stirring the molten metal belching fiercer heat, I pulled the crucible from the roaring furnace. While waiting for the poured metal to cool in the mold, my hands fitted the final true mace head to its ashwood haft, securing leather wraps tight—no hesitation.
Marked as my personal weapon from the first pour, I poured my soul into every step, finishing meticulously. No leak worries, no passing to others—this was my most labored creation.
"Teacher, that one's different from the others...? The color and shape look more like art..."
Hasim, sweat-soaked from watching me craft my weapon, stared mesmerized. He'd sensed the obsession in this last one.
I swung it lightly through the air instead of answering. Thanks to antimony, the mold's sharp hexagonal flanges released bubble-free, smooth; its dull silver sheen mirrored the furnace flames like a glass.
Testing the air-slicing whoosh, I spoke.
"Has to be. You think I'd use the same standard merch I sell? Gotta give my best within my limits."
Securing the end counterweight, I continued.
"You're young, but war's fair to all. Only strong body and proper weapon push back that 'equal death.' Remember that."
Oblivious to Bohemond's knights screaming in northern canyons or Malik's awe-tinged hunt for my weapons' source, I focused on the hefty grip feel.
"Mm, best result yet."
As Western heroes and desert lords probed my existence, converging over horizons to bind my fate—expected or not, my reaction wouldn't change much.
Their ambitions mattered less than this weapon's chilling whistle.
I strapped the new antimony flanged mace secure to my back, gazing past the cooling furnace at the thickening night sky.
Era-shaking prep was done.
"Now, who'll knock first?"
My true stage began now.