35. Crisis, or Opportunity? (1)
It was chilling. A cold sweat soaked him, spreading a damp, eerie sensation down his back like a dagger plunged into his chest. Of course, it wasn't a real dagger. Just the chill of fear-induced perspiration.
"Hurry your steps, Guildmaster. The Malik awaits."
No, until now, they'd only summoned him when he needed something, shoving requests for audiences down his throat. But dragging him out in the dead of night with the captain of the guard in tow? This was some next-level terrifying shit.
Under the pretense of an escort by torch-bearing soldiers, Baraka was marched toward the camel stables. A few ill-tempered camels, roused by the raucous torchlight, bellowed gruffly, but the soldiers didn't so much as blink. Their utter indifference only amplified his tension and dread.
Ah, fuck... I have no clue what this is about.
It had been mere moments since Guillaume had stamped the contract and slipped out the back gate. Had they tailed him on his way out? Or was there some human bug planted in the citadel, better than any listening device? A whirlwind of horrifying possibilities churned in his mind.
Dodging the crankier camels, he finally spotted one that seemed relatively docile and clambered onto its back. Surrounded by the captain and soldiers atop their own mounts, they tore through Damascus's silent night streets. Even the cool night breeze whispering past his ears did nothing to cool his cold sweat.
Upon arriving in Damascus, he was hustled straight to Duqaq's private study—the same one as before—without a moment's rest.
As he entered, there sat Duqaq beneath the flickering candlelight, dressed simply. For some reason, it felt like he saw the man more often outside the audience hall than in it—was that just his imagination? Anyway, at this late hour after days apart, the ruler's face was the picture of exhaustion: unkempt stubble, hollowed eyes from lack of sleep. The job of a monarch really was hell on the body.
The silver lining? No killing intent in the gaze directed at him. No killing intent—that was the real important part, so he noted it twice.
"You've had a late night of it, Guildmaster."
"How could one quibble over hardship at the summons of the great Malik? I merely obey."
Of course, that didn't mean he could let his guard down. With so much to be jittery about, he kept his voice steady, avoiding eye contact by bowing his head politely.
A short, suffocating silence hung in the study. Duqaq toyed slowly with a goblet of wine on the table before speaking in a heavy tone.
"I hear my gift reached you safely."
...What's his angle? With that thought, Baraka flicked his eyes up to the Malik's lap, pondering.
"No need for pointless worry. I'm not testing you—it's a genuine check. So, did the gift arrive well?"
Even as Duqaq said it, Baraka couldn't fully buy it. He'd been playing the fool earlier; he wasn't about to get played now.
"Yes... His coin and goods were fine, but the true gifts were splendid. I am grateful for the Malik's mercy."
Dissatisfied with the answer, perhaps? Duqaq clicked his tongue lightly and followed with a curt remark.
"Tch, who calls you here in the dead of night to hear such drivel? We're alone—sit comfortably and let's talk face-to-face."
Deep talk across from each other at this prickly timing? His guts twisted, but it was an order. He sank to the floor and slowly looked up at the man.
The once-tall, robust figure now bordered on gaunt, yet it didn't show much. Those eyes burned too fiercely, the raw desire in them too vivid and sticky. Despite being younger than Baraka, that gaze made him want to avert his eyes again—but dodging now, after locking stares, would be rude beyond words. It wouldn't land him in Justus's spare room next door, but it'd put him at a severe disadvantage.
Meeting that intense gaze, Duqaq's mouth opened.
"That filthy trade route of theirs will be the most useful, no doubt. No thanks needed. Holding onto meaningless ledgers and paths myself is pointless anyway—the caravans tangled with you can run them."
"Th-that is..."
Duqaq had clearly pored over every detail before gifting it, grasping even the minutiae around Baraka's circle and probing his motives. The insight sent chills down his spine.
"No need to hide it. If you use that route to expand, it'll bring prosperity and vigor back to Damascus—that's reason enough for me not to mind. However..."
Duqaq's eyes narrowed.
However...? Why the dramatic pause? Baraka swallowed hard.
"I didn't call you tonight for those ledger scraps."
Duqaq rose and moved to the window, staring him down directly.
"Scouts report the Crusaders' vanguard has nearly reached Al-Isqandaruna. They're preparing to push further south. Antioch to Aleppo won't take long."
The latest intel from the Malik's lips. Accounting for losses crossing Anatolia, their speed and prep, the timeline maxed at two months—maybe one. A month out meant they could reach Damascus. Aleppo evoked someone, but too early for his birth. Bedouin cavalry harassment was the only blockade that came to mind. Thus, Damascus—Duqaq and his atabeg Toghtekin—would face them first.
"The problem isn't their numbers... it's those damned ironclad knights."
"...You mean the heavy cavalry, sire?"
"Yes. Your Sirion shone at the review. But..."
A thick anguish, new to his voice, seeped in.
"It can withstand infantry arrows, swords, even maces. Excellent. But their charge—massive warhorses, lances gripped tight, thundering at full gallop—that's different. Scales might hold, but the sheer weight and impact will shatter our infantry lines, trampling them underhoof."
In that instant, Baraka's taut nerves snapped loose, a electric relief flooding his brain.
Ah, fuck yeah—I'm safe!
Not onto his deal with Guillaume. The Malik had just hit a tactical wall pre-war and called his tech consultant.
"And their numbers are no joke—Mamluk hit-and-run tactics have limits too."
Obviously. Absent Mongol-style horse archer rushes, you couldn't bluff-block hundreds of plate-armored knights charging lances. Sand traps, water denial, fire attacks? Possible, but the desert wasn't that unforgiving; prepared foes adapt. Islam's forces knew after last time. Push too hard, and you'd get caught and crushed. Even with flanged maces as sidearms and Sirion, knights addicted to closing in on armor wouldn't falter without overwhelming advantage. They'd have counters—like horse snares. Bringing inadequate anti-cavalry tactics would sweep away troops and land him before an executioner scarier than the guillotine.
Time to crank the brain. But the more he thought, the broader his smile grew.
Wait... Slap 'anti-cavalry weapon development' on it, and I can snag a massive factory site for free?
Official treasury backing from the Malik at the perfect insane timing! Tempted to wonder if it was a test or trap, but tight management fixed that. Cower from worry, achieve nothing. Gotta get home somehow. Turning crisis to opportunity? That's salesmanship—er, courage.
His fawning gaze shifted to the top sales rep within. Noticing the change, Duqaq's eyes curved with interest.
Perfect. Time to pitch.
"Sire, focusing only on those thickly armored knights leaves you stumped, no?"
"Focus on knights alone...? Your words hint at some brilliant scheme."
Those deep eyes scanned him; Baraka's inner salesman squeezed out ideas furiously.
"Exactly. What's the key difference between their lands and ours? They were born clutching fertile earth, shaped by it—but here, it's mostly sand, right?"
Duqaq nodded. Undeniable fact in the Middle East: more desert than solid ground. Deny it, you're nuts.
"Fight them at Hama. They'll target it first—solid ground, perfect for knights and horses."
"So, don't drag it out—tell me how to break their spirit."
Instead of rage at suggesting battle at knight-friendly Hama, Duqaq eyed him steadily, as if sizing up a madman.
"Yes, they'll prioritize Hama—nearest major water source, river access, firm terrain. Strike their morale there."
Baraka pointed to the quill and parchment on Duqaq's desk. A nod granted permission; he sketched swiftly.
"My mace is sidearm at best—works on dismounted knights."
Duqaq nodded thoughtfully—likely recalling mercenaries who'd shone with maces or battles they'd joined.
"Too short to meet knights head-on fairly. Even long, personal weapons can't reach mounted ones reliably."
Baraka rattled on, quill flying.
"So, split infantry roles further—give them specialized anti-cavalry gear?"
The quill paused; the parchment showed a weapon and brief usage notes. Hardened axe-like head on a longer-than-standard pole, rear hook: anti-cavalry specialized. Solo use demanded suicidal bravery. Simple structure, low difficulty. Stellar performance; sole flaw: unwieldy like personal arms. But for rulers now? Unmatched. Blade to kill horses, reach for riders, hook to yank them down. A glaive.
"This... too broad and heavy for a spear."
Duqaq leaned in, scrutinizing.
Interest hooked.
"A reaper's scythe for harvesting knights."
Something sparked in Duqaq's eyes.
"Wielding this means infantry suffer—but more efficient than Mamluks' retreat-and-arrow cycles, I'd wager."
Young but a ruler; excitement brewed at sharing military wisdom with his atabeg. Sharp mind inferred from hints and prior talk: ways to seize their horses.
"Simple: Shieldless wielders pair with two shield-bearers—three-man teams. On charge, smash forelegs with the long haft, hook and yank the rider..."
"Infantry in tight phalanx. Cavalry charges—sever legs with long hafts. Trample fallen knights in threes. Got it!"
Duqaq grasped the tactical value; a fierce, savage grin bloomed. But not aimed at him, so whatever.
"Mass-produce these long-hafted blades now! Mobilize your entire forge—men, materials. Warehouses open if needed!"
Hooked perfectly. Baraka inwardly cheered wildly, furrowing his brow in feigned distress.
"Your boundless support humbles me, sire... but one major issue."
"Issue? Short iron? Timber?"
"Neither."
"Neither?"
"All three, actually. Iron, wood short too—but space is the killer."
He tapped the glaive's long haft.
"See? Taller than a man. Forge is bursting with orders. Mass-assembling and storing discreetly? Current site's woefully inadequate. Force it, and output drops."
"Hm... True enough. Too long for standard smithies."
"Precisely. Thus, I humbly request..."
Voice low, he named the honey-pot land outside Damascus he'd eyed forever.
"That abandoned massive old sawmill site downstream by the river. Grant it to me—repurpose solely for wood processing and assembly. Remote enough to dodge eyes?"
Duqaq stroked his chin, pondering. But with knights swarming and war pressing, his logic ironclad—no grounds to refuse.
"Done. Who'd block a weapons works on wasteland? Ten times over if needed. Officials transfer ownership tomorrow—build the assembly hall, churn out these weapons without delay."
"Infinite thanks for your foresight, Malik!"
Baraka bowed deeply. He pinched his thigh to stifle the ear-to-ear grin.
Jackpot! Official sanction, funds, prime secret workshop site outside Damascus!
Surface: Glaive factory for Damascus troops. Underside? Split the site—Jewish frontman runs independent woodshop for layered arbalests, mass-producing Crusader-bait crossbows. Ultimate forward base!
Thought his head was rolling, raced terrified to the citadel—instead, birthed a dual-faction wallet-raiding biz. Cheers all around.
Expect wonders, Malik. Super sleek knight-shredders incoming. Oh, and non-stop arbalest production for those Western suckers... but hey, no biggie, right?
Inwardly smirking wickedly, he blessed this glorious windfall.
Honey pot, live forever! (Vivat Cupa Mellis!)