The riders closed in fast. Six of them, their silhouettes cutting through the desert haze like ghosts on horseback. Their banners—white cloth marked with red crosses—told him what he needed to know: Crusaders.
At least, that's what they looked like.
He stepped out from behind the rocks, sword lowered but ready. His heart hammered in his chest. If he ran, they'd chase him. If he stayed silent, they might assume he was one of the dead.
"Identify yourself!" one of the riders shouted, drawing his sword. His accent was French, rough and heavy. "Speak, or be cut down!"
The man hesitated, his mind racing.
He didn't know the name of the knight whose body he'd taken—but he remembered the parchment at his belt. He fumbled for it, raising the wax seal.
"Sir—" he coughed, forcing his voice steady, "—Sir Roland of Acre. Under command of Lord Beaumont."
The men exchanged wary glances. The one in front, a grizzled knight with half his beard burned away, dismounted slowly. "You're the only one left, then. God's mercy."
He nodded, still pretending to remember. "The Saracens came at dawn. We tried to hold the ridge."
The older knight sighed. "Aye. And failed, by the look of it. You're lucky to be breathing." He extended a gauntleted hand. "Come. We'll take you to the camp at Ascalon. Our brothers need every sword that can still lift steel."
The man—Roland now, for lack of a better name—climbed onto a spare horse. His body ached with every movement, but adrenaline kept him upright.
As they rode, he studied everything—their armor, the formation, even the horses' condition. Their discipline was rough, their supplies thin. No logistics, no communication lines, no real leadership.
In his old world, this would've been suicide.
By dusk, they reached the camp. Rows of tents, fires burning low, the air thick with sweat and smoke. Men prayed, sharpened blades, or stared into the night with hollow eyes.
He followed the older knight into a large tent. A crude wooden table stood in the center, maps pinned with daggers. A few men gathered around it, arguing quietly.
When they noticed him, one frowned. "Another survivor? From Beaumont's patrol?"
Roland nodded. "Most didn't make it."
A younger man stepped forward, his eyes sharp. "You're lucky then. Or blessed. Which is it?"
"Neither," Roland said, meeting his gaze. "Just smart."
That earned a few raised eyebrows. The younger knight smirked. "Smart men die same as the rest."
"Only if they stop thinking," Roland replied.
The older knight chuckled. "Careful, boy. This one's got teeth." He turned to Roland. "Rest for now. You'll ride with us at dawn. Saladin's scouts are pushing north. If we're to hold the road to Jerusalem, we'll need every man standing."
As the others drifted out, the younger knight lingered. "You talk like no man I've met. You've seen more than battle, haven't you?"
Roland studied him—young, lean, confident. Not arrogant, but dangerous. He could be useful.
"Maybe," Roland said. "What's your name?"
"Lucien. Knight of the Order of the Cross."
"Then, Lucien," Roland said quietly, "tell me—how many men can read in this camp?"
Lucien frowned. "A few. Priests, scribes… why?"
Roland smiled faintly. "Because if you want to win a war, you start with the ones who can think."
Lucien stared at him a long moment before laughing. "You're either mad or brilliant. I haven't decided which."
"Give it time," Roland said. "You'll see."
Outside, the desert wind howled through the camp, carrying the scent of smoke and death. Roland sat by the fire, staring into the flames.
He was in the past—yes—but he had something these men didn't: centuries of knowledge about how wars were won.
If he played his cards right, the Kingdom of Jerusalem wouldn't just survive.
It would belong to him.