CHAPTER 43 - 43: SETTING THE TRAP

Early November, 1178 – The Hills Above Jacob's Ford

The wind was dry and cool that morning, carrying the dust and scent of river reeds across the hills overlooking Jacob's Ford. Beneath a makeshift tent set high above the still-unfinished fortress, King Baldwin IV—known among his men as "the Masked King"—stood staring across the eastern ridges.

Ethan squinted behind his silver mask. His right eye was weeping again, a slow irritation from the leprosy's damage, but he ignored it.

Saladin was on the move.

He could feel it—no longer just a possibility, but a storm forming on the horizon. His scouts had reported unusual caravan movements out of Damascus. Not massive army banners or fanfare. Just too many pack animals for standard merchant trains. Too many riders with scars and sharp eyes pretending to be traders.

They were trying to hide it. That meant they were coming—and fast.

"Your Majesty," Balian said, pulling up his horse alongside him. "Reports from the Safed riders confirm the eastern hill passes show churned earth—fresh hoofprints and broken scrub along the trade route. He's coming. Not in force... but fast."

Ethan nodded slowly. "He wants speed over weight. Which means he's gambling on surprise."

Odo of Saint Amand, Grand Master of the Templars, joined them. "How long?"

"Five, maybe six days," Ethan replied. "He's betting that we can't respond in time. That Jacob's Ford is still a vulnerable scar."

He looked back toward the fortress. Scaffolds rose against the sky, surrounded by partially finished curtain walls and squat towers. The main keep's base was complete, but it would be years before the entire structure reached its final height.

That didn't matter.

It wasn't the fortress that would win this battle. It was what surrounded it.

An Army in Secret

In the preceding weeks, Ethan had quietly pulled forces together from across the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Orders had gone out by fast riders to Acre, Tiberias, and Montfort. From Tyre and Jaffa, he had summoned knights in small groups, avoiding spectacle.

Now, 5,000 men were gathering in secret behind the hills and forests north and west of the ford. Among them:

500 knights: well-armored, disciplined, and eager for battle.

3,500 infantry: a mix of seasoned Crusaders and militiamen who had been drilling every month per Ethan's new regulations.

Engineers and sappers: 300 in all, trained to build, demolish, and trap.

And most importantly—eight Stormracks.

The crossbow-based volley machines—modified from his memory of Korean hwachas—had been mounted on wheeled carriages and adapted for high-angle firing. Each could launch forty iron-tipped bolts in a single eruption, with a reload time of three minutes if manned properly.

No fire. No smoke. Just steel and wood, brutally simple and deadly.

Ethan walked with Balian and Odo through a newly dug trench that curved like a serpent around a low rise south of the fortress.

"I want three of the Stormracks here, here, and here," Ethan said, pointing with his gloved hand. "Covering the eastern approach and the main gate slope. If he comes in hard, he'll be funneled between these two ridgelines. That's where we'll break him."

Balian frowned. "He may circle south."

"He won't," Ethan said. "That path is longer and more exposed. He's coming for the throat. Fast and direct. His scouts think this is lightly defended."

Odo grinned. "Then let us show them how wrong they are."

The Ground Beneath Their Feet

Ethan's engineers began preparing layered defenses. They had less than a week, but with proper planning, they could force Saladin's men into kill zones.

Camouflaged pit traps were dug along narrow defiles in the approach road—designed to swallow a horse or snap a man's leg.

Sharpened stakes, soaked in brine, hidden beneath dirt and brush.

False trails to mislead scouts.

A stone dam

, disguised as part of a quarry wall, was partially rigged to flood a narrow creek bed on Ethan's signal—turning solid ground into mud.

More than once, Ethan found himself drawing trench patterns into the dirt, visualizing ancient Roman entrenchments, Napoleonic artillery lines, and early modern kill zones.

"We don't need to match his numbers," Ethan told his officers. "We need to control where the fight happens."

At night, he stood by firelight, drawing plans in charcoal, adjusting angles of fields of fire, calculating how far the Stormracks could reach, when the bolts would arc, when to charge.

A Cloak of Silence

The scouts were doubled. Riders from Safed, Tiberias, and Banias now patrolled in staggered loops, reporting every merchant caravan, every goat herder, every suspicious campfire. Dismounted patrols crept along the eastern ridgelines with polished glass lenses—primitive but effective—mounted in wooden tubes.

Ethan had quietly implemented the use of mirrors and flags for signaling between posts—simple semaphore based on line-of-sight. It allowed messengers to send alerts faster than a horseman could ride.

He called his lead scoutmaster into the tent late one evening.

"From now on, assume your enemy sees everything," Ethan told him. "That means your real goal is to deny him his own eyes. Turn every one of his scouts around. Misdirect. Block. Confuse. Blind him."

The scoutmaster saluted. "We'll make him march blindfolded, sire."

The Calm Before the Storm

On the fourth day of November, a low mist crept over the hills near the Jordan. The fortress at Jacob's Ford, though still unfinished, stood like a silent sentinel beside the river. Smoke rose from forges and fires. Supply trains moved discreetly. But behind the quiet, an army was waiting.

Ethan stood on a bluff just west of the main road. Balian approached on horseback, his helmet under one arm.

"All is in motion," Balian said.

"And Saladin?" Ethan asked.

"He's on the way. He crossed the Jordan yesterday—he'll be within striking distance in five days, maybe less."

Ethan's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "Then we don't waste a moment."

He looked at the slope where the final palisade was being installed, then turned toward the rows of infantry running drills in tight formation—crossbowmen kneeling, reloading in rhythm, while pikemen locked shields above them.

"We don't need five years to finish this fortress," Ethan said, more to himself than to Balian. "We only need five days to make it a graveyard."