The horns sounded before sunrise.
A hollow, mournful note that rolled over the hills like thunder. Men scrambled from their tents, clutching swords and half-buckled armor. The air was sharp with panic and the cold bite of morning.
Roland was already awake. He had barely slept. The night before, he'd walked the perimeter of the camp, counting torches, noting patrol routes, memorizing terrain. He knew an attack was coming; the patterns were too obvious.
Now, as Lucien burst into the tent, breathless, Roland was already strapping on his breastplate.
"They're coming from the south ridge!" Lucien said. "Two hundred men at least!"
Roland tightened his belt and grabbed his sword. "Then we make them come where we want them."
Lucien blinked. "What?"
"Trust me."
They rode out into chaos. Crusader banners flapped wildly in the wind, men shouting in every direction, officers trying to form ranks that didn't hold. In the distance, across a stretch of sand and scrub, Roland saw them — mounted Saracen cavalry sweeping down the ridge, sunlight flashing off curved blades.
The older knight — Sir Aldred — was barking orders. "Form the line! Shields up! Archers to the rear!"
Roland dismounted beside him. "Sir Aldred, they're trying to draw us into open ground."
Aldred grunted. "You think I don't know that? We'll meet them head-on!"
"That's suicide," Roland said flatly.
Aldred turned on him, fury in his eyes. "You forget your place, boy."
"Then kill me after," Roland shot back. "But if you want to live through this, pull your men back to the dry gully west of the ridge. It's narrow — their cavalry will bottleneck. We can hold them there."
Lucien stared at him, realization dawning. "He's right. The slope's steep enough to break their charge."
Aldred hesitated, jaw tight. Then, with a curse, he shouted the new orders.
The men fell back, confused but obedient. Dust rose as they scrambled into the gully — a shallow trench of hard, cracked earth bordered by two ridges of rock. Roland ordered spearmen to kneel in the front, shields raised, while archers climbed the ledges above.
The Saracens came like a storm.
Hooves thundered, the ground trembling. The first wave of horsemen crashed forward, shouting in Arabic, their lances gleaming in the morning sun. But when they hit the gully, everything changed — horses stumbled, riders broke formation, arrows rained down from above.
"Now!" Roland shouted. "Spears up!"
The front line braced. The cavalry smashed into the wall of shields and iron points — and shattered. The narrow trench turned their momentum against them, crushing them together.
Lucien fought beside Roland, his sword flashing in the dust. "By God," he gasped, "it's working!"
Roland grinned grimly. "Of course it is. They charge like it's 1180, but I think like it's 2025."
Hours later, the desert was quiet again. The sand ran dark with blood. The Saracens had retreated, leaving broken banners and bodies behind.
When the sun finally rose high, Aldred approached him, armor dented, beard streaked with blood and sand.
"You disobeyed me," he said.
Roland met his gaze evenly. "And saved your men."
Aldred studied him for a long moment — then slowly nodded. "Aye. That you did. God help us, you may be the best thing to happen to this cursed land."
Lucien clapped Roland's shoulder, grinning. "Mad or brilliant, I've decided — you're both."
Roland only looked toward the horizon, where the faint outline of Jerusalem shimmered in the distance.
"This isn't luck," he said quietly. "This is the beginning."
He could feel it — the weight of destiny pressing down, the faint echo of history bending in a new direction.
For the first time since waking in this brutal century, Roland smiled.
If one battle could be changed, then so could a kingdom.
And one day soon, that kingdom would bear his crown.