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“Next time,” he said, “we burn the sultan’s palace instead.”
They had been summoned here by a mad sultan’s riddle: “Whoever holds the Oasis of Broken Chains by the next blood moon may carve a new kingdom from the ruins of the old.” Lord Castellan did not believe in elegance. He believed in quarries. Within hours, his serfs had stripped a hillside bare. His keep rose square, grey, and brutal—a fist of stone thrust into the sand. Three stockpiles groaned with bread, ale, and iron-tipped arrows. On the walls, crossbowmen stood like stone saints, silent and patient. His economy was a blunt instrument: more wood → more pitch → more fire. He assigned a knight —Sir Roderick, scarred and devout—to ride the eastern ridge and deny Zhao any iron.
Castellan smashed his gauntlet on the table. “He fights like a serpent. Bite the tail, and he spits venom in your face.” Sir Roderick returned with news: Zhao was building a Mangonel —a traction catapult lighter than the Crusader’s trebuchet, but faster. Worse, the Warlord had tapped an underground spring. His rice was regrowing.
At the water’s edge, he knelt and lit the fuse. The bomb did not explode—it hissed , releasing a cloud of blinding, itching powder. The sultan’s trick: the Thunder Crash Bombs were a lie. They were riot agents , not siege weapons.
Yet halfway there, his army passed a ravine. From the shadows, Sir Roderick and twenty knights charged. Not to kill—to stampede . Horses trampled the bomb mules. The first explosion blew a crater thirty feet wide. The second set the bamboo grove ablaze. Zhao’s army scattered. Lord Castellan watched the fireworks from Zhao’s captured throne. “So ends the Warlord,” he said, pouring ale.
From hidden cisterns, liquid fire poured down the inner walls. The Monkey Warriors shrieked. Two died in the moat. The rest retreated. Zhao’s assault broke. Zhao knew he could not take the keep. But he did not need to. The oasis was neutral ground. If he reached it first, the sultan’s gift would let him burn the Crusader’s towers from a mile away.
“You took my home,” Zhao whispered. “I will take your future.”
“Next time,” he said, “we burn the sultan’s palace instead.”
They had been summoned here by a mad sultan’s riddle: “Whoever holds the Oasis of Broken Chains by the next blood moon may carve a new kingdom from the ruins of the old.” Lord Castellan did not believe in elegance. He believed in quarries. Within hours, his serfs had stripped a hillside bare. His keep rose square, grey, and brutal—a fist of stone thrust into the sand. Three stockpiles groaned with bread, ale, and iron-tipped arrows. On the walls, crossbowmen stood like stone saints, silent and patient. His economy was a blunt instrument: more wood → more pitch → more fire. He assigned a knight —Sir Roderick, scarred and devout—to ride the eastern ridge and deny Zhao any iron. stronghold crusader 2 vs warlords
Castellan smashed his gauntlet on the table. “He fights like a serpent. Bite the tail, and he spits venom in your face.” Sir Roderick returned with news: Zhao was building a Mangonel —a traction catapult lighter than the Crusader’s trebuchet, but faster. Worse, the Warlord had tapped an underground spring. His rice was regrowing. “Next time,” he said, “we burn the sultan’s
At the water’s edge, he knelt and lit the fuse. The bomb did not explode—it hissed , releasing a cloud of blinding, itching powder. The sultan’s trick: the Thunder Crash Bombs were a lie. They were riot agents , not siege weapons. His keep rose square, grey, and brutal—a fist
Yet halfway there, his army passed a ravine. From the shadows, Sir Roderick and twenty knights charged. Not to kill—to stampede . Horses trampled the bomb mules. The first explosion blew a crater thirty feet wide. The second set the bamboo grove ablaze. Zhao’s army scattered. Lord Castellan watched the fireworks from Zhao’s captured throne. “So ends the Warlord,” he said, pouring ale.
From hidden cisterns, liquid fire poured down the inner walls. The Monkey Warriors shrieked. Two died in the moat. The rest retreated. Zhao’s assault broke. Zhao knew he could not take the keep. But he did not need to. The oasis was neutral ground. If he reached it first, the sultan’s gift would let him burn the Crusader’s towers from a mile away.
“You took my home,” Zhao whispered. “I will take your future.”
