Al-Rashid pointed to a column of tiny numbers beside a drawing of a hooded figure. “The Assassin. Speed: 18. Attack power: 40. Hit points: 50. The Lord’s Swordman, by comparison, has a speed of only 12, attack power of 35, but a robust 120 hit points.”
The flickering torchlight of the Arabian library cast long shadows on Al-Rashid’s face. He wasn’t a lord, a general, or even a soldier. He was a scribe —and his latest obsession was driving his Emir to distraction.
He unrolled a second, blood-stained sheet. “Maceman. Cost: 20 gold. Attack: 25 (crushing type, ignores 2 points of armour). Speed: 14. He’s weak against arrows. But against a slow, armoured Templar? He lands three hits for every one of the knight’s. It’s not power that wins. It’s frames .” stronghold crusader unit stats
He rolled up the parchments and handed them to the Emir.
“This, my lord, is the real stronghold. Not stone and mortar. But numbers. Speed values. Attack cooldowns. Your enemy knows how to shout ‘For the King!’ I know that a Pitch Ditch does 15 damage per second and that fire arrows have a 70% chance to ignite it.” Al-Rashid pointed to a column of tiny numbers
“My lord,” Al-Rashid whispered, unrolling a massive, meticulously drawn parchment. “I have finished the calculus of blood.”
He moved his finger to a sketch of a chainmail-clad knight. “The Templar. Cost: 40 gold. Armour: a staggering 5. He can take an arrow to the chest and barely grunt. But look here—” he tapped a footnote, “—his attack speed is glacial. One swing per 48 frames of combat.” Attack power: 40
Al-Rashid shook his head. “No, my lord. It is won by a scribe who knows that a Horse Archer has a range of 8, a speed of 22, and the hit-and-run logic of a wasp. It is won by remembering that a Slave has only 20 hit points but costs a mere 2 gold—meaning a wave of 100 slaves is mathematically superior to 10 Swordsmen, even if every single slave dies.”
The Emir stared at the scribe. Then he smiled, a cold, hungry smile.
The Emir, a fat man more interested in his hashish pipe than warfare, sighed. “Speak, little mouse.”
