Assassin's Creed: Forsaken

by Oliver Bowden

  Damn. I should have delivered the killing blow.

  I saw the boots of the men who came into the clearing, wondered how the battle had gone, and saw George Washington shoulder his way through a small knot of troops to rush forward and kneel by the side of his dying general.

  Braddock’s eyes fluttered still. His mouth worked as he tried to form words—the words to give me away. I steeled myself, counting the feet: six or seven men at least. Could I take them?

  But, I realized, Braddock’s attempts to alert his men to my presence were being ignored. Instead, George Washington had put his head to his chest, listened then exclaimed, “He lives.”

  Beneath the tree trunk I closed my eyes and cursed as the men picked Braddock up and took him away.

  Later, I rejoined Ziio. “It’s done,” I told her. She nodded.

  “Now I’ve upheld my part of the bargain, I expect that you will honour yours?” I added.

  She nodded again and bade me follow her, and we began to ride.

  10 JULY 1755

  We rode overnight, and at last she stopped and indicated a dirt mound ahead of us. It was almost as if it had appeared from the forest. I wondered if I would even have seen it had I been here by myself. My heart quickened, and I swallowed. Did I imagine it, or was it as though the amulet suddenly woke up around my neck, became heavier, warmer?

  I looked at her before walking to the opening then slid inside, where I found myself in a small room that had been lined with simple ceramic. There was a ring of pictographs around the room, leading to a depression on the wall. An amulet-sized depression.

  I went to it and took the amulet from around my neck, pleased to see it glow slightly in my palm. Looking at Ziio, who returned my gaze, her own eyes wide with trepidation, I approached the indentation and, as my eyes adjusted to the dark, saw that two figures painted on the wall knelt before it, offering their hands to it as though to make an offering.

  The amulet seemed to glow even more brightly now, as though the artefact itself were anticipating being reunited with the fabric of the chamber. How old was it? I wondered. How many millions of years before had the amulet been hewn from this very rock?

  I had been holding my breath, I realized, and let it out in a whoosh now, as I reached up and pressed the amulet into the hollow.

  Nothing happened.

  I looked at Ziio. Then from her to the amulet, where its former glow was beginning to fade, almost as though mirroring my own deflating expectations. My lips moved, trying to find words. “No . . .”

  I removed the amulet then tried it again, but still nothing.

  “You seem disappointed,” she said at my side.

  “I thought I held the key,” I said, and was dismayed to hear the tone in my own voice, the defeat and disappointment. “That it would open something here . . .”

  She shrugged. “This room is all there is.”

  “I expected . . .”

  What had I expected?

  “. . . more.

  “These images, what do they mean?” I asked, recovering myself.

  Ziio went to the wall to gaze at them. One in particular seemed to catch her eye. It was a god or a goddess wearing an ancient, intricate headdress.

  “It tells the story of Iottsitíson,” she said intently, “who came into our world and shaped it, that life might come. Hers was a hard journey, fraught with loss and great peril. But she believed in the potential of her children and what they might achieve. Though she is long gone from the physical world, her eyes still watch over us. Her ears still hear our words. Her hands still guide us. Her love still gives us strength.”

  “You’ve showed me a great kindness, Ziio. Thank you.”

  When she looked back at me, her face was soft.

  “I am sorry you did not find what you seek.”

  I took her hand. “I should go,” I said, not wanting to go at all, and in the end she stopped me: she leaned forward and kissed me.

  13 JULY 1755

  “Master Kenway, did you find it, then?”

  They were the first words Charles Lee said to me when I entered our room at the Green Dragon Tavern. My men were all assembled, and they looked at me with expectant eyes, then faces that dropped when I shook my head no.

  “It was not the right place,” I confirmed. “I fear the temple was nothing more than a painted cave. Still, it contained precursor images and script, which means we are close. We must redouble our efforts, expand our Order and establish a permanent base here,” I continued. “Though the site eludes us, I am confident we will find it.”

  “Truth!” said John Pitcairn.

  “Hear, hear!” chimed Benjamin Church.

  “Furthermore, I believe it is time we welcomed Charles into the fold. He has proven himself a loyal disciple—and served unerringly since the day he came to us. You should be able to share in our knowledge and reap all the benefits such a gift implies, Charles. Are any opposed?”

  The men stayed silent, casting approving looks at Charles.

  “Very well.” I went on: “Charles, come, stand.” As he approached me I said, “Do you swear to uphold the principles of our Order and all of that for which we stand?”

  “I do.”

  “Never to share secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work?”

  “I do.”

  “And to do so from now until death—whatever the cost?”

  “I do.”

  The men stood. “Then we welcome you into our fold, brother. Together we will usher in the dawn of a new world, one defined by purpose and order. Give me your hand.”

  I took the ring I’d removed from Braddock’s finger and pushed it on to Charles’s.

  I looked at him. “You are a Templar now.”

  And at that he grinned. “May the father of understanding guide us,” I said, and the men joined me. Our team was complete.

  1 AUGUST 1755

  Do I love her?

  That question I find difficult to answer. All I knew was that I enjoyed being with her and came to treasure the time we spent together.

  She was . . . different. There was something about her I had never experienced in another woman. That “spirit” I spoke of before, it seemed to come through in her every word and gesture. I’d find myself looking at her, fascinated by the light that seemed permanently to burn in her eyes and wondering, always wondering, what was going on inside? What was she thinking?

  I thought she loved me. I should say, I think she loves me, but she’s like me. There’s so much of herself she keeps hidden. And, like me, I think she knows that love cannot progress, that we cannot live out our lives together, either in this forest or in England, that there are too many barriers between us and our lives together: her tribe, for a start. She has no desire to leave her life behind. She sees her place as with her people, protecting her land—land they feel is under threat from people like me.

  And I, too, have a responsibility to my people. The tenets of my Order, are they in line with the ideals of her tribe? I’m not sure that they are. Asked to choose between Ziio and the ideals I have been brought up to believe, which would I choose?

  These are the thoughts that have plagued me over the last few weeks, even as I have luxuriated in with these sweet, stolen hours with Ziio. I have wondered what to do.

  4 AUGUST 1755

  My decision has been made for me because, this morning, we had a visitor.

  We were at camp, about five miles from Lexington, where we hadn’t seen anyone—not another human being—for several weeks. I heard him, of course, before I saw him. Or, rather, I should say that I heard the disturbance he caused: a fluttering in the distance as the birds left the trees. No Mohawk would have caused them to behave in such a way, I knew, which meant it was another: a colonial, a patriot, a British soldier; perhaps even a French scout, a long way out of his way.

  Ziio had left the camp almost an hour ago to hunt. Still, I knew her well enough to know that she would have seen the disturbed birds; she
, too, would be reaching for her musket.

  I shimmied quickly up the lookout tree and scanned the area around us. There, in the distance—there he was, a lone rider trotting slowly through the forest. His musket was slung across his shoulder. He wore a cocked hat and a dark buttoned-up coat; no military uniform. Reining his horse, he stopped and I saw him reach into a knapsack, retrieve a spyglass and put it to his eye. I watched as he angled the spyglass upwards, above the canopy of trees.

  Why upwards? Clever boy. He was looking for the tell-tale wisps of smoke, grey against the bright, blue, early-morning sky. I glanced down at our campfire, saw the smoke that curled its way up to the heavens then looked back at the rider, watching as he moved his spyglass around the skyline, almost as if . . .

  Yes. Almost as if he had divided the search area into a grid and was moving methodically across it square by square, exactly the same way that . . .

  I did. Or one of my pupils did.

  I allowed myself to relax slightly. It was one of my men—probably Charles, judging by his build and clothes. I watched as he saw the wisps of smoke from the fire, replaced his spyglass in his knapsack and began trotting towards the camp. Now he was near, I saw that it was Charles, and I let myself down the tree and into camp, wondering about Ziio.

  Back at ground level I looked around, and saw the camp through Charles’s eyes: the campfire, the two tin plates, a canvas strung between trees, under which were the skins that Ziio and I covered ourselves with for warmth at night. I flipped the canvas down so that the skins were obscured then knelt by the fire and collected the tin plates. A few moments later, his horse came into the clearing.

  “Hello, Charles,” I said, without looking at him.

  “You knew it was me?”

  “I saw you are using your training: I was very impressed.”

  “I was trained by the best,” he said. And I heard the smile in his voice, looked up at last to see him gazing down at me.

  “We’ve missed you, Master Kenway,” he said.

  I nodded. “And I you.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Really? You know where we are.”

  I pushed a stick into the fire and watched the tip of it glow. “I wanted to know that you are able to operate in my absence.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. “I think you know we can. What’s the real reason for your absence, Haytham?”

  I looked up sharply from the fire. “What might it be, Charles?”

  “Perhaps you are enjoying life here with your Indian woman, suspended between two worlds, responsible to neither. It must be nice to take such a holiday . . .”

  “Careful, Charles,” I warned. Suddenly aware that he looked down on me, I stood to meet his eye, to be on more equal terms. “Perhaps instead of concerning yourself with my activities, you should concentrate on your own. Tell me, how are matters in Boston?”

  “We have been taking care of those matters you would have us attend to. Concerning the land.”

  I nodded, thinking of Ziio, wondering if there was another way.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “We continue to look for signs of the precursor site . . .” he said, and raised his chin.

  “I see . . .”

  “William plans to lead an expedition to the chamber.”

  I started. “Nobody has asked me about this.”

  “You haven’t been there to ask,” said Charles. “William thought . . . Well, if we want to find the site, then that’s the best place to start.”

  “We will enrage the natives if we begin setting up camp in their lands.”

  Charles gave me a look as though I had taken leave of my senses. Of course. What did we, the Templars, care about upsetting a few natives?

  “I’ve been thinking about the site,” I said quickly. “Somehow it seems less important now . . .” I looked off into the distance.

  “Something else you plan to neglect?” he asked impertinently.

  “I’m warning you . . .” I said, and flexed my fingers.

  He cast a look around the camp. “Where is she anyway? Your Indian . . . lover?”

  “Nowhere you need concern yourself with, Charles, and I would thank you to remove that tone from your voice when you speak of her in the future, else I might find myself compelled to remove it forcibly.”

  His eyes were cold when he looked at me. “A letter has arrived,” he said, reaching into his knapsack and dropping it so that it landed at my feet. I glanced down to see my name on the front of the envelope, and recognized the handwriting immediately. The letter came from Holden, and my heart quickened just to see it: a link with my old life, my other life in England and my preoccupations there: finding my father’s killers.

  I did or said nothing to betray my emotions on seeing the letter, adding, “Is there more?”

  “Yes,” said Charles, “some good news. General Braddock has succumbed to his injuries. He is dead at last.”

  “When was this?”

  “He died soon after he was injured but the news has only just reached us.”

  I nodded. “Then that bit of business is at an end,” I said.

  “Excellent,” said Charles. “Then I shall return, shall I? Tell the men that you are enjoying life here in the wilds? We can only hope that you grace us with your presence sometime in the future.”

  I thought of the letter from Holden. “Perhaps sooner than you think, Charles. I have a feeling I may soon be called away on a business. You have proven yourself more than capable of dealing with matters.” I gave him a thin, mirthless smile. “Perhaps you will continue to do so.”

  Charles pulled on the reins of his horse. “As you wish, Master Kenway. I will tell the men to expect you. In the meantime, please give your woman our regards.”

  And, with that, he was gone. I crouched a little longer by the fire, the forest silent around me then said, “You can come out now, Ziio, he’s gone,” and she dropped down from a tree, came striding into the clearing, her face like thunder.

  I stood to meet her. The necklace she always wore glinted in the morning sun and her eyes flashed angrily.

  “He was alive,” she said. “You lied to me.”

  I swallowed. “But, Ziio, I . . .”

  “You told me he was dead,” she said, her voice rising. “You told me he was dead so that I would show you the temple.”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “I did do that, and for that I’m sorry.”

  “And what’s this about land?” she interrupted. “What was that man saying about this land? Are you trying to take it, is that it?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Liar!” she cried.

  “Wait. I can explain . . .”

  But she had already drawn her sword. “I should kill you for what you’ve done.”

  “You’ve every right to your anger, to curse my name and wish me gone. But the truth is not what you believe it to be,” I started.

  “Leave!” she said. “Leave this place and never return. For, if you do, I will tear out your heart with my own two hands and feed it to the wolves.”

  “Only listen to me, I—”

  “Swear it,” she shouted.

  I hung my head. “As you wish.”

  “Then we are finished,” she said, then turned and left me to pack my things and return to Boston.

  17 SEPTEMBER 1757 (TWO YEARS LATER)

  i

  As the sun set, painting Damascus a golden brown colour, I walked with my friend and companion Jim Holden in the shadow of the walls of Qasr al-Azm.

  And I thought about the four words that had brought me here.

  “I have found her.”

  They were the only words on the letter, but they told me everything I needed to know and were enough to transport me from America to England, where, before anything else could happen, I’d met with Reginald at White’s to fill him in on events in Boston. He knew much of what had happened, of course, from letters, but, even so I’d expected him to show an interest in the work of
the Order, particularly where it concerned his old friend Edward Braddock.

  I was wrong. All he cared about was the precursor site, and when I told him I had new details regarding the location of the temple and that they were to be found within the Ottoman Empire, he sighed and gave a beatific smile, like a laudanum addict savouring his syrup.

  Moments later, he was asking, “Where is the book?” with a fidgety sound in his voice.

  “William Johnson has made a copy,” I said, and reached to my bag in order to return the original, which I slid across the table towards him. It was wrapped in cloth, tied with twine, and he looked at me gratefully before reaching to untie the bow and flip open the covering to gaze upon his beloved tome: the aged brown leather cover, the stamp of the Assassin on its front.

  “Are they conducting a thorough search of the chamber?” he asked as he wrapped up the book, retied the bow then slipped it away covetously. “I should very much like to see this chamber for myself.”

  “Indeed,” I lied. “The men are to establish a camp there but face daily attacks from the natives. It would be very hazardous for you, Reginald. You are Grand Master of the British Rite. Your time is best spent here.”

  “I see,” he nodded. “I see.”

  I watched him carefully. For him to have insisted on visiting the chamber would have been an admission of neglect of his Grand Master duties, and, obsessed as he was, Reginald wasn’t ready to do that yet.

  “And the amulet?” he said.

  “I have it,” I replied.

  We talked some more, but there was little warmth and, when we parted, I left wondering what lay in his heart and what lay in mine. I had begun to think of myself not so much as a Templar but a man with Assassin roots and Templar beliefs, whose heart had briefly been lost to a Mohawk woman. A man with a unique perspective, in other words.