Assassin's Creed

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I did lie.’

  Abbas sat back on his haunches and squeezed his eyes shut. Whatever pain went through him seemed to rack his entire body, and as he dropped the dagger with a clang to the ground of the quadrangle, he began weeping. He was still weeping as Labib came to him and grabbed him roughly by the arm, pulling him to his feet and delivering him to a pair of guards, who came hurrying up. Moments later Altaïr was also grabbed. He, too, was manhandled to the cells.

  Later, Al Mualim decided that after a month in the dungeons, they should resume their training. Abbas’s crime was deemed the more serious of the two; it was he who had allowed his emotions free rein and by doing so brought disrepute to the Order. His punishment was that his training be extended for an extra year. He would still be on the training yard with Labib when Altaïr was made an Assassin. The injustice increased his hatred of Altaïr, who slowly came to see Abbas as a pathetic, bitter figure. When the citadel was attacked, it was Altaïr who saved the life of Al Mualim and was elevated to Master Assassin. That day, Abbas spat in the dirt at Altaïr’s feet but Altaïr just sneered at him. Abbas, he decided, was as weak and ineffectual as his father had been.

  Perhaps, looking back, that was how he had first become infected by arrogance.

  29

  When Altaïr next arrived at the Jerusalem Bureau, it was as a changed man. Not that he would make the mistake of thinking his journey was over – that would have been an error made by the old Altaïr. No, he knew that it was just beginning. It was as though Malik sensed it too. There was something changed about the Bureau leader when Altaïr entered. There was a new respect and accord between them.

  ‘Safety and peace, Altaïr,’ he said.

  ‘Upon you as well, brother,’ replied Altaïr, and there was an unspoken moment between them.

  ‘Seems Fate has a strange way with things …’

  Altaïr nodded. ‘So it’s true, then? Robert de Sable is in Jerusalem?

  ‘I’ve seen the knights myself.’ Malik’s hand went to his stump. Reminded of it by mention of the Templar.

  ‘Only misfortune follows that man. If he’s here, it’s because he intends ill. I won’t give him the chance to act,’ said Altaïr.

  ‘Do not let vengeance cloud your thoughts, brother. We both know no good can come of that.’

  Altaïr smiled. ‘I have not forgotten. You have nothing to fear. I do not seek revenge, but knowledge.’

  Once he would have said such a thing parrot fashion, knowing the beliefs expected of him. Now he truly believed it.

  Again, Malik somehow understood. ‘Truly you are not the man I once knew,’ he said.

  Altaïr nodded. ‘My work has taught me many things. Revealed secrets to me. But there are still pieces of this puzzle I do not possess.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All the men I’ve laid to rest have worked together, united by this man. Robert has designs upon the land. This much I know for certain. But how and why? When and where? These things remain out of reach.’

  ‘Crusaders and Saracens working together?’ wondered Malik, aloud.

  ‘They are none of these things, but something else. Templars.’

  ‘The Templars are a part of the Crusader army,’ said Malik, though the question was written all over his face: how could they be King Richard’s men if they were staying in Jerusalem? Walking the city streets?

  ‘Or so they’d like King Richard to believe,’ said Altaïr. ‘No. Their only allegiance is to Robert de Sable and some mad idea that they will stop the war.’

  ‘You spin a strange tale.’

  ‘You have no idea, Malik …’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  Altaïr began to tell Malik what he had learned so far. ‘Robert and his Templars walk the city. They’ve come to pay their respects to Majd Addin. They’ll attend his funeral. Which means so will I.’

  ‘What is this that Templars would attend his funeral?’

  ‘I have yet to divine their true intentions, though I’ll have a confession in time. The citizens themselves are divided. Many call for their lives. Still others insist that they are here to parley. To make peace.’

  He thought of the orator he’d questioned, who had been adamant that his masters wanted an end to war. De Sable, a Christian, was attending Majd Addin’s funeral, he a Muslim. Wasn’t that proof that the Templars sought a united Holy Land? The citizens were hostile to the notion of Templars being present in Jerusalem. The Crusader occupation was still fresh in their minds. Unsurprisingly there had been reports of fighting breaking out between Crusaders and Saracens, who took exception to the sight of knights in the streets. The city remained unconvinced by the orators who insisted that they came in the name of peace.

  ‘Peace?’ said Malik, now.

  ‘I told you. The others I have slain have said as much to me.’

  ‘That would make them our allies. And yet we kill them.’

  ‘Make no mistake, we are nothing like these men. Though their goal sounds noble, the means by which they’d achieve it are not. At least … that’s what Al Mualim told me.’

  He ignored the tiny worm of doubt that slithered in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘So what is your plan?’

  ‘I’ll attend the funeral and confront Robert.’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ agreed Malik, handing Altaïr the feather. ‘Fortune favour your blade, brother.’

  Altaïr took the marker. Swallowing, he said, ‘Malik … Before I go, there’s something I should say.’

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘I’ve been a fool.’

  Malik gave a dry laugh. ‘Normally I’d make no argument, but what is this? What are you talking about?’

  ‘All this time … I never told you I was sorry. Too damned proud. You lost your arm because of me. Lost Kadar. You had every right to be angry.’

  ‘I do not accept your apology.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘No. You don’t. I do not accept your apology, because you are not the same man who went with me into Solomon’s Temple, so you have nothing to apologize for.

  ‘Malik …’

  ‘Perhaps if I had not been so envious of you, I would not have been so careless myself. I am just as much to blame.’

  ‘Don’t say such things.’

  ‘We are one. As we share the glory of our victories, so too should we share the pain of our defeat. In this way we grow closer. We grow stronger.’

  ‘Thank you, brother.’

  And so it was that Altaïr found himself at the cemetery, a small, unadorned burial ground, joining a sparse crowd of Templars and civilians who had gathered around the burial mound of Majd Addin, the erstwhile city regent.

  The body would have been bathed and shrouded and carried in a procession, then buried on its right side and the hole filled, members of the procession adding dirt to the grave. As Altaïr entered, an imam was stepping up to deliver the funeral prayer and a hush had descended over the holy ground. Most stood with their hands clasped in front of them and their heads bowed in respect for the dead, so it was an easy task for Altaïr to slip through the crowd in order to gain a good vantage point. To locate his final target. He who had set Altaïr on this path – whose death would be just retribution for the suffering he had caused and that which had happened in his name: Robert de Sable.

  Passing along the rows of mourners, Altaïr realized it was the first time that he had ever found himself at the funeral of one of his targets, and he cast a look around to see if there were any grieving members of the dead man’s family nearby, wondering how he, the killer, would feel to be confronted by their grief. But if Majd Addin had had close relatives they were either absent or kept their sorrow hidden among the crowd; there was no one at the graveside but the imam and …

  A cluster of Templar knights.

  They stood in front of an ornately decorated fountain set into a tall sandstone wall, three of them, wearing armour and full-face helmets,
even the one who stood in front of the other two, who also wore a cape. The distinctive cape of the Templar Grand Master.

  And yet … Altaïr squinted, staring at de Sable. The knight was somehow not as Altaïr remembered him. Had his memory played tricks on him? Had Robert de Sable taken on greater dimensions in his head because he had bested Altaïr? Certainly he seemed to lack the stature that Altaïr remembered. Where, also, were the rest of his men?

  Now the imam had begun to speak, addressing the mourners: ‘We gather here to mourn the loss of our beloved Majd Addin, taken too soon from this world. I know you feel sorrow and pain at his passing. But you should not. For just as we are all brought forth from the womb, so too must we all one day pass from this world. It is only natural – like the rising and the setting of the sun. Take this moment to reflect on his life and give thanks for all the good he did. Know that one day you will stand with him again in Paradise.’

  Altaïr fought to hid his disgust. ‘The beloved Majd Addin’. The same beloved Majd Addin who had been a traitor to the Saracens, who had sought to undermine trust in them by indiscriminately executing the citizens of Jerusalem? That beloved Majd Addin? It was no wonder that the crowd was so sparse, and grief so little in evidence. He was about as beloved as leprosy.

  The imam began to lead the mourners in prayer. ‘O God, bless Muhammad, his family, his companions, O merciful and majestic. O God, more majestic than they describe, peace on the Prophets, blessings from the God of the Universe.’

  Altaïr’s gaze went from him to de Sable and his bodyguard. A wink of sun caught his eye and he glanced up at the wall behind the trio of knights to the ramparts that ran along the outside of the courtyard. Was it a movement he’d seen? Perhaps. Extra Templar soldiers could easily take cover in the ramparts.

  He glanced again at the three knights – Robert de Sable, as if standing for inspection, offering himself as a target. His build. Too slight, surely. The cape. It looked too long.

  No. Altaïr decided to abandon the assassination because there was no ignoring his instinct here. It wasn’t telling him something was wrong. It was saying nothing was right. He began to edge back, just as the imam’s tone changed.

  ‘As you know, this man was murdered by Assassins. We have tried to track his killer, but it has proved difficult. These creatures cling to the shadows and run from any who would face them fairly.’

  Altaïr froze, knowing now that the trap was to be sprung. He tried to push through the crowd more quickly.

  ‘But not today,’ he heard the imam call, ‘for it seems one stands among us. He mocks us with his presence and must be made to pay.’

  Suddenly the crowd around Altaïr opened, forming a circle around him. He wheeled, seeing the graveside where the imam stood pointing – at him. De Sable and his two men were moving forward. Around him the crowd looked fierce, and was closing in to swamp him, leaving him no escape route.

  ‘Seize him. Bring him forward that God’s justice might be done,’ called the imam.

  In one movement Altaïr drew his sword and ejected his blade. He remembered his Master’s words: Choose one.

  But there was no need. The mourners might have been brave and Majd Addin beloved, but nobody was prepared to shed blood to avenge him. Panicked, the crowd broke up, mourners falling over their robes to escape, Altaïr using the sudden confusion to dart to one side, breaking the advancing Templars’ line of sight. The first of them just had time to register that one member of the crowd was not escaping, but instead moving towards him, before Altaïr’s sword was through his mail and in his gut and he fell away.

  Altaïr saw a door in the wall open and more knights come pouring through. Five at least. At the same time there was a hail of arrows from above, and one knight was spinning and falling, the shaft protruding from his neck. Altaïr’s eyes shot to the ramparts where he saw Templar archers. On this occasion their aim had favoured him. He was unlikely to be quite so fortunate next time.

  The second of the two bodyguards came forward and he swiped with his blade, slicing at the man’s neck and sending him down in a spray of blood. He turned to de Sable, who came forward swinging his broadsword hard enough to send Altaïr stumbling back, only just able to deflect the blow. Suddenly there were reinforcements, and he was trading blows with three other knights, all in full-face helmets, and finding that he was now standing on Majd Addin’s final resting place. There was no time to enjoy the moment, though: from above came another hail of arrows and, to Altaïr’s delight, a second knight was speared, screaming as he fell. The effect on the remaining Templars was to send them into disarray and they scattered a little, less frightened of Altaïr than they were of their own archers, just as de Sable began screeching at the bowmen to stop firing on their own men.

  And Altaïr was so surprised that he almost dropped his guard. What he had heard was not the unmistakably male French tones of Robert de Sable but a voice that surely belonged to a woman. An English woman.

  For a heartbeat he was taken aback by a mixture of bemusement and admiration. This … woman, the stand-in sent by de Sable, fought as bravely as any man, and wielded a broadsword just as adeptly as any knight he had ever encountered. Who was she? One of de Sable’s lieutenants? His lover? Keeping close to the cover of the wall, Altaïr felled another of the knights. Just one left. One more, and de Sable’s stand-in. The last Templar had less appetite for the fight than she did, though, and he died, thrashing on the point of Altaïr’s sword.

  Just her now and they traded blows, until at last Altaïr was able to get the better of her, sliding the blade into her shoulder at the same time as he swept her legs from beneath her and she crashed heavily to the ground. Scurrying into cover, he pulled her with him so that they were both out of sight of the archers. Then he leaned over her. Still wearing the helmet, her chest heaved. Blood spread across her neck and shoulder but she would live, thought Altaïr – if he allowed her to, that was.

  ‘I would see your eyes before you die,’ he said.

  He pulled off the helmet, and was still taken aback to be confronted by the truth.

  ‘I sense you expected someone else,’ she said, smiling a little. Her hair was hidden by the chainmail coif she wore, but Altaïr was entranced by her eyes. There was determination behind them, he saw, but something else too. Softness and light. And he found himself wondering if her obvious skills as a warrior belied her true nature.

  But why – whatever command of combat she possessed – would de Sable send this woman in his stead? What special abilities might she have? He placed his blade to her neck. ‘What sorcery is this?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘We knew you’d come,’ she said, still smiling. ‘Robert needed to be sure he’d have time to get away.’

  ‘So he flees?’

  ‘We cannot deny your success. You have laid waste our plans. First the treasure – then our men. Control of the Holy Land slipped away … But he saw an opportunity to reclaim what has been stolen. To turn your victories to our advantage.’

  ‘Al Mualim still holds the treasure and we’ve routed your army before,’ replied Altaïr. ‘Whatever Robert plans, he’ll fail again.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘but it’s not just Templars you’ll contend with now.’

  Altaïr bridled. ‘Speak sense,’ he demanded.

  ‘Robert rides for Arsuf to plead his case, that Saracen and Crusader unite against the Assassins.’

  ‘That will never happen. They have no reason to.’

  Her smile broadened. ‘Had, perhaps. But now you’ve given them one. Nine, in fact. The bodies you’ve left behind – victims on both sides. You’ve made the Assassins an enemy in common and ensured the annihilation of your entire Order. Well done.’

  ‘Not nine. Eight.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He removed his blade from her neck. ‘You were not my target. I will not take your life.’ He stood. ‘You’re free to go. But do not follow me.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ she said
, pulling herself to her feet and clasping one hand to the wound at her shoulder. ‘You’re already too late …’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  With a final glance at the ramparts, where archers were hurrying to new positions, Altaïr darted off, leaving the cemetery empty, apart from its corpses old and new – and the strange, brave and entrancing woman.

  ‘It was a trap,’ he exclaimed to Malik, moments later, the time it had taken him to make his way from the cemetery to the Bureau, his mind working furiously as he did so.

  ‘I had heard the funeral turned to chaos … What happened?’

  ‘Robert de Sable was never there. He sent another in his stead. He was expecting me –’

  ‘You must go to Al Mualim,’ said Malik, firmly.

  Yes, thought Altaïr, he should. But there was that insistent feeling again. The one that told him there was yet more mystery to uncover. And why did he think it somehow involved the Master? ‘There’s no time. She told me where he’s gone. What he plans. If I return to Masyaf, he might succeed … And then … I fear we’ll be destroyed.’

  ‘We have killed most of his men. He cannot hope to mount a proper attack. Wait,’ said Malik. ‘Did you say she?’

  ‘Yes. It was a woman. Strange, I know. But that’s for another time. For now we must focus on Robert. We may have thinned his ranks, but the man is clever. He goes to plead his case to Richard and Salah Al’din. To unite them against a common enemy … Against us.’

  ‘Surely you are mistaken. This makes no sense. Those two men would never –’

  ‘Oh, but they would. And we have ourselves to blame. The men I’ve killed – men on both sides of the conflict … men important to both leaders … Robert’s plan may be ambitious, but it makes sense. And it could work.’

  ‘Look, brother, things have changed. You must return to Masyaf. We cannot act without the Master’s permission. It could compromise the Brotherhood. I thought … I thought you had learned this.’

  ‘Stop hiding behind words, Malik. You wield the Creed and its tenets like a shield. He’s keeping things from us. Important things. You’re the one who told me we can never know anything, only suspect. Well, I suspect this business with the Templars goes deeper. When I’m done with Robert I will ride for Masyaf that we may have answers. But perhaps you could go now.’