Assassin's Creed

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘Oh, but you know him well. And I doubt very much you’d take his life as willingly as you’ve taken mine.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Altaïr, but he already knew. He understood what it was now that had been bothering him. The one mystery that had eluded him.

  ‘It is your master,’ said de Sable. ‘Al Mualim.’

  ‘But he is not a Templar,’ said Altaïr, still not wanting to believe. Though he knew in his heart it was true. Al Mualim, who had raised him almost as his own son. Who had trained and tutored him. He had also betrayed him.

  ‘Did you never wonder how he knew so much?’ pressed de Sable, as Altaïr felt his world falling away from him. ‘Where to find us, how many we numbered, what we aspired to attain?’

  ‘He is the Master of the Assassins …’ protested Altaïr, still not wanting to believe. Yet … it felt as though the mystery was finally solved. It was true. He almost laughed. Everything he knew, it was an illusion.

  ‘Oui. Master of lies,’ managed de Sable. ‘You and I just two more pawns in his grand game. And now … with my death, only you remain. Do you think he’ll let you live – knowing what you do?’

  ‘I’ve no interest in the Treasure,’ retorted Altaïr.

  ‘Ah … but he does. The only difference between your master and I is that he did not want to share.’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it? That I – your greatest enemy – kept you safe from harm. But now you’ve taken my life – and, in the process, ended your own.’

  Altaïr took a deep breath, still trying to comprehend what had happened. He felt a rush of emotions: anger, hurt, loneliness.

  Then he reached and brushed de Sable’s eyelids closed. ‘We do not always find the things we seek,’ he intoned, and stood, prepared to meet death if the Crusaders wished. Perhaps even hoping they would.

  ‘Well fought, Assassin,’ came the cry from his right, and he turned to see Richard striding over to the ring, which parted to allow him through. ‘It seems God favours your cause this day.’

  ‘God had nothing to do with it. I was the better fighter.’

  ‘Ah. You may not believe in him, but it seems he believes in you. Before you go, I have a question.’

  ‘Ask it then,’ said Altaïr. He was very weary all of a sudden. He longed to lie in the shade of a palm: to sleep, to disappear. To die, even.

  ‘Why? Why travel all this way, risk your life a thousand times, all to kill a single man?’

  ‘He threatened my brothers and what we stand for.’

  ‘Ah. Vengeance, then?’

  Altaïr looked down at the body of Robert de Sable and realized that, no, vengeance had not been on his mind when he had killed him. He had done what he had done for the Order. He gave voice to his thoughts. ‘No. Not vengeance. Justice. That there might be peace.’

  ‘This is what you fight for?’ said Richard, eyebrows raised. ‘Peace? Do you see the contradiction?’

  He swept an arm around the area, a gesture that took in the battle still raging below them, the bodies scattered about the clearing and, last, the still-warm corpse of Robert de Sable.

  ‘Some men cannot be reasoned with.’

  ‘Like that madman Saladin,’ sighed Richard.

  Altaïr looked at him. He saw a fair and just king. ‘I think he’d like to see an end to this war as much as you would.’

  ‘So I’ve heard, but never seen.’

  ‘Even if he doesn’t say it, it’s what the people want,’ Altaïr told him. ‘Saracen and Crusader alike.’

  ‘The people know not what they want. It’s why they turn to men like us.’

  ‘Then it falls to men like you to do what is right.’

  Richard snorted. ‘Nonsense. We come into the world kicking and screaming. Violent and unstable. It is what we are. We cannot help ourselves.’

  ‘No. We are what we choose to be.’

  Richard smiled ruefully. ‘Your kind … Always playing with words.’

  ‘I speak the truth,’ said Altaïr. ‘There’s no trick to be found here.’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough. But I fear you cannot have what you desire this day. Even now that heathen Saladin cuts through my men and I must attend to them. But perhaps, having seen how vulnerable he is, he will reconsider his actions. Yes. In time what you seek may be possible.’

  ‘You were no more secure than him,’ said Altaïr. ‘Do not forget that. The men you left behind to rule in your stead did not intend to serve you for longer than they had to.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I am well aware.’

  ‘Then I’ll take my leave,’ said Altaïr. ‘My master and I have much to discuss. It seems that even he is not without fault.’

  Richard nodded. ‘He is only human. As are we all. You as well.’

  ‘Safety and peace be upon you,’ said Altaïr, and he left, his thoughts going to Masyaf. Its beauty seemed tainted by what he had learned about Al Mualim. He needed to ride for home. He needed to put things right.

  32

  Masyaf was not as he had left it: that much become clear from the moment he arrived at the stables. The horses pawed and whinnied but there were no stable lads to see to them or to take Altaïr’s mount. He ran through the open main gates and into the courtyard, where he was struck by the silence, the complete absence not just of sound but of atmosphere. Here the sun struggled to shine, giving the village a grey, overcast tint. Birds no longer sang. The fountain no longer tinkled and there was none of the hubbub of everyday life. Stalls were set out but there were no villagers hurrying this way and that, talking excitedly or bartering for goods. There were no animal sounds. Just an eerie … nothing.

  He stared up the hill towards the citadel, seeing no one. As ever, he wondered if Al Mualim was in his tower, looking down upon him. Could he see him? Then his eye was caught by a lone figure making his way towards him. A villager.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ Altaïr demanded of him. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Gone to see the Master,’ said the citizen. It sounded like a chant. Like a mantra. His eyes were glassy, and a rope of drool hung from his mouth. Altaïr had seen that look before. He had seen it on the faces of those in thrall to Garnier de Naplouse. The crazy men – or so he had thought at the time. They had had that empty, glazed look.

  ‘Was it the Templars?’ said Altaïr. ‘Did they attack again?’

  ‘They walk the path,’ replied the villager.

  ‘What path? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Towards the light,’ intoned the man. His voice had taken on a singsong quality.

  ‘Speak sense,’ demanded Altaïr.

  ‘There is only what the Master shows us. This is the truth.’

  ‘You’ve lost your mind,’ spat Altaïr.

  ‘You, too, will walk the path or you will perish. So the Master commands.’

  Al Mualim, thought Altaïr. So it was true. It was all true. He had been betrayed. Nothing was true. ‘What has he done to you?’ he said to the villager.

  ‘Praise be to the Master, for he has led us to the light …’

  Altaïr ran on, leaving the man behind, a solitary figure in the deserted marketplace. He ran up the slopes, coming to the upland, and there found a group of Assassins waiting for him, their swords drawn.

  He drew his own, knowing he could not use it. Not to kill anyway. These Assassins, though they meant to kill him, had been brainwashed into doing it. Killing them would breach one of the tenets. He was weary of breaking the Creed. He was never going to do it again. But …

  With dead eyes they closed in on him.

  Were they in a trance like the others? Would their movements be just as sluggish? He dipped his shoulder and charged them, knocking the first one down. Another grabbed at him, but he caught hold of the Assassin’s robe, took a bunch of it in his fist and swung him, knocking down two more of his attackers to make a gap that he was able to run through.

  Then, from above, he heard his name being called. Malik was standing on t
he promontory by the fortress approach. With him were Jabal of Acre and two more Assassins he didn’t recognize. He found himself studying them. Had they, too, been brainwashed? Drugged? Whatever it was that Al Mualim was doing?

  But no. Malik was waving his good arm, and though Altaïr had never conceived of a day when he might be pleased to see Malik, here it was.

  ‘Altaïr. Up here.’

  ‘You picked a fine time to arrive,’ grinned Altaïr.

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Guard yourself well, friend,’ Altaïr told him. ‘Al Mualim has betrayed us.’ He was prepared for disbelief, even anger from Malik, who trusted and revered Al Mualim and deferred to him in all matters. But Malik merely nodded sadly.

  ‘Betrayed his Templar allies as well,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘After we spoke I returned to the ruins beneath Solomon’s Temple. Robert had kept a journal. Filled its pages with revelations. What I read there broke my heart … But it also opened my eyes. You were right, Altaïr. All along our master has used us. We were not meant to save the Holy Land, but deliver it to him. He must be stopped.’

  ‘Be careful, Malik,’ warned Altaïr. ‘What he’s done to the others he’ll do to us, given the chance. You must stay far from him.’

  ‘What would you propose? My blade arm is still strong and my men remain my own. It would be a mistake not to use us.’

  ‘Distract these thralls, then. Assault the fortress from behind. If you can draw their attention away from me, I might reach Al Mualim.’

  ‘I will do as you ask.’

  ‘The men we face – their minds are not their own. If you can avoid killing them …’

  ‘Yes. Though he has betrayed the tenets of the Creed, it does not mean we must as well. I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘It’s all I ask,’ said Altaïr.

  Malik turned to leave him.

  ‘Safety and peace, my friend,’ said Altair.

  Malik smiled wryly. ‘Your presence here will deliver us both.’

  Altaïr dashed along the barbican to the main courtyard and now he discovered why there had been no villagers in the marketplace. They were all here, crowded into the courtyard, filling it. The whole village surely. They milled around aimlessly, as though barely able to lift their heads. As Altaïr watched, he saw a man and a woman collide, and the woman fall, landing heavily on her backside. Neither acknowledged it, though. No surprise, no pain, no apologies or angry words. The man staggered a little, then moved off. The woman stayed seated, ignored by the other villagers.

  Cautiously, Altaïr moved through them towards the tower, struck by the silence, just the sound of dragging feet and the odd murmur.

  ‘The will of the Master must be obeyed,’ he heard.

  ‘O Al Mualim. Guide us. Command us.’

  ‘The world will be cleansed. We will begin anew.’

  The new order, he thought, dictated by the Knights Templar, yes, but one Templar above all. Al Mualim.

  He came into the entrance hall of the tower, no guards there to greet him. Just the same sense of thick, empty air. As though an invisible mist hung over the entire complex. Looking up he saw that a wrought-iron gate was open. The gate that led to the courtyard and gardens at the rear of the tower. Wisps of light seemed to hang in the air by the portal, as though beckoning him onwards, and he hesitated, knowing that to go through was to play into Al Mualim’s hands. Though, surely, if the Master wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. He drew his sword and ascended the stairs, realizing that he’d instinctively thought of Al Mualim as ‘the Master’ when he was no longer Altaïr’s master. He had ceased to be his master the moment Altaïr had discovered that Al Mualim was a Templar. He was the enemy now.

  He stopped at the doorway to the garden. Took a deep breath. What lay on the other side he had no idea, but there was only one way to find out.

  33

  It was dark in the garden. Altaïr could hear the low babble of a stream and the soothing cascade of a waterfall, but otherwise the air was still. He came to a marble terrace, the surface smooth beneath his boots, and he looked around, squinting at the dark, irregular shapes of trees and pavilions dotted about him.

  Suddenly he heard a noise from behind him. The gate slammed shut and there was a clank as though a bolt had been thrown by unseen hands.

  Altair spun. His eyes went up and he saw Al Mualim standing on the balcony of his library, looking down at him on the terrace. He held something: the Treasure taken from the Temple Mount, the Piece of Eden. It glowed with a power that painted Al Mualim a dusky orange, which intensified as Altaïr watched.

  Suddenly the Assassin was gripped by an incredible pain. He screamed – and found that he was being raised from the ground, imprisoned by a shimmering cone of bright light controlled by the outstretched hand of Al Mualim, the Apple pulsing like a muscle flexing and tensing.

  ‘What’s happening?’ cried Altaïr, defenceless in the artefact’s grasp, paralysed by it.

  ‘So the student returns,’ said Al Mualim, evenly. He spoke with a victor’s assurance.

  ‘I’ve never been one to run,’ returned Altaïr, defiant.

  Al Mualim chortled. None of this – none of it – seemed to bother him. ‘Never been one to listen, either,’ he said.

  ‘I still live because of it.’ Altaïr struggled against his invisible bonds. The Apple pulsed in response and the light seemed to press in on him, restricting him even more.

  ‘What will I do with you?’ Al Mualim smiled.

  ‘Let me go,’ snarled Altaïr. He had no throwing knives but, free of these shackles, he could reach the old man in just a few bounds. Al Mualim would have a few last moments to admire his climbing skills before Altaïr slid his blade into his gut.

  ‘Oh, Altair. I hear the hatred in your voice,’ said Al Mualim. ‘I feel its heat. Let you go? That would be unwise.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Altaïr.

  Al Mualim seemed to consider. ‘I believed once. Did you know that? I thought there was a God. A God who loved and looked after us, who sent prophets to guide and comfort us. Who made miracles to remind us of his power.’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘I found proof.’

  ‘Proof of what?’

  ‘That it is all an illusion.’

  And with a wave of his hand he released Altaïr from the imprisoning light. Altaïr expected to drop, then realized he had never been suspended at all. Confused, he looked around himself, sensing a new change in the atmosphere, a building of pressure he felt in his eardrums, like the moments before a storm. Above him on the library balcony, Al Mualim was raising the Apple above his head, intoning something.

  ‘Come. Destroy the betrayer. Send him from this world.’

  Suddenly figures were appearing around Altaïr, snarling, teeth bared, ready for combat; figures he recognized but found hard to place at first – but then did: they were his nine targets, his nine victims returned from the other life to this one.

  He saw Garnier de Naplouse, who stood wearing his blood-stained apron, a sword in his hand, looking at Altair with pitying eyes. He saw Tamir, who held his dagger, his eyes glinting with evil intent, and Talal, his bow over his shoulder, sword in hand. William de Montferrat, who grinned wickedly, drew his weapon and grounded it, biding his time before the attack. Abu’l Nuqoud and Majd Addin were there, Jubair, Sibrand and, last, Robert de Sable.

  All of his targets, sent from the world by Altaïr and summoned back to it by Al Mualim so that they might have their revenge.

  And they attacked.

  Majd Addin he was pleased to dispatch first, for a second time. Abu’l Nuqoud was as fat and comical in his resurrected form as he had been the first time around. He sank to his knees on the point of Altaïr’s sword, but instead of remaining on the ground, he vanished, leaving just a disturbance in the air behind him, a ripple of disrupted space. Talal, de Montferrat, Sibrand and de Sable were the most skilled fighters and,
accordingly, they hung back, allowing the weaker among them to go forward first in the hope of tiring Altaïr. The Assassin dashed from the marble terrace and leaped from the ridge, landing on a second square of decorated marble, this one with a waterfall nearby. The targets followed him. Tamir died screaming at one, two slashes of Altaïr’s sword. The Assassin felt nothing. No remorse. Not even gratification at seeing the men die a deserved second death. De Naplouse vanished as the others had, his throat cut. Jubair fell. Talal he grabbed, and the two grappled before Altaïr drove his sword deep into his stomach and he, too, was nothing but an absence. Montferrat was next to go. Sibrand followed him, then de Sable, until once more Altaïr was alone in the garden with Al Mualim.

  ‘Face me,’ demanded Altaïr, catching his breath. The sweat poured from him but he knew the battle was far from over. It had only just begun. ‘Or are you afraid?’

  Al Mualim scoffed. ‘I have stood before a thousand men – all of them superior to you. And all of them dead – by my hand.’

  With a litheness and athleticism belying his years, he jumped from the balcony, landing in a crouch not far away from Altaïr. He still held the Apple. He clasped it as though he was proffering it to Altaïr and his face was bathed in its light. ‘I am not afraid,’ said Al Mualim.

  ‘Prove it,’ challenged Altaïr, knowing that Al Mualim would see through his ploy – his ploy to bring the traitor close. But if he did – and he surely did – then he cared nothing. He was right. He was unafraid – unafraid because he had the Apple, which was burning even more brightly. Dazzling. The whole of the area was lit up, then just as quickly darkened again. As Altaïr’s eyes adjusted he saw copies of Al Mualim appear, as though generated from within the body of the Master himself.

  He tensed. He wondered if these copies, like those he had just fought, would be inferior, weaker versions of the original.

  ‘What could I possibly fear?’ Al Mualim was mocking him now. (Good. Let him mock. Let him be careless.) ‘Look at the power I command.’

  The copies came to Altaïr, and once again he was fighting. Once again the garden rang to the chimes of crashing steel – and as the copies fell beneath Altaïr’s blade they vanished. Until he was again alone with Al Mualim.