Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  And then, he thought angrily, he was going to find Maria. This time he wouldn’t allow her to escape.

  He looked around. Another city held by the Templars. It twinkled in the sun. Somehow it was too beautiful to be in the hands of the enemy.

  40

  At least finding Maria caused him no difficulty. Trouble came to her like rats to a ship’s hold. Sure enough when Altaïr next crossed paths with her, pirate corpses were strewn at her feet and three local men were standing nearby, flicking blood from their swords and recovering their breath after battle. They tensed as Altaïr appeared and he held up his hands in a gesture of good faith, taking in the scene: Maria, the men, the dead bodies.

  Once again, it seemed, she’d had a lucky escape.

  ‘I thought I’d seen the last of you,’ he said to her, arms still upraised.

  She had a gift for refusing to be surprised at any turn of events. ‘If only I were so lucky…’

  He frowned at her, then addressed one of the Cypriot men, the likely leader. ‘What is your business with this woman? Are you a Templar lackey?’

  ‘No, sir,’ stammered the man. He stood with his sword drawn and Altaïr’s hands were empty, but even so, the Cypriot knew a skilled warrior when he saw one. ‘The pirates attacked her and I had to help. But I’m no lackey. I hate the Templars.’

  ‘I understand. You’re not alone,’ replied Altaïr.

  The man nodded gratefully, their common purpose established. ‘My name is Markos, sir. I’ll help in any way I can, if it means ridding my country of these Crusaders.’

  Excellent, thought Altaïr. ‘Then I need you to keep this woman safe until I return. I have to find someone before the Templars do.’

  ‘We’ll be at the harbour all day. She’ll be safe here with us,’ said Markos, and once again Maria was grumbling as the men hauled her away. She’d be all right, thought Altaïr, watching them go. She’d spend the day between a couple of burly Cypriots, watching the world go by in Kyrenia harbour: there were better ways to waste a few hours, but also far worse. At least he knew she’d be safe while he met with Alexander’s Resistance contact, the Barnabas he’d been told about.

  He found him at the safe-house, which doubled as a grain store. Walking in, Altair had called out cautiously, hearing nothing but the scuttling of mice and the distant sounds of the street. Then a man had appeared from among the sacks. He had a dark beard and watchful black eyes, and introduced himself as Barnabas. When Altaïr asked him if the safe-house had an area that could be used as a cell, he smiled obsequiously and assured him that of course it did, but then dithered, going first to one door, which he opened and closed, and then to a second, through which he peered before announcing that the drying room had a barred area that could be used as a cell.

  ‘I’ve been following Armand Bouchart,’ Altaïr told Barnabas, moments later, the two of them now sitting on grain sacks in the storeroom.

  ‘Ah … Bouchart is in Kyrenia?’ said the Resistance man. ‘He’s probably visiting his prisoners in Buffavento.’

  ‘Is that a keep nearby?’

  ‘A castle, yes. It was once the residence of a wealthy Cypriot noblewoman, until the Templars seized her property.’

  Altaïr frowned at their greed. ‘Can you take me there?’

  ‘Well … I can do more than that. I can get you inside without the guards batting an eyelid. But you must do something for me first. For the Resistance.’

  ‘A familiar request,’ said Altaïr. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We have a traitor in our midst,’ said Barnabas, darkly.

  The traitor was a merchant named Jonas, and after Barnabas had given him the necessary details Altaïr tracked him to an amphitheatre in the centre of the city. According to Barnabas, Jonas was feeding secrets to the Templars. Altaïr watched him for a while, meeting other tradesman, looking for all the world like any other businessman. Then, when he turned to go, the Assassin followed him from the amphitheatre and into the back-streets, noting as the merchant slowly became aware that he was being followed. He cast more and more frequent glances behind him at Altaïr, his eyes wilder and more frightened each time. Suddenly he broke into a run and Altaïr was in pursuit, delighted to see Jonas turn into an alleyway.

  He speeded up, and raced after his quarry.

  The alleyway was empty.

  Altaïr stopped, glanced behind to check he was not seen, then – snick – engaged his blade. He took two steps forward so that he was level with a large, unsteady pile of crates, which was teetering slightly. He bent slightly, then drove his blade through a crate. The wood splintered and there was a scream. The pile toppled down on to Altaïr, who braced himself, almost losing his footing.

  He stayed still, though. And when the wood had settled around him he relaxed, looking along the line of his outstretched arm, to where Jonas was pinned by his blade, blood slowly spreading from the wound at his neck. Still in the crouched position he’d adopted to hide, the merchant cut a desperate, pathetic figure. And though Altaïr knew he was a traitor, and that information he gave to the Templars had no doubt been used to kill, capture and torture members of the Resistance, he pitied him, so much so that he removed the blade gently, shoving aside the remnants of the boxes so that he could lay Jonas down and bend to him.

  Blood oozed from the neck wound. ‘What’s this?’ wheezed Jonas. ‘An Assassin? Does Salah Al’din have his eyes on poor Cyprus too?’

  ‘The Assassins have no ties to the Saracen. Our business is our own.’

  Jonas coughed, revealing bloodied teeth. ‘Whatever the case, word of your presence is widespread. The Bull has put a bounty on your head … and on the head of your female companion.’

  Altaïr saw the life bleeding out of him. ‘I’m worth more and more every day,’ he said, and delivered the killing blow.

  When he stood up, it was not with the satisfaction of a job well done, but with a terrible sense that something was amiss. The Bull Jonas had mentioned. Whoever he was, he was loyal to Armand Bouchart and he knew of Altaïr and Maria’s presence in Kyrenia. Was that the source of Altaïr’s disquiet?

  He took to the rooftops, meaning to find Markos and Maria at once.

  ‘Well, Maria, it seems there’s a hefty price on both our heads,’ said Altaïr, when he’d found her. Just as he’d imagined, she was sitting on a stone bench between Markos and another Resistance man, wearing the glowering look to which he was becoming accustomed.

  ‘A price? Damn Bouchart. He probably thinks I’m your apprentice.’

  ‘Someone called the Bull has dispatched his men to search for us.’

  Maria jumped as though stung. ‘The Bull? So they gave that zealot his own parish?’

  ‘Is he a friend of yours?’ said Altaïr, wryly.

  ‘Hardly. His name is Moloch. He’s a pious blowhard with arms like tree trunks.’

  Altaïr turned to Markos. ‘Do you know the Resistance safe-house in the Commons District?’

  ‘I know where it is, but I’ve never been inside.’ Markos shrugged. ‘I’m just a foot soldier for the Resistance.’

  Altaïr thought, then said, ‘I can’t be seen with Maria, so you’ll have to take her. Keep her out of sight, and meet me there when you’re safe.’

  ‘I know some back alleys and tunnels.’

  ‘It may take longer, but we’ll get her there in one piece.’

  Separately they made their way to the safe-house, Altaïr arriving first. Barnabas had spread out sacks of grain and had been relaxing, but he pulled himself to his feet as Altaïr entered, stifling a yawn as though roused from slumber.

  ‘I just had word that someone found poor Jonas’s body,’ he said, with a sneer in his voice. ‘What a waste, eh?’ He brushed grain from his robes.

  ‘You knew him better than I did,’ replied Altaïr. ‘I’m sure he understood the risk of working for both sides.’ He looked at Barnabas carefully, taking note of the crooked smile he wore. Altaïr took no pleasure from death – any death – and h
e was apt to look poorly on those who did, whether they be Templar, Assassin or Resistance. On the one hand Barnabas was an ally. On the other … If Altaïr knew one thing it was to trust his instincts and his instincts were nagging him now; just a low, hushed nagging, but insistent nonetheless.

  Barnabas was continuing: ‘Yes … unfortunately, this has complicated things. Jonas was a respected Cypriot and his death has sparked riots near the Old Church. The public is hungry for revenge and the Bull will tell them you were responsible. You may lose the support of the Resistance.’

  What? Altaïr stared at him, hardly able to believe his ears. That instinct of his: it moved from nagging to outright harassment. ‘But Jonas was a traitor to the Resistance. Did they not know?’

  ‘Not enough of them, I’m afraid,’ Barnabas admitted. ‘The Resistance is quite scattered.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have the chance to tell them yourself,’ said Altaïr. ‘Some men are on their way to us now.’

  ‘You’re bringing people here?’ Barnabas looked concerned. ‘People you can trust?’

  ‘I’m not sure who I can trust right now,’ said Altaïr, ‘but it’s worth the risk. Right now I need to see these riots for myself.’

  ‘As for our bargain, I’ll see what I can do about getting you close to Bouchart. A deal’s a deal, eh?’ said Barnabas. He smiled again.

  Altaïr didn’t care for that smile. He liked it less and less each time he saw it.

  41

  Altaïr paid a visit to the church and his heart sank at the sight of the unrest. Templar guards had formed a cordon and were holding back marauding citizens, who had been prevented from moving out of the immediate area of the church and were smashing everything in sight. Crates and barrels had been splintered and there were scattered fires on the streets. Streetside stalls had been attacked and dismantled, and the smell of trampled produce mingled with the smoke. Men had gathered in groups and were chanting slogans to the beat of drums and the constant rattle of cymbals, trying to goad the lines of Templar knights, who watched them carefully from behind makeshift barriers, overturned carts and stalls. Every now and then small squads of soldiers would make short, ruthless sorties into the mob, dragging out men who kicked and yelled, and either clubbing them with the hilts of their swords or throwing them behind the barrier to be taken to the cells – not that their raids did anything to frighten the rioters or dampen their temper.

  Altaïr watched it all from up high, squatting on the edge of a roof, shrouded in despair. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong. And if the Bull decided to make an announcement naming him as the killer, then things were going to get even worse.

  He made his decision. The Bull had to die.

  When he arrived back at the safe-house, he looked in vain for Barnabas, who was nowhere to be seen. Now Altaïr was certain that he had been wrong to trust him and was cursing himself. He’d listened to his instinct. Just not hard enough.

  Markos was there, though, as was Maria, who had been deposited in the cell, a much sturdier design than the makeshift gaol they had been using in Limassol. The door between the drying room and the storeroom was open so they could see her: she sat behind bars with her back against the wall, occasionally kicking her feet among the rushes spread out on the floor and regarding all goings-on with a baleful, sardonic expression. Altaïr watched her, musing upon all the trouble she had caused.

  He learned that she, Markos and several other Resistance men had arrived at the safe-house to find it deserted. Barnabas had been gone when they had got there. How convenient, thought Altaïr.

  ‘What’s going on out there?’ Markos had exclaimed. ‘The city is in turmoil. I’ve seen riots.’

  ‘The people are protesting the death of a citizen, a man named Jonas. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘My father knew him well. He was a good man. How did he die?’

  Altaïr’s heart sank even further, and he found himself avoiding Markos’s eyes as he replied, ‘Bravely. Listen, Markos, things have become complicated. Before I find Bouchart, I need to eliminate the Bull and put an end to his violence.’

  ‘You’ve quite a taste for chaos, Altaïr,’ called Maria from her cell.

  He liked the way his name sounded in her mouth. ‘The Bull is one man responsible for the subjugation of thousands. Few will mourn his loss.’

  She shifted. ‘And you propose to fly into Kantara, sting him and exit unnoticed? He surrounds himself with devoted worshippers.’ Her voice echoed in the stone prison.

  ‘Kantara … that’s to the east?’ said Altaïr, picking up on her inadvertent slip.

  ‘Yes, it’s the best defended … You’ll see for yourself.’

  42

  Altaïr did indeed see for himself. Kantara Castle was guarded by Crusader soldiers and Moloch’s fanatics. Scaling the walls, then making his way across the ramparts, he stopped occasionally to hear them talking, gleaning the odd bit of information about the man they called the Bull. He learned that he was a religious zealot who attracted like-minded followers, fanatics who either worked as his personal bodyguard, his servants, or who trod the streets of Kyrenia, spreading the word. He was attached to the Templars. His devotion to their leader, Bouchart, was almost as devout as his religious faith, and Kantara Castle was his personal citadel, given to him, presumably, by the Templars. He was known to spend most of his time worshipping at the castle chapel.

  Which was where Altaïr hoped to find him.

  Moving through the fortress he saw fanatics as well as guards. The fanatics looked … well, exactly as he would have expected fanatics to look: jumpy, wide-eyed and zealous. They were held in open contempt by the Christian guards who patrolled in twos and clearly thought it beneath them to be stationed at the castle. As Altaïr pressed himself into a recess two wandered past, one complaining to the other. ‘Why do the Templars tolerate this madman? The Bull and his fanatics are more dangerous than the citizens of Cyprus.’

  ‘The Templars have their reasons,’ replied the other. ‘It’s much easier for them to rule by proxy, you see.’

  ‘I suppose so. But how long can it last? The Bull and the Templars do not exactly see eye to eye on matters of faith.’

  ‘Ah, the less you say about that the better,’ rejoined the first.

  Altaïr let them go past, then moved on, the corridor darkening. Maria had said the castle was well defended, and it certainly was if you had raised an army and planned to storm its walls. For a lone Assassin, though, penetrating the fortress by stealth was an easier task. Especially when you were the Master. When you were Altaïr.

  Now he found himself in a vast banqueting hall. At the opposite end stood two guards and he took out two throwing knives. He flicked them: one, two. In moments the men lay twitching on the stone and Altaïr stepped over them, knowing that he was near now, that Moloch couldn’t be far away.

  He wasn’t. Altaïr came to what looked like a dead end and turned, checking behind him – why had this been guarded? Then he saw a trapdoor. Bending to it, he listened, then smiled. He had found the Bull.

  Very gently he lifted the trapdoor and lowered himself into the roof beams below. He was in the rafters of the castle’s place of worship, a large empty room lit by the fire of a large brazier near the altar.

  Kneeling before the fire, tending it, was Moloch.

  Maria’s description of him had been accurate. He was a bear of a man: bare-headed, drooping moustache, bare-chested, apart from a medallion, and with the tree-trunk arms she’d described. Sweat glistened on him as he stoked the fire, chanting an incantation that sounded as much like a growl as it did pious devotion. Absorbed in his work he didn’t move from the fire, didn’t look away from it, bathing his face in the heat of the flames, oblivious to anything else in the room, even – especially – his killer.

  Good. Moloch looked strong, easily more powerful than Altaïr, who had no desire to engage him in combat. Not only did he have the muscular advantage but it was said that he wielded
a weapon like a meteor hammer, with a deadly weight attached to a chain. It was said that he used it with unfailing accuracy, and was ruthless with it.

  So, no. Altaïr had no desire to engage him in combat. This was to be a stealth kill. Quick, clean and silent.

  Noiselessly, Altaïr made his way along the beams, then dropped silently into the centre of the room behind Moloch. He was slightly further away than he would have liked and he held his breath, tensing. If Moloch had heard him …

  But no. The brute was still engrossed with the brazier. Altaïr took a few steps forward. Silently he engaged the blade and raised it. Orange light danced on the steel. The Bull now just a heartbeat away from death. Altaïr dipped slightly, his leg muscles bunching, then launched himself, blade about to strike.

  He was in mid-air when Moloch spun, far more quickly than his size should have allowed. At the same time he grinned and Altaïr realized that he had known he was there all along; that he had merely let Altaïr come close. Then the Assassin was in the embrace of those huge arms, raising him off the ground, feeling a hand go to his throat and squeeze.

  For a moment or so he was held that way, Moloch lifting him one-handed into the air as though he were a trophy to be displayed on the castle steps, and he choked as he struggled. His feet kicked at thin air and his hands scrabbled at Moloch’s gauntlet, desperately trying to loosen the monster’s grip. His vision began to cloud, blackness closing in. He felt himself losing consciousness. Then Moloch was tossing him backwards and he was sprawling on the chapel floor, his head rebounding painfully off a flagstone, wondering why he had been allowed to live.

  Because the Bull wanted more sport. He had produced his meteor hammer and, with a single looping swing above his head, launched it at Altaïr, who only just managed to roll clear as it came smashing down, opening a crater in the flagstone and showering him with stone shards.