Revelations ac-4

by Oliver Bowden

  FIFTY-FOUR

  To Ezio, it appeared that twenty long years had passed. The landscape was one he knew, and there, rising from it like a giant claw, stood the by-now-familiar castle of Masyaf. Not far from its gate, a group of three Assassins sat near a blazing campfire…

  The Assassins’ faces were those of people whose better dreams have gone dark. When they spoke, their voices were quiet, weary.

  “They say he screams in his sleep, calling out for his father. Ahmad Sofian,” said one of them.

  One of the men scoffed bitterly. “So, Cemal, he calls out for his daddy, does he? What a miserable man Abbas is.”

  They had their faces to the fire and did not at first notice the old, cowled man in white robes who was approaching through the darkness.

  “It is not our place to judge, Teragani,” said the second man, coldly.

  “It certainly is, Tazim,” Cemal cut in. “If our Mentor has gone mad, I want to know about it.”

  The old man had come close, and they became aware of him.

  “Hush, Cemal,” said Tazim. Turning to greet the newcomer, he said, “Masa’il kher.”

  The old man’s voice was as dry as a dead leaf. “Water,” he said.

  Teragani stood and passed him a small gourd which he had dipped in a water jar next to him.

  “Sit. Drink,” said Cemal.

  “Many thanks,” said the old man.

  The others watched him as he drank quietly.

  “What brings you here, old man?” asked Tazim, after their guest had drunk his fill.

  The stranger thought for a moment before he spoke. Then he said, “Pity Abbas, but do not mock him. He has lived as an orphan most of his life and been shamed by his family’s legacy.”

  Tazim looked shocked at this statement, but Teragani smiled quietly. He stole a glance at the old man’s hand and saw that his left-hand ring finger was missing. So, unless it was an extraordinary coincidence, the man was an Assassin. Teragani looked covertly at the lined, gaunt face. There was something familiar about it…

  “Abbas is desperate for power because he is power less,” the old man continued.

  “But he is our Mentor!” Tazim cried. “And, unlike Al Mualim or Altair Ibn-La’Ahad, he never betrayed us!”

  “Nonsense,” Teragani said. “Altair was no traitor.” He looked at the old man keenly. “Altair was driven out-unjustly.”

  “You don’t know what you speak of!” stormed Tazim, and, rising, he strode off into the darkness.

  The old man looked at Teragani and Cemal from beneath his cowl but said nothing. Teragani looked at the face again. Most of it was shaded by the hood, but the eyes could not be hidden. And Teragani had noticed that the man’s right cuff just failed to conceal the harness of a hidden-blade.

  The Assassin spoke tentatively. “Is it… Is it-you?” He paused. “I heard rumors, but I did not believe them.”

  The old man gave the ghost of a smile. “I wonder if I might speak with Abbas myself. It has been a long time.”

  Cemal and Teragani looked at each other. Cemal drew in a long breath. He took the old man’s gourd from him and refilled it, handing it back to him with reverence. He spoke awkwardly. “That would be impossible. Abbas employs rogue Fedayeen to keep us from the inner sanctum of the castle, these days.”

  “Less than half the fighters here are true Assassins now,” added Teragani. He paused, then said: “Altair.”

  The old man smiled and nodded, almost imperceptibly. “But I can see that the true Assassins remain just that- true,” he said.

  “You have been away a long time, Mentor. Where did you go?”

  “I traveled. Studied. Studied deeply. Rested. Recovered from my losses, learned to live with them. In short, I did what anyone in my position would have done.” He paused, and his tone altered slightly as he went on: “I also visited our Brothers at Alamut.”

  “Alamut? How do they fare?”

  Altair shook his head. “It is over for them now. The Mongols under Khan Hulagu overran them and took the fortress. They destroyed the library. The Mongols range ever westward like a plague of locusts. Our only hope for now is to reaffirm our presence here and in the west. We must be strong here. But perhaps our bases from now on should be among the people, not in fortresses like Masyaf.”

  “Is it really you?” asked Cemal.

  “Hush!” Teragani interrupted. “We do not want to get him killed.”

  Cemal suddenly tensed. “Tazim!” he said, suddenly worried.

  Teragani grinned. “Tazim is more bark than bite. He likes an argument for its own sake more than anything else in the world. And he has been as dispirited as us, which hasn’t helped his mood. Besides, he left before this little play reached its denouement!” He turned to Altair, all trace of his former despondency gone. “We clearly have work to do.”

  “So,” said the old man, “where do I begin?”

  Cemal looked again at Teragani. They both rose and pulled their hoods up over their heads. “With us, Altair,” he said.

  Altair smiled and rose in his turn. He got up like an old man, but once he was on his feet, he stood firm.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  They walked toward the castle together.

  “You say these men are cruel,” said Altair. “Has any man raised his blade against an innocent?”

  “Alas, yes,” Cemal replied. “Brutality seems to be their sole source of pleasure.”

  “Then they must die, for they have compromised the Order,” said Altair. “But those who still live by the creed must be spared.”

  “You can put your trust in us,” said Cemal.

  “I am sure of it. Now-leave me. I wish to reconnoiter alone, and it is not as if I am unfamiliar with this place.”

  “We will remain within call.”

  Altair nodded and turned to face the castle gates as his two companions fell back. He approached the entrance, keeping to the shadows, and passed the sentries without difficulty, thinking with regret that no true Assassin sentries would have let him slip by so easily. He hugged the walls of the outer bailey, skirting them until he was able to cross to a torchlit guard post not far from the gates of the inner, where he saw two captains engaged in conversation. Altair paused to listen to them. After a few words had been exchanged, he knew them to be men loyal to Abbas. Abbas! Why, thought Altair, had he shown the man mercy? What suffering might have been avoided if he had not! But then, perhaps, after all, mercy had been Abbas’s due, whatever the cost of it.

  “You’ve heard the stories going around the village?” said the first officer.

  “About Abbas and his nightmares?”

  “No, no-” the first man dropped his voice. “About Altair.”

  “Altair? What?”

  “People are saying that an old Assassin saved the life of a merchant, down in the valley. They say he fought with a hidden-blade.”

  The second officer shook his head, dismissively. “Rumors. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “True or not, say nothing to Abbas. He is sick with suspicion.”

  “If Altair is anywhere in these parts, we should act first-seek him out and kill him, like the vile old cur he is. He will only spread discontent like he did before, making each man responsible for his decisions. Undermining the authority that has made Abbas great.”

  “An iron fist. That is all anyone understands.”

  “You are right. No order without control.”

  Altair had taken his time to assess the situation. He knew that Cemal and Teragani were somewhere in the shadows behind him. The two officers seemed to be all that stood between him and the inner bailey, and their speech had proved them to be sworn to Abbas’s doctrines-doctrines that had far more to do with Templar thinking than that of true Assassins.

  He coughed, very gently, and moved into the pool of light.

  The two officers turned on him.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Clear out, old man, if you know what’s good for
you.”

  The first to speak laughed harshly. “Why don’t we just cut him down where he stands? The pigs will be glad of the extra meal.”

  Altair did not speak. Instead, he extended his left hand, palm toward them, so that they could see that his ring finger was missing.

  They took a step back, simultaneously drawing their scimitars. “The usurper returns!” barked the second captain.

  “Who’d have thought it? After so long.”

  “What brings you back?”

  “A dog returning to its vomit.”

  “You talk too much,” said Altair. With the economical movements an old man must learn, but with none of an old man’s slowness, he unleashed his hidden-blade as he stepped forward and lunged-once, twice-with deadly accuracy.

  He moved on toward the gates of the inner bailey, still wary, and his caution paid off. He saw a third captain standing by them and was just in time to duck out of sight before the man could notice him. As he watched, he heard a faint yell behind him, and, from the darkness, a young Assassin came sprinting toward the officer. He whispered something to him, and the captain’s eyes went wide in surprise and anger. Clearly, the bodies of the corrupt Assassins Altair had just dispatched had already been discovered, and his own presence would doubtless no longer be a secret. Swiftly, Altair exchanged his hidden-blade for the spring-loaded pistol, which he had developed from designs during his studies in the East.

  “Send him a message, quickly!” the captain was ordering his young henchman. He raised his voice. “Assassins of the Brotherhood of Abbas! To me!”

  Altair had stood, quietly weighing his options, when from close to his elbow a friendly voice said: “Mentor!”

  He turned to see Cemal and Tergani. With them were half a dozen fellow Assassins.

  “We could not prevent the discovery of those captains you killed-two of the cruelest in the band, who would never has risen to rank under anyone save Abbas,” Cemal explained quickly. “But we have brought reinforcements. And this is only a start.”

  “Welcome.” Altair smiled.

  Cemal smiled back. Behind him, the little detachment of true Assassins raised their hoods, almost in unison.

  “We’d better shut him up,” said Teragani, nodding toward the blustering third captain.

  “Allow me,” said Altair. “I need the exercise.”

  He stepped forward to confront the rogue Assassin officer. By then, a number of the man’s own renegade soldiers had rushed to his aid.

  “There he is!” yelled the captain. “Kill him! Kill all the traitors!”

  “Think before you act,” said Altair. “Every action has its consequences.”

  “You pathetic miser! Stand down or die!”

  “You could have been spared, friend,” said Altair, as his supporters stepped out of the shadows.

  “I am not your friend, old man,” retorted the captain, and rushed Altair, slicing at him with his sword before the old Mentor seemed fully ready.

  But he was ready. The conflict was short and bloody. At the end of it, the captain and most of his men lay dead under the gates.

  “Follow me to the castle keep,” cried Altair. “And spill no more blood if you can help it. Remember the true Code.”

  But now, at the portal to the inner bailey, another captain stood, in his black and dark grey robes, the Assassin emblem glinting on his belt in the torchlight. He was an older man, of perhaps some fifty summers.

  “Altair Ibn-La’Ahad,” he said in a firm voice that knew no fear. “Two decades have passed since we last saw you within these walls. Two decades which, I see, have been kinder to your face than they have been to our decrepit Order.” He paused. “Abbas used to tell us stories

  … About Altair the arrogant. Altair the deceiver. Altair the betrayer. But I never believed these tales. And now I see here, standing before me, Altair the Master. And I am humbled.”

  He stepped forward and extended his arm in friendship. Altair took it in a firm grasp, hand gripping wrist, in a Roman handshake. A number of Assassin guards, clearly his men, ranged themselves behind him.

  “We could use your wisdom, great Master. Now, more than ever.”

  He stood back and addressed his troops: “Our Mentor is returned!”

  The soldiers sheathed their drawn weapons and raised their hoods. Joining forces with Altair’s existing group of loyal Assassins, they made their way toward the dark-towered keep of Masyaf.

  FIFTY-SIX

  But hardly were they within the confines of the inner bailey than Abbas himself appeared, behind a detachment of rogue Assassins. Abbas, recognizable still, but an old man, too, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks-a haunted, frightened, driven man.

  “Kill him!” bellowed Abbas. “Kill him now!”

  His men hesitated.

  “What are you waiting for?” Abbas screamed at them, his voice cracking as it strained.

  But they were frozen with indecision, looking at their fellows standing against them and at each other.

  “You fools! He has bewitched you!”

  Still nothing. Abbas looked at them, spat, and disappeared within the keep.

  There was still a standoff, as Assassin confronted Assassin. In the tense silence, Altair raised his left hand-the one maimed at his initiation into the Brotherhood.

  “There is no witchcraft here,” he said simply. “Nor sorcery. Do as your conscience bids. But death has stalked here too long. And we have too many real enemies-we can’t afford to turn against each other.”

  One of Abbas’s reluctant defenders doffed her cowl and stepped forward, kneeling before Altair. “Mentor,” she said.

  Another quickly joined her. “Welcome home,” she added.

  Then a third: “I fight for you. For the Order.”

  The others quickly followed the example of the three women Assassins, greeting Altair as a long-lost brother, embracing their former opponents in fellowship again. Only a handful still spat insults and retreated after Abbas into the keep.

  Altair, at the head of his troop, led the way into the keep itself. They stopped in the great hall, looking up to where Abbas stood at the head of the central staircase. He was flanked by rogue Assassins loyal to him, and spearmen and archers ranged the gallery.

  Altair regarded them calmly. Under his gaze, the rogue Assassins wavered. But they did not break.

  “Tell your men to stand down, Abbas,” he commanded.

  “Never! I am defending Masyaf! Would you not do the same?”

  “Abbas, you corrupted everything we stand for and lost everything we gained. All of it sacrificed on the altar of your own spite.”

  “As you,” Abbas spat back. “You have wasted your life staring into that accursed Apple, dreaming only of your own glory.”

  Altair took a step forward. As he did so, two of Abbas’s spearmen stepped forward, brandishing their arms.

  “Abbas-it is true that I have learned many things from the Apple. About life and death, and about the past and the future.” He paused. “I regret this, my old comrade, but I see that I have no choice but to demonstrate to you one of the things I have learned. Nothing else will stop you, I see. And you will never change now and see the light that is still available to you.”

  “Kill the traitors!” Abbas shouted in reply. “Kill every one of them and throw their bodies onto the dunghill!”

  Abbas’s men bristled, but held off their attack. Altair knew that there was no turning back now. He raised his gun arm, unleashed the pistol from its harness, and, as it sprang into his grip, aimed and fired at the man who, seven decades earlier, had, for a short time, been his best friend.

  Abbas staggered under the blow of the ball as it struck him, a look of disbelief and surprise on his wizened features. He gasped and swayed, reaching out wildly for support, but no one came to his aid.

  And then he fell, crashing over and over down the long stone staircase, to come to rest at Altair’s feet. His legs had broken in the fall and stuck out at crazy
angles from his body.

  But he was not dead. Not yet. He managed to raise himself painfully, high enough to hold his head up, and look Altair in the eye.

  “I can never forgive you, Altair,” he managed to croak. “For the lies you told about my family, my father. For the humiliation I suffered.”

  Altair looked down at him, but there was only regret in his eyes. “They were not lies, Abbas. I was ten years old when your father came to my room, to see me. He was in tears, begging to be forgiven for betraying my family.” Altair paused. “Then he cut his own throat.”

  Abbas held his enemy’s eye but did not speak. The pain in his face was that of a man confronting a truth he could not bear.

  “I watched his life ebb away at my feet,” Altair went on. “I shall never forget that image.”

  Abbas moaned in agony. “No!”

  “But he was not a coward, Abbas. He reclaimed his honor.”

  Abbas knew he had not much longer to live. The light in his eyes was already fading as he said: “I hope there is another life after this. At least then I shall see him, and know the truth of his final days…”

  He coughed, the movement racking his body, and when his breath came again as he strove to speak, the rattle was already in it. But when he found his voice, it was firm, and it was unrepentant.

  “And when it is your time, O Altair, then, then we will find you. And then there will be no doubts.”

  Abbas’s arms collapsed, and his body slumped to the stone floor.

  Altair stood over him in the silence that surrounded them, his head bowed. There was no movement but that of the shadows stirred by the flickering torchlight.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  When Ezio came to himself, he feared that the dawn would have broken, but he saw only the palest shades of red in the sky to the east, and the sun had not yet even breached the low brown hills of Asia, which lay in the distance beyond the city.

  Weary, worn-out by his experience, he made his way first to the Assassins’ headquarters, to give the key into the safekeeping of Azize. Then, his legs aching under him, he made his way almost instinctively to Sofia’s shop. It would be early still, but he’d ring the bell until she awoke in her apartment above it, and he hoped she’d be pleased to see him-or at least, the new addition to her library. But he was frankly too tired to care whether she’d be excited or not. He just wanted to lie down and sleep. Later on, he knew, he had a rendezvous with Yusuf at the Spice Market, and he had to be fresh for that.