Assassin's Creed: The Official Movie Novelization

by Christie Golden

  Even so, the faint cobwebs of doubt still clung to her as she watched Cal stride into the room. With a quick tug, he pulled off his shirt and discarded it, as if in an effort to remove as much of his identity as a patient as possible.

  Was it that he was tired of being regarded as less than human? Or was he sick of anything involving the Templars’ control over him?

  His eyes met hers and, to her surprise, her heart jumped slightly. The Callum Lynch she saw before her now could not possibly have appeared more different from the scattered, raging, frightened man who had first entered the Animus such a short time ago.

  He was moving like an Assassin now, she realized; smoothly, gracefully… proudly. Certain of what he was doing, confident in his ability to do it. It was profoundly attractive… and alarming.

  Doubt crept into her again, and found herself withdrawing even as she wanted to connect more with him. To thank him for what he was doing.

  Cal strode toward the overhanging arm like a boxer meeting an adversary in the ring, or a samurai bowing to his foe.

  “Put me in,” he said, not an offer, but almost an order.

  “Prepare the Animus for voluntary regression,” Sofia told Alex, not taking her wary but still hopeful gaze from Cal. She watched as McGowen himself held out the gauntlets and Cal slid his arms into them; easily, familiarly, never taking his eyes from McGowen.

  “Do you know how the Assassins came to be named?” McGowen was saying.

  Sofia was surprised; the head of security was as taciturn as they came.

  Cal remained silent.

  McGowen continued. “From an Arabic word, ‘hashashin.’ They were society’s outcasts—those who stole, who murdered in cold blood. People ridiculed them as rebels, thieves, drug addicts. But they were wise.”

  Behind Cal, Alex was fastening the arm to the belt around Cal’s waist.

  “They used this reputation to hide a dedication to principles beyond those of even their strongest enemies. And for that, I admire them. But….” McGowen paused. “You’re not one of those men.”

  Sofia tensed, waiting. McGowen’s half-closed eyes were glued to Cal’s face. Then the question came.

  “Are you?”

  Cal held the other man’s stare as he reached behind him and grabbed the epidural unit out of Alex’s hands. Startled, Alex glanced over at Sofia, who shook her head for him not to intervene.

  “Let’s find out,” Cal replied.

  And then, with only the barest flinch, Cal plunged the epidural unit into the base of his own skull.

  You screamed the first time, Cal. And I know how badly it hurts.

  There was a whining, mechanical hum as the arm lifted Cal into the air. This time, Cal’s body was relaxed, at ease with all that was happening. When the arm reached the proper height, it dropped slightly, settling into position.

  Cal snapped each wrist with a familiar flick, activating his hidden blades. With the light playing over his bare chest and catching the determined, almost grim set of his face, at this moment he looked more like Aguilar than Callum Lynch.

  What if he is?

  “Commencing regression,” Alex announced, back at his station.

  Sofia stepped out onto the floor in her usual supervisory position, her eyes raised to Cal’s. As he looked at her, his face softened slightly.

  Sofia’s history had not predisposed her to trust easily, or even show warmth. But she wanted to say something to Cal, to thank him for his cooperation, to reassure him that yes, this was the right choice, for him, for humanity… for Templars… and Assassins.

  Words crowded her mouth, and Sofia couldn’t speak for a moment. Finally, haltingly, her voice thick and trembling, she managed, “This is my life’s work.”

  Cal gazed at her, kindly, but unsmiling.

  “This is my life,” he said.

  She continued to gaze at him raptly, fearful and joyous and tense with anticipation, and then he was in.

  ***

  Granada was aflame.

  Dozens of fires sent thick black smoke up into the air to mingle with yellow dust. Set by the Templars, the myriad infernos had done their vicious work, flushing out any enemies and destroying their hiding places along with anything that was precious to them—including family members, if that was what it took to obtain victory.

  The great walled city had finally been forced to open its gates, offering surrender after a price dearly paid. The Templars were no longer slaughtering the Moors, but a river of red now flowed along the streets nonetheless; a river of red cloaks and uniforms, marching toward the great Alhambra, ready to claim their final reward.

  In the center of the river of soldiers rode Father Tomás de Torquemada. He sat straight in the saddle, unable to hide a pleased smirk. Riding beside him as always, towering over him, was the Templar’s loyal Ojeda.

  Maria and Aguilar, perched atop the highest tower of the great Moorish palace, watched the enemy’s steady approach in silence. They knew that somewhere in that sea of Templars, likely chained, certainly watched, was Prince Ahmed. And they knew that the dark bargain, bought with pain and treachery and with lives that numbered in the hundreds, perhaps the thousands, would soon be completed.

  Then Maria stirred, reaching her hands up behind her neck. “For the Creed,” she said.

  He turned to her and saw that she held out a necklace. It had come to her from her parents, he knew.

  Now, she was giving it to him.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Aguilar held out his hand and let it settle into his palm, staring at it as she continued to speak, observing the eight-sided star with a diamond shape in the center. Etched on it in black was the symbol of the Creed—the letter A, curved at the ends to look like blades.

  “Our own lives mean nothing. What matters is what we leave behind.”

  He did not like that she was giving it to him. He wanted to refuse it, to give it back to her and tell her that neither of them was going to leave anything behind today but Templar corpses. She had predicted her death at the auto-da-fé earlier, had she not? They had both survived.

  But such a reassurance would be a lie. He knew no such thing. They were Assassins. No day, no hour, no breath was taken for granted. One or both of them could die at any time—including today.

  And she wanted him to have it.

  Aguilar tightened his fingers over it. To him, it was as precious as the object they sought together.

  The last two remaining Assassins settled into position and waited. Patience and stillness, their Mentor Benedicto had once told them, were brothers to action and swiftness. An Assassin needed to master them all.

  Aguilar did not know how long it took for the snaking stream of Templars to reach the Patio de los Leones, but at last, the hated figures of Torquemada and Ojeda stepped inside the courtyard. The contrast between the peaceful interior, with its graceful statuary, gently bubbling fountain, and beautiful flowering plants, and the bloodied, soot-dusted soldiers of the Templars could not have been more striking, or more offensive.

  The Grand Inquisitor had his hand on Ahmed’s narrow shoulder in an avuncular fashion, but the hollow expression of a child long past fear on the young prince’s face told the true story.

  Torquemada’s fingers dug into Ahmed’s flesh like claws, and at once the boy halted beside him.

  His father, Sultan Muhammad XII, stood beside the centerpiece of the courtyard, a beautiful fountain of white marble encircled by twelve roaring lions. Water flowed in two directions, enabling the lush gardens to flourish. The fragrance of roses filled the air, almost, but not quite, driving out the burning smell.

  Muhammad was regarded as a strong and benevolent leader who cared deeply for his people. His eyes were deep and dark. His thick black hair was concealed by his turban, and his chin was adorned with a well-groomed black beard. The sultan wore a dagger at his waist; more ceremonial than functional, for Aguilar knew that here, at this moment, Muhammad would make no move to unsheathe it.

  His kind
face was etched with pain and love as he regarded his child, and he made no effort to conceal his emotion. Around the square stood the sultan’s court, standing in the shaded colonnade area, watching intently.

  They and their people had fought bravely, and with honor, but all knew the battle was over now.

  All save one final act.

  “Sultan,” said Torquemada, his voice smooth and pleasant. “I come in peace.”

  “The slaughter of innocents is no basis for peace,” the sultan replied.

  The hawkish answer seemed to bother Torquemada not at all. The benevolent expression never wavered.

  “Granada is ours,” he said, matter-of-factly. “But give me what I seek,” and he stroked Ahmed’s matted, dirty hair gently, “and I shall let your boy live.”

  Muhammad could not tear his eyes from those of his son. Aguilar and Maria watched tensely, their bodies flattened atop the roof.

  “The Spanish army claims the Alhambra for the king and queen. They may have it. My ambitions are greater.”

  Torquemada’s thick lips curved in a smile. “Surrender the Apple. Your Assassin protectors are gone. They cannot save you. The Creed is finished.”

  For a long moment, Aguilar thought Muhammad would refuse the command. He had been a loyal friend to the Assassins, and they to him.

  But he had not sworn, as Maria and Aguilar had, to place nothing and no one before the Creed.

  Aguilar’s mind flashed back to the prison, where he and Maria had gazed into one another’s eyes and said together, I would gladly sacrifice myself and everyone I care for, so that the Creed lived on.

  The boy’s eyes were large and wide and frightened, and the sultan had a great heart.

  In the end, as both Assassins had expected, he could not sacrifice his beloved child for another’s ideal. Lowering his head, the sultan sighed deeply, then turned and walked into the palace, moving as if he had abruptly aged twenty years.

  Aguilar and Maria moved, too, traveling swiftly across the roof to one of the skylights and peering down to watch. Maria, Aguilar knew, was more than ready to fight. But the moment was not yet.

  The sultan led them through several arches, to an inner room with an ornate pattern of carvings on the wall. Dozens of flickering candles in delicately wrought glass containers provided some light, while the sun illuminated patches of the floor.

  Muhammad halted in front of the carved wall and pressed his palm against a section of it. A small drawer slid open, revealing a small chest of decorated white stone, or perhaps ivory. Aguilar wondered how many other drawers were perfectly concealed in the large carving, and what each of the others contained. But for now, only one mattered.

  Muhammad’s booted feet made the only sound, other than the omnipresent trickling of water. He halted within six feet of the much shorter Templar, who was perspiring either from the heat, swathed as he was in heavy layers of ritual garments, or anticipation.

  “My son,” the sultan demanded.

  Torquemada gestured to Ojeda, who stood a few steps behind him. The black knight, who had had both hands clamped down on Ahmed’s shoulders, now released him. The boy immediately darted past the priest to his father, who caught him and pulled him safely behind him. The sultan never broke eye contact with Torquemada.

  Muhammad held the chest out in front of him, forcing Torquemada to come to him. After a moment’s hesitation, the priest did so. His smug self-confidence ebbed with every step, and his hands trembled as they eased open the chest.

  From their vantage points, the two Assassins could not see what was inside, but they could see the effect it was having on the Grand Inquisitor.

  Seeming to barely breathe, his eyes wide, his mouth open slightly, Torquemada reached inside the exquisitely carved box, and drew out the Apple of Eden.

  It was beautiful, and red, a perfect sphere that glinted like a giant gem, and Torquemada held it up to the shaft of light streaming from the open section of the roof.

  “Here lies the seed of man’s first disobedience,” the Grand Inquisitor proclaimed, joy and wonder filling his voice. “Of free will itself.”

  ***

  The Apple of Eden, Sofia thought, almost dizzy from the importance of what she was bearing witness to. Her life, her whole life, ever since she had been able to comprehend the concepts of DNA and the potential to manipulate the gene that controlled violence, had been spent in search of this.

  It was for this moment that she had forced her heart to harden to what she had to do. This precious relic was the key to healing humanity.

  It was the Artifact to the Templars, as she had told Cal, and the Apple to the Assassins.

  But for Sofia Rikkin, scientist, it was the Holy Grail.

  ***

  It was time.

  Let the Templars be overwhelmed by the Apple, eyes wide, mouths open in awe as they beheld it. It would make the Assassins’ job easier.

  Aguilar nodded to Maria, who eagerly moved into position at the side of the roof, her body perfectly still and taut as she waited with wild, excited eyes. Aguilar stayed where he was, looking down on the scene unfolding inside. The Templars would be allowed to gloat a bit longer.

  Torquemada was still staring at the sphere with a mixture of wonder and proprietary enjoyment.

  “Thanks to the Apple of Eden, the known world shall be ushered into a new age, one of peace, in which all the warring populations of mankind shall bow in perfect obedience to our one Templar rule.”

  As their leader spoke, Ojeda and the other Templars knelt in reverence, to him and to the object that he held aloft before them. It was strange to see the massive knight’s broad, scarred face filled with a sense of awe and wonder. Ojeda was looking upon something greater than himself, greater than the Templar Order, and the knowledge seemed to humble, even soften him.

  It was then, smiling a little, that Aguilar dropped two small items down onto the tableau. They were round, like the Apple; decorative, as it was.

  But these two objects had a far different purpose.

  As soon as the twin orbs struck the stone floor, they exploded into dense clouds of thick, gray smoke.

  And the Assassins exploded into action.

  In perfect synchronicity, though they were facing away from one another, they raised their arms, drew themselves up, and leaped—Maria down into the courtyard crowded with Templar guards and soldiers, Aguilar into the palace vault room currently wreathed in billowing gray clouds.

  He landed directly in front of a blinded Templar, dispatching him quickly and efficiently with a single blade thrust through leather armor and into the heart. Another stumbled in his direction.

  Aguilar whirled and slashed his throat, moving easily and surely. Assassins spent time training while wreathed in the smoke from their small bombs. Unlike the Templars, neither Aguilar nor Maria would be distracted as their eyes stung, and he knew from long practice how to set enemies against one another in the protective smoke.

  One was frantically turning this way and that. Aguilar easily stepped up behind him and snapped his neck. He heard the sound of Maria slamming the door’s bolt home, and the thud and cries of the Templars she had locked out as they threw themselves impotently against the heavy metal gate.

  The only Templars now left for the pair of Assassins to worry about were the ones trapped inside with them, and their numbers were dwindling by the second.

  The room was filled with the sounds of blows, grunts, the thuds and splashes as Templar bodies fell. Then there was an abrupt silence. Aguilar froze, listening. He knew what the sudden quiet likely meant—that, between himself and Maria, the Templar threat had been eliminated.

  Or it could mean that some of them, cleverer than their fellows, were staying quiet, rooted to the spot, trying to control even their breathing in hopes that the Assassins would not find them. Aguilar saw a shape; the sultan, pressed against a wall, holding his son tightly.

  The Assassin moved on to the other shapes, and caught a flash of white in th
e smoky dimness.

  Torquemada.

  The Grand Inquisitor was looking around wildly, thoroughly disoriented. And he still clutched the Apple.

  Slowly, Aguilar approached Torquemada, activating his blade. Then he lunged forward. One hand shot out and snatched the Apple from the Templar’s grasp. Aguilar’s other hand descended to give the killing blow.

  At that instant, Aguilar saw movement in the shifting shadows. Another Templar yet lived. The shape was large—too large to be anyone other than the despised Ojeda.

  And in front of him, the black knight held Maria, his dagger at her throat.

  CHAPTER 20

  With nearly inhuman reflexes, Aguilar managed to halt the blade’s trajectory, its sharp tip making only a slight indentation in Torquemada’s neck.

  The smoke was starting to clear sufficiently for Aguilar to see Maria’s wide eyes and flaring nostrils. Ojeda’s beefy left arm pinned her firmly to his body. She was not a tiny woman, but suddenly, Maria looked so small, standing against Ojeda’s massive frame. So fragile. But she was always so fierce, so lithe….

  “The Apple,” Ojeda demanded in a cold voice. “Give it to him. Now.”

  Aguilar found himself paralyzed. One quick move would secure the Apple for the Brotherhood. Would save humanity from the grasp of the Templars. Would preserve free will. To kill Torquemada, to deny the Templars the Apple, was the outcome to which Benedicto and had pledged their lives.

  They had died for this. And if Aguilar honored those deaths, Maria would join the slain.

  She saw his hesitation. “For the Creed,” she said, in her low voice. Reminding him of their oath. Of their duty.

  But it would seem the Templars had an oath of their own as, daringly, Torquemada spoke.

  “Not to ourselves, but to the future, give glory,” said the Templar.

  Aguilar wasn’t listening. His whole world had narrowed to Maria’s eyes—wide, shimmering with tears that might or might not have been from the smoke.