Assassin's Creed: The Official Movie Novelization

by Christie Golden

  Maria.

  Not so long ago, they had stood about to enter the arena of the auto-da-fé. She had turned to him and had told him to not waste tears for her. In that prison, she had spoken the words of their vow, to serve the Creed before themselves or even one another.

  That Maria was prepared to die, Aguilar knew.

  But now, he also knew, as he gazed into her eyes, that she did not want to die.

  He had killed for the Creed. He was willing to give his own life for it, if need be. But he stared into the eyes of this woman, lithe and loving and passionate and proud, she who had been everything to him, Aguilar de Nerha realized that he could not sacrifice her.

  Not for Benedicto’s memory. Not for the Brotherhood. Not for the Apple.

  He retracted the blade.

  A softness, a sweetness flooded Maria’s face for just an instant as she saw what he had done; as she truly comprehended the vast depth of his love for her. Maria gave Aguilar a tremulous smile, and he saw in her gaze that his love was returned.

  Then she shot up her hand, clamped it around Ojeda’s massive paw, and jammed his blade into her own throat.

  Dying for the Creed, with love in her heart.

  ***

  Dying for the Creed, exactly as his mother had done. With no hate in her heart for the death.

  The Apple was everything.

  Callum Lynch screamed the single, ineffective word:

  NO!

  ***

  Time slowed down to a sickly, sluggish crawl.

  Maria fell, languidly, like a leaf drifting down to the earth. Her eyes were open.

  Aguilar’s throat felt raw. Had he screamed? He did not remember.

  It was the rage that saved him.

  White-hot, scalding, pure, and irresistible, it descended upon him like a benediction of poetic violence.

  Torquemada had lurched away from Aguilar, but not swiftly enough. One of Aguilar’s blades caught him, ripping through the thick layers of his vestments to find the flesh beneath and laying open a raw, wide wound. The friar stumbled and fell with a cry.

  Aguilar paid him no heed, not now. Everything in him was afire with rage as Ojeda—Ojeda, Torquemada’s dog, who had methodically taken from Aguilar everyone he had ever loved—charged him. The Assassin struck out, but Ojeda dodged with that swiftness that always seemed to take Aguilar by surprise. He struck Aguilar full in the face and for a moment, he stumbled.

  The Assassin ducked as Ojeda swung his sword in an arc that was intended to remove Aguilar’s head from his shoulders, and the sword shattered plaster and paint as it struck one of the pillars.

  Aguilar dove behind another pillar, surging up at Ojeda from below with his blades.

  ***

  Sofia watched, her eyes round with astonishment, as the battle between these two men unfolded. It was nothing new to her to watch a subject grow into their role as Assassin; learn how to move, when reliving an ancestor’s past.

  But this was different somehow. The way Cal fought now was not the same as he had before. Then, it had lacked something she was seeing now: Ease. Grace. Full presence. It was no longer Aguilar de Nerha fighting, with Callum Lynch along for the ride.

  This time, Cal was in there, too.

  It was Aguilar’s memory; Aguilar, who had fought with preternatural speed, power, and agility. But Cal was now inhabiting these memories on a level no subject had previously achieved.

  It was breathtaking to watch, and terrifying, and even as Sofia wondered if she should halt the simulation, pull back, give Cal a chance to gain perspective on the situation, she was almost afraid to. As if, should she do so, she would somehow change the outcome.

  She couldn’t, of course. Time flowed in only one direction. This was a memory, nothing more. Or so she told herself.

  She was watching a warrior being born.

  It was the most beautiful, horrifying, wondrous thing she had ever beheld. And even as she watched, she felt something inside her stir, as well, as if something that had lain dormant for most of her life was slowly, inexorably, being called from its slumber.

  And that was the most frightening thing of all.

  ***

  As Ojeda bore down on him with the sword, Aguilar countered. His body seemed to be moving of its own accord, anticipating each lunge or feint and getting an arm up to knock Ojeda’s arm aside.

  He activated his blades and slashed at the Templar’s arm. The only reaction was a grunt, but Aguilar knew the blade had met flesh.

  Ojeda dropped his sword arm slightly, wincing in pain, but when Aguilar surged forward to press the attack, Ojeda met his rush with a fierce and powerful kick. Aguilar was caught off-balance and stumbled backward, slipping in the blood that had flown from opened Templar jugulars, and striking the mosaic-covered wall.

  Grinning, Ojeda pressed his advantage, bringing his sword down. Aguilar surrendered to the momentum of his fall, coming up at the last moment to seize Ojeda’s over-extended arm and stab toward his throat with his left blade.

  Crying out, Ojeda jerked back, and the Assassin’s blade laid open only his cheek. Aguilar slammed his elbow into the Templar’s face. The bigger man went crashing to one knee, but instead of trying to rise he lowered his head and, bull-like, slammed it into Aguilar’s midsection.

  The Assassin fell, hard, but got up almost immediately. He grabbed the nearest weapon to hand—a slender iron candlestick that was taller than he was. It was heavy, but his pain and fury gave him strength he had not known he possessed.

  He whirled on Ojeda, using the candlestick as both a staff and a spear as he first struck the Templar, knocking the sword from his grip, then hurling the huge iron thing at him.

  But he had miscalculated. As he used his body to fling the sharp-pointed makeshift weapon at Ojeda, he left himself open. Ojeda curled his fingers into a fist and landed a powerful blow squarely on Aguilar’s jaw.

  Stars spun in front of his eyes. He toppled backward, landing in a shallow pool. And in that moment where he was not moving, the pain from every one of his injuries seemed to strike him at one time. He gritted his teeth, and through sheer will, rolled over and got to one knee.

  He flicked his right wrist. The blade sprang to obedient attention, jutting forward to fill the space where his ring finger had once been.

  Ojeda strode up to him and before Aguilar could rise, the Templar’s booted foot slammed into his face.

  Aguilar fell back again, and this time, he could not seem to summon the strength to rise. He lay there, sucking in air, hearing Ojeda moving about.

  He’s found the Apple, Aguilar realized sickly. They’ve won.

  His head lolled to one side, and he found himself staring into Maria’s eyes. Tears welled up in his own.

  Maria….

  It was over. He had tried, but he had failed. Failed his family, his brethren, his beloved. All of them. Death would be welcome now. Perhaps, as some of the faiths preached, he would be together with her in some happy afterlife.

  He reached out a hand, bruised and bloody, to touch her cheek.

  It was warm. And as he watched, her lips parted.

  She was alive! But even as stunned joy surged through him, he realized that although she yet drew breath, her life was almost gone.

  Maria…!

  Somewhere, as if from far away, he heard the sound of footfalls approaching, of leather creaking.

  Her eyes boring into his, Maria’s lips moved. He could barely catch the whisper, but her right hand jerked, ever so slightly.

  “Go.”

  It took everything in him to tear his eyes from hers, but he could not refuse her urging. He looked up to see Ojeda standing over him: bruised and bloody, as he was. Injured. Weary.

  But a snarl of victory contorted his ugly, bearded face, revealing clenched yellowed teeth, and his bloodshot, unmatched eyes gleamed.

  Aguilar’s hand left Maria’s face, dropped onto her arm. Her wrist. He remembered her unique blades. One, with its twin prongs. />
  And the other—

  Just as Ojeda was about to bring the sword down, impaling Aguilar straight through the heart, Aguilar’s hand clutched Maria’s gauntlet, lifted her arm, and pressed the release.

  Maria’s blade shot free, speeding upward like a bolt from a crossbow to all but bury itself in Ojeda’s chest.

  He dropped the sword with a dull clang and staggered back, peering down in disbelief at the two inches of blade protruding from his body. Savage glee filled Aguilar.

  Later, he would have no recollection of getting to his feet. The next thing he would remember would be his own blade, eight inches long, embedding itself in Ojeda’s chest alongside Maria’s.

  Ojeda swayed, but then seemed to rally. He bellowed and charged at Aguilar, swinging wildly. The Assassin sliced once left, once right—and then brought both blades sweeping across Ojeda’s midsection.

  The knight’s black leather armor was now ribbons… as was the flesh beneath it, pouring forth scarlet liquid like a fountain.

  His face was contorted, teeth bared with hate, but instead of triumph, Ojeda’s eyes were wide with fear. He struck at Aguilar, and there was still force behind the blows as they landed on the Assassin’s shoulders.

  But no amount of stubbornness could prolong the inevitable, and both Assassin and Templar knew it.

  Aguilar brought his blades up and then swept them down with all his strength, all but severing both of Ojeda’s arms. The huge man dropped to his knees, gasping for breath, lifting his eyes to Aguilar’s.

  He had thought that at this, his moment of revenge, he would feel joyful. Triumphant. Vindicated. At peace. But Aguilar felt none of those things.

  Ojeda deserved to die, many times over. He had issued orders that an entire town be put to the torch. He had subdued and brought Aguilar’s parents to the stake, and had gloried in watching their agony as they—and Benedicto, too— had been burned while still alive to feel the pain.

  Ojeda had not killed Maria. She had robbed him of that triumph, at least. And now, Aguilar was about to take the life of one whom many whispered could not die.

  But Aguilar did not feel joy. He was surprised to find that he felt pity. For as he stared upward, looking death in the face, the black knight Ojeda was not angry, or raging, or contemptuous.

  In those odd-colored eyes, now, at the last moment, Aguilar saw nothing but simple human fear.

  He lifted his blades, and brought them down, burying them deep into the Templar’s neck.

  Still, the mountain would not crumble. Ojeda swayed again, but stayed on his knees. With an odd gentleness, Aguilar brought his bloody fingers to his enemy’s face and gently closed his eyes.

  There was a long, low sigh, and then, slowly, Ojeda fell to the floor.

  Silence in the vast room, except for the trickle of water, and Aguilar’s own labored breathing heavy in his ears. Then a quiet sob drew Aguilar’s attention, and he slowly turned his burning gaze to the frightened face of young Ahmed, and then upward, to his father—Muhammad.

  Muhammad, whose weakness, whose love for his child, had brought all this upon them.

  Had cost Maria her life.

  “Forgive me,” said the great sultan, his arms about his son.

  I could kill him right now, Aguilar thought. He knew that Muhammad would not resist. The sultan had betrayed the Brotherhood, and so many of those Aguilar had loved had died for that act of paternal devotion.

  But Aguilar knew he would not kill the sultan. The first tenet of the Creed was “Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent.” Muhammad had been guilty only of loving his child, and the boy certainly was an innocent in all of this.

  And had not he, Aguilar de Nerha, been willing to surrender the Apple to Torquemada for Maria’s life? He could not condemn another for the same crime he himself had committed.

  He would stay his blade.

  Slowly, feeling every blow, every cut, every broken bone, Aguilar turned to Maria, hoping against hope that he could hold her one more time. But as he looked into her eyes, he saw that his beloved had gone ahead without him on the last, greatest journey of all.

  He knelt beside Ojeda, and felt for the Apple. It was there… solid, round, filling his palm. Even now, he would gladly hand it over to Torquemada, if it would only bring his Maria back, even if she despised him for eternity for the betrayal.

  Torquemada….

  Aguilar looked up to see the Grand Inquisitor standing about twenty feet away, his hand pressed to his bleeding side. Their eyes met for a fraction of an instant, then the wounded priest stumbled as fast as he could toward the huge, bolted door. Aguilar would not be able to stop him in time.

  Torquemada fell against the door, fumbling for the bolt, and then shoved it back, gasping with pain at the exertion. The great iron doors swung open, and Torquemada scuttled out of the way as men poured into the room.

  But Aguilar had already lifted a heavy metal grate and slipped down, into the drains below the palace.

  CHAPTER 21

  Aguilar landed gracelessly and hard, hissing in pain and pressing a hand to his side as he got to his feet and ran down the tunnel. Torquemada, though, had alerted his soldiers, and the way up ahead suddenly grew bright with pools of lights from above as Templars dropped down ahead of—and behind—Aguilar in an attempt to block his path.

  The Assassin had moved beyond alarm or even strategy. Without slowing, he snapped his wrists and activated his blades, running headlong into the first surprised soldier and dispatching him with an almost mechanical rhythm.

  When the second one dropped down, Aguilar simply raced, not toward him, but toward the wall, running up it and launching himself into a roll on the packed earth, completely bypassing the Templar, who swung his sword ineffectually.

  Aguilar was on his feet and racing down the tunnel again before the Templar had even fully turned.

  He knew that the secret was to not stop. At all. His task was to simply outrun the pain.

  Two more Templars appeared in his path. One of them carried a torch to light the way. Now he shoved it toward Aguilar’s face, thinking to burn him or blind him. The Assassin ducked, and came up swinging to knock the torch out of his enemy’s hands, catching it deftly.

  He thrust the fiery thing into the face of the Templar’s companion, who screamed, and sliced the throat of the one who’d originally been the torchbearer. He heard noise behind him, and tossed the still-burning torch at them before again hurtling down the tunnel.

  Light was up ahead—not a single pool that indicated a cover had been lifted off the floor above, but a flood of it. Aguilar realized that he was almost out.

  Up ahead was a drawbridge. As Aguilar surged past the pulleys that controlled it, he slashed the ropes with his blade. The bridge started to lower. Aguilar ran up the wooden drawbridge as if it were a ramp and leaped off it onto the narrow stone bridge that led to the mountains and his freedom, striking the stone with his shoulder and rolling, absorbing the impact.

  He shot to his feet—and froze, blinking in the bright sunlight.

  They were waiting for him.

  He heard those who had been in pursuit slow behind him, their breathing heavy, their feet scuffling on the stone. Up ahead on the bridge stood at least two dozen more, all armed with shields and spears. On the ramparts, crossbowmen had taken position.

  And standing in the center, smirking down at his enemy, was Tomás de Torquemada.

  The Grand Inquisitor’s robes were saturated with blood, but the joy of his victory at last was clearly chasing away the pain for the moment.

  Aguilar looked about, catching his breath, trying to find some escape route. There was none. Templars stood ready to obey their leader behind, before, and above him. Three hundred feet below, the uncaring Genil river raged, disinterested in the fate of any humans above it. Aguilar was well and truly caught, and Torquemada knew it.

  “It’s over, Assassin,” he cried, shouting to be heard above the rush of the river. He extended h
is hand—inviting Aguilar not to simply hand him the Apple, which he was too far away to do, but to join him. All could be forgiven, once the Templars had won this ultimate prize. Aguilar could live out his days in a prison cell with food, fresh water and wine, and any comforts he desired.

  Torquemada smiled, gently. Reassuringly, as a trusted father of the cloth should do.

  Aguilar smiled back.

  And then he leaped.

  “Assassin!”

  Torquemada’s furious, despairing cry followed Aguilar as he plunged downward to the tumbling green-blue water, his ankles together, his arms spread. Templar crossbow bolts followed him down as well, singing past his ears like angry wasps.

  One struck home. Aguilar grunted, his form thrown off as he lurched from the pain. The surface of the water was racing to meet him. He threw a dagger to break the surface tension, then turned his body in midair so he would strike feet first, and—Cal landed perfectly, like an acrobat.

  Like an Assassin.

  The Animus arm itself, however, seemed unprepared for the dramatic contortions performed by the subject in its two-fingered grasp. It twisted on itself and with a disturbing whirring, grinding noise, something snapped. It disconnected its grip from Cal’s waist, undulated for a moment, then hung limply like a dead thing.

  “Arm disabled,” exclaimed Alex, alarmed. “Actuator rupturing!”

  Cal was down on his right knee, his right hand on the floor beside his foot, his left hand raised. He was as still as if he had been carved in stone, or had been caught and held, frozen, in this moment.

  Sofia seemed oblivious to the dire news about the Animus arm, instead stepping forward slowly, almost enraptured.

  “A Leap of Faith,” she whispered, gazing down at the still form.

  ***

  Moussa was in his room, waiting for the guard to come and escort him to the common room. The guard was late doing so, which told him that the attack on Lynch had not been successful. While they had all been in agreement at the poker table, Moussa had chosen to not be involved… yet. If all of them were involved in the single attack and it went south, they would lose any opportunity for a second chance.