Desert Oath: The Official Prequel to Assassin’s Creed Origins

by Oliver Bowden

  I dabbed at the blood but kept my expression neutral. ‘You’re angry,’ I said uselessly. He looked away. His chin jutted. For the first time in my entire life, I found myself critical of him for reasons that had nothing to do with me. He had struck out at me from anger, the one thing he kept training me not to do.

  ‘You have not angered me,’ he said after a pause. ‘You have disappointed me. You have endangered our position here.’

  ‘Have I really?’ I found myself echoing Aya, and my anger at her was bleeding away, just as my anger at my father was solidifying. ‘Do you really think we’re still being hunted? This Order you speak of? Why haven’t they sent armies of men against us if we’re so important to them? Isn’t it possible that Hemon was the real target?’

  My father glared at me, nostrils flaring, gaze intense, but I went on – not with my usual hot headedness but, rather, calm and methodical. It seemed I’d learned something from Aya as well, after all. ‘Did you ever think that with him dead we’re no longer considered a threat? Or that perhaps the man hunting us at the Temple of Khnum has told his paymasters that we’re dead in order to collect? Who knows how diligent an employee he really was? There are a thousand and one things to consider, Father. He can’t still be after us.’

  ‘He was good,’ he said, almost to himself. He took one deep breath, then another. Tamping down his own anger. Listening to me, for once, finally listening. ‘He was possessed of great expertise.’ At that, a look came across his face, falling across it like a shadow – a look that I couldn’t decipher at the time. Only later would I realize what it meant.

  ‘And yet he has never appeared again,’ I pressed.

  ‘He was patient.’

  Had we not been as well? Keeping ourselves far from Siwa, training in exile for years?

  ‘Father, it’s time for us to return to Siwa.’ I was determined. Focused. I knew this was the right thing to do.

  He had not moved. Deep in thought. ‘Your training is not complete.’

  It was more rote and habit, by now, than fact. Or so it felt to me. But I had one belief, learned from Khensa and Aya, one that had allowed me to acquire peace with that statement – there was always something new to learn. I would never truly finish training.

  ‘It can be completed there, back in Siwa,’ I answered, with complete equanimity. ‘When I am back by Aya’s side.’

  ‘No, it is not seemly for those whom you protect to see you still not fully trained.’

  ‘Then let it continue in private.’ I shrugged. Barely anyone knew that father was a Medjay even, much less I. And we could easily just say I was still training as mekety. ‘Siwa is unprotected.’ I told him the other worry I’d carried all these years. ‘Mother worries for us, and has been alone for too long.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ he snapped, but there was no fire to his voice. ‘Nevertheless, you should return to Siwa only as a fully fledged Medjay.’ The protest was weak, at best. Habit and stubbornness, and not much more. I could see him, suddenly, much more clearly than ever before, and Khensa had been right, I realized. He loved me. He truly did, even though he was atrocious at telling me so, or even at showing me so. I suspected that, despite the fact he’d not mentioned her once, he missed my mother more than he could bear.

  And he was so very scared of what could happen to me, once I took up the mantle of Medjay. Aya had been right, in a way. He was holding me back. And in doing so, he was holding everyone back.

  ‘Then make it so, Father. Pronounce me one.’

  He looked at me, eye to eye. Truly looked at me, letting me see more than he’d ever shown before. He looked older and tired, but also, I realized, proud.

  ‘You’re close, my son. So very close. I see how much she means to you. I’ve been stubborn and I miss your mo—’. He cut himself off, shaking his head ruefully. ‘Train. Let me think. Then perhaps we can consider returning home.’

  That morning, as I trained, the sun casting its gaze upon me, I wondered. Was I training to become a Medjay or to see Aya sooner? Could it possibly be both – and that these goals were not as incompatible as my father believed? I wasn’t sure yet, but I felt as though I could reach a balance in this, someday.

  I trained harder than I ever had before.

  54

  Aya prided herself on being observant, but she also had a lot on her mind. And that’s why she didn’t think much of the men at the watering hole, at first.

  She did notice them. But what she failed to do was instantly recognize the threat they posed. She had seen them without truly seeing them. She failed to register the scars and sullen expressions. She had missed the sidelong looks to her horse, the voices speaking in hushed tones, the moistened lips and calculating eyes …

  Because, yes, she had a lot on her mind. She was feeling oddly unwell, making her worry she’d allowed herself to become dehydrated. There was also the sighing; the fact that she kept going over and over her conversation with Bayek. The regrets. So many things she should have told him over the years they’d trained, instead of keeping them bottled inside.

  It was strange, she thought, that she had almost forgotten how to communicate properly with Bayek even as they’d grown closer. And she thought that if Bayek had been here by her side then he would have said to her, ‘Aya, why do you sigh so much? We’ll sort it out, we always do. It will be fine.’ And he would have made her feel as though sighing was the very last thing she should be doing. He would have drawn her attention to something wonderful: whatever plan they had fermenting, some combat move they’d learned that morning, or even something simple like a bird wheeling in the sky – whatever it was, Bayek would have made it seem to her as though it were a miracle. How could she possibly sigh when the world around them had so many treasures to reveal? How could she sigh when they were together?

  But, of course, there was no Bayek beside her, riding his horse, following the rhythm of the plain; no Bayek standing opposite with his sword raised, urging her to continue her drills; no Bayek sitting on the other side of a campfire, eating whatever they’d caught that day, between grins. And no Bayek to distract her about her concerns regarding her aunt, whom she desperately hoped would be alive, perhaps even fully recovered, when she finally arrived in Siwa.

  Purely and simply, no Bayek at all. That was why she sighed.

  Who knows? Maybe sighing stopped her from doing something silly like going back. Between missing Bayek and worrying about her aunt, it seemed as though anything involving a connection between two people so important to her would catch her attention: the innocent face of a child paddling in the river towards her mother. The hippo with her young. An affectionate couple kissing, an old man on a camel, kind face crinkly, laughing at a joke told to him by a younger man driving oxen.

  And so she did the only thing she could do. She travelled, riding along the route of the river, along the banks of the Nile, where she passed peasants working in the field, labourers who would occasionally stop, watch her pass and wonder where she was going, this dusty woman with braided hair and a face that seemed to speak of sadness.

  Until she came to the watering hole, where she stopped, parched and grateful to rest.

  She had taken to talking to her horse. It was a lovely, white-hair gelding with a beautiful temperament that she came to consider a friend. Out here in the desert, no doubt about it, her greatest friend. She’d begun training it while at the camp, and it was paying off now. The horse came to her call, never strayed far from her side. It was beautiful, and smart.

  She walked it to the edge of watering hole, which had been improved with a sandstone brick border, and it followed her, a few steps behind. Surrounding the water was vegetation, all of it leaning in as though bowing in the water’s presence, paying homage to the precious liquid.

  Not for the first time when arriving at a watering hole, Aya had thought of the oasis at Siwa, how the breeze that seemed to come off the water acted as a respite to the oppressive heat of the desert. Just being the
re reminded her of home, of her destination. It reminded her of her aunt and Bayek, and that made her sigh once more.

  The gelding drank as Aya took a seat on the sandstone border, dipped her hands into the water, deep below the surface where it was coolest, and then scooped handfuls of it on to her face, neck and shoulders.

  To her left were the men with their narrowed stares, but she was tired from travel and keen to take the water, and she missed their sideways glances. She didn’t register the fact that avaricious stares were being aimed at her horse, and disdainful ones at her.

  In the distance a horseman approached. Little more than a black speck on the horizon.

  She filled her waterskin, still unaware that the group seemed to have drifted closer. Nor did she notice that their murmurs had stopped, only to be replaced with a subtle, conspiratorial whispering. She was too absorbed in slaking her thirst, and trying to stay cool, letting her gelding wander off to find the shade of a nearby yew.

  From around her waist she took a red scarf, dipped it in the cool water and used it on her face. For a moment or so she draped it there, feeling it mould to the contours of her face before taking it off and letting it drop wetly to the stone. A shadow fell across her.

  ‘Hello, girl,’ came a voice from behind her.

  Aya distantly recognized the voice as belonging to one of the men, and instinctively knew that its tone had changed.

  This was not the quiet banter he used for his friends. Not the polite and respectful tones a merchant might have used, a trader hoping to sell goods, or even a stranger in search of romance. She’d fended off her fair share of all three on her travels.

  No, this was something entirely different. There was an edge to this man’s voice that – at last – made her sit up and take notice, and belatedly sense danger.

  Her tunic was belted up tight. Beneath it all was the short sword with which she had spent so many years practising. She wondered whether the men would have seen it jutting as she knelt. She casually reached now, wanting to check it was still there, and she felt her right hand twitch, thinking how best to handle this: draw the sword now, use it as a deterrent, prove herself a threat? No. They’d take that as a challenge. The only option was to await their first move and then draw.

  Even so. The men had a leader, the one who had spoken, with his nose that looked as though it had once being broken and never properly set. He moved closer, repeating his introduction, ‘Hey, girl.’

  She stood to face him. ‘What can I do for you?’ she said, looking not at him but over his shoulder at the three men behind him, who hung back, looking greedily at her gelding.

  Horse thieves. Gods curse them, they were horse thieves.

  He lifted his arm, putting one finger of his outstretched hand to her chin, moving her face so that she was looking at him. She let him do it so that their eyes met for a second and she regarded him carefully before pulling away. ‘Don’t touch me again,’ she warned him softly.

  ‘Well, it’s simple, isn’t it?’ he rasped. ‘Don’t raise a fuss. We take that pretty horse. And maybe that’s all we do.’

  Without the gelding, she would never make it back to Siwa to see her aunt.

  ‘You can’t have the horse.’

  But the ringleader was already gesturing as though to say the conversation was over. ‘How about you just give us what we want? Don’t be so troublesome. We’ll take good care of the beast.’

  Aya put her hand to her chin as though pretending to consider his kind offer, but really thinking hard. Her back was to the waterhole. She knew it was deep. It was no good trying to escape there, and in any case …

  She couldn’t afford the delay.

  No, she realized. She didn’t want to. She had training, after all, and not just any training, but the teachings of the Medjay. This gave her options. A choice.

  She wanted to fight.

  ‘Will you?’ she said. ‘Or will you just sell the poor animal off like the horse thieves you are?’

  His lips pulled back over dirty teeth. ‘Rude.’ He hand twitched towards the weapon at his side.

  Keep something in reserve, she thought. Don’t show what you’ve got straight away. Her sword stayed where it was, hidden beneath her robes.

  ‘Come on, then,’ she said, ‘let’s see, shall we? Let’s see if you can take my horse from me.’

  He grinned. She could smell his breath. ‘Yes, let’s see, shall we?’

  And with that he stepped forward.

  55

  As he reached for Aya, she stepped back and then reversed her momentum and instead of pulling away from him thrust forward into him, at the same time grabbing his arm which she twisted, hearing with some satisfaction his scream of pain, then swivelling, pulling him round behind her and dumping him face first into the water.

  A perfect move. If only Bayek was here to see it, she thought. She then whistled sharply – one short but piercing burst. The startled gelding bolted a few paces, as it had been trained, ears pinned down. It stopped and turned, at the ready, snapping its teeth warningly at one of the thieves as he tried to creep closer. Woe betide anyone attempting to lay on hand on it. She smiled, satisfied.

  The horse thieves were not pleased.

  In a second her attacker was yelling, ‘Get her,’ and his three companions launched themselves forward. She darted to the side, mentally calculating the odds. The rider in the distance might just turn and leave. The men were too close. It was time to show them her sword.

  She turned and was about to draw her weapon but one of her pursuers was faster than she had anticipated and was already upon her. His lips pulled back over bad teeth and he was growling with fury, and from his similarity to the first attacker she guessed that he might be the brother of the man she’d just dumped into the watering hole, in which case he was probably keen on restoring the family name. For all that was worth in a family of horse thieves.

  He lurched forward, fingers like claws trying to get her, but her feet were firmly planted, centre of balance correct, and she ducked beneath those outstretched hands, using both fists to pummel his soft yielding stomach – one, two, one, two – and then spinning to the side. He went down winded, his breath escaping in a whoosh, just as the second man reached them and Aya, still low, pressed a hand to the sand and pivoted, sweeping out a foot that took the legs out from her next attacker.

  This was it – her training in action. Not just a series of moves, but a way of thinking. She felt confident. Grounded and powerful. For the first time in her life she believed her intellect to be matched by her physical skills and dexterity. She felt strong.

  The attacker went down, on his face a look of shock. Nevertheless, all she’d done was slow his progress, and even on the sand he scrabbled for her, grabbing her leg before she could rise to her feet. She kicked out. Her boot caught him in the face and he yelled and let go, allowing her to stand but checking her progress sufficiently that the next man was already upon her. She felt arms encircle her neck.

  Behind them the ringleader was pulling himself from the watering hole with soaking clothes, his face twisted with fury and hatred. Thumbs pressed into her windpipe. Spittle flew in her face. She dropped, rolling on to the small of her back, bringing her legs and knees up and springing upwards in the same movement, planting her feet into the chest of her attacker and sending them both tumbling back to the ground. The action worked, his hands were released from her throat, and she quickly rabbit-punched him twice in the throat – sweet revenge – and then rolled to safety as he writhed in agony.

  A second later she was back on her feet, sprinting for her gelding, hoping that a mixture of caution, disarray and good old-fashioned pain would slow them down and she could reach it in time.

  And she was almost there, about to throw her leg over the flank of her horse, when the ringleader appeared at the tree with a faceful of fury, the tree at his back. From his belt he snatched a knife, cursing as the horse reared and wheeled, kicking dust up at him. The man drip
ped and his shoulders shook with a mixture of anger and breathlessness but even so he was enjoying the reversal, swapping the knife from hand to hand, beckoning her forward. ‘Come on, girl,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  She risked a look behind. Two of the robbers had stood, poised, waiting to see what transpired at the tree. She turned back to the leader, aware that she still hadn’t drawn her sword, but knowing that now was the time – knowing now she had to kill him. Wasn’t it just what Bayek had always told her? In a situation like this, kill the leader and the rest will drift away?

  Even so, she didn’t want to do that, despite the fact she’d trained for it, prepared for it, and despite the fact that her enemy would quite happily kill her. Confronted with the reality of combat for the first time, she hesitated. She’d always believed she was being trained to fight, to defend herself and those she loved. She understood she was being trained to kill. The act itself was … something else.

  ‘One day you may have to,’ Bayek had told her, and she had hoped that day would never come, though she knew it inevitably would. And now, here it was, and the choice was simple: this was not a killing made for moral reasons, there was no revenge intended, no honour to be defended. She had to kill this man in order to survive.

  She drew her sword.

  It was longer and more wicked than the knife he held, and quite possibly she had spent more time practising with it.