The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom
An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99
'Salt comes from the north, gold from the south and silver from the country of the white men, but the word of God and the treasures of wisdom are only to be found in Timbuktu'
West African proverb
"Search out the fragments. Bring death upon our enemies. Claim the pieces of Eden as our own ... go next to Timbuktu, in the kingdom of the Moors."
Nasr al-Ajami.
Chapter One.
1193. Somewhere in the Sahara.
An eagle circled high over the desert dunes, looking for prey. Seeing none, it spread its wings and headed south on the thermals. For a very long while it saw nothing but acacia trees and the grey gravel plains that the Tuareg who lived there called hamada. At last, when the acacias and the gravel had given way to a never-ending sea of caramel-coloured sand, the eagle spotted a long line of men on camels. The travellers stood out starkly amongst the dunes; their silhouettes black as iron in the harsh and unrelenting desert sun. The bird's tiny brain associated men with camels with arrows that whistled unpleasantly past its wings. It circled away from the caravan and soared south.
The eagle had only flown a short distance when it saw another, smaller group of men. Caught by surprise, the eagle jerked sideways. It would have soared further if it had not noticed the tracks of a jerboa on the sand below. All other thoughts were suffocated beneath the hawk's hunting instincts as it began its dive.
"An eagle!" exclaimed Yunus al-Qahirah as the eagle stooped.
Malik, who had noticed the eagle several moments ago but who lacked the Cairene's habit of stating the obvious, looked up. "A good omen," he observed, hoping that al-Qahirah would not reply. The merchant had annoyed him as soon as they'd met. After months of travel it was all he could do to keep his blade from the man's throat.
Yunus al-Qahirah, mercifully unaware of Malik's train of thought, shrugged. "Hardly," he said. "Eagles feed on the flesh of the dead. I would have shot it if I had my bow and arrow."
Malik doubted that the merchant could hit a camel on a clear night. "For what purpose?" he inquired.
The merchant shook his head wonderingly at Malik's stupidity. "For sport, of course," he said. "Surely even Syrians kill eagles when they find them, just as we Cairenes do? Our two countries cannot be so different."
Malik shrugged. "I would not know," he told the merchant, "We hunt larger prey in Syria."
"Do you have desert lions still?"
Malik shrugged again. "Not exactly," he said.
Al-Qahirah sniffed, perhaps recalling that Malik was only the caravan's hired guard and therefore could not be expected to have a sensible opinion about anything. He made no more conversation. The merchant was not interested in anybody without camels or land to trade and he had not wanted to hire Malik and Altaïr as guards at all. It had taken a forged letter of recommendation from the most eminent camel-master in Cairo, an unpleasant and curiously specific illness affecting only al-Qahirah's two preferred caravan guards and a practical demonstration of their combined skill to change the fat merchant's mind. Malik wished that it had been safe for them to travel alone through the Sahara, but nobody travelled without a caravan in this desolate waste.
He tilted his head back and watched the eagle emerge from behind the high ridge of the dunes with empty talons. The soaring bird reminded him of home. Eagles nested in the rocks under Masyaf castle. They were often seen riding the air currents over the Orontes.
And sometimes, he thought, they haunt Jerusalem's skies.
The eagle jinked in its flight as if something had startled it. Malik's eyes narrowed.
Yunus al-Qahirah fanned his face with his sleeve and gazed at the dunes around him. "Where is your companion?" he demanded.
Malik had no idea. "No doubt he scouts ahead," he said diplomatically. He stood up in his saddle and glanced around, shading his eyes against the desert heat. After a few moments of searching he saw a small figure half way up a dune, flanked by a larger silhouette in the shape of a camel. "In fact, I think I see him there. If you will excuse me-"
Al-Qahirah waved his hand elegantly. He replaced it rather hurriedly on his saddle-bow as his camel stumbled again. "See that he does not wander off," he said.
"Of course, honoured one."
The merchant completely missed the sarcasm in Malik's voice. "Fetch him back," he said. "After all, he cannot guard the caravan from over there, peace be with him."
Malik rather doubted that Altaïr would wander off. There was nowhere to wander to. As he stared around at the scorching desert, he could almost believe that the small line of men and camels were the last people on earth. "Yes, honoured one. And with you, peace."
The merchant ignored the courtesy.
Peace, and boils, and abject poverty, and plagues of flies, Malik thought viciously. He hauled his camel's head out of the caravan line and set off down the procession at an uncomfortable trot. The animal jolted as if it was in the last stages of palsy, a gait which Malik had learned meant that it was in perfect health. The journey had forced him to learn rather more about camels than he had ever wanted to know.
He knew exactly enough about Altaïr to know that something was wrong as he yanked his camel to a grateful and knee-jerking halt beside Altaïr's mount. The Assassin crouched on his heels at the base of the dune. His face, visible only in a thin strip between his hood and the scarf he had wrapped around the lower half of his face to protect himself from the flying sand, was creased in a scowl. His camel wore a nearly identical expression.
Malik slid from his camel's back. He winced as the soles of his boots hit the hot sand. "Safety and peace, my brother," he said.
"I fear we have seen the last of both," Altaïr said in reply. He examined the sand at his feet intently. "What do you want?"
Malik rolled his eyes. He grabbed his camel's head-rope, jerked his hand back from a slashing bite, grabbed the rope again and tied it to Altaïr's camel's pack to stop the beasts from wandering off, or at least to prevent them wandering off quickly. "Al-Qahirah, may the ghouls crack his skull between their teeth like ripe grapes, is concerned that you do not travel close enough to the caravan for safety."
"Al-Qahirah," Altaïr said, "is a great deal safer the further he is away from me. And it is his safety that I am concerned with at present." He brushed the sand again, "It is no use. These cursed shifting sands-"
Malik crouched down beside him. "What?" he asked. "What do you see?"
Altaïr shrugged. "Trouble," he said, staring at the sand as if it held all the world's answers in its grains. "What else? Did you notice the eagle?"
"Yes. Your totem. At first I hoped it might signify good luck, but-"
"If it did, it would be the only good fortune we have had since entering this forsaken place." Altaïr said accurately. "The bird changed its course. I think there is an ambush up ahead. I thought I saw prints," he shook his head," but if I did, they are long gone."
Malik frowned. He reached down and sifted a handful of sand through his fingers. His sleeve fell back and he felt the brush of more grains on his bare skin. A fine haze of blowing sand veiled the surface of the dunes. Light but insistent, the sand's touch could flay a man's skin. Given centuries, it could sculpt stone. The tracks of raiders would be covered in moments. "How many men? Can you tell?"
Altaïr scowled. "There's no way of knowing. There could be one or two, or thirty." He shook his head. "They might not be raiders at all."
Malik considered. "You spoke of good fortune," he began, weighing the odds. "In truth, we have had none. If they are raiders, and there are more than one or two, then how do we proceed? Maybe we should inform the guides?"He paused, doubting the trustworthiness of Tuareg guides in a region populated by Tuareg bandits. "Unless, of course, they already know."
"We could kill them all-"Altaïr suggested.
"But guides are sadly required to escape this cursed desert." Malik let out a long breath. "Besides, we would need proof."
"A proof we are unlikely to obtain until we are choking on Tuareg steel."
"Nevertheless. I think that murdering our guides may cause at least some comment among the rest of the caravan. And the first tenet of the Creed is-"
"Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent. Yes, I know." Altaïr glanced over his shoulder at the straggling dark line of the caravan. "But our loyalty is to the Assassins, not to this band of roving merchants."
"And the second tenet?" Malik inquired.
Altaïr scowled. "You need not preach." he said. "The second law is that which gives us strength. Hide in plain sight. But the third tenet is the most important. Do not harm the brotherhood. And I would say that allowing ourselves to be slaughtered in cold blood so that the Templars may find the Eden fragment hidden in Timbuktu instead would do the Brotherhood harm. Would you not?"
"I have no intention of allowing myself to be slaughtered." Malik retorted.
Altaïr's smile, half-hidden beneath his veil, was fierce. "Nor I. And not the rest of the caravan, if it should come to that, "His smile grew wider."Although I could make an exception for the merchant al-Qahirah."
"Yunus al-Qahirah is a pig," Malik conceded. "But he may yet listen to reason."
"Someone," Altaïr slid a sideways glance at Malik, "should inform him of our suspicions."
"On the strength of an eagle's change in flight? He will not listen."
"Then he is a fool," Altaïr said. "Besides, if he will not listen to the flight of eagles, he may yet make an exception for the Eagle's Vision."
Malik went very still. He could hear the drumming of the grains of sand at the base of the dunes. Behind them, Malik's camel began a lengthy series of feints and neck-waving bellows with Altaïr's mount. They kicked up drifts of sand that stung Malik's eyes. He pulled up his neck-scarf to mask his face. "You've marked the guards as enemies?"
Altaïr shrugged. "It seems that their intentions have changed since Cairo. They show crimson."
"How am I to explain that to the pig?"
Altaïr's smile, which had faded, returned. "That," he said precisely, "is your problem."
"You told me once," Malik said, "that we were on the same side. I think that you lied."
"And you told me once," Altaïr replied, "that you were always regarded as the clever one out of the two of us. Your conversation with al-Qahirah is less likely to be punctuated by a blade than mine is. I lost my patience with the man somewhere between Cairo and Koufra, and have not bothered to find it since."
Malik sighed. "Very well. I will tell him to halt the caravan. "He got to his feet, stumbling a little in the soft sand, and reached for his camel's head-collar."But he will not like it."
Altaïr shrugged. "You are a rafiq," he said, "but you complain like the newest recruit."
"And you are an idiot. But I travel with you none the less," Malik retorted. He untied the camel's lead-rope with difficulty and coaxed it to kneel with a mixture of praising and threats. Finally the camel relented, dropped to its knees and allowed Malik to mount, at which point an even more complex mixture of coercion and violence was required to get it to rise. "In truth, a fight will do us good. It has been months since we left Cairo."
"I am not seeking to avoid the battle altogether," Altaïr said as he swung himself aboard his own mount. "I-we-are out of practice. For all the empty spaces, this land's bareness leaves few places to practise secretly. And," he slapped his camel on the shoulder to make it rise, "there is nothing to climb."
Malik smiled. He missed the lost colour of Jerusalem, or even the quiet valley of Masyaf, with its library and its eagles. He missed talking to more than ten people a day. If he admitted it to himself, he even missed the respect of the other Assassins. He did not miss climbing, or at least not much. "A wise man does not seek a fight," he warned as they began to head back to the caravan.
"True enough," Altaïr said. He smiled. "It is a good thing, then, that neither of us has ever pretended to be wise."
"It is true," Malik said reflectively, "that your speed with a blade outstrips your thoughts, on occasion."
Altaïr's face held the ghost of a smile beneath his veil. He kneed his camel into a trot. "And hopefully your skill with the blade outstrips your skill with beasts," he said as Malik's camel jolted to keep up.
Malik cursed under his breath, but not too quietly. If we are not merchants, then neither are we camel drivers," he retorted. "And well do I remember watching you mount your camel in Cairo when we departed."
Altaïr snorted. "I remember nothing," he said as they approached the caravan. "Besides, I hope the speed of your tongue outstrips both your sword and your camel. You will need it to convince al-Qahirah of our cause."
"Oh, I will convince him, "Malik said, "I will convince him even if I have to use my knife."
"One can only hope. If you need blades, then I will help," Altaïr offered. He turned his camel towards the rear of the caravan.
Malik sighed. "It will not come to that," he called after Altaïr.
A few moments later he was wishing that it had. Yunus al-Qahirah answered Malik's polite "Peace be upon you," with a grunt and a "Must you bother me? It is too hot to talk."
Malik agreed with the man. It was far too hot to talk. It was too hot to think. It was too hot to do anything besides hunch on his camel and think of all the other places he would rather be. And it was far too hot to be anywhere within the vicinity of Yunus al-Qahirah. After days of waterless desert travel they all stank, but the fat merchant's body oozed a scent like the carcass of a donkey three days dead. The man smelt worse than the Franj. He tried again and winced as a stray waft of the merchant's paper fan sent a wave of body odour gusting in his direction. "My lord, it is a most urgent matter. It concerns the guides."
Al-Qahirah frowned. Sweat rolled down his forehead and soaked into the blue cotton of his veil. "Speak, then."
Malik adjusted his grip on the camel's reins "My lord, we fear there may be an ambush ahead."
The fat merchant's brow furrowed. "An ambush? Who?"
"The Tuareg-"Malik began.
He was interrupted by a chuckle of laughter. "The Tuareg do not ambush! It is not their way. They do not simply fall on an unsuspecting caravan. They join the caravan at a meeting-spot, hoping to pick off unbelievers, men who own goods, men whom nobody will protect." Al-Qahirah chuckled again. "You have a lot to learn of the desert, my friend."
"Men who join the caravan," Malik said blandly, feeling the slow burn of anger in his chest. "Men like our guides?"
His question drew another great chuckle of laughter from the merchant. "The guides? Don't be a fool! Have I not purchased a ghefara, a permit, from the Tuareg in Agadez? And in Bilma, before that? And in Koufra, between Bilma and Cairo? We are safe, or as safe as we can be. I have travelled this route more times than you have fingers," he cast a sly glance at Malik's missing hand, "and I have never had a problem."
Malik gritted his teeth. The woven lead-rope bit tightly into his clenched fist. "Forgive me," he said in a voice that meant no such thing, "but is it not possible that you have bribed the wrong Tuareg?"
Yunus al-Qahirah's eyes narrowed. He flicked his fan. "It is always possible, but not likely. Tell me, what proof have you?"
Malik tried to explain without mentioning Altaïr's eagle vision. "The eagle-"
"What about the bird?"
"It changed course in the sky. Something startled it, my lord," –calling al-Qahirah 'my lord' grated like a sword against glass, but he thought it best-"and my companion thinks-"
"Hang your companion!" al-Qahirah snapped. "I should never have taken you on in Cairo. But it was late notice, and I, God help me-I was desperate." He gave Malik a disparaging look. "I will not make that mistake again. I have hired guides from the same tribe for years and I have never-"
"Until now, "said Malik, dispensing with all courtesy.
He had the utter satisfaction of seeing Yunus al-Qahirah lost for words for a second before the merchant opened his mouth. His face turned the fiery hue of the sands. "If you-"
And then the Tuareg attacked.
The first thing Malik knew of it was a thin black line appearing over the top of one sand-dune. The dunes formed a deep and narrow V at that point, angling down to a shallow valley studded with salt-bushes. The black line condensed as it grew closed and resolved into the figures of several men mounted on slender fast mehari racing camels. They wore deep blue turbans pulled low over their faces. Each man carried a long stick in his left hand, which he rapped against the camels' neck to guide them, and a naked blade in hid hand. The metal of the swords gleamed in the bright noon sun. Foam flew from their camels' mouths.
Yunus al-Qahirah's mouth dropped open. "You-"he stuttered, as if Malik had brought the calamity upon them simply by warning of the possibility of danger. "You-you must protect us."
Malik reached under his saddle to check the knives hidden there. His camel snorted and swayed, infected by the sight of the racing camels hurtling towards them. "I do not have to take orders from you, you slimy fat salt merchant," he said as he drew the knives one by one and stabbed them blade-first into the padded pommel of the saddle for easy accessibility.
Al-Qahirah's mouth gaped open in a perfect circle.
"Stay here and keep quiet," Malik snapped. "And if you do not, it will be you who is to blame. Your death will not be on my head." He jabbed at his camel's flanks with his heels and the beast surged forwards. Before the beast had taken more than a dozen strides he heard the drum-beats of camel hooves from behind him as Altaïr galloped up.
"How went the conversation?" the Assassin asked.
Malik shrugged, as well as you could manage to shrug aboard a speeding camel," Badly," he said, and then there was no time for talk. The Tuareg were upon them.
Author's notes: This story is a sequel to my previous AC story: Both Worlds as Our Companion and part of my larger AC story arc that starts with The Cross and The Sword. As long as you know who the characters are you should be able to enjoy this up to a point, but you'd probably enjoy it even more if you've read at least one of my other AC fics previously.
Just saying.
Although I hate to blame the Tuareg for everything, they were infamous for infiltrating medieval Arab caravans, searching out the solitary travellers that nobody was going to miss, killing then, stealing their money and then sneaking away across the dunes. This is a rather more direct approach, solely because I wanted to write a camel charge. The Cairo-Koufra-Bilma-Agadez-Timbuktu route across the Sahara would be at least possible at the time this story is set.
And I am not exaggerating about the perverseness of camels.
