Altair felt no guilt as he mercilessly sliced into the flesh of his next victim.
He felt nothing, he realized, deflecting and perfectly parrying the next sword attack, ending the devastating move by burying the tip of his blade deep into the heart of the next. He felt nothing. Nothing for the life he had swiftly taken.
Stopping neither his attack, nor his train of thought, Altair spun in a full circle, fatally slashing another two assailants, one at the neck, the other the gut. The first man fell with not but a word, the other staggered to the floor with a scream, holding his wound as if clinging to his very life.
If Altair could've shrugged he would have. Were they bad men? Altair couldn't say. The question was, did he care? The only care he had for the men was that they were in his way.
Ducking low from a sloppy horizontal swipe, Altair shot up, slugging the man with all his body weight. He felt his jaw break under his gloved fist.
The attacker fell back, tripping to the floor. Altair simply sheathed his sword, knowing that the fight was over. He didn't look back at the carnage he had caused. He didn't need to.
He strolled forward, pausing only briefly at the large wooden door, the entrance to the mansion these men had fought and died to protect so dearly and so pathetically.
Altair remembered a time he used to take a deep breath before the big kill. He remembered when his nerves shook and his fists clenched before making the deep breath. Now he felt nothing. He missed the old times.
Confidently and arrogantly, Altair pushed open the huge doors with not but a grunt of effort. The huge doors swung open, slamming into the walls behind them.
Without stopping, Altair walked into the huge room ahead. When he took in the detail of the walls, the luxury of the carpets and the colors of the curtains, Altair found himself pausing in wonder at the incredibly rich possessions. A chair was settled in the center of the room. A throne, Altair guessed, though he knew his target was no royalty.
"So you have come" A voice ahead of him spoke.
Altair said nothing at first, waiting for his quarry to identify himself. "I have." He replied. "And you know what I must do."
A man stepped forward, past a curtain, revealing himself to the waiting assassin. His features were as perfect as the room itself. He was handsome and chiseled, clearly a look of a powerful man, perhaps a little older than Altair. He was dressed in light, rich clothing and a long sword hung at his belt.
He nodded to himself as he stood at his throne. "Aye. That I do." He said softly, stroking the fine carved wood of the chair.
Altair slowly drew his sword, but made no move to attack. He had been in the game long enough to know that the rules can change any moment. Remembering his creed, he kept his distance and studied his foe, glancing around the room for traps.
"My masters have sent me to put an end to your campaign of death. It has gone on far enough, Mohiah."
Mohiah did not make a move at the threat.
"Let me ask you, Assassin. How long will you keep this up?" He asked casually. "I can only imagine the damage you have caused in your long, bloody career."
Altair did not reply.
"How long?" He asked again, more forcefully. "How long can the infamous Altair keep up his own campaign of murder?"
Beginning to see the comparison, Altair spoke up, "My targets receive only what they deserve."
"Do they?" Mohiah asked sharply and pointed to the door again. "My guards. Did they deserve their deaths?"
"Perhaps." Altair replied, cryptically and he meant it. He rarely enjoyed talking to his victims. He found they barely had anything interesting to say.
"So you fear nothing and you feel nothing. Nothing for those that stand in your way. Perhaps we are not so different, you and I"
Altair laughed at the comment and held up his sword. "Enough of this." He said, pointing the blade threateningly, growing tired of the banter.
Mohiah continued, regardless, "If that is the case…" He drew his own sword. "You will find me no easy target."
Seeing no traps and sensing no tricks, Altair shrugged and stepped forward, his sword held out defensively in front of him.
Testing his opponent, Altair slashed a few times, designed to find his enemies weak spots. Altair was not surprised when each of the attacks were blocked perfectly.
His attacks were returned and Altair leaped back harmlessly. He pressed forward and each of the fighters strikes were both deflected by the other.
The pace quickened, the ringing of steel on steel echoed through the large throne-room. As the attacks came quicker, the ring seemed to be as one long note, cutting through the air as easily as the blades themselves.
Altair thrusted quickly with his sword, lunging fully, throwing his body into the man, but Mohiah blocked the attack skillfully, sending the sword wide and exposing Altair, who received a swift punch in the face as punishment. He staggered back, but didn't fall.
Altair, with years of sword training and experience did not falter. He kept up the assault, seemingly blocking and attacking in the same movements.
The combantants circled the room, twisting and wrenching their bodies around the center chair, their movements dance-like, their swords the instruments of both music and death.
Dropping to a knee, Altair suddenly launched a low attack, scoring a hit on his mark's leg and causing a deep gash. Mohiah yelped in pain and darted back.
Altair grinned, knowing his had the first victory, he pressed on the attack but Mohiah's defense still proved excellent. He realized that he had not been lying. This would not be an easy kill.
The fight moved around the room still, Altair the faster due to the injury, leading the fight. He took it to the center, then leaped upon the throne, standing atop the beautiful wood with surpreme balance. He had gained the high ground.
Mohiah slashed with rage at the Assassin who easily defelected the attack, with his higher position he kicked back, scoring a hit, knocking the man and pushing him away clutching his battered eye. It was then that Altair moved in to the kill.
He jumped down from the chair. Mohiah, in his blinded state, held his wounded eye with one had and swiped desperately into the air in front of Altair with the other.
Patiently, Altair timed his last attack. Straight after Mohiah threw out his sword, Altair darted in, catching the wealthy man's sword arm by the wrist and preventing further attacks. With his other hand, Altair brought up his sword and plunged it deep into the chest of his newest victim.
Still holding him up, Altair steadied him from falling. Mohiah looked at his own killer. He looked as if he was trying to say something, but had not the breath. Altair saw the life leave the man's eyes.
Cruelly, Altair let go of the corpse, allowing it fall roughly to the floor with a thud.
He extracted his sword from the chest of the body. blood seeped from the wound easily. He wiped the sword on the dead man's luxurious clothing and sheathed it.
The kill was made and the mission was complete. Altair made a move to leave the extravagant mansion, but found himself pausing at the door. It was unusual, since Altair tended not to wait unnecessarily. It was something the man had said.
He turned again, facing the corpse. The eyes were still open and the mouth was open as if in a silent scream. Altair wondered if his words were true.
Perhaps he was right. He looked back at the guards, slaughtered by his hand. Maybe he should not be considering if the guards were evil, nor even his targets. Perhaps he should be considering his own sins.
With that, he pulled his hood low, covering his face and left the room. It was no time for such thoughts. He would be given his next task tomorrow.