Chapter 1: The Fall of a Master
~ Bastard! – Desmond Miles
It was night and the summer sun had long since gone beyond the horizon and the new moon was out, obscuring those under it with an inky darkness. The forest, a dark maze of trees that shifted suddenly as the wind blew through it making the branches sway like drunken dancers. The cold air filled the dense forest as the nocturnal creatures chattered before they raced back into their holes or flew away in the black sky, the sound of crunching leaves and the snapping twigs permeated the area and a sense of foreboding grew within the young man that ran in the woods. Oxygen filled the man's being as he ran faster to get away from them.
Desmond kept running, he didn't know how long but he knew he had to keep going. He had to get away. His legs carried him through the forest, he tried to be as quiet as possible but he was found out. Shouts could be heard. Desmond! Desmond! His dad yelling after him, that made him run faster, quicker through the woods. The adrenaline was pumping in his veins now, the sudden rush made him faster.
'Damn it's so fucking dark!' He could see the lights from the torches cutting away at the darkness. His training was paying off though he was avoiding them easily. Desmond, where are you? His mother called out to him now. He hesitated in his next step, an internal battle that seemed to wage forever but only lasted for a second and the resolve to escape won over.
'I'm sorry Mom.'
'No, I wanted this; I wanted a new life, my own life and live my own way. He decided this when he turned sixteen he kept running, he had to escape, away from the Farm, away from the conspiracy, away from that life.' He wouldn't go back to that place, no, he would run and continue running...forever.
The forest seemed endless but the shouts lessened. He still ran though because if he stopped then they would find him.
Desmond slid down a hill, he stopped near a stream and buckets of sweat rolled down his face. Desmond's breathing was erratic and his clothes drenched in sweat, walking clumsily towards the stream, he cupped his hands and scooped out some water, he drank until his breathing was calmer, now that his heart didn't try to jack hammer its way out and the burning ache in his legs lessened to a more bearable extent. Taking out his canteen, he filled it up before walking downwards of the stream which eventually led to a river and the river led to an old access road.
Alright, escape the Farm, check, get some water, check and get in contact with civilisation, still working on that. Okay, I escaped the Farm and have my freedom now what the hell am I gonna do next?
The sun was bearing down as he kept walking down the old access road. Jesus it's hot! There were vast amount of green everywhere and this didn't help Desmond. The heat was starting to affect him now, the green leaves of the trees started to blur with the brown dirt road, wiping the sweat from his brow and blinking his eyes to bring clarity to his surroundings, he walked. He walked for hours and hours. Nothing for miles, trees, trees and guess what more fucking trees. Now he was regretting running away, there was no food and worst of all no water as he had drunken all of it from his canteen, the heatwave making him sweat twice as much as he drank. At this rate, I'm not gonna make it. Pulling himself together, he continued to trek through the wilderness, uncertain of his fate that lies ahead.
Night time came and he felt relief wash over him as the cool air flowed through his searing body, and at last he found a clearing with some water. Bringing the container he brought along, he filled it with the clean water from the nearby mountain stream. Taking a few mouthfuls of water he managed to crawl his way between a flat stone and a tree, slipping his jacket off, he sat near the stone still warm from the sun and lied there, resting his eyes upon the night. Millions of stars twinkled in the night sky, a sea of glittering diamonds, sparkling diamonds that danced in the blanket of space and Desmond wondered how he had never looked at them before, and the view was stunning. He should have looked at it sooner, keeping him entranced and his eyelids felt heavy and soon Morpheus claimed him to his realm of dreams.
The dusty wind hit Desmond's face as he trudged on through 'the badlands', the hot sun was high in the sky, his clothes was dry from the blistering winds and the water in his canteen, well the definition of a dry well would be applicable. Jeez never thought this place could look so dead. He kept trying to go on but he stumbled in his step and the fall seemed to sap all his energy if the sun was hot now then it was scorching when he fell. No, I can't die, not like this. His eyes seemed to be heavy as if closing them would provide some comfort for him but it wouldn't. The wind halted for a solitary moment as a figure rippled in the distance as Desmond could make out a silhouette in the heatwave but passed it off as a hallucination. Blinking, the man in the distance seemed closer now, much closer. The heat must be really getting to me. Blinking his eyes again, the last thing he saw was the man that was now by his side, his face hidden by a beaked hood and his white coat swaying in the wind.
He looked up at the white ceiling, in confusion, rising from his bed. Wait? This wasn't his room. He could see that the room he was in was sterile, fluorescent lights hung on the ceiling that flickered on and off occasionally, medical equipment was laid on the table across from him and from what he could see there were traces of blood on the wall adjacent to him. He suddenly had a feeling that he was in a very bad slasher film.
Staring around worriedly he was about to get out of bed when the door opened and he screamed to high hell (later he would never admit that he screamed like a girl) when the door slammed open. There in the doorway was a man with a bloodied apron, a hockey mask with blood stains and a butcher knife in his hands that was currently dripping the red liquid. He kept screaming when his supposed killer started to laugh hysterically dropping the butcher knife and banging his fist on the floor.
"I'm sorry I couldn't resist screwing with you," Pulling up the mask, Desmond was met with the face of the bastard who scared him. The man had blonde hair and blue eyes. He thought that the man before him was an ass but it was five minutes that he met the guy. He was going to reserve judgement.
"Hey kid if you don't know I'm the guy that saved your life," the blonde smiled at him. "The name is Naruto Uzumaki." He stuck out his hand with that shit-eating grin on his face.
"Desmond, Desmond Miles," He clasped Naruto's hand as he steadily stood up from the medical bed.
Desmond and Naruto walked out of the medical facility they were in, taking in the landscape before him. The dry, barren desert was blazing before them, hot cracks on the ground from the heat but he could see that the area they were in it was cut off with fresh brown earthly soil. There were two rows of big satellite dishes that every few minutes it moved slightly or did a complete 180. He could see a field of solar panels that was directed at the sun and a huge strange black tower that was oddly shaped in the centre of the field. There were other small buildings that looked advanced. Really advanced. He had no clue where they were only that it seemed hot and dry.
Desmond was amazed surprisingly that they haven't rusted.
"Desmond, I heard that you ran away from the Farm. Care to tell me why?" Naruto never broke his stride, amused at the situation if the indication that Desmond noticeably stiffened.
"How do you know? Desmond eyed Naruto suspiciously. They arrived in a warehouse where Desmond's eyes widened at the all the weapons in the building. There were handguns, machine guns, rifles, swords, knives, explosives and some kind of suit.
"Holy shit, is that a tank?" His head was spinning at the sight, who the hell was this guy?
"I have my ways." Naruto took an M1911 from the wall of weapons and started to polish. With the barrel pointed towards Desmond. He began to sweat a little. "So tell me how you escaped?"
"Through the front door," Desmond deadpanned. Naruto stared blankly at him before laughing loudly.
"Okay now tell me why?" Once Nate started to control himself, he put the pistol back and sat on the tank.
"I escaped because... I didn't believe that it was real. I thought that they were making up, being conspiracy freaks. The Templars and Assassins, I didn't believe in any of that shit. I just wanted to be normal, so I just walked out."
"So you don't believe it huh?" Nodding his head he slumped back against the wall, a heavy burden lifted from his shoulders.
"The way I see it Desmond is that you have two choices." Confused, Desmond stared as Naruto took a bottle and shook two pills, one red and one blue.
"If you want to know the truth there is the blue pill..."
"What's the blue pill do?" Desmond eyed the blue pill anxiously.
"You will forget us meeting and I will dump back in the desert with your canteen of water. You will forget me, forget this place and forget that I will be watching you or you can take the red pill..."
Nate grinned mysteriously at him. "And you will see how deep this rabbit hole goes."
Desmond sat there his back against the wall, his head in his hands as he contemplated the choices he was given. On one hand he could always live a normal life that he wanted but on the hand he would see if this shit was actually real.
Gazing intently at Naruto, he reached out for the red pill before hesitating as he stared at the cerulean eyes that bore into him before taking the red pill. Nate gave him his canteen of water, swallowing the pill as the liquid tickled his throat.
"Okay, get ready to fall unconscious in 5...4...3...2," Nate looked at his watch as Desmond's eyes widened.
"Wait what?!" His vision turned black as he saw the grinning face of Naruto. Bastard!
Waking up groggily, he sat up on the comfortable bed and blearily opened his eyes at the sun peaking over the horizon. He scanned the room that he was in and saw that there was a desk with a computer that looked state of the art, a bookcase next to it that was bare but a few books and a wardrobe.
He shook his head again trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He got up from his comfortable bed albeit reluctantly when the door open and he was met with yet again the blonde smiling bastard before him. His smile disappeared as he turned serious.
"We got a lot to do and we need to spend our time wisely." Desmond prepared himself for the hell that was training.
There were... people, fountain, vases, rugs, walking forward, faceless people, blood, target, he felt himself being pulled from all directions.
He-He thought...F-f-felt...
Anger, hurt, betrayal, how could he do this to us, how could he betray the brotherhood, the searing anger burned through his body and the cold sorrow filled his mind as he felt overwhelmed. Drowning, drowning, drowning...
'Breathe, Desmond, breath!'
"We've got a problem. I can't anchor him to the memory; too much psychological trauma, he's rejecting the memory. He's retreating." A slightly feminine panicked voiced was heard.
"Desmond I need you to try and relax." It was a calmer voice this time, too calm.
"Let me try and stabilize him." He could feel pain through his mind.
'Shit, what was happening?'
"Focus. Listen to the sound of my voice. Recognize that what you're seeing isn't real, just a picture of the past. It can't hurt you." He felt like a spike was being driven into mind.
"Damn it. It's not working."
"Give it a moment, Miss Stillman. He'll adjust; the first time is never easy."
Armies, soldiers, hidden blade, king, fortress, farm, creed, the pain was becoming more intense. He felt himself being restrained.
"We're losing him."
"That's enough, Miss Stillman!"
He was walking through a crowd of faceless people, hearing noises, the clamour of women talking loudly and at the same time there was only silence as he could see a merchant shouting but only his lips moved and no sound came out. Confused, he kept walking through the crowd until he was roughly pushed by someone, turning around he saw a faceless man in armour, his body was moving of its own now, running, everything around him seemed to waver and the world shattered.
"We need to pull him out. Now."
"All right Desmond, we're going to try and bring you out now."
Desmond's eyes snapped open, his head jerking up to pull himself up to a sitting position, only his forehead careened into a glass panel over his head. Air sucked into his lungs, a thin sheet of sweat covered his forehead and his arms flung weakly out to the edges of the table; a blank ceiling stared at him and there were voices.
"There? See? I told you he'd be fine."
An old man, with a grizzled beard and hair entered in his line of sight.
'Oh you asshole!' Was Desmond's first thought.
"Bastard!" Desmond cursed, less disoriented now, breathing in air like it was going out of style, half of his mind in reality and the half in-in...The animus.
"Now, now," the man said, his voice, smooth and pacifying. "I just saved your life." A familiar voice, he heard from somewhere before.
"Saved my life?!" he growled, struggling to sit up. His muscles weren't as weak as before, the disorientation was fading. He felt himself, more in control now, swinging his legs over the edge of the slab of glass and steel. It was a piece of crap compared to the one he used. He took a look at the man in front of him. He recognised the man. From the files that he read, he was Warren Vidic, Head of research for Abstergo, of genetics and the animus project. He was also a member of the inner sanctum as well. He would have to be wary of the old man.
"You fucking kidnapped me and strapped me into that thing," Desmond yelled, playing the part of a prisoner.
The old man lifted an eyebrow, his face the picture of amusement and superiority. "Animus," he filled in. "That 'thing' is the Animus."
Desmond didn't know whether to laugh or cuss at the old man. Likely both but he knew what the machine was, he needed to keep calm and fulfil the mission. "Look I don't even know you people alright. If you let me go, I'll forget this ever happened and promise not to break your legs."
The stupid decrepit old man continued in a composed neutral voice with a smile on his face, ignoring the threat of Desmond doing bodily harm to him. "I'm sorry, Mr Miles but you have information that we need and I'm afraid that I can't let you go." he said smoothly.
"Information?" Desmond retorted. Scoffing at him, "I'm a bartender! What do you need to know, how to mix a martini?"
The old man's face fell flat, the humour gone from his voice and his tone suddenly became much more menacing. "We know who you are, Mr. Miles," he said in cold tone. "We know what you are."
Outwardly his face still had the blank emotionless mask, inwardly 'Ah shit!' finding the floor to be more interesting than the man standing in front of him he managed a fake shaky response, "I don't know what you're talking about." Well, he could always pretend with backup story A.
The menacing old man's eyes narrowed. "Don't play coy with me, there isn't time. You're an assassin. And whether you realize it or not, you have what my employers want, locked away in that head of yours."
"I'm not an assassin," he grounded out bitterly. "Not anymore."
Damn he was one good actor. He knew that he was in a bad position now but he had a weapon that every assassin has at their disposal. Deception. He needed them to be relaxed and to let their guard down. He needed information from them, about their goals now. Knowledge would give him the power to act. Knowledge was freedom. For him and for humanity.
"Yes," the old prick drew out, his smugness swelling, "your file indicated as much, something about an escape."
... Now that was scary. They knew about his escape but what more did they know? Have they been watching him? No they weren't that good.
"Most fortunate for us," the old fart added, all slimy again.
Desmond replied calmly. "What do you want from me?"
"For you to do as you're told," the lab coat said. "The Animus will allow us to locate what we need. Once we have it, you'll be free to go."
Fucking liar. He knew them, they would use him until they had everything then they would kill him.
Desmond's eyes could swear bloody murder at him. Suppressing a growl, he was going to go in but nobody said anything about go in without kicking and screaming. "I am not fucking going back!"
But the old man brushed the imaginary dust off the lapel of his lab coat, his smooth voice hard and menacing again. "You should watch your language; Mr Miles or we'll induce a coma and continue our work when we're done you'll be left to die." He stared with hard, almost impatient eyes at Desmond to make his point; not that he needed to. The Assassin knew he was in a corner so he was forced to comply, for now.
Taking his silence as an answer, the old shit smiled again. "Truthfully," he said, "the only reason you're still conscious is because the approach saves us time."
Desmond reached out for a kind of barb. "And the reason why my foot isn't shoved up your ass is because I'm more creeped out about the stuff you're spouting."
The good doctor continued as if he didn't hear the words, "Lie down."
Out of options - this time- Desmond complied.
The visor slid out from somewhere over his field of vision, a stylized triangle, maybe an A, the well-known symbol of Abstergo the pharmaceutical company, appeared as the system started to boot up. He looked to the blond, discreet up to this point, but she didn't meet his eyes as she continued to tap away at a keyboard, a small smile still tugging at her lips. A name popped as he recognised her from somewhere, Stillman. Lucy Stillman. Ah a spy. He met her awhile back in his cover as a bartender at Bad Weather.
He felt pressure in the back of his skull, right where it met the spinal cord, and the machine hummed underneath him, making the oddly shaped table vibrate slightly. Heat emanated from somewhere. Desmond couldn't understand how they were able to come up with this, his face twisted into one of confusion. The grizzled lab coat saw the confusion on his face and mistook it as if Desmond didn't know how it worked, and in a grand gesture of false compassion, he explained.
"Memories. Recollections of past events. Pictures and sensations and emotions captured in the brain. But while personal memories were stored in the brain, ancestral memories were imprinted in DNA. The reason birds could migrate, bears knew when to hibernate, how any species always seemed to mate in spring, and all of it could be traced to genetic memory. Instinct was, in point of fact, memories of previous generations of animals, the living species playing out what hundreds of generations before were telling it to do - absent the requisite experience. The doctor had spent thirty years studying it. DNA was more than a glorified parts-list for the human body; it was an archive of experience from previous genetic donors. The Animus, somehow, decoded the DNA and constructed the memories in real time, projecting it to several different media - Desmond's sensory centre of the brain, for example, to an MPEG file recording, for another, and apparently several other ways, too; for further decoding of course."
"But there's a problem," the hot blond said, finally speaking.
His eyes finally met hers; he looked at her meaningly tapping his fingers on the table which could be mistaken for agitation was in fact a code. 'You're not alone.' He smiled in a charming manner from his position, she quickly looked away as she got the signal clearly remembering who this man was before her, turning to the screen and tapping a command.
"Here's the memory we're trying to access," she said, and the glass panel, filled with loading images up to that point, suddenly displayed a long string of DNA straightening out to form a line of bars, almost like a horizontal ladder. One bar on the far right glowed white, highlighted. Above it was a small string of text: memory locked.
"Unfortunately, every time we try to access the memory, your mind withdraws."
He who increasth knowledge, increseath sorrow.
Desmond frowned.
"You lack the confidence to step into your ancestor's body."
Her face changed again, a micro-expression that he caught. She was worried. Was it about him going insane like Clay, god rest his soul. He was about to continue that train of thought but she was still talking. "That's what happened earlier. You got knocked out of the target memory and pushed back to a more stable state."
He glanced at the old man and decided that she was infinitely more approachable about the subject. "Ok... Why?" he asked, hoping that she wasn't going to act all high and mighty on him on her part. He had enough of that from Doctor Dickhead.
She shrugged. "It's your subconscious. When people undergo hypnosis to relive traumatic events, they, too, resist the memory and have to start farther back. Your mind is doing the same thing. In order to relive it you, like they, have to be eased in." She looked away again. He was sure now that a flash of guilt was across her face. She was still feeling guilty about Clay. He reassured her again with the same coded message. 'I'll be fine.' She noticeably relaxed at that and continued. "Even then there can be problems."
Being the co-operative man that he was, he asked, "So... how do you fix it?"
"We start at an earlier memory, one you can synchronize with, and move forward from there." She offered a small, almost sad smile, and the micro-expression crossed her features again. "You'll get used to it," she smiled lightly from her position now confidence was in the smile. She turned and left Desmond's field of vision. "This is the closest we can get," she said, one of the DNA bars highlighting, "I'll upload the tutorial program now."
Abstergo had a freakin' tutorial? He wondered if he was in some kind of messed up game.
Standing around in hazy room of white fog, the disorientation of entering the animus was less intense as he was starting to get used to it now. It was better than being thrown in some crazy situation with blood and the smell of piss around him but the blood wasn't all that unfamiliar.
Flexing his hands he could feel all his digits react except for the on his left hand as he stared at the missing ring finger. His face slowly morphed into one of morbid fascination as realisation dawned on him that he was missing a finger. Calm down, it's just a virtual program, it isn't real, it isn't real. Repeating the mantra in the hopes of calming down, his heart stopped pumping its way out of his chest and slowly settled in the familiar two-beat pattern.
Closely examining it he found that the ring finger was a stub, cut at a small knuckle and only barely poked out of fingerless gloves. He tugged at the glove trying to see it better. Skin had folded over the amputation; the scarring was clean and healed but not yet faded with time.
Instinctively flexing his hand 'snick' the hidden blade appeared as it suddenly sprouted from his wrist. He wasn't surprised that he had the blade. He just had to find out which ancestor he was. And why he couldn't easily access their memories.
Looking at the blade closely, he analysed it scrutinisingly, he found it in good condition as the blade easily sheathed in and out of its holster. Strapped on his arm was a metal bracer and he could see that the knuckles of his gloves were studded for extra damage if he wanted to punch someone.
Patting himself, he looked down to find himself wearing an interesting sort of white robes, fitted with throwing knives on his right shoulders, the front waist and his left boot, a steel short sword strapped to his back and a longsword with an eagle head as the pommel and the cross guards shaped into eagle wings strapped at his side. Everything seemed to be made of some kind of cotton - he wasn't an expert - except for a silk looking red sash, mostly hidden by no less than three layers of leather belts and pouches full of supplies. A gauntlet was on his other arm, and leather shin guards were strapped to his legs. He was wearing a hood that tipped like an eagle's beak and his robes had elongated coattails.
"Ah Purgatory Simulator that's what I needed," he muttered. He stood there in a thinking position until it dawned on him. Holy shit I'm the fucking Lebron James of the Assassins! Altair Ibn-La'fucking Ahad.
"It's your avatar," a feminine, disembodied voice said. Desmond startled, looking around. He was surrounded by off-white fog, drifting all around him. He could see no edges or walls, just a lot of white fog, space and- is that code? He recognized protein structures and bits of algebraic formulas and Greek symbols and other pieces, though none of it seemed connected in any way.
"Okay, so where am I?" he asked starting to hate the white empty space.
"You're in the construct now," she explained. "It's a loading screen you wait in it while the Animus is buffering the DNA it's decoding. Memories are sometimes fuzzy; it isn't a perfect science, so what the Animus does is construct a simulation based on the information it finds. In other words, when this is done loading you'll find yourself at some kind of location, and then you'll have to do something to trigger a memory."
"And how does someone trigger a memory?" asked Desmond walking around in the construct.
"How does anyone trigger a memory?" Doctor Dick asked. "You can trigger it manually, of course, but that doesn't work with genetic memory. Not at first, anyway. So you'll have to do something that triggers nostalgia, which then triggers the memory. For example, that destitute bar you worked at probably holds many memories for you, and going there would trigger them. The smell of a Bloody Mary may remind you of a particular customer. The lyrics of a song may remind you of an old girlfriend. The very act of shaking out a martini could remind you of something. That is what the construct inside the Animus is for."
"I see," he said, looking up feeling nostalgia as well being in the robes of an Assassin.
The girl replied, "You're going back to the year eleven-ninety-one." *whistle* "I don't think they were mixing martinis back then, but the act of riding horseback or the sight of a particular city square could trigger a memory. Once the Animus is done buffering, you can experiment until the memory is triggered."
"Might I recommend killing a few guards?" the old fart suggested. "You are, after all, an assassin. I hear assassinations were very public in those days. Maybe listening to the screams of innocent men and women dying, people running from you in terror will trigger a memory."
"Fucking dickhead," Desmond muttered. Louder, he said, "So let me get this straight. The Animus is going to put me somewhere in the past and I just wander around aimlessly until a memory is triggered?"
"Yes."
"Well, gee, this will be quick."
Lucy said, "Buffering complete. Let's see what's loaded."
And the white fog slowly transitioned. The ground at his feet became slightly uneven, everything darkened, the infinite sense of space shrank to narrow and confined. Water dripped onto his shoulder, there was the sensation of cool and damp. Torch lights in darkness, a silhouette in the distance.
Desmond blinked, sucking in a breath. This felt oddly familiar. He didn't have words for it.
He looked around and recognized that he was in a tunnel, narrow and recently created. The support beams looked new and lacked the rot of years spent in a damp environment. Cast iron sconces held torches. Frowning, Desmond turned around and looked behind him. Two men were at his back, one dressed exactly as he was, the other wearing the grey hood of a lower rank. How the hell do I know that? Why do I know that?
Desmond studied the faces, what he could see of them under the hoods. He could see that they both had similarities between them. Were they were brothers? Yes, they were brothers A-Sayf: Malik, just one rank under him; and Kadar, a journeyman, midranked. And Kadar died… wait did he?
Kadar was looking at him in awe, eyes wide and mouth parted in an O, but Malik's face was twisted into a mix of anger and concern.
"No, there must be another way. She need not die!"
Desmond blinked as another memory rushed into him, his hand covered in blood and him holding something so ancient and powerful.
And it felt like he was receding, he turned around vaguely back to the tunnel and there was a man there so small so insignificant he was just in the way and it would hardly mean anything no one would miss him...
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad saw the miner, a peasant. Looking around he could see no other tunnels around to bypass the probable witness. A glance behind him saw Malik, too, was eyeing other tunnels. Kadar was studying the man, eyes wide as they always were, making him look younger than he actually was. He glanced to Altaïr in suspiciously.
The boy was useless. He didn't know what to do. How did he ever get as high in rank as he was? It was obvious what had to happen.
Frown pressed into his features, Altaïr marched forward with purpose. If there were no ways around, then he would have to make a way.
Malik's voice pleaded behind him, "No, there must be another way. This man need not die!"
Altaïr did not heed him, the miner was unimportant, and he was in the way. On silent feet he rushed forward, invisible even in his white robes, grabbing the man's shoulder and forcing him to his knees by kicking the back of his legs. His hidden blade released, he held the weapon high over his head, eyes calculating the best point of entry, before plunging it into the soft tissue of his neck, scraping against a major artery and penetrating deeper, behind the collarbone and ribcage, and pierced a lung. Any one of these injuries would be lethal, but Altaïr was nothing if not thorough. Blood spurt out, warm and wet, and then the miner simply fell, dead. Not even a gasp of surprise escaped him.
"An excellent kill," Kadar said, staring first at the body and then at Altair, his eyes were even wider, now, awe caressing his face. As he should, Altair supposed, he had witnessed the work of a master assassin, after all. The thought was ruined, however, when Kadar added, "Fortune favours your blade."
Altaïr was annoyed that Kadar would suggest that he corrected him, "Not fortune, skill." He grinned, then, looking at the younger man and glancing at the infuriated Malik. "Watch a while longer and you might learn something."
Kadar's face blossomed with opportunity as he thought about it, but Malik of course was quick to weed it out.
"Indeed," he said, his voice bitter and angry, "He'll teach you how to disregard everything the Master has taught us." He glared at Altair.
The master assassin glared right back; that was not the retort he was expecting, and he suddenly found himself feeling defensive. "And how would you have done it?" he demanded.
Kadar watched between the two, uncertain if he should say something.
"I would not have drawn attention to us," Malik said, "I would not have taken the life of an innocent." He gestured to the body at their feet, as if it were somehow distasteful. Altair failed to understand what was wrong about it. "What I would have done is follow the Creed."
Anger surged through Altair. Was he suggesting...?
"'Nothing is true. Everything is permitted,' "He recited in retaliation."Understand these words: it matters not how we complete our task, only that it is done."
Malik was already interrupting him. "But this is not the way of-"
Altair interrupted him. "My way is better."
"Because you're the great Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad." He spat out.
The two glared at each other, figurative sparks firing back and forth. Malik turned around, "I will scout ahead," Malik said, glancing at his brother and slowly turning his back. "Try not to dishonour us further," He tossed over his shoulder, his voice self-satisfied and smug. Altair glared after him, his golden eyes nearly melting the darkness around him.
Kadar was still glancing back and forth between the two, torn between loyalty to his brother and admiration border hero-worship of the master assassin. Struggling, he found a neutral topic and turned to Altair. "What is our mission?" he asked. "My brother would say nothing to me, only that I should feel honoured to be invited."
His anger drained away, locked up for later, and Altair refocused on the mission. This then, was Kadar's test; if he did well he would raise another rank in the brotherhood. He delivered the details to the journeyman: that Al Mualim believed the Knights Templar had found something under the mount of Solomon's Temple. Kadar's eyes brightened at the thought of treasure. He was young, naïve and still able to dream about adventure. Altair was quick to cut him off; what it was, not important. The only thing that mattered was that the Master needed it. It was an assassin's job to do the Teacher's bidding, and Altair had little else to believe in these days. Templar corruption seemed to spread everywhere, even into the ranks of the assassin's. Just a year ago Altair had been forced to kill Al Mualim's second in command for his betrayal; the kill was still painful, even now, and Altair refused to think on it. All he could do was place his trust in his master, the one man above the motives of the Templars.
The two began to run together, down the tunnel after Malik, the older brother's white shadow could just be seen in the distance as he scouted. The shaft was uneven and had large sections that had no torchlight. It bothered Altair little, his eyes keen and focus so narrow he was like an eagle, hopping from one support beam to another in absolute confidence as Kadar slowly fell behind, graceful but less certain of his footing.
When they had caught up to Malik the younger brother asked, "How is it that you can do that?"
"I say again," Altair said, "Skill."
Kadar grinned, making him look even younger, and Altair found a smirk on his scarred face before he schooled the expression. At least one of them had not changed.
The three hurried up a ladder and down another shaft, all three weary of how close they were to the enemy. Malik stayed several meters ahead, his head swivelling this way and that, on the lookout. Altair did the same, his keen eyes missing nothing. Kadar looked at them both in awe but played his part, scanning what he could see.
Up another ladder and the tunnel gave way to a more structured façade, the dirt replaced with stonework; a torch showing ancient designs and columns. At the entrance of the room, a guard stood with the outfit of a templar: padded gambeson jacket, leggings, chainmail, and sword at his hip.
Altair once more crept forward on silent feet like a panther stalking its prey. This man was more alert than the peasant, guards always had some level of training, and so Altair quickly wrapped his arm around the man's neck, hand over the mouth, and plunged his hidden blade into the man's back, below the shoulder blade and between ribs and chinks of armour. The guard gave a low, gurgled grunt before slumping to the ground.
Malik and Kadar stepped past him, Altair taking the rear and looking for people who might spy the body, but none followed, and after another few minutes of travelling the tunnels they met their obvious destination. He could hear footsteps they were almost silent but he caught it.
"Be on the lookout for guards, Kadar." Nodding to Altair in a silent salute, he kept his eyes to his surroundings.
Below them was a great room, still only half dug out, scaffolding and support beams littering the stone façade. There were narrow columns and pictures in relief, depicting what, Altair did not know nor did he care. In the center of the far wall, above the vaguely Greek archway, two torches bore light to a great golden box, old designs, perhaps hieroglyphics, decorating its sides. Atop it was a stylized flower, maybe an egg, sitting with great pomp.
"That must be the Ark," Malik said, staring at the golden box.
Kadar gasped. "The... Ark of the Covenant?" he whispered, incredulous and wondrous at the same time.
"Don't be silly, there's no such thing," Altair chided. "It's just a story."
Kadar looked incredulous; his face so like his brother's Altair had to work to not to double take. "Then what is it?" he demanded, pointing to the golden box and egg.
"Quiet!" Malik hissed, peering over the edge of the ledge they stood on and spying three shadows approaching. The three assassins turned invisible in the dark with trained skill.
The leader, head shaven, marched in, barking orders in a thick accent. French? His grey cloak did little to hide the heavy chain mail armour, nor the white smock bearing a blood red cross. Templars!
"I want us through this gate before sunrise!" he commanded his accent flowing through the command, the four Templars following him nodding like obedient dogs. They were clearly of lower rank, their red crosses not emblazoned on white smocks bur rather painted onto their small plates of armour. They bore no red helmets, either.
"The sooner we possess it," the leader was saying, "the sooner we can turn our attention to those jackals at Masyaf."
"Masyaf..." Malik breathed, his silhouette betraying the sudden tension in his body.
Altair had a different realization: "Robert de Sable," he growled. Altair snarled. "His life is mine."
Malik's head snapped up to Altair. "No. We were asked to retrieve the treasure and deal with de Sable only if it was necessary." His hands were up, as if trying to placate Altair.
"He stands between us and it, I would say it is necessary," he said, frustrated with the assassin.
"Discretion, Altair!" Malik hissed.
The master assassin scoffed. "You mean cowardice! That man is our greatest enemy, and here we have a chance to be rid of him."
Malik stood to his full height, not as tall as Altair but powerful nonetheless. Kadar looked between them again, uncertain what to do. "You have already broken two tenets of our Creed; now you would break the third? Do no compromise the Brotherhood!" His voice almost echoed in the large cavern, such power he put in his whispers.
Altair had had enough. "I am your superior, in both title and ability." He glared, showing his anger. How could Malik doubt him? "You should know better than to question me."
And with that he leapt over the edge of the ledge, grabbing the sides of a ladder and keeping his grip just loose enough to control his fall down to the bottom of the cavern dozens of feet below. Then, he boldly marched into the torchlight, visible for all to see. "Hold, Templars!" he called out to the cluster, the group having been pouring over a parchment of some kind. "You are not the only ones with business here."
De Sable only glanced at the white robes and red sash before smiling.
"Ah," he said, "Well, this explains my missing man."
His underlings fanned out, hands clutching the hilts of their swords. Behind him Altair could hear the brothers A-Sayf join him, one at either side. He could picture Malik's glare if he cared to, but his focus was entirely on the Grand Master, bloodlust slowly filling his veins.
De Sable eyed the other two, his sneer fading only slightly. "And what is it you want?" he demanded.
"Blood," he answered simply.
He raced forward, only faintly hearing a pleading, "No!" only barely feeling a hand reach out to try and stop him but he would not be deterred, he would not fail, he would end the conflict at this moment! With the Templars dead Richard's forces would be weakened and the Crusaders would finally be driven out and maybe then, maybe then they would learn to stop pointless bloodshed and end their quest for artefacts and people like Adha. Blood pulsed in his head, red haze clouding his sight but not his vision, and he dashed forward faster than any could stop, hidden blade piercing through his fist where a finger was supposed to be.
An elbow rammed into his face, distracting him just enough so the Templar's free had grasped his wrist. Altair pushed, snarling, determined to see blood. He angled his arm; the blade was mere inches from his enemy's throat. Victory would be his!
"You know not the things in which you meddle, assassin," De Sable whispered. "I spare you only that you may return to your master, and deliver a message." A massive hand gripped Altair's throat, choking him, driving him back. Both fought for favourable footing. He was losing ground but still he persisted. This man would die! The war will end now!
"The Holy Land is lost to him and his. He should flee now while he has the chance. Stay and all of you will die."
And then the pressure on his neck disappeared, and the sudden lack of resistance pitched Altair forward. De Sable used that momentum and swung Altair to the side, away from him. Altair tried to roll with it but in their struggle de Sable had angled him towards some of the support structure. Before he could complete the recovery he crashed into something, and suddenly his vision was blurred with dirt and rocks and rubble and the sounds of crashing and then instead of recovering he was dodging as the Grecian pillars fell. Standing, he shook his head of the dirt and dust and fought to get his bearings. The support scaffolding had collapsed, the entrance of the temple now in ruin before him blocked by wood, rubble and stone. He pressed himself against the rubble, straining his ears.
From the other side he could hear De Sable bark orders. "Men! To arms! Kill the assassins!"
Altair scrambled to get the rubble out of the way, trying to get to the other side ignoring the sound of swords being drawn, and the screams of the brothers dying. And then: painful, empty, silence. He felt shame fill him.
They were dead. Malik and Kadar were dead. Altair stared at the stone slabs, for a moment uncomprehending. They were dead.
He hung his head low in resignation. If he was the only one left, then he had to get back to Masyaf, back to the assassins, back to Al Mualim. To deliver the news. That he had failed.
This section of the ruin was only partially built, poles stuck up for no reason, not yet connected to scaffolding, stone structures peeking out of the earth like missing limbs, and Altair scaled all of it, burying his regret, his loss. He hardened his heart, refusing to feel pain.
He had already felt enough of it.
He saw light above him, and as he crested a vertical stone wall he saw the late evening sun pouring its last rays over the city of Jerusalem.
"Fast forwarding memory to a more recent one."
"What the hell?" Desmond demanded. "What happens next?"
Stillman's voice filtered into his ears. "Don't worry. We're just skipping over the memories of travel."
"Indeed," the grizzly old fart said. "We're not here for an extraneous jaunt down memory lane, we're looking for something much more specific. The less time we waste, the better."
Desmond frowned so he couldn't prolong this.
Altair subconsciously took his time at the stables unsaddling his horse and brushing her down. Invariably his thoughts turned to the brothers A-Sayf: Malik and Kadar. He and Malik were age-mates; they grew up together in Masyaf, chasing imaginary enemies and hitting each other with practice wands and sneaking around the markets with all the skill of half trained seven year olds possessed. They had spent every day together until their fourteenth year when they were apprenticed out to the other cities, Malik to Damascus and Altair to Jerusalem. Their letters to each other had gradually faded, both becoming absorbed in the training, the small missions ad reports and lessons the city rafiq offered.
Malik was one of the brightest students of their age group. While Altair had a skill for language and writing, Malik not only excelled at that but the mathematics and the sciences as well. Altair often teased Malik, saying that if his head became too full he would be top-heavy and forever fall on his face. Malik in turn said that if Altair's head became too empty he would trip over a rock for not knowing its purpose. They were young and competitive and close - as close as brothers. But now, not anymore. Their angry words that day scraped at Altair, he did not want to leave on bad terms, but now he could not reconcile, and he knew their fight would haunt him, tainting his fond memories of the other man.
Kadar, Altair had vague memories of a small wide-eyed child always watching his brother, and so he was surprised when the boy had been apprenticed to Jerusalem. By then, Altair was already a senior assassin, many exploits under his leather belts and taking missions out of the city. He only saw the boy occasionally, but knew Kadar was surrounded by the stories of Altair's adventures as told by the other journeymen. His respect whenever Altair was at the Bureau was obvious.
Kadar... he was not useless as Altair had thought him that day. His wide eyes and innocent face made him a skilled informant and spy. He listened, and his mind was as bright as Malik's. With the right training he would have been skilled at seeing patterns, a rare skill highly coveted by many. His lack of experience was his only hindrance, and now his future had been ripped from him. His arrogance had done that and he had only himself to blame.
Fortune did not favour Altair's blade, as Kadar had suggested, but it was not skill as Altair had bragged; if there was he could have prevented their deaths.
At last he put the brush away, his motions jerky and violent, and he marched out of the stables, his face black as his mood. As if their deaths did not weigh him enough, he would now have to face the disappointment of his Master, the one man he saw as a father.
He entered the gates of Masyaf, not even glancing at the journeymen at attention, entering the small town.
"Altair! You've returned!"
Altair turned slightly to see an all too familiar man leaning against a fenced in tree. "Rauf," he greeted. He did not want to talk.
"It is good to see you unharmed," Rauf said genially, walking up to the master assassin. Despite being a sword master, he was perennially warm and welcoming outside of the practice ring. He also seemed determined to make conversation. "I trust your mission was a success," he said with complete confidence.
"... Is the Master in his tower?" Altair asked, looking away.
"Yes, yes. Buried in his books as always. No doubt he expects you."
"My thanks, brother."
"Safety and peace, Altair," Rauf said, tone warm but his eyes changing; he saw something in the reticent assassin that Altair did not want to be seen. And yet, at that moment, Altair did not want to take for granted another friend, never knowing when one would die.
"On you as well," he said simply, hoping it would be enough.
Masyaf was small compared to the great cities of the Holy Land, a simple town carved into the base of a mountain. The winters were harsh and unforgiving, the ridges sharp and vertical. Buildings were butted up against sheer faces, squares and the one market were small and uneven in shape, but it was home. Assassins knew every corner, every wall, every haystack and bench. Rafiq and dai, the nobility of the brotherhood, were side by side with merchants and basket weavers and potters and goat herders. Shepherds bought supplies here, children played here, and most important of all, they had fresh and clean water from winter's runoff. They did not have to worry about bitter or tainted water, substitute it for wine as the cities did. Their minds were always clear and their actions always deliberate.
Altair hiked up the steep main road, passing villagers and homes and dozens of trees that offered blessed shade against the approaching summer's heat. Members of the order would occasionally nod to him but Altair bade no response, he had but one goal in mind: talk to the Master.
Much higher up the mountain he saw the order's flags, marking the end of the village and the beginning of the brotherhood. Here was the training, the practice ring, the library, the quarters, the armoury, the last stand of the order. Altair was not a man of wishes, but he hoped that they would never fight here. It was not Holy, but for him it was sacred ground. The fortress was an enormous, imposing structure, and Altair took a moment to just look up at it, appreciating it, before refocusing and continuing his hike. There were no villagers here, everyone walking in or out of the fortress wore the red sash of the brotherhood, some with chain mail of the guards, some with the dark robes of rafiq, some journeymen, some simply novices, but all of them trained under the Master himself.
At the fortress gate, another man assaulted him with conversation.
"Ah, he returns at last."
"...Abbas," Altair greeted.
The other assassin looked theatrically behind Altair. "Where are the others? Did you ride ahead hoping to be the first one back?" He glared at the master assassin, antagonism radiating off his body. "I know you are loath to share the glory."
There was no glory to be had over the failure. That Abbas would suggest it only made Altair glare at the man.
He grinned, happy, "Silence is just another form of assent."
"Have you nothing better to do?" Altair demanded.
"I bring word from the Master: He waits for you in the library."
Altair nodded and started to walk past the other assassin.
"Best hurry," Abbas said, following him. "No doubt you're eager to put your tongue to his boot."
"Another word and I'll put my blade to your throat," Altair threatened, wanting to be rid of the man.
"There'll be plenty of time for that later, brother," Abbas said, falling away and joining a small cluster of other assassins. Altair could hear his barbed comments and the raucous laughter of the others, but he paid it no heed. He had other worries on his mind.
Entering the main courtyard Altair walked around the training ring, Rauf's second home, and up the sloped stairs to the main building of the fortress. A guard at the door bowed to him, mumbling a polite, "It is an honour," as Altair brushed past him. The library was filled with scholars, marked with their white cloaks. Guards were everywhere; this was the sanctuary of the Master, the Teacher, and the Leader of the Order: Al Mualim.
"The Master waits within," one of them said.
Altair ascended the stairs, giving but a glance out the glass windows to the gardens below. Up another flight and through the shelves narrow pathways and he was at another great glass window, large and ornate, looking out over the center courtyard of the fortress. Framing it were assassin flags, in front of it was a table, filled with rolls of parchment and scrolls and books. By it was a pigeon coup for messenger birds. And at it was the Master himself.
Al Mualim was a tall, aged man. His beard was white and long, one scarred eye was milky white with blindness. He wore the dark robe of a dai, but darker still, a pure black that even the sun could not bleach, and his hood was over his head.
"Altair," He said, turning to face his most prized student.
"Master," Altair greeted, his head bowed.
"Come forward. Tell me of your mission," he gestured, his voice as warm, or as warm as it could ever be for the distance he held to everyone. "I trust you have recovered the Templar's treasure."
"...There was some trouble, Master," Altair said, struggling to find words that could somehow soften this blow. "Robert de Sable was not alone."
"When does our work ever go as expected? It is our ability to adapt that makes us who we are," Al Mualim offered, still expressing confidence in Altair's abilities. The inherent praise only served to hurt Altair more, and his words were almost lost to him.
Still, he was able to offer, "This time it was not enough."
"What do you mean?"
"I have failed you."
Open shock. "The treasure?"
"Lost to us."
"And Robert?"
"Escaped."
Everything changed. Al Mualim's face contorted and his words suddenly became hard and biting. "I send you, my best man, to complete a mission that is more important than any that has come before. And you return to me with nothing but apologies and excuses."
"I did-"
"Do not speak! Not another word!" Al Mualim turned, his anger contained for the moment as his mind began once more to work. Altair could not look at him, kept his head down in shame and deference. All he could do was wait. "This is not what I expected; we'll need to mount another force."
A chance at restitution, perhaps? "I swear to you I'll find him," Altair said. "I'll go and-"
"No! You do nothing; you've done enough!" Al Mualim hissed. Anger briefly flaring at his disappointing student, but once again it vanished to the wind, his critical eye assessing Altair in a new light. He looked to either side of the top-ranked assassin. "... Where are Malik and Kadar?"
The answer was the longest yet in coming. Altair could not look up. "... Dead."
"No, they are not dead."
Master and student both turned, startled, to see a third figure approach, the whites of a master assassin stained heavily with but not his but the two he carried by his side. The man was holding both brothers, they hung limply at his side. Altair could not school his expression; shock was blatant on his face.
Malik and Kadar. They were alive!
"Tha'lab," Al Mualim said, his voice was filled with shock. Tha'lab was also another master assassin, lesser known but not any more dangerous than Altair. He was tall standing at 1.8m or 5'9, he was garbed in the traditional master assassin robes with notable differences. He had the same bracers on his left and right arms where the hidden blades on his left and right wrist resided both ring fingers cut off. He was fitted with throwing knives on both shoulders and the front waist. Two steel short swords strapped on both sides and his layer of leather belts had pouches full of supplies. Half of his face was covered by a dark grey mask leaving only his black hair and golden eyes visible.
"They live but will not if they do not have water and clean bandages soon." This stranger's voice was calm. He motioned to Malik. "Unfortunately, this one will not be able to use his left arm anymore."
Malik began to stir and woke up to the sight of Al Mualim and Altair.
"You, you left us to die, you dog!" He screamed at Altair.
"Robert threw me from the room; there was no way back, nothing I could do." He defended himself, he wanted to help them, and he really did.
"Because you would not heed my warning!" Malik shouted, overriding Altair's words. He swayed on his feet but Tha'lab's hand and his anger kept him going, kept his shouting. "All of this could have been avoided! And my brother could have been lost!" His voice cracked with rage and Altair could only stare. How? How could any of this have been avoided? Did he mean the death of the miner? Or...
Malik swayed on his feet again, legs almost buckling and lost consciousness. Tha'lab called for the healers to get both brothers healed. Altair's head bowed in shame.
"Your arrogance nearly cost us our victory," Tha'lab started. Altair's face flushed with anger. How dare this man!
"Nearly?" Al Mualim asked, surprised once again.
"Here," he said, pulling a decorated egg out of a pouch at his back. "Take it; though it seems I've returned with more than just their treasure."
"Master! We are under attack!" A young apprentice said, dashing up the stairs in a panic. "Robert de Sable lays siege to Masyaf's village!"
Whatever thoughts the Master had were carefully hidden. He rubbed his long white beard, muttering to himself. "So he seeks a battle..." He paced about his table, deep in thought. Tha'lab stood silently by the railing.
The Master came to a decision. "Very well," he said, "I'll not deny him the battle. He turned to the young apprentice, his face as white as his tagelmust. "Go. Inform the others. The fortress must be prepared. The apprentice nodded and dashed off. Hard eyes turned to the top-ranked assassin. "As for you, Altair, our discussion will have to wait. You must make for the village. Destroy these invaders, drive them from our home."
Altair bowed. "It will be done," he said, committed.
"Go along with him, Tha'lab," Al Mualim said to the silent man. "We will need all our best warriors.
"Yes, Al Mualim." His golden eyes closed as he accepted his order.
Altair leapt over the banister to carry out his orders.
It took an hour to pass word to the associated parties. Abbas took charge of the men in the citadel while Rauf was in charge of ferreting out the villagers and escorting them to safety. Altair checked from the tower to observe the cursed de Sable. It was a small force, an insult to the order, with only one siege engine and one contingent of soldiers. The narrow pass of the Orontes Valley gave the assassins some advantage, and they were not without their defences.
The siege began. Tha'lab was down there ordering the assassins as best as he could to resist the invading forces. Altair, done with his checks, ran down the fortress halls and outside to join the fight as Al Mualim had commanded. Running down the narrow path to the village he had to dodge running villagers and wounded men.
"Altair!" someone shouted, and the master assassin slowed to see Rauf, bloody but seemingly unharmed, dashing towards him with two men. "It's good you've come; we need your help."
"What's happened?" he demanded.
"Templars. They've broken through the main gate and are attacking the village. Most has been evacuated. Most, but not all."
"What do you need me to do?"
"Distract the Templars. Keep them occupied while I rescue those still trapped."
"As you wish."
"Good," Rauf said. "I knew I could count on you; may fortune favour your blade!"
Kadar filled his mind, and Altair's steps seemed to grow faster.
Wounded were staggering up the path, some being helped by scholars or rafiqs, others alone. Blood filled the air and Altair knew he had little time. He had just reached the edge of the village when he saw a mass of Crusaders swinging wildly at the innocent villagers as they ran. The savagery only fueled Altair's anger, and he drew his sword while running. Tha'lab was cutting down the knights that tried to hit the innocent villagers. Someone saw the white terror racing towards them and shouted, "Assassin! Don't let him get away!" and the entire throng turned to the master assassin.
"Altair there is more at the main gates, we must reduce their numbers," Tha'lab finished as he stabbed a knight in the heart with his blade.
At last they made his way to the main gate. The stables were ablaze and horses were running everywhere, panicked. The massive tree trunk-stakes that had surrounded the gates were in splinters, but strangely the gate itself was in one piece, hanging open and inviting.
Bloodlust filled Altair, and he lost himself in the fight, slashing, stabbing, dodging, parrying, breaking bones and piercing lungs, throwing knives, fountains of blood spraying wherever he went. Altair was death incarnate, no one could break his tight guard as he slaughtered every armoured body around him: slitting throats, stabbing armpits, snapping arms and legs so violently bone fragments flew in the air. Throwing knives suddenly erupted from eye sockets or collarbones, hands were shattered and weapons disarmed. This was Altair at his best: a living, breathing, fighting machine.
Tha'lab was silent taking down knights in cold precision. He walked through the battle as if the fire and blood did not bother him. He took down the knights with lightning efficiency. A short sword in his right hand stabbed through the shoulder of a crusader, his hidden blade sticking out the neck of another. Another was about to strike him with a halberd overhead, he side stepped the attack and rammed his elbow to the knight's chest. Tha'lab sharply ripped the weapon from the crusader's hands before bringing him down to his knees and ending his life with a decapitation. He was once more breaking the ranks like a ghost with his touch as they fell.
"Break off the attack and return to Masyaf!"
Abbas' booming voice carried over the screams and the death throws and Altair's own adrenaline. Altair had run out of Templars and was now looking at retreating assassins. He would not run away, he would finish this! The master assassin tried to bowl through his comrades, blood still throbbing in his veins, intent of killing his way to de Sable himself, only for his robe to be grabbed by Tha'lab who hauled him up the hill with incredible strength.
"No I can end this," Altair shouted, trying to resist the hold on him.
Abbas threw an unhindered punch at the assassin. "Al Mualim commands it!" he shouted, punching him again.
The retreat was slow with the Templars nipping at their heels. Altair had long run out of throwing knives, and combat needed to be much more selective. He could not blindly start a melee, he needed to give the others time to retreat, and so he would dash towards the Crusaders, swinging his sword wildly, scaring them almost to a halt, and then turn on his heel and run. Tha'lab would cover Altair when a knight would get too close for comfort. When two or three managed to catch up to him he was draw his curved short sword and gut them in front of their comrades. At last, however, they cleared the fortress gates and the iron bars slammed closed.
The center courtyard was filled with refugees, the injured being treated by the scholars and physicians in the training circle. Women and children cried, the soldiers tried to be brave but were haunted. This was Masyaf, the one refuge of the assassins and yet they had lost so much ground. What was Al Mualim planning?
Altair wished to know himself, and he all but ran around the ring and through the halls to the library, ready to carry out whatever order his Teacher had for him.
"Altair, come!" Rauf called. The master assassin paused, looking up to one of the defence towers to see the sword master. "Al Mualim's not done with us yet."
"Where are we going?" he asked, walking to a ladder and ascending to join Rauf.
"Up there," Rauf replied, pointing higher up the tower. "We've a surprise planned for our guests." The sword master offered a hand to help Altair up but the master assassin refused. Together, they climbed even further up the tower. "Just do as I do, it should become clear, soon enough," he added with a vicious grin.
He recognized immediately where he was going, and could hazard a rough guess on what the Master had planned. Rauf didn't need to tell him as they stood on the highest floor of the tower, three platforms extended out over the infinite expanse of the mountains below. The two confidently marched out onto the platforms, the wind billowing bout them, Tha'lab joining them soon after.
"Heretic!" De Sable could be heard cursing, sitting on a black warhorse and shouting up to the fortress. He had perhaps a hundred men with him. "Return what you have stolen from me!"
Altair grinned slightly, happy to see the man furious.
"You've no claim to it, Robert!" Al Mualim answered, Altair could not see from where. "Take yourself from here before I'm forced to thin your ranks further."
"You play a dangerous game!" De Sable spat, fury clear within his voice.
"I assure you, this is no game." Al Mualim said calmly.
"So be it!" De Sable spat out. He turned to his men. "Bring forth the hostage!"
A journeyman - if his grey hood was an indication - was tossed forward by the Crusaders. Altair could just make out the man look up to his Master before a soldier ran the man through with a sword, blood spurting out. Even from their great height the master assassin could hear the gurgled groan as the hostage slumped forward, dead on the ground.
De Sable spoke again. "Your village lays in ruins, and your stores are hardly endless! How long before your fortress crumbles from within? How disciplined will your men remain, when the wells run dry, and their food is gone?"
"My men do not fear death, Robert," Al Mualim countered. "They welcome it, and the rewards it brings."
"Good!" De Sable called. "Then they shall have it all around."
Rauf turned to the Tha'lab, his voice in a whisper. "Are you ready?" He was answered with a nod.
Al Mualim's voice was booming and confident as he gave the order. "Show these fool 'Knights' what it is to have no fear! Go to God!"
Without the slightest bit of doubt, all three leapt off the battlements, plunging down to their deaths. Air whipped through Altair's ears and hair, the battlement wall streaking by him like a heat mirage, and the ground rushed up to meet him, and death was replaced with the sweet, dry scent of hay. Any assassin knew these forts; this was where the Leap of Faith was practiced.
Altair quickly rolled out of the hay, Rauf and Tha'lab doing the same. Rauf looked to Altair and Tha'lab and the two nodded, silently agreeing on the next course of action.
They edged around the narrow ledge where the haystacks lay, the rocks giving him cover. Masyaf was built atop a mountain lake from which they drew their precious water, and while de Sable cursed and threatened Al Mualim. They crossed narrow support beams from one structure to another, circling around the Templars until they reached his destination: a defence tower built into the mountain itself. The entrance was on de Sable's side but it mattered little to Altair. He took but a moment to study the vertical wall, plotting out his route before his calloused hands expertly found the necessary hand and footholds. It took a while for the three assassins to climb the tower.
Now he had a much better view. Al Mualim stood on the outer wall of the fortress, gazing down at de Sable as he would an errant child. The Templar Grand Master was directly below, his men trailing out behind him, cramped in the narrow pass. Perfect.
Altair looked to Al Mualim. Their eyes met, however briefly, and the Master nodded.
With the logs all held back by ropes they all drew their swords and cut it and dozen cut logs of varying sizes rolled out of the ramparts directly onto De Sable and his men. Chaos erupted as the men tried to fall back, some crushed as the logs fell, others trapped as they rolled after them, and others still run over by their compatriots as they tried to get away. Soon after the gates opened and the assassin troops chased after what was left of the throngs.
It took some time to weed out the last of the Crusaders, the assassins going building by building and searching for cowards or stragglers, assisting the villagers back to what were left of the ransacked village. Bodies were collected and gathered in a pile by the remains of the main gate for later disposal. Altair paid little attention to these things, instead riding his horse with the others, slashing and biting at Templar heels down the Orontes Valley and away from their territory.
It was late by the time Altair and the others returned to the city the indication that the sun was dipping into the horizon. He, Rauf, and Tha'lab were summoned to see Al Mualim, the mighty teacher standing over the training ring. Many of the troops were gathered around, intent on their Teacher's speech.
"You did well to drive Robert from here. His force is broken. It shall be a long while before he troubles us again. Tell me, do you know why it is that you are successful?" He gazed intently at Altair, apparently this conversation was meant for him.
Uncertain, the master assassin remained silent.
"You listened," Al Mualim supplied. "Would that you had listened in Solomon's Temple, Altair, all of this would have been avoided."
"I did as I was asked," Altair said, refusing to show weakness.
The Master held up a hand, stalling his next words.
"No. You did as you pleased. Malik has told me of the arrogance you displayed, your disregard for our ways."
The bearded man glanced at the two at Altair's side, Rauf and Tha'lab grabbed the master assassin's arms, restraining him.
"What are you doing?" Altair demanded.
"There are rules. We are nothing if we do not abide by the assassyun's Creed. Three simple tenets," he said, pacing slightly before turning a cold and merciless gaze to his student. "Which you seem to forget," he spat, grabbing Altair's chin and forcing the man to look at him. His blind eye was penetrating, his clear one furious. Altair could say nothing to the man who he looked up to as a father.
"I will remind you: First and foremost: stay your blade," and the Teacher's voice was harsh with disapproval.
"From the flesh of an innocent," Altair finished, his face blank, his body tense but neutral, all of it hiding his true emotion boiling inside of him. "I know."
Al Mualim backhanded the master assassin, a violent punch that sent his head snapping to one side.
"And stay your tongue," the Master added, his finger jabbed at Altair's chest. "Unless I give you leave to use it."
Altair said nothing more.
"If you are so familiar with this tenet, then why did you kill the old man inside the temple? He was innocent; he did not need to die." He paused, waiting, silently daring his pupil to speak. Altair said nothing, looking anywhere but at Al Mualim causing the older man to frown. "Your insolence knows no bounds. Make humble your heart, child, or I swear I'll tear it from you with my own hands."
He let the words sink in before continuing. "The second tenet is that which gives us strength: Hide in plain sight. Let the people mask you such that you become one with the crowd. Do you remember?" he demanded, still eying the assassin. "Because as I hear it you chose to expose yourself, drawing attention before you struck!
"The third and final tenet, the worst of all your betrayals: never compromise the brotherhood. Its meaning should be obvious: your actions must never bring harm upon us, direct or indirect. Yet your selfish act to leave Jerusalem placed us all in danger! More still! You brought the enemy to our home! Every man we've lost today was lost because of you!" He finished with a roar.
A long, pregnant pause drew out between them. Murmurs could be heard breezing throughout the crowd. Public denouncements like this were not common, moreover the fact that this was Altair, the prize of the order, the best of the best. As the litany of his sins became apparent, the murmurs grew louder and angrier, but never did they overtake Al Mualim's angry rebuttals. Altair's ears were pounding, he was struggling to look disaffected; he could feel Abbas' grinning at his disgrace. He saw Kadar's face, awed and trusting; he saw Malik's face, twisted with anger and betrayal. Emotions raged through him, he did not know which to act on, and so he did nothing.
"I am sorry," the Teacher said, drawing a knife. "Truly, I am. But I cannot abide a traitor."
Altair struggled against the men restraining him. "I am not a traitor," he refuted. Surely his actions this day had provided restitution? He had aided Rauf and Tha'lab, held back the Templars, set off the trap that had slaughtered them, defended their home. Did that not count for anything...?
Al Mualim shook his head. "Your actions indicate otherwise," he answered, contemplating the blade in his hand. "And so you leave me no choice. Peace be upon you, Altair."
And the knife was thrust deep into the master assassin's side, above the protection of the leather belts, below the protection of the ribcage.
Pain exploded across his senses and he fell to the ground, Tha'lab looked on with a blank face but his golden never left him and Rauf looking on in sadness and the Master not even sparing him a second glance because in the end even he was worthless after all...
This first chapter goes to the author Mirror and Image as they kindly provided this chapter as a base for my Naruto/Assassin's Creed Crossover, please go over and read their novelisation of Assassin's creed, I promise you that it will be worth it.