The Straight Path
An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by Xahra99
"Don't let him get away!" somebody screamed.
Altaïr ibn la'Ahad's hands hit the ledge first, followed by the soles of his boots and then, more painfully, his knees. He straightened his arms, hooked a leg over the edge of the roof and pulled himself up in a cloud of mud-brick dust. A quick glance showed that the rooftops ahead were clear. The buildings to his back were not.
An arrow thudded into the rooftop to his right, as if to illustrate that point. Altaïr had broken into a run before the shaft had finished quivering.
He heard scrabbling sounds behind him as Templars climbed to the roof. This was not good. Altaïr was swift, but he was also badly outnumbered.
He increased his speed and leapt from the roof to a shop awning on the opposite side of the street.
The awning sagged under his weight as he landed. Its cloth absorbed most of the impact and tossed Altair to the floor. He landed in front of the stall owner, a portly man with a grey turban and a red face. The merchant screamed. His expression was aghast, as if he had never seen an Assassin before.
Altaïr was mildly surprised at this reaction. Since Al-Mualim's first mission, it seemed as if he spent most of his time reeling from one stall to another in a trail of debris, smashed merchandise and soldiers.
The merchant glanced upwards and screamed again as a Templar plummeted through the awning and landed in a basket of ripe tomatoes.
Altaïr ran on into the sultan's maze of bewildering angles and blind alleys that was the wealthy quarter of Jerusalem. The shouts of the infidel guards behind him brought other Crusaders to the hunt. He could have ducked into a doorway or hidden in a group of citizens if the soldiers had not been so near. They were too close, and so he kept on running. He had little choice in the matter.
The soldiers followed him.
The intense pursuit was a sign that Altaïr had completed his mission to the letter. An assassination performed in private could easily be explained away as a natural death. A brutal and highly public murder could not. There were a few Assassins who could have attempted such a kill, but none would have been able to escape the vengeance that inevitably followed such a deed.
Altaïr shoved his way past a beggar woman and ran on. Screams came from behind him as the soldiers shouldered their way through the crowds. They shouted to each other in the Frankish tongue as they ran. Altaïr could not make out their words, but he could guess what they were saying. The street ended in a blind alley. They thought they had trapped him. He hoped that they were wrong.
He turned a tight corner and saw the end of the alley. It loomed in front of him, three storeys high. He dragged an extra shred of vitality from his tiring body and leapt into the air, fingers outstretched to grasp at a narrow windowsill. The sill was a mere finger's width wide, but it provided enough of a hold for Altaïr to wrench himself upwards. A decorative fretwork screen edged the upper floors, creating a narrow lattice into which the toes of Altaïr's boots fitted perfectly. His shoulder blades prickled, expecting an arrow, but the blow never came. He pulled himself to the rooftop and dodged around the corner of a taller house. The building broke the line of sight between Altaïr and the archers and the arrows ceased. He jumped to the next flat roof, catching a blurred glimpse of bodies milling in the street below as he flew over their heads.
The next person he saw was a Templar.
There was not enough time to launch a counterattack. Altaïr settled for evasion. He threw himself forwards on hands and knees as the Templar's blade whirred through the air above his head. The knight had clearly not expected to miss. He staggered forwards a step as his blade cut empty air instead of flesh. The movement brought the Templar's mailed legs within Altaïr's reach. He lashed out with his boot and scythed the soldier's legs from under him. The Templar went down.
Altaïr rose from a crouch and drew his own sword. He'd hoped that the Templar would flounder on the floor for longer, but his adversary recovered quickly despite his heavy armor. The knight had gathered up his own weapon by the time Altaïr was within range. Assassin and Templar faced each other, their swords only inches away, each waiting for a chance to strike.
Altaïr considered his own chances. The Templar was sweating heavily in the hot sun but he looked neither exhausted nor unfit. Templars were generally better trained and equipped than the common soldier and all the more dangerous for it. However, his adversary was alone, suggesting over-confidence at the very least. But the Templar would not be alone for long. Altaïr had counted twenty soldiers in the alley. Reinforcements were no doubt on their way. No matter how old, fat or unfit the common soldiers were, some of them always managed to drag themselves up onto the rooftops. Altaïr's Assassin skills would be no use in a crowd. Mobbed like a hawk in a flock of crows, he'd be pulled down and slaughtered in a few heartbeats.
It was Altaïr's aim to ensure that that did not happen.
The Templar attacked. Altaïr met his blade with a brutal parry. He kneed the knight in the groin and jabbed an elbow into his adversary's spine as he crumpled, ignoring the shock as bone hit bone. The man arched his back in agony, and Altaïr stabbed down. The Templar jerked and relaxed into death. His face held a satisfied smile as Altaïr bent to close his eyes.
"What have you got to be so pleased about?" he asked the corpse, and then he knew.
The soldiers had found him.
Droplets of the Templar's blood fell from Altaïr's sword as he spun to meet his pursuers. His world telescoped down in a brief series of adrenaline-flavored snapshots.
The first guard's face was pale and sweaty like the moon. Altaïr weaved around the soldier's sword point and grabbed the man around the shoulders. Using the guard's body as a barricade, he spun him around until he faced his colleagues and slit his throat down to the vertebrae. The soldier's mail jingled as he fell. His broadsword slid from the roof and stabbed face down in the roof of the stall below, where it went unnoticed. Altair jumped over his body and charged the remaining soldiers.
One man reversed one step too far and toppled, screaming, from the roof. As he fell, he knocked away the ladder that the Crusaders had used to scale the building. That left three soldiers, of varying shapes, sizes and degrees of confidence. Three soldiers and Altaïr.
The first man knew a little. He parried Altaïr's first blow, parried the second, and missed the third. It was a mistake he would not live to regret. Altaïr buried his broadsword up to the hilt in the man's chest. The soldier toppled backwards, taking the blade with him and leaving Altaïr's hands empty. The second man advanced. The last guard hung back, obviously intimidated by the Assassins' reputation. Altaïr relegated him to the borders of his consciousness and caught his braver companion's first strike on his vambrace.
"You're unarmed, Assassin," the guard hissed as his blade slid from Altaïr's leather armor. "You're dead."
He was wrong on both counts.
Altaïr took a sword cut to the arm as he turned, dodged, fell back, ducked under the sword and cut the soldier's legs out from under him with his concealed dagger. He cut the Crusader's throat as his companion gaped, then turned the movement into a smooth sideswipe to catch the last soldier in his soft unprotected abdomen. Thick twisting ropes of intestines spilled from the guard's belly as he collapsed. It was a fatal wound, but not a fast one. Still, it did the job.
The whole encounter had taken less than a minute.
An arrow hissed into the roof beside Altaïr as he bent to retrieve his sword. A second arrow divided the hem of his already-ragged robe. The shaft narrowly missed his ankle-a hint that it was time for him to leave. He sheathed his sword and raced on in the general direction of the guild, heading for the poorer quarter. Close, but not too close. After all, Malik wouldn't thank Altaïr if he brought the Crusaders to the Bureau's very door.
Altaïr was halfway across the city before he paused in the shadow of a church tower to bind his wounds with strips of white cloth torn from the hem of his robe. It was only then that he realized that the noise of pursuit had faded. Bells pealed all over the city. The hubbub drifting up from the souks and caravanserais was louder than usual, but there were no archers. No soldiers. He had lost them.
A hawk screamed from the sky. Altair looked up at the tower. Slowly, and with deliberation, he began to climb. The stained glass windows provided good handholds, and it was not long before he reached the campanile.
The room was bare save for the bell itself, which hung on a long iron bracket overheard. A rope dangled from the bell and passed through a small hole in the floor. Beside the aperture a small hatch provided entrance to the tower, its hinges thick with dust. Altaïr relaxed slightly. He would not be disturbed.
Pigeons cooed and rustled in the rafters above his head, sheltering from the hawk. Altaïr caught a glimpse of the bird as it sped past. Its feathers spread like outstretched hands to stroke the air.
Altaïr watched the hawk's flight for a while before he settled himself neatly on the wooden planks and waited for the city to calm. The sounds below faded gradually as his pursuers rejoined their companies and Jerusalem quieted like an animal freed from lice. The townsfolk returned to their evening meals, scenting the air with cooking fires, horseshit and herbs.
Altaïr climbed down from the tower in the early evening, just after the fourth prayer call. The wind had grown fierce during his sojourn on the rooftops. It tugged at the hem of his robe and deposited orange grit in drifts on the grey tiles of the church. The inhabitants of Jerusalem called the winds khamsin, and blamed them for plague. The crusaders named them devil winds, and crossed themselves. For Altaïr, the wind was merely perfect cover. He dropped from the tower and set off across the rooftops to the Assassin's Bureau, bowing his head against the wind as he walked. By the time he reached the wealthy quarter, the flying sand had tinted the evening light a deep orange. Drifts of wind-blown grit nearly obscured the mosaic sigil that marked the entrance to the Bureau. Altaïr noticed an odd smell as he climbed to the edge of the trellis and dropped down, but he blamed that on the khamsin.
As his boots hit the iron grill over the fountain he realized that he had been wrong.
A pile of ash smoked on the checkered flagstones of the Bureau's garden. The potted palms waved forlornly in the breeze, uprooted, their pots smashed. The silk cushions had been shredded. Feathers mingled with scraps of charred parchment and soil. A scraping sound came from inside the room, and Altaïr drew his dagger.
He ghosted along the northern wall to the Bureau's door and peered around the corner. In the darkness inside, something moved.
"Malik?"
The rafiq's voice was edged with irritation. "Don't just stand there."
Altaïr sheathed his dagger with a flick of his wrist and leaned against the door-jamb, ignoring Malik's instruction. He gazed around the room. The small space was a wreck of shattered shelving and torn parchment. Every book had been dragged from its place and rifled before being ripped up or burned. The only piece of furniture intact was the heavy teak counter, and even that was scarred with deep sword-marks. The air stank of smoke.
Altaïr was not surprised. The khamsin was the weather of catastrophe. Any Jerusalem soothsayer could have told you that.
"Templars?"
Malik glanced up at him. "Subtlety is a virtue, Altair," he said as he gathered half a dozen torn pages together and placed them tenderly in a basket. There was a dark circle of bruising around one of his eyes. He moved awkwardly, as if there were more bruises beneath his clothes. Altaïr was familiar enough with violence to guess that none of his injuries were serious.
"Templars?" he repeated.
Malik spat. "Templars, yes. But Knights Hospitaller, Knights Teutonic...it makes no difference, whatever the Lionheart promises." He knelt back and touched his bruised eye gingerly. "Had you arrived sooner, you would have disturbed them at their work."
"Do they suspect you?"
"Of course not!" Malik snapped. "If they suspected me, I would be dead. They are fools," he added as he collected a sheaf of torn paper. "I was merely unlucky."
"You were fortunate not to have been killed." Altaïr said. He did not move to help.
Malik shrugged. His face was impassive, but his voice was harsh. He swept the papers away with his remaining hand and rose painfully to his feet. "I was fortunate that the Templars believe a one-armed scribe too lowly for the Brotherhood. They are fools, like I said. But even fools can be dangerous when they are wild with anger. And your recent missions have somewhat changed the situation in Jerusalem. "
"Say rather, brother, that you know not who to bribe since Talal and Majd Addin died."
"Indeed. De Sable, too. I believe that was your work?" Malik snapped. Without waiting for an answer, he carried on. "Speaking of the Templars, I take it the hunt went well. Do you have the marker?"
Altaïr pulled the bloodstained feather from his robes and handed it to Malik. "The hunt could not have gone better," he said. "De Sable's man is dead."
"And afterwards?"
"I climbed to the rooftops and lost the Templars there."
"Would that I could still climb." Malik said reflectively. A shadow of bitterness passed over his face as he placed the feather into a slim wooden box. "I would curse the infidels if it would not bring me bad fortune." He frowned. "I would curse you if it would not bring me bad fortune."
"I'll kill them, should you wish," Altaïr offered.
"You will kill them anyway." Malik said as he slid the box into his shirt.
"Nevertheless."
Malik scowled. He fastened his shirt closed and leant across the counter. "Sometimes I question Al-Mualim's judgment. The Templars ransacked the poor quarter to find you. The imams will be busy tonight."
"The Templars search in vain. Their hunt is the last resort of desperate men. They strike out wildly, not caring where their blades may fall. "
"But still they strike." Malik hissed. He struck the desk with his remaining hand. "They are violent idiots, Altaïr. The people despise them, as they despise no other infidel. Did you know the English king grants thieves and murderers forgiveness for their sins if they do but take the cross? He uses the scum of England to drive us from our own shores. The knights hone their skills on our own women and children."
"Al-Mualim will free the people." Altaïr said. His voice was a little less confident than it would have been before de Sable's death, but his face was impassive. He wondered if he should voice his own suspicions to Malik? The rafiq could be trusted, he was sure, but some things were better left unsaid.
Malik laughed bitterly. "Do not be so sure, Altaïr. You walk among the people every day. Are you deaf to their cries? This city is begging for aid. Al-Mualim's plans may not bear fruit soon enough for the poor of Jerusalem."
"You know another way?"
"All I am saying is that I would do things differently. Ah, I know how it sounds. You may be assured that I am faithful to the Brotherhood. Do not look so worried. My only regret is that you are the instrument of Al-Mualim's plan."
"You regret that Al-Mualim did not choose another man?"
"I did not say that." Malik glanced around at the devastation. "Ah, my books. They at least did not deserve this slaughter."
Altair looked around the room at the crushed spines and smoldering leather bindings of the few remaining texts. "You can write more."
"Spoken like a true warrior-and an idiot. Next time, try to be more subtle, and then my books and I shall not have to suffer."
Altaïr picked a page from the floor and laid it on the desk. It was a small concession. "We have had this conversation," he said. "The way of the assassin is not subtle."
"The way of the Assassin is to die in glory, yet you persist in darkening my door."
"I will return to the old man, then. I have some things I must ask him. De Sable's death raised more questions than it answered."
"Then you are not the only one with doubts."
"You distrust him?" Altaïr asked.
Malik shrugged. "He is a great man, Altaïr. And yet...I am not sure. Maybe my life among the people weakens me. I cannot help but think there must be a better way than this."
"De Sable said with his dying breath that our master was a Templar." Altaïr said. He had expected Malik to scoff or threaten him, but the rafiq merely looked thoughtful. "This does not surprise you?"
"Not as much as you might think, Altaïr. I study here, and I listen to the people. Our people. Al Mualim would do well to remember that. Knowledge, my brother, knowledge is the key to true freedom. For is it not written; nothing is real, and everything is permitted? And I think you are different, now, Altaïr. You have learned how to think."
Altaïr scowled. His hand hovered over the hilt of his sword for a second before he bent down to pick up another charred page from the floor.
Malik noticed the movement and smirked. "Of course, I have been wrong before. But I shall search the city. Find out more about de Sable and his men. And about the Templars."
"I shall leave you to your books, then."
"Where do you go?"
"Masyaf. Where else? I'll confront the Master. Force him to tell me everything he knows."
Malik snorted. "With your blade, brother?"
"If necessary."
"You may find Al-Mualim more challenging prey than you expect. Ah, you and the old man are too much alike. You both think violence is the solution to every problem." He patted the dagger half-hidden at his belt. "Sometimes it is, I admit. So you search in your own way, and I in mine. I'll bring my blade to Masyaf if you need me."
"I thank you, Malik."
"Safety and peace, brother. And good hunting."
"Safety and peace." Altaïr said. He headed into the courtyard without looking back and climbed to the roof. He stood on the edge of the building for a second, enjoying the fresh air after the Bureau's smoldering stink. The wind had dropped, and the mountains that surrounded the city were just visible as a darker border to the speckled night sky. Masyaf lay just beyond those peaks. If he took a fast horse, he would be there by morning.
Altair slipped from the rooftop and set off across the city.
"Guide us to the straight path, the path of those you have blessed, of those who incur no anger, and who have not gone astray."
The Koran, Chapter 1, verse 5
Author's Note: Set after a hypothetical ninth assassination between Altair's meeting with Richard the Lionheart and de Sable at Arsuf. The story is intended as a brief character study for Altair and Malik, and a slightly better explanation for Malik's arrival than the secret diary of de Sable. It ended up as 'free running followed by a lot of talk and politics', but I kind of like it. And Assassin's Creed is not mine, in case anybody needed reminding...