"Master! A child is outside of our gates!"
Al Mualim, the leader of the assassins turned from his bookshelf and fixed his eyes on the arriving man.
"A lonely child, Azeem?"
"No," the one called Azeem answered. "By the looks of it, he is dragging with him a wounded one as well."
Al Mualim nodded at his assassin.
"Then go and bring them to me."
"Yes, Master!"
Azeem bowed quickly and ran towards the railing. He grabbed it and dropped from the balcony rather than taking the stairs down. He landed close to some of the retired assassins and they shook their heads in disapproval at the behaviour of young man. Azeem ignored them and sprinted down the road towards the gates as fast as his strong legs could carry him.
When being close enough to be spotted by the guards, the assassin waved at them to open up. They did so and as the heavy wooden doors opened, a small boy and his companion could be visible.
He was wounded in his shoulder, but he kept dragging the one lying in the dust. The companion looked bigger than himself and it went on slowly. Azeem hurried forward as the guards assisted; carefully lifting up the boy's companion and carrying him inside. The boy stepped out of their way and faced Azeem when he went closer.
The assassin frowned upon the sight of the poor boy. His face and dark brown hair was covered in dirt and dust from a long trip. His clothes were worn and didn't quite cover the boy on every part of his body. But the wound on his shoulder looked worst and Azeem guessed that it was old and probably infected.
"Are you alright, son?" he asked as gently as he could. The boy nodded too fast and threw a glance at his companion, whom now lay on a bed of sackcloth and was looked over by the healers that had been nearby.
"My mother," he whispered. Azeem frowned again and carefully placed a hand on the boy's back, guiding him forward. The youngling's skin burned under his palm and the assassin assumed that he had a fever.
As they arrived beside the wounded woman, the boy fell to his knees. He stared up in the concerned faces of the hooded strangers, looking for help. One healer with a long, brown beard shook his head at the boy.
"Altaïr…"
The weak voice startled them all. The boy leaned closer and grabbed the woman's dirty hand.
"Mother..!" he gasped, tears gathered in his copper coloured eyes. All the men leaned in to hear the poor woman out, but as briefly as she had opened her eyes, she closed them once more. The small hand in which the boy had held in his tiny, fell out of his grasp and hit the dusty ground with a soft sound.
The men around slowly got to their feet and returned to their posts and some of them started to close the massive gate. The healer and another soldier reached for one more sackcloth and carefully lay it over the woman.
"No…!" the boy cried. He reached out for her wrist, but as the men lifted his woman up, her hand was removed from his. There was however a small ripping sound as one of her bracelets broke and landed in the boy's hand. He didn't look at it and tried to get to his feet. Azeem, who remembered the horrible body heat, hurried forward to catch the boy as he fainted.
An idea I have had in my head for quite some time. :3
This story will feature the early life of Altaïr. That means that I will give you my picture of how it all started and also tell you of his first years as a novice, his first encounter with Malik and also his first steps into the world of a warrior.
Review please and tell me of your opinions! :)
-Theoris