Disclaimer: If I owned Assassin's Creed, you could press the centre of
the direction pad and Altaïr would whip out his water wings and do a little
synchronized swimming routine in the river.
But he can't. 'Cause I don't.
Chapter 2 – Ally at the Bend
Damn.
"Assassin! Stop!"
An inquisitive guard saw a shady figure crawl through the curious latticed
roof-opening marked with the telling symbol of the Hashishins.
How careless of me! Leading them to the Bureau…
Altaïr made quick work of the lone soldier, but his shouts already captured the
interests of many on the ground.
Quickly fleeing from the location so as to not allow additional men to pinpoint the now vulnerable entrance, he leapt from roof-top to roof-top, ensuring that he was in full view, drawing them away. He winced at the thought of the incident reaching Al-Mualim, and the savage beatings his master will unleash upon him for such negligence.
He flew from one end of the city to the other, all the while collecting more and more soldiers until all you could hear were heavy footsteps and the harsh clanging of chain mail and drawn weapons resonating in every corner. With an army trailing behind him, he hardly noticed the wall of archers that was now stationed on an archway to the east. An arrow whizzed by his neck, and another nicked his left shoulder, drawing little blood, but enough to cause him to lose his footing, falling off a thin beam connecting a hospital and a Cathedral.
He managed to grab onto a ledge with one hand, legs dangling several feet, but even so, his heartbeat remained steady. Slow, but loud enough to create an incessant pounding between his ears. It's been a while since he had a good chase.
There were shouts from curious residents below, and a particularly daring beggar woman bluntly sentenced him to a public display of his dismemberment in the town square followed by eternal damnation. You should sharpen your tongue vagrant, as it is your only weapon. Using his heel, he nudged loose a chink in the clay wall, letting dust rain on the poor unsuspecting crowd. Last time he checked, connecting his boot with the backside of an innocent was not breaking a tenant.
In return, a fist-sized rock came out of nowhere and struck his knuckles. He landed agonizingly on his back behind the church's garden, shielded from sight under a cherry bush. The sling of his short sword riding on his shoulders dug into his flesh, easily penetrating the little padding his few layers of clothing provided.
The recent rainfall created peculiar shaped puddles in the cracks of the cobblestone road, and Altaïr greeted the frigid moisture soaking into his sleeves with a shudder down his spine, and a shaky intake of breath that put a heavy and icy weight on his chest. He lay there frozen for what seemed to him like hours, and yet the commotion around the corner suggested meager seconds. The opportunity of rest was invaluable, and he reveled in every moment of it.
The fools. They didn't even follow his landing. He propped himself up on his elbows, one of which sunk into a large muddy divot where a tile was overturned. Well, it will be a while. Turning a cheek to the skies, he saw a small white orb hang among the fading stars as a tiny glint of orange rose beyond the horizon. A brilliant fire climbed upward ever so slowly and melded with the surrounding powder blue heavens. Everything glowed in an eerie purple light; the steeple's long and lean shadow falling into the streets.
He closed his eyes, and drew a mental map of his pursuers' numbers, ranks and position suggested by their aggravated barks over the civilian balconies.
The foreign tongue grew closer. Ah. Finally.
Darting up, he leapt over an iron fence, made a sharp left near a pottery stand and turned to see an empty alley at the bend with nothing but a towering wall. A flat wall. An occasional cracked brick, and a young vine no thicker than his thumb flapping wildly in the wind, unsheltered from the relentless elements.
Coming to the dead end, the other alternative to climbing was to fight. He was up for the challenge. He could take them all without blinking. But he had done enough. Leaving behind a pile of dead and dying men was not the type of subtly the Creed found acceptable.
He roughly wiped the sweat accumulating on his brow with the back of a
bruised and bloodied hand, and with a sigh and a hand on his hip, he decided
the fun was over. He must hide. The coward's way out. But where? They were
closing in. If he stepped out now, he was sure to create a scene. He looked
around for any possible means of escape.
…Wait! A ladder?
How could he have missed it? There it lies. In plain sight all along. It was hidden in the darkness, in the looming shadow of an English flag. The mark of King Richard, a hideous burden over the Holy Land. Was their God protecting them?
No matter. Altaïr lunged at the rungs, but before his foot found rest on one
of the steps, he felt a bitter breeze down his collar, and a cold, smooth hand
surround his wrist.
He gritted his teeth, and instinctively his fingers balled into a hard fist,
activating the mechanism, releasing his hidden blade, extending so naturally
like it was his own flesh and bone. The metal felt cool against his skin, hair
standing on end, welcoming the feeling of impending bloodshed, and almost
instantaneously, the blade dove in the direction of his assailant.
It stopped short.
A heartbeat away from two deep cerulean eyes. So expressive. So secretive.
Author's Spiel:
Sorry about that little chappie mix-up yesterday. I didn't mean to upload. It still had a few kinks to work out.
And sorry again. Looks like another MARY-SUE. Well, hopefully not. She was bound to make an appearance eventually. To be honest, I've been planning this story since I started playing AC back in mid-November, long before the category was even up. The problem was actually writing it. Anyway, thank you for all the reviews and support. Feedback is greatly appreciated. I'll try to lengthen chapters, even if it means combining them to a magically incredible number of over 1500 words a post! Yeah, I'm not impressed either.
Note, there are many talented writers out there that like to give you the particulars of every last nook and cranny, zit and freckle,
and number and placement of hairs in an eyebrow. Many readers find that
fascinating, the indication of literary genius. Sorry to disappoint. I just
don't work like that. If you have any suggestions, please comment and I'll see
what I can do.
Best regards.
-
Lynn.
