The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Three.

Malik had guessed three days, but it was more like two when his mehari staggered around the lee side of a dune and collapsed onto her side. She gave no warning of her fall, only a sonorous groan as she hit the ground. Malik toppled from her saddle. He landed in the sand some distance away, rolled and dragged himself to his feet. Just as he got up, the camel gave a great cough and died. Blood pooled from one nostril. It was a few hours past dawn and the heat was already unbearable.

Altaïr's camel shambled on a few steps before the Assassin dragged it to a halt. He jumped off and came over to Malik.

Malik shook his head. "She's dead."

They both looked at the cooling body. Malik untied the water-skin from the saddle and squeezed it out. It was already empty. Both of them knew that their chances of survival, already slim, had just become even more tenuous. The dunes had petered out into rocky plains, with only the occasional ridge of sand to add variety to the dreary landscape. They had not seen as much as a salt bush for a day. There was no sign of human habitation. This was not a place where men lived. It was a place where men died.

"Do you think that this is the right way?"

Malik's memories of the Masyaf maps were becoming increasingly muddled. He shrugged and glanced around at the barren desert. "Does it matter? We cannot stay here."

"I suppose it does not," Altaïr kicked at the gravel. "If we keep moving, we may yet find a well."

Malik nodded doubtfully. They had seen no wells since Agadez. They had tried to dig one, but it had filled in with powdery sand. He remembered that certain types of desert plants could supply water if cut open, but this dry plain was too desolate even for plant life to survive. It was probably too desolate for two Assassins to survive, but Malik saw no harm in trying.

They loaded the camel with Malik's weapons and blanket and kept walking. The sun rose high in the sky. Their shadows shrunk beneath them. The camel trudged along. After a while it groaned and dropped to its knees. They poured water down its nostrils and coaxed it to rise without much hope. They had not walked much further when the camel lay down and refused to move another step. Malik knew exactly how it felt.

"We should kill it." Altaïr said.

Malik clicked his tongue and urged the camel up. It rose to its knees and slumped back. The soles of its feet were ragged with tattered skin. The rough plains had worn through its tough soles like old silk slippers. "This ground's too hard for it."

"This land is too hard for more than the camel." Altaïr said. He untied the water-skin from underneath the camel's belly and shook it experimentally. Water sloshed noisily around. Malik estimated it was less than a third full. "Enough for a day, by my judgment. Kill it and let's move on. We may still find water."

Malik looked doubtfully at the heat-haze that hung over the dunes. He could not think of any other option. It was a shame, he thought, that the same theory had no doubt been applied by a hundred dead men. The air was so hot that it shimmered. "We are chasing the wind," he muttered.

"Do you think Nasr planned this?"

Altaïr turned to him in surprise. "Nasr? No. It is true," he added after a moment's thought, "that the Persian Master does not exactly favour us-"

"That is an understatement," said Malik.

"But he would not willingly sacrifice an Eden fragment. Nor would he see the Templars victorious. He is an Assassin, for all his faults. As are we."

"I have not forgotten. But we cannot fight the sun."

Altaïr glared up at the blazing orb overhead as if he would happily plunge a dagger into its heart. "We waste time here. Let's be on our way."

They slaughtered the camel and collected its blood in Malik's empty water-skin, where it clotted unpleasantly and attracted small black flies. In better times, the Assassins would have spurned such food. These were not better times.

They set out again across the desert.

The sun inched slowly towards zenith and then just as slowly began its descent. It was too hot to think. It was too hot to walk, but the Assassins did anyway, dragging through the sands in a desperate race against time.

The water lasted until the next morning, and then it was gone. Sunrise found Altaïr and Malik huddled in the shelter of a dune. They shivered in the chill of an early desert morning as they considered their options. It didn't take long. There were none.

"Drop the weapons." Malik said after a while.

Altaïr's face was nearly invisible between his hood and the veil that he had pulled up over his nose and mouth. Malik sensed rather than saw him frown. "What?"

"Who...are you going to kill here? Don't ...need them."

Altaïr scowled. He pulled his throwing knives from his sash one by one and dropped them in the sand. Malik discarded the cross-hilted Tuareg sword that he had looted from the battle. He kept a single knife.

Altaïr retained his sabre as well as his hidden blade. "I'm keeping...my sword."

"Your funeral," Malik told him. He worked his mouth but did not dare to spit. He was hungry, but the hunger was nothing compared with the thirst. His tongue seemed to fill his mouth. His head ached. "We should...press on. It'll be even hotter soon."

Altaïr shook his head, but he got up. They staggered on in silence and left the weapons on the ground.

The rest of the day was a torment of sand and heat. Even the camel's blood was gone. The plains stretched out endlessly without variation. Malik watched his own feet drag past and thought of all the things they could have done differently, starting with 'more water' and moving on from there. Altaïr said nothing.

Malik's thoughts wandered while he trudged mechanically forwards. He expected to see mirages of palm-fringed oases. Instead he saw nothing but the plains and the great yellow ridges of the dunes. It was a bit of a disappointment. He did not consider himself devout enough to see visions of Paradise, but he had not expected dying of thirst to be this dull.

Of course, he thought, this could be Hell. It's certainly similar to the scriptures.

After a while, he stopped thinking at all. There was only the slow rhythm of footsteps, the blue sky overhead and the sands beneath his feet. He fell for the first time around midday, and did not even realise he was falling until he hit the gravel. Altaïr shuffled on a few steps before he stopped and turned. Without a word, he turned back to Malik, bent down and slung his arm over his shoulder. They limped on together for a couple of steps before Malik gathered his limbs-and his wits-enough to protest. "I can walk."

Altaïr looked at him. He said nothing, but he released Malik's arm. Malik staggered for a second before he steadied himself and they set off again. They had reached the next dune before Altaïr stumbled.

By sunset they sat in the sands, too exhausted to move.

Malik saw no visions of water-he had gone past thirst. He knew there was a prayer, some words that he should be saying, that Altaïr and he had promised each other on the roof of the cathedral high above Acre, but he could not remember the words. He tried-Oh God, forgive our living and our dead-managing a single sentence before the words spilled from his brain as easily as the water that they craved. He heard Altaïr's quiet breathing next to him and thought he saw the mud-brick walls of a great city rising above them.

"Are ...we ...there?"

"No. It's only a dune."

Faces swam through Malik's fading vision. He saw his brother Kadar, who had died at the hands of Robert de Sable and his Templars. He saw his parents, who had left them both at Masyaf as children. He saw the sinuous curve of Nusaybah's spine as she rose from the cushions in the garden of the Jerusalem Bureau. He saw no visions of sweet water, and made a mental note to correct any of the books in the Masyaf library that discussed such things, should he return.

He had to admit that the possibility seemed unlikely.

Malik sank back and closed his eyes. The parade of faces continued in the darkness behind his eyelids. He saw the Assassins Abbas and Rauf. Al Mualim. Ibrahim ben Ishaq, the old Cairene Jew. Conrad of Montferrat, who had died at Altaïr and Malik's knives. Madj Addin. Yusuf al-Asad. Malik told them all to leave him alone, that he was trying to die. The faces said nothing. After a while they went away.

Malik toppled slowly over onto his side.

High above, an eagle soared unnoticed.

When he opened his eyes again it was freezing cold. He blinked and saw the stars wheeling above his head. They were diamond-bright and very far away. Malik lay on his back and gazed up at them. It was very peaceful. He didn't want to move.

Someone poured water on his face.

Malik jerked upright in surprise and shouted. Or at least he tried to. In practice he croaked and rolled over onto his side. Some of the water went in his mouth and he swallowed. The water was brackish and tasted faintly like camels, but it was the most wonderful thing in the world. His head lanced through with pain like knives and he groaned and closed his eyes again.

"I thought you were dead." Altaïr said from somewhere above his head.

"Then you should have known I would survive," Malik croaked, "...just to prove you wrong."

"And I should have known that the first thing out of your mouth would be an insult," Altaïr said.

Malik opened his eyes again.

Altaïr loomed above him, his face enveloped in his white hood. A scruffy boy who wore the blue veil of a Tuareg knelt next to him. He looked pleased to see that Malik was alive. Malik decided that he must be from a different tribe than the Tuareg who had attacked them. His ears adjusted to the sound of people setting up camp around them. He heard camels bellowing and camel herders cursing at the camels. A fire crackled somewhere behind him. The air smelt of smoke. He saw a few people shrouded in heavy robes against the cold. They looked like Tuareg too, although their camels were large and heavily laden in the fashion of the eastern merchants rather than the sleek desert meharis of the raiders. Malik had no clue what all of it meant.

The boy leaned forwards and smiled at Malik. His teeth flashed unexpectedly white in his dark face. "He's alive! I'll fetch the master!"

Altaïr nodded. The boy hurried away.

"What-?"

Altaïr shook his head, almost imperceptibly. He laid the fingers of his right hand along his jawbone in a gesture that Malik recognized as Assassin-sign for keep quiet and follow my lead. He had hidden his mutilated left hand in the folds of his robes.

"More...water?"

Altaïr handed Malik the water skin. The water did not get any sweeter with time-in fact it tasted worse-but he would not have parted with it for a handful of golden dinars. He could have drunk an ocean of it. He drank until his stomach sloshed. "It's good to see you in one piece, my friend," he said when at last he felt able to stop drinking.

"You as well, brother." Altaïr agreed. Underneath his hood he looked pleased-or as pleased as Altaïr ever was.

"What-" Malik began. He was interrupted by the reappearance of the boy. He was followed by an old Tuareg who looked as wizened as a desert acacia.

Altaïr coughed. "This is Shindouk Mohammed al-Hassan Moctar," he said, gesturing to the old man with a wary expression that cautioned Malik not to give too much away. "He rescued us from the desert. We are in his debt."

The old Tuareg nodded. "I thought that you would die," he said cheerfully. His face creased like a date that had been left for too long in the sun.

I told him he was wrong," Altaïr said. "You are stronger than you look. This is," he added, "not hard, at present."

Malik looked down at himself. He was filthy. What he could see of his arms and hands was blistered by the sun. Somebody had wrapped him in a rough wool blanket that looked and smelt as if it had been woven out of goat hide. He had, he had to admit, seen better days. "It seems that you have my thanks," he said to Shindouk with a throat that felt like sandpaper.

The old man smiled. "It was my pleasure and my duty," he said, rather formally. "Are you well?"

Malik nodded. He was rather far from well, but he knew his manners. "Thanks be to God," he said, "I am well. And you?"

"I am well," the old man said with rather more patience than Malik. "How is your family?"

Malik had no idea. It was fortunate, he thought, that it didn't matter. Etiquette demanded that he say that they were well. "Blessed. And yours?"

"Well too," the old man said in a courtly tone that would have been more at home in a palace than a desert camp. "Peace be with you. You have honoured us."

Malik edged himself upright in the sand. "I doubt that very much," he said, reverting to less formal speech. "My comrade tells me that we owe you our lives."

Shindouk smiled. "It is of no matter," he said, as breezily as if he meant it. He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Marîd found you both lying in the sand. I thought for certain you were dead. I was wrong."

"Shindouk has extended us the hospitality of his tribe," Altaïr said. "He has promised to guide us to Timbuktu."

"We share both a destination and a trade, it seems," Shindouk said.

Malik's gaze went immediately to the fingers on the man's left hand. All four were present. "Your trade?"

Altaïr frowned. Shindouk smiled indulgently, as if the sun had addled Malik's brain. "We are both booksellers! A happy coincidence indeed!"

"Indeed," Malik agreed. He shot a glance at Altaïr. The other Assassin shrugged. "Is it far to Timbuktu?"

Shindouk shook his head. "No. It is not too many days south-east of here-"

Malik spat sand. "South-east?"

Shindouk smiled. "Of course. We have come south from Fez. You, I imagine, have come further. Still. We will talk later. We have plenty of time. I have arranged that we shall camp here today, so that you will regain your strength."

"We delay your progress." Malik said. His head swam. There was nothing north of Timbuktu but wild desert. He realized that they must have circled the city without knowing it.

Shindouk smiled benignly. "It is of no matter. We make good time."

Malik put the water-skin down. He touched his lips and then his heart and bowed with as much respect as he would have shown the Master. "We owe you a great debt indeed," he said. "We were nowhere near the place we had expected. Had you not found us, we would certainly have perished."

The Tuareg waved his hand. "There is always someone along here," he said.

"There is?"

"Of course. Almost every week." Shindouk gestured to the empty water-skin in Malik's hand. "You have drunk all your water. Have you had enough?"

No, Malik thought. His throat was already raw from swallowing and he forced himself to agree. "Yes."

"You are wise," Shindouk said. "Drink carefully, that is the way. There will be later, if you want it. I shall bring dates. In a few days we will be in Timbuktu."

"So soon?"

"If God wills," Shindouk said cheerfully. "But enough of formality. What of you? From where do you travel?"

Malik decided that there was nothing to be gained by lying. "From al-Qahirah," he said.

"Cairo? A long way? Have you news?"

"None to speak of." Unless you mean nearly dying. "And you?"

Shindouk smiled. "We have come from Fez," he said. "From Al-Qarawiyyin University in Fez, to be precise. I bring copies of rare texts from the University to trade in Timbuktu."

"They trade such things there?"

"Oh, yes. Knowledge is valued above rubies."

"And you're Tuareg?" Malik had never heard that the Saharan tribes were renowned for scholarship.

Shindouk looked amused. "Oh, yes. At least some of us can read."

Malik flushed. "No offence meant."

"None taken." Shindouk yawned. "I am many things. Amenokal, griot, trader, yes, even an upstanding university professor." He laughed. "On occasion."

"I see." Malik said. He thought he did. "You're a scholar?"

"I am a seeker after knowledge," Shindouk corrected. "Like yourself. And I have always been a curious man."

"You're curious? About what?"

The Tuareg shrugged. "So many things. For example, what was it like, nearly dying in the desert? You must excuse my curiosity. I hope that you are not offended, but most men who undergo the experience are no longer in a condition to answer my questions. Such knowledge is valuable. Did you see visions of water? An oasis, maybe? Palm trees, camels?""

Malik shrugged. "None of that," he said. "It was not unpleasant, after a while. I saw...things. Faces mostly. More than that I do not wish to tell. But there was no water. Until you came."

"Fascinating," Shindouk said. "Did you see Paradise?"

Malik shook his head. "I tried to say the salat al-janazah, the funeral prayer," he said, "but the words would not come. I saw things I've always seen. People. Faces. Only they were not there. "

Shindouk nodded. "Forgive me my curiosity," he said, but none of the books I've read speak of such things. There is no offence meant."

Malik smiled. "None taken," he said.

"Still, I forget my manners. Do you have no other questions of your own?"

"Timbuktu," said Malik. "You've visited before?"

"Many times. The city is a great trading hub, but it is nothing to what I hope it will become in the future. Everything a man will ever need passes through Timbuktu eventually, and a great deal that he does not. For is it not written 'Salt comes from the north, gold from the south, and silver from the country of the white men, but the word of God and the treasures of wisdom are only to be found in Timbuktu?"

The mention of treasure caught Malik's attention. Such colourful legends might indicate the location of an Eden fragment. "Is there really treasure there?"

Shindouk laughed. "Only in the tales. Some speak of fabulous riches hidden in the deep desert, treasures of kings long past. Palaces full of sliding sands where magical weapons wait to be discovered. But these are only tales. Like those of the Thousand Nights and a Night. Do you know them?"

Malik shook his head. The libraries of Masyaf did not cater for such fanciful tastes. "I study maps," he said, slightly embarrassed. "Though they did not help us here."

"I am not surprised," the old Tuareg said. "There are no maps of the sands. Perhaps they are unmappable. You must navigate using the stars and the sun. And many other things."

"What other things?"

Shindouk shook his head. "It is impossible to explain to someone who does not already know it. Suffice it to say that I or any khabit –guide- here could tell you where we were headed. And each one would tell you why in a different manner; from the feel of the sun on their arm to the way the sand feels in the palm of their hands or the way the wind piles the sand up in ridges." He shrugged. "You should have stayed with your caravan."

"That, I think, we can agree on." Malik said.

Shindouk laughed. Marîd appeared like a ghost out of the dim twilight. He tapped Shindouk on his

shoulder and spoke swiftly in his ear.

"Trouble?" Malik asked.

Shindouk smiled. "No. A small disagreement only. Please excuse me. I must see to the unloading of the camels. You should both rest."

"Peace be with you," Malik said politely.

Shindouk shrugged and smiled apologetically. He turned, limping a little in the deep sand and headed off with Marîd at his back. A few moments later commands in the indecipherable Tuareg language split the air, punctuated by indignant camel bellows.

Altaïr hunkered down next to Malik. "I thought that he would never leave," he said.

Malik shook his head. "Neither did I," he said. "But why did you think it wise to name ourselves booksellers?"

"I could think of nothing else that was plausible," Altaïr said quietly. "I did not think it was wise to name ourselves caravan guards so soon after the raid. Shindouk does not belong to the tribe that attacked us, but he is Tuareg all the same. He himself said that he is a curious man. And he is not stupid. It was a good idea of yours to drop the weapons. Certainly they would have asked us questions if they had found we had their fellows' swords."

"Good idea? I was desperate."

Altaïr shrugged. "All the same, it seems to have worked to our advantage," he said. "Timbuktu is a centre of learning. You can pass as a bookseller. I shall pose as your assistant. Once we reach Timbuktu we can search out the orb and leave without attracting the attention of the Templars."

Malik nodded. "Hopefully they will think us dead," he said.

"I thought that we were dead. The merchant makes light of it, but you-I did not think that you still breathed when they pulled us from the sand. We underestimated this journey, Malik. Syria is a harsh land, but nowhere is as harsh as this. Still, this Shindouk seems to know his trade. His men speak of him with respect. No doubt he shall deliver us to Timbuktu, as he promises."

"And there," Malik said, "we shall find the Eden fragment for the Brotherhood."

"Indeed," Altaïr said. He glanced over his shoulder. "Hush. The Tuareg approaches." He nodded to Malik. "I shall seek out the others in his caravan. I'll see what I can learn from them. Maybe one of them will know something of our Templar friends. It is not long now to Timbuktu."

Author's Note:

If I have learned anything from researching this story, it is to be very grateful that I, being English, am unlikely ever to be lost in a desert. There's a book called Skeletons of the Zahara about some sailors shipwrecked in modern Western Sahara in the 1800s. They ended up landing on the kind of coast you'd rather drown than be shipwrecked on. The books is uncompromisingly graphic in describing the results.