A/N: Thank you so much to those who have reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate it. :) This chapter contains some violence so just be warned. Violence is frequent in this story, this is why I have rated it T but let me know if it's too strong then I will change the rating. Or, if you hate violence (which I presume you don't if you're an AC fan!) then you may just skip it.
Enjoy!
The horses followed a trail outside the town. Jean-Baptiste confirmed that a small feast had been set for the Moors close by. Washington was waiting for them there. The other Moors that were walking on foot were complaining about the frigid snow that reached their knees. They coughed smoky vapour into the air, olive and dark skin altering into a pallid sheen. Ya'coob chatted with his driver in French; the latter's face growing grimmer as their conversation progressed. Now and again, Ya'coob would glance over his shoulder and shout something in Arabic at Nezha who would either nod or shake her head.
Connor didn't converse with Nezha and neither did she attempt to ask him anything. Her strong perfume tickled his nostrils. He forced the urge not to sneeze. The scent was unusual, foreign and elegant. The heavy scent of perfume finally entered his airway until Connor could taste the musk on his tongue. Sniffing inwards, he sneezed vehemently. It occurred in haste, too quick to cover his mouth in politeness. His eyes watered. Another wave of discomfort washed through him, forcing him to sneeze a few more times. He sighed after the moment, his lungs burning from the force like hot metal.
"Alhumdullilah," a voice spoke, as sweet as honey.
"Huh?" He glanced over his shoulder to find Nezha's exotic eyes fixed on him.
"It means 'God bless you'," she said gently.
"Thank you…"
He tried to read her thoughts through her eyes but he found nothing. Her eyes were deep, like the earth and one would have to dig through them to find the jewels of her thoughts. The light of the weak winter sun reflected off them like a mirror, shifting the brown to a lighter chestnut colour.
"Look out!" Instantly, Nezha's hand was on his, and she pulled the reins on the horse that was about to walk through a branch.
Connor gasped, the spirits were howling again at the sudden contact until he was sure the four corners of his mind would collapse with so many voices. When she let go of his hand, the voices dulled away.
"Forgive me, I wasn't paying attention," he whispered.
She shook her head. "I thought Assassins were sharp like the tail of a scorpion. We would have been pushed off the horse because of your carelessness."
Her voice was still dulcet but her words were harsh, like a small but sharp stone that was flung against his chest. He pulled the reins of his horse until it stopped, turning back to stare at her in confusion. She knew more than she should.
"Please, do not fret. You see Ya'coob? He is the leader of the Assassins back in the King's district. We are one of you," she explained, as if reading his mind.
"What?"
Three assassins in one day. Connor was surprised he wasn't feeling any joys of Brotherhood reunion. Neither of his companions, Jean-Baptiste, Nezha or Ya'coob, introduced themselves in an orderly fashion. Then again, the half-Native was still new to the conducts of the Assassins.
"Look back ahead before you land us in anymore trouble," Nezha directed, her tone authoritative, her small hand finding it's place on his shoulder, holding the fabric of his cape firmly.
Connor resisted the urge to roll his eyes and directed the horse to a camp that was a few miles away from the Patriot's town. They didn't exchange anymore words since Ya'coob had been watching them sternly over his shoulder. Footprints left behind in the snow symbolised the passage of time, time was forever ongoing and it was always within the brink of a second that a life was born…Or lost. Connor was aware that Nezha kept turning back at the dents in the snow they left behind, a path that could easily be tracked by any loyalists.
They were greeted by soldiers and a few nuns at the set-up camp. Ya'coob demanded a bath for himself and his Moors despite the sudden blistering wind that was shaking the fragile tents from one place to another. Jean-Baptiste managed to negotiate that the Moors delay their bath since the oracle of independence is imminent and Washington was on his way over. Ya'coob huffed at the Frenchman in anger; nostrils flared at the side of his wide nose and wrinkled eyes narrowed in disdain. The Moors were taken to a tent where warm breakfast was waiting for them. Nezha was taken to another tent with the nuns. As soon as Washington arrived, Connor and Jean-Baptiste were given orders to roam the area for any spies. They will have to miss Ya'coob's speech of independence for a free America.
Connor waited outside Jean-Baptiste's tent, arms folded and senses alert. Sometimes, he would glance at Nezha's tent, wondering how the contours of her face appeared behind the veil. He imagined her face to be small and round like a cherry with eyes that were too large in proportion and hair as dark as a Native woman's. He couldn't help but feel as if her exotic eyes were gazing through the tent at him, burning a hole into the back of his head.
"Fini!" Jean-Baptiste declared, stepping out of the tent wearing the infamous Assassin's hood and coat. He fingered the stray flaxen locks of hair that fell into his brilliant green eyes, giving Connor a cheeky grin.
"I look more handsome than you now, don't I?" He teased, placing his hands on his hips and giving them a slight shake.
I'm surrounded by bizarre people, Connor ridiculed inwardly.
He ignored the boisterous attempts by the Frenchman and walked ahead. Jean-Baptiste scrambled after him as they strolled away from the camp. The frigid wind combined with a blizzard, whipped at their cheeks, their breath freezing into ice around their chins. The intense shower of snow would have blinded a mediocre man's path had he not been trained for blizzards. The dimples of horse hooves in the white blanket were now hidden. Connor made sure to mark the trees they passed with a triangle in case they were to lose their way.
"Her eyes are so beautiful," a sudden outburst escaped Jean-Baptiste. Connor raised a brow, annoyed that his ally would change their motives. He knew the Frenchman was talking about Nezha.
"Oh mon Dieu, if only I could have had one moment to stare at those eyes!" Jean Baptiste exclaimed; a hand placed on his chest in a dramatic gesture and face ridden with feigned sorrow.
Walking in that stance, he soon bungled over the thickening layers of snow, falling head first into the icy shroud. He reached a hand towards Connor to help him up but the half-Native deemed it better not to. After all, this was a lesson for the Frenchman not to have his mind distracted while on a mission. Catching his breath in his cheeks in anger, Jean-Baptiste heaved himself out of the cleft his form had created in the snow.
"Do you Natives have any sense of manly hormones? Man, you guys don't even have proper body hair," Jean-Baptiste jeered, hoping to provoke his ally but disappointed when it made no impact on Connor.
"Look ahead before you land in anymore trouble," Connor replied with a smirk, remembering Nezha's words earlier.
The Frenchman was now fuming but his anger melted away instantly when they heard the branches nearby rustle. A shadow dispersed on the treetops, blending into the snow storm. Jean-Baptitse had his hand on the pistol strapped around his thigh while Connor reached for his bow and arrow.
A soft thud resounded close by. Connor and Jean-Baptiste leaned back to back, their weapons readied, faces lined with determination. Sweat froze to droplets of ice on their faces. Then they saw the figure emerging out of the darkness of the blizzard, taking the form of bulky arms and legs and a complexion that rivalled the night, eyes as bright grey as a clouded moon. The loose ends of his turban were flailing wildly in the miserable wind; he was definitely one of the Moors. He wore a thick shirt with a lavish opened vest around it and long leather boots over thick trousers. In his hands were two katanas, their handles embroidered with emeralds that twinkled like Jean-Baptiste's eyes. The latter immediately aimed his pistol at the stranger.
"Fear not, I am Khalid. I was sent by Ya'coob to aid you," the man spoke in a voice deeper than thunder as he approached them.
Jean-Baptiste relaxed, returning his pistol into its pouch. Connor still kept his hand on his bow. The air was heavy, whispering an unwonted foreboding. Khalid's grey eyes bore heavily at the two Assassins, as if forcing them to melt into a helpless puddle
"Mon Dieu, man, you couldn't have created a more dramatic entrance. My name is Jean-Baptiste and this is Connor," the Frenchman sighed with relief.
"Hmph," Khalid sniffed, revealing his hidden blade in a sudden movement.
Connor was quick to roll out of the way but Jean-Baptiste was not as responsive, the blade scratched his side as he jumped backwards. Jean-Baptiste let out a slight yelp, glaring at the intruder. Khalid attempted to finish what he started. He swung ferociously at Jean-Baptiste, the latter using his hidden blade at each arm to shield himself. Sparks erupted when the metals clashed with each other. Khalid, with his tall and muscular stature proved to be the stronger man. He kicked the Frenchman in the knee, sending him toppling over the snow.
Wasting no time, Connor ran up the trunk of a tree and perched onto the closest branch, he stretched the string of his bow and took aim at the dual between the two men below. Khalid was running towards Jean-Baptiste, like a predator to its prey. He jumped into the air, katanas held high to pierce into the Assassin's skull. Before the impingement of oncoming doom, Connor let go of his arrow and it flew at Khalid, striking into one of his biceps. The Moor grunted in pain, one of his swords slipped from his hand. Connor watched as Jean-Baptiste kicked snow into Khalid's eyes, temporarily stunning the dark man and giving the Frenchman a moment to regain his balance. Adrenaline rushed through the half-Native's body and his heart pounded against his chest.
Taking the upper hand of the match, Connor flew from his position, like an eagle from its nest, towards Khalid. His hidden blade was readied for the kill and he landed on the Moor with tremendous force, blade meeting the shoulder of his uninjured arm. The Moor yelled in pain, writhing beneath him, his grey eyes widened with defeat. Connor dispensed his blade from its attachment, pressing it against Khalid's dark skin.
"Speak now, who sent you here?" Jean-Baptiste demanded in a threatening tone that belied his usual lively personality.
"Never," Khalid mumbled but gasped when Connor drove his dagger a little bit deeper onto the sensitive flesh, making sure to cut it slightly.
"Tell us!" the half-Native urged.
Khalid closed his eyes, his heavy breathing evident under Connor's knees. His grey orbs faced the Assassin's again; a cruel smirk crossed his full lips.
"I would rather die," the Moor hissed before spitting into Connor's face, taking the latter by surprise.
A sudden flash of white blinded him. He rolled back into the snow rubbing his eyes, his brain too slow to register what was happening. A sharp object struck him in the waist, warm blood stained his clothes. He felt Khalid's body slip away, an unknown man's voice yelled from the treetops. When the flash bomb cleared away, Connor found Jean-Baptiste lying in the snow, blood pouring from his chest.
"Jean!" he knelt beside the Frenchman, terror gripping him until his lungs squeezed the breath in his chest. He pressed his hand on Jean-Baptiste's wound, hoping to stop the flow of blood, his own injury left him unabashed.
"Connor…Y-Ya'coob is a traitor…He's a Templar in disguise. Get back to the camp and let George Washington know," Jean-Baptiste stuttered, his clear green eyes moist from the pain, imploring for salvation.
Connor gritted his teeth. He has seen many men die and he was tired of it. This was a cowardly attack made by Ya'coob. He was sure that Nezha and the Moor advisors were unaware of Ya'coob's plans. He must have been in contact with one of the Templar loyalists here, despite Morocco's support for the American rebels.
"I can't leave you here," Connor stated.
Jean-Baptiste slapped his arm feebly. "He'll kill Washington if you don't."
"But…" The half-Native paused.
It wasn't right to leave a fellow Assassin to die out in the cold but Jean-Baptiste was right. The others at the camp were oblivious to the strength of Ya'coob's bodyguards. They were well equipped with ammunition as well as traps. It was sneaky like a snake that poisoned their prey before eating them.
"I'll be back with help," Connor assured before running back towards the camp. He didn't dare look back lest he change his mind. From the time that passed, Ya'coob must have finished the speech prepared by the Moroccan king.
Connor swallowed painfully, his side throbbing as if a molten hammer was striking him there incessantly and flecks of crimson dripped onto the pure white snow.
What if he was too late to save the others?
