Connor knew that the Shard of Eden around his finger wouldn't protect him forever. It only seemed to have a limited lifespan when activated before it would fall dormant again. He could probably only allow it to deflect a few more bullets before it would run out of power.
A bullet whizzed past his hood, nearly grazing his cheek. No, he was out of time now.
Connor spurred his horse on. The poor thing was already frazzled and tired, and now it was scared as well. While it had no problem running, it didn't want to be steered.
Connor turned and fired his pistol at the oncoming patrol. Another warrior toppled off of his horse with a short scream. Dammit! He didn't have time for this! He steered his horse into a small thicket of trees, risking bad footing for hopefully losing the Natives behind him.
Another gunshot echoed in his ears and his horse gave a cry of agony as she went down. He felt the shift in gravity and leaped for the nearest tree before he could be taken with it. He swung himself up into the branches and used a rope dart on an incoming enemy. Connor used his weight as a pulley to drag the Cherokee warrior into the boughs and as he came down, he kicked another hard enough to send him flying off his horse.
The remaining few shot at him and he rolled nimbly to the side, feeling the lead breeze past him. The warriors didn't have time to reload again, so they leapt from their horses and drew their melee weapons, a mixture of spears and tomahawks.
Connor held his short sword in one hand and the tomahawk in his other. He didn't want to kill these men, but if they honestly believed what Dragging Canoe's idea of justice was right, then he didn't know if they would listen to reason. Still, he had to try.
"Turn back! I do not want to kill you!" he called.
The warriors did not heed his warning, so it was with a heavy heart that Connor cut them down one by one. One screamed as his belly was opened and his entrails poured out. Another's skull caved in like a melon as Connor's tomahawk chopped into it. A sliced throat, a broken neck, a severed spine, and a crushed head soon followed.
Connor was not proud of his victory, as he stood over the dead bodies, his robes splattered with blood. He had wanted to save them; he had wanted to help them! But they chose to fight instead and Connor couldn't win against them without lethal means. He wiped his blades on the grass and sheathed them.
Off to the side, his own horse was still crying and struggling to stand. When she fell, her back leg had broken and the bullet hole in her flank was still oozing steadily. He moved over to her besieged, magnificent body, and gently shushed her as he pet her neck. It did little to ease the skittish thing as her soulful eyes rolled in their sockets.
"I am sorry, girl. May the Spirits guide you," he whispered, his voice caught in his throat. He fired a bullet into her skull to end her suffering.
With his heart feeling like a bag of rocks, Connor gathered up the necessary supplies to continue and caught one of the horses that the Cherokee had been riding. It was a strong steed, one that was well-conditioned and maintained. He mounted it, cast one more look at the carnage behind him, and used his Eagle Sense to follow his father's trail. If he rode hard enough, then he might be able to catch up before the Chickamuaga got to Haytham first.
Connor rode through the day and night, keeping his Eagle Sense activated for the entire trip. He had to. If he blinked back to his normal vision, then he might miss the crucial moment that marked Haytham's ambush. He might lose the trail and Haytham might die (again) because of his carelessness. Even though fatigue crept at the corners of his mind and his limbs felt oddly heavy, he couldn't stop. There wasn't time to stop. Even his horse kept protesting to the breakneck journey. At least the animal was conditioned for this; most other horses would not be able to keep the pace for half as long.
Finally, Connor's second sight caught flashes of red lying in the grass, motionless. He slowed into a trot. The bodies weren't moving. Was the battle already concluded? He dismounted, stumbled on shaky legs, and edged into the battlefield.
Corpses littered the ground. They had been dead, all of them, for at least several hours. As much as Connor didn't want to switch back to his normal vision, he knew that he had to. He couldn't see the corpses' faces. He needed to see them, to be certain that none of them was Haytham.
He blinked back and was immediately assaulted with another migraine. There was sunlight (when did the sun rise?) that burned his retinas and the world was suddenly colorful again rather than the mishmash of blues and whites. Dammit, he had overexerted himself again. But as he peered through the pain and the onslaught of light, he could better see the bodies on the grass.
They were an even mix of white men and Chickamuaga Cherokees. Connor stooped down and looked at one of the Colonists. He wrinkled his nose at the stylized red crosses on their fingers and embroidered on their waistcoat hems. Templars. The Assassin edged about the bodies, trying to piece together the battle from various clues.
It looked like the Chickamuaga hunters had caught up to Haytham, but apparently, so did the Templars. The two factions probably clashed—after all, the Chickamuaga wasn't the type to let any white man walk away without a pound or two of flesh. And Haytham… Haytham escaped—probably in the chaos of swinging blades and thundering guns. Connor smiled to himself. Haytham was probably still alive and hopefully uninjured.
Connor mounted his horse again, much to the steed's resentment, and blinked back to his Eagle Sense. The world turned a cool blue and white once more as he focused on Haytham's trail. It wasn't until mid-afternoon that his horse finally stopped, too exhausted to run any further. Connor snarled and cursed and tried to make the poor animal keep moving, but the horse was rightfully stubborn and only tried to rear its rider off.
"MOVE!" he yelled in Mohawk. He knew that the sad thing was probably more exhausted than he felt, but his mind was desperate. Haytham was so close, yet still so far. What if he was injured? What if he was bleeding out somewhere and Connor was going to be too late to save him? Connor didn't trust his legs enough to finish the journey on foot, but he would if he needed to.
The Assassin was so absorbed in trying to motivate his steed, that he didn't notice the man in a nearby tree. In fact, Connor almost didn't hear the click of the hammer on his gun until it was almost too late.
Connor looked up just as the man pulled the trigger and he barely ducked under the bullet aimed for his head. His horse reared up, startled, and Connor toppled off unceremoniously. His foot was caught in the stirrup, twisting his ankle. The horse began to run and with a defiant shout, Connor wrenched his foot free before he was either trampled to death or dragged across the frontier.
The Assassin scrambled through the grass, trying to keep a low profile as he ran for cover. Another bullet landed in the dirt where he had just been standing. He glanced up at the trees and screwed up his eyes at his attacker. It was a man who glowed blue.
"Stop shooting! I am not your enemy!" he shouted up to the fellow.
"Prove it, Heathen! You ride a Chickamuaga Horse!" the man yelled down the barrel of his rifle.
"I stole it!" Connor tried. He blinked his vision back to normal, gritting his teeth against the pain of his migraine.
"Nice story, try again!" the man yelled as he fired once more.
Again, Connor moved behind a tree just as bits of bark flew off of the trunk. Obviously, arguing wasn't going to accomplish anything. But the man was a sharpshooter and Connor couldn't get lucky for much longer. He had to try another tactic.
The man in the tree stared down the barrel of his rifle, keeping his focus keen on the tree that the Native had just hidden behind. He didn't hear any movement, and his ears were nearly as good as his eyes. The Native was probably biding his time to plan an escape route, but there wasn't anywhere for him to escape so long as the sharpshooter held the high ground.
"Come out so I can shoot a hole in your head, already!" the rifleman mocked. Only a few birds answered him.
Then, there was movement behind him, in the tree! How did the savage climb the tree without him noticing!? The sharpshooter tried to wheel around on the branch, but he only turned partway before the Native barreled into him with a determined roar. The rifleman fell hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him by the heavy weight. He gasped and tried to smash his attacker's face with the butt of his gun, but the Native caught his wrist.
"Please stop fighting! I will not hurt you!" Connor all but pleaded.
The sharpshooter struggled to get out from under Connor's bulk, but the Assassin wrenched his rifle out of his hand and rolled off. He threw the gun to the side as the sharpshooter, a man clad in a long, sweeping brown coat, stood. The stranger put up his fists to fight and Connor rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"Please, stop," Connor held his hands up in surrender.
The man faltered. "Who are you, if you're not Chickamuaga?" He looked Connor over and spotted Connor's belt buckle. He lowered his fists, eyes wary, as he spoke slowly. "We work in the darkness…"
Connor smiled. "To serve the light," he finished.
The tension between them evaporated as the two Assassins clasped hands with their ring finger tucked.
"Sorry for shootin' at you. Thought you were one of them scalpers—er, um, Natives, um… Sorry?" the man said sheepishly. "I'm Caleb, Caleb Garret."
Connor dismissed the comment. "I am Connor."
Caleb seemed to think hard about that name for a moment before the realization spread over his face. "Connor? As in, Connor Davenport of the Assassins? As in the Mentor-of -the-Colonial-Brotherhood-Connor?"
The Native Assassin nodded self-consciously and an awkward silence followed. Caleb looked as if he didn't know how to address the Mentor. The two shifted their weight from foot to foot.
"Well…uh, nice to meet you, Mentor?" Caleb tried. "No offense, but you look like shit that's been left in the sun. I thought you'd be more…lively?"
Connor sighed. "It is a pleasure to meet you, I am sure." He brushed aside the Sharpshooter and began trekking after his horse. The animal was grazing in the shade, panic forgotten over hunger. "It is imperative that I continue my journey immediately."
Caleb jogged after Connor, looping his rifle back onto his back. "What's your journey all about? Maybe I can help."
"I am searching for someone—a British man that is hunted by Templars," Connor grunted, fatigue wearing on his mind. Perhaps another pair of eyes wouldn't be a bad thing.
"Oh, is he a pompous asshole in a tricorn hat?"
Connor's attention jerked to the Sharpshooter. "Then he is alive! Did you meet him? Tell me where he is? Is he injured?"
"Oh, I met him alright. I came across some British bloke back at the trading post up yonder. He stole my damn horse, the rotten bastard," Caleb spat bitterly. "I've been hunting on foot all day, hoping to get me some pelts to sell so I can buy another horse. Earlier, I came across some guys talking about needing to find someone, some traitor. I didn't know they were Templars though, else I would've greeted them with a bullet."
Connor's mind raced as he tried to process the information. "Then…then he is alive. I must find him! Do you know where he was headed from the trading post? How many Templars were pursuing him?
"Dunno where the guy was goin', but there were about a half dozen men lookin' for him," Caleb shrugged.
Connor took up the reins of his horse again. The animal neighed in protest and shook the Native off with ease.
"It doesn't look like he's gonna be taking you anywhere for a while," Caleb suggested. "Though maybe that's for the best. You really do look like hell, Sir."
"That is irrelevant," Connor stopped trying to budge his horse and dug through his saddlebags instead. He began strapping weapons and light provisions to his belts. "I can always continue on foot."
Caleb stepped in front of the Native. When Connor tried to move around him, Caleb blocked him again.
"Sir, it doesn't matter if you're a Mentor or not, you're still human," Caleb frowned. "You need to rest. I know exhaustion when I see it and you're not gonna do yourself any favors if you keep pushing. Even if you do find this guy, who's to say that you'll be in any shape to help him?"
Connor glared at the Sharpshooter. It had only been three nights since he slept! He could keep going! But as he was about to protest, he felt his shoulders sag in resignation. Caleb was right. Connor was in poor shape and he needed at least a night's worth of sleep.
"How far is the trading post?" Connor asked, defeated.
"Not far, just a few miles."
Connor nodded and after letting his horse rest for a few minutes more, he stripped it of the blankets and makeshift saddle and tried to walk it along on foot. The animal was much more agreeable without a rider. They walked slower than Connor would've liked, but the old scar on his side was bothering him, making him limp along like an old man.
"So this guy you're chasing must be pretty important, huh?" Caleb tried to start conversation.
Connor grunted. "Yes. As far as I know, he was a Templar, but he betrayed the Order. He has been traveling across the frontier, killing Templar leaders, and keeping some sort of vital information from them."
"This could be a trap—a wild goose chase," Caleb said.
"I know," Connor nodded. "But I must find him all the same. He has worked alongside Assassins on more than one occasion, so in the event that he is truly a traitor, then we may be able to convert him to our cause. If the information he holds is valuable enough for Templars to use their meager resources to pursue him, then it may benefit us."
Caleb looked at Connor's face for a moment. "And if it's all an elaborate trap?"
"Then I will kill him again."
"Again?" Caleb asked, surprised. "What do you mean?"
Connor merely waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing. A slip of the tongue." After all, while Connor wanted to believe that the Templar Traitor was Haytham, he still didn't know for certain.
The Sharpshooter gave Connor a wary glance before changing the subject. "So why were you riding a Chickamuaga horse again?"
Connor chuckled despite himself and told Caleb of his dealings with the rogue Cherokee tribe. Once he was done, Caleb shook his head despite himself.
"Well lucky for you, I've got permission from the rest of the Cherokee to travel on their lands, so you won't need to go appealing to anymore psychotic War Chiefs for a while."
"Dragging Canoe is not psychotic, only…misled," Connor countered. "I had hoped that I could make him understand that his path of violence is wrong."
"Sir, you can't just make people change their minds about things, yanno," Caleb offered. "Understanding that is what makes us Assassins."
Connor glared in offense. "Are you accusing me of thinking like a Templar?"
Caleb seemed to think about that for a moment. "…No. Templars don't think about saving people so much as they do about controlling them. And the people that don't wanna be controlled get shot down…or burned alive," he said bitterly.
Connor hid his wince under his hood. Haytham had spoken of his Templar ideals as if had been trying to save people. And what good had it done? Connor's mother still burned because Colonists refused to honor the rights of other human beings. Haytham hadn't been able to save anyone because he had been going about it the wrong way, the Templar way.
"I do not want people to conform their beliefs to my own. I only wish that they would…that they would help each other rather than constantly warring and squabbling like children," Connor said.
"So you wanna save them from themselves?"
Connor sighed, thought about it, and nodded. "In a manner of speaking."
"Sir, you can't save everyone. You can only help those who are willing to accept the salvation you offer."
"And you speak from experience?"
Caleb grinned, wide and broad. "Yeah, but I've never saved anyone like that, admittedly. Sure, I've protected the roadways in some places—I've got posts of our Brothers set up. But I've never really like…SAVED anyone, you know? I've only been on the other end of that."
Connor raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Yeah, it was a while back. A French Assassin, William de Saint-Prix, helped me out after some Templars killed all my friends. He's the one who inducted me into the Brotherhood, yanno. I already knew all a guy could know about guns, but he helped me…I dunno, deal with it, I guess. In fact, I'm traveling to go meet up with him again. It's been a few years, so I figured that it was due time for a visit."
"I remember that name. He is a fine Assassin who works along the outskirts of Boston," Connor supplied.
"Yep, the very one. But even though he's expecting me, I suppose that I could help you out for a bit, too. He shouldn't be too pissed that I stopped to assist the Mentor of our Brotherhood, after all," Caleb suggested.
Connor shrugged, thinking the over the offer. "If you would rather meet your friend, then please by all means, continue your own travels. You do not need to stop on my behalf."
"You seem like you don't want help finding this Templar fellow," the sharpshooter observed.
Silence spread between them like a block of ice before Connor broke it again. "The Templar Traitor could be the former Grandmaster Templar."
Caleb obviously wasn't expecting that response. He blinked in surprise and waved his hands in front of his face. "Wait a minute, wait a minute! I thought that you killed the Grandmaster."
"I did. At least, I thought that I did. Now, I am uncertain."
"Okay, so now I understand why you wanna go this alone. But if he's really the former Grandmaster, isn't that more reason to have some help? It'll be too dangerous alone, especially if he's gone off his rocker and is killing his own people."
"It's…complicated…" Connor said, unwilling to provide more personal information than that. He knew that telling Caleb about his suspicions was unwise, but it felt good to voice his concerns. It sounded much more rational and less absurd when he said it out loud. So it's possible that the Grandmaster Templar could still be alive. After all, unexpected truths were part of their Creed.
"Well like it or not, Mentor, I'm gonna follow you. I know that's disrespectful and all, but there's no way I'm gonna let you take on this Templar Traitor alone. If he's nuts, then you'll need help fightin' him. And if he's not nuts, then you'll still need help fending off the other Templars trying to kill him. Either way, Sir, you're not going to get rid of me," Caleb puffed his chest a little, his mouth set in a determined line.
Connor rubbed his temple for a moment, and then smiled to his new companion. "If we are going to be traveling together, then please, call me Connor."
June 23, 1784
The steady drumbeat of a convoy echoed across the rolling hills. It was heavily guarded, and for the Templars to spare such an amount of people, the cargo must be important. Although Connor would rather be putting his efforts into finding his Father, he couldn't ignore the Templar movement in his wake.
For the past few weeks, Caleb had caught Connor up to speed with recent events. Apparently, one of the reasons that the Natives were being so belligerent was because Britain finally pulled out their troops and North Carolina tried to cede the territory to the fledgling United States Congress. Congress still hadn't taken responsibility for the territory, and there wasn't any guarantee that they would. That left several hundred miles of land for the Natives and Colonists to fight over, with no mediator in sight. At least both sides were weakened. The Natives had lost their British support shortly before the Colonists lost North Carolina's proprietorship.
While Connor didn't care to embroil himself in politics at the moment, he understood what that meant for him; The Templars were mobilizing. They were going to take advantage of the Colonists' power vacuum and take the land for themselves, much like how they tried to do in Florida.
Templars, there were always Templars.
Throughout his journey from the Mississippi, the amount of Templars he saw he could count on one hand. But as soon as he passed into North Carolina, they were everywhere, crawling out of the woodwork like termites and making it difficult to move around unnoticed. Connor caught wind of the new Templar Grandmaster staying in town and he made a mental note to take care of him before he became a real threat. They were already transporting weapons from location to location in convoys.
Connor heard a low bird call—a signal from Caleb.
He leaped out from the bushes, pistol firing at an unsuspecting Templar as he rounded on another with his tomahawk swishing through the air in deadly, magnificent arcs. Caleb provided him support from a distance. In the past few weeks, Connor had come to truly appreciate his friend's impeccable aim. It was only comparable to Clipper's skill with firearms.
The Templars were ready for a fight, but Connor was certain that they hadn't expected the Mentor of the Brotherhood of all people. The battle was quick and dirty and the Templars fell one by one. After Connor wiped his bloody tomahawk in the grass, he finally checked the cargo. It was weapons, lots of weapons.
He began rummaging through the goods as Caleb jogged up when he heard movement. Immediately, Connor tucked a knife in his hand and Caleb leveled his pistol. There was someone in the cargo.
"Show yourself now," Connor ordered.
He thought about using his Eagle Sense to try and peer into the mess, but overuse of his second sight had been giving him migraines lately. Caleb had convinced him to cease using his gift for a few days and for once, Connor readily agreed. He had exerted his eyes and they were still recovering.
Hesitant movement came from behind a few crates of guns. Then, a hand peeked out from the edge, open palmed and shaking slightly.
"D-don't shoot! I'm coming out!" a boy said. The other hand appeared as well as a sign of good gesture as a boy, too old to really be called a boy but still too young to be a man, slowly edged out from behind the crates. His eyes were wide with trepidation and his long, dark hair was filthy and barely tied back in a ponytail.
"Who are you? Why are you here?" Connor asked.
"I'm just a stowaway! I couldn't afford passage, so I crawled inside this convoy!" the boy all but pleaded.
Connor narrowed his eyes. He knew a lie when he heard one, even if they were lies that he wanted to believe.
"Tell me the truth," Connor called him out on it.
The boy froze for a moment.
"Get out," Caleb ordered, motioning with his pistol. If the Sharpshooter had to fire a round into the convoy, then there was a chance that it could blow. They still didn't know how much gunpowder was stored under the weapons.
The boy slowly and carefully climbed out of the wagon, his hands still raised in the air. A small bag was looped around his waist and a worn, leather bound journal fell out. He made a noise and hesitated as if to pick it up, but the click of the hammer on Caleb's pistol was enough warning to forgo the notion. Either the convoy must have been traveling for some time or the boy was terrified that Caleb would shoot because his legs were shaky as a newborn deer and he was pale as a sheet. He stumbled and fell over the edge of the wagon with a short cry and Connor caught him easily around the chest. The Assassin was about to hoist the boy back up before he froze.
Connor's brain shorted out. It completely ceased functioning for seconds that felt like an eternity.
The boy's chest…it was…not a boy's chest…
With a small, strangled sound, Connor immediately dropped the stranger in the dirt as if he had been burned.
"Uh, my deepest apologies! I didn't mean to—I was trying to help and I—It wasn't my intention to touch you there, Ma'am!" Connor stuttered hopelessly.
Caleb looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "…You didn't know that was a girl?"
Connor frowned at his friend, his dark cheeks flushed in embarrassment. He opened his mouth, but he was at a loss for what to say, so he merely shook his head.
Meanwhile, the young woman climbed back to her shaky feet. "It's okay, really. I mean… I'm dressed like a boy. People are supposed to think that I'm a boy. It's a disguise," she said with a small pout. She raised her hands in the air again, a faint blush appearing on her face. Her breasts were likely bound, but now that Connor knew that the stranger was a young woman, he couldn't unsee her more feminine features. Her jawline was too narrow and her eyelashes too long to belong to a man. And of course, even though the baggy waistcoat and breeches hid her figure well, Connor had felt her chest.
"My name's Mallow. At least…that's what all my friends call me," she said.
Connor composed himself once more and tried to steer his brain back on track. "I am called Connor. Why are you here? And why are you pretending to be a boy?" he asked.
She looked uncomfortable for a moment, clearly trying to decide what to say. "I…I was traveling and…and I was helping a friend."
Both Assassins glanced at each other, not entirely certain what part of that statement was true and what was false.
"Who is your friend?" Caleb asked slowly.
"None of your business," she pouted.
Connor sighed and picked up the fallen journal. He didn't have time for this. "Leave. Now. And don't return."
Mallow made a panicked noise as she reached out for the journal. Connor snatched it away upon instinct and raised an eyebrow.
"Give that back! That's not yours!" she huffed, clearly struggling between lunging for the journal and staying still.
Connor flipped open the cover and his eyes momentarily widened in shock. The name on the inside… it was…
"This is not your journal, either," Connor said lowly, under his breath. He thought that maybe it was a forgery, but no, he knew that handwriting. The Native had spent too many nights staying up well into the morning, reading and re-reading his father's journal. This was his. This was the journal that Gillian McCarthy and Matthew Davenport had been seeking.
A sudden savage anger filled him and his brows creased deeply. "Explain yourself," he said lowly, dangerously. "Why do you have this?" Was Haytham already killed? Did the Templars get him?
Mallow inhaled sharply at the tone and backed away from Connor, moving closer to the pistol aimed at her head. "…I'm not a Templar, but I'm not an Assassin either, if that's what you're asking…" she started.
Connor frowned at her. He briefly tried to use his Eagle Sense to see her allegiance, but as soon as he tried to blink the world into the hues of blue and white, another migraine lit a fire behind his eye sockets. He winced as the colors of the world distorted and then returned to his own vision.
"I want an explanation. Now." he growled.
Her nostrils flared as if she could smell the danger. "What guarantee do I have that you won't kill me?"
"Talk, Girlie!" Caleb interjected. "We're tired of your bullshit and if he won't pull the answers out of your hide while you're kickin' and screamin', then I sure will!"
She thought it over for a moment more, perspiration beading on her brow as she licked her dry lips. "A few weeks ago, I stole some money from a guy. I thought that he was just a regular drunk bastard, but it turned out he was a Templar. Just as the rotten asshole was about to kill me, a man called Haytham Kenway stepped in and gutted him. To repay him for saving my life, I've been helping him.
"I don't know much about Templars and Assassins outside of what Mr. Kenway told me, but I know that the Templars are up to no good. This convoy was supposed to go to one of their weapon stores," she smiled ruefully. "I was gonna blow it all up, all the weapons. The last thing we need out here is another war, and you can't fight a war without guns."
"Why do you have his journal?" Connor asked.
"Mr. Kenway said that he had important business to finish up. He…he didn't know if he was gonna make it back, I guess. He just gave me the journal for safekeeping, told me to not let it fall into Templar hands."
"Why do the Templars want the journal," Caleb asked, motioning to it with the barrel of his gun.
Mallow looked uncertain for a moment. She shifted from foot to foot before finally answering. "I don't know. I thought that it might be scandalous or something, but the journal's in code. I can't read it," she admitted. "You know it means that I can't let you have it either, right? You guys may be Assassins, but I can't just hand over something without knowing why it's so damn important."
"But you would protect it with your life?" Connor asked skeptically.
Mallow nodded. "Not because of what it is, but because of who it's for. Mr. Kenway saved my life. If he wants me to protect his journal, then I'll do my best, even if it means you two'll shoot me or stab me or however it is you Assassins kill."
So Haytham was alive and fighting against the Templars. Connor still didn't know the reasoning, but he knew that the Templars wanted him dead probably just as much. But why had he come to North Carolina, where the Templar bias was still strong, especially if he had sensitive information that couldn't fall into enemy hands? He could've gone anywhere else in the Frontier, but instead, Haytham chose to walk into the wolf's den. Unless…
The new Grandmaster Templar was in town.
"What business did Haytham have?" Connor asked.
Mallow shrugged her narrow shoulders the best as she could with her arms still in the air. "I don—"
"Stop lying!"
She jerked a little and sighed. "He went to go kill the Templar leader, the Grandmaster he called him."
"Where?"
"If I tell you where, then you've gotta give me back the journal and promise not to kill me," she demanded.
Connor jerked his head at Caleb and the two backed up a few paces. They turned their mouths away from Mallow, but kept her in their peripheral.
"I don't trust her," Caleb said, hushed.
Connor nodded. "Neither do I," he admitted. "She is hiding something and I do not want to risk our lives unnecessarily."
"But what if she's telling the truth, at least about some things?"
"If Haytham is attempting to attack the Grandmaster alone, he may not…succeed. We cannot allow him to fall without discovering what knowledge he has."
"So you wanna help him take out the Grandmaster?" Caleb verified.
Connor nodded.
"Well, it's not like it wasn't on our agenda anyway!" Caleb grinned widely.
The Native Assassin turned back to Mallow. "Deal. If you take us to the Templar Grandmaster's location, we will spare your life."
"And the journal?" she asked, eying the binding still gripped in Connor's hand.
"Will only return to your keeping after we find Haytham."
She glared at Connor with fiery determination. "Fine, but only so long as you keep me out of the fights. I've got good aim with throwing rocks, and I can run away really fast, but that's about the extent of my abilities."
Connor shook on it and Caleb slowly lowered his pistol. It was going to be a busy night.
Later
Haytham grunted as he was shoved again, the Templar's hand thrusting firmly into the center of his back, nearly making him stumble across the uneven gray bricks beneath his feet. The shackles on his wrist jangled in an unpleasant reminder of his predicament.
"The Grandmaster will sort you out, traitor," the Templar mocked as they arrived in the dungeon. Haytham wrinkled his nose at the stench of mold and stale piss.
"I never forget a face. There won't be anywhere you can run that I won't find you," Haytham began, calmly and confidently. "I'll kill you before the night is out."
The Templar guard seemed to hesitate, as if to consider just how Haytham could do that. "Y-you'll be dead before then! Just wait until the Grandmaster judges you!" Behind the false bravado, the man sounded like he was ready to wet his pants. As he should. He saw Haytham kill over a dozen of his comrades before the ex-Templar fell.
Haytham smirked behind the dried blood on the side of his face, feeling the tightness of it like a mask. His aging body just wasn't what it used to be and he had been careless to get caught. But Haytham was, above all else, a man of opportunity. And if the opportunity wasn't readily presented to him, then he would make one.
The Templar guard threw open a cell door and roughly shoved Haytham inside. However, the lad didn't get the chance to close the door before Haytham kicked the iron bars. Hard. The heavy metal door clanged open on the Templar, causing him to smack his head on the wall with a resounding thud and slump to the floor.
Haytham made a mental note of his own injuries. His left shoulder felt as if it was on fire and his head throbbed where he had been clobbered with a makeshift club. Other than that, he seemed in sound condition. He was testing the length of the shackle chain when he heard several pairs of footsteps echoing down the hallway. He slipped over to the doorframe and barely had time to plaster himself flat against the jamb. The first guard to walk through the door let out a shocked yelp as Haytham shouldered him hard enough to send the Templar sprawling.
A lot of yelling and cursing ensued as the next Templar smashed the butt of his pistol into the back of Haytham's neck, making him stumble. Another Templar grabbed the traitor by his shoulders, adding extra pressure to the one that was surely dislocated, and hauled him upright. Haytham snarled angrily as he struggled. Altogether, there were only three Templars in the dungeon with him.
He could take them.
Finally, the Grandmaster Templar entered the room with a slow, condescending clap. He was a heavyset man, with feet that looked far too small for his legs and pale, wispy blond hair framing his beady, watery blue eyes.
"Why, if it isn't Haytham Kenway," he drawled, a faint British accent tinting his words. "If you wanted to meet your successor, all you had to do was ask…" He paused to throw Haytham's hidden blade and bracer aside—no doubt a gift of proof that his guards had caught the traitor.
"You're a disgrace to the Order," Haytham sneered. "You're not fit to call yourself Grandmaster."
-SMACK!-
Haytham's head snapped to the side. His face reddened where he had been backhanded and a fresh bead of blood oozed from his split lip.
"You know nothing of being a proper Grandmaster, Traitor! You spent your time playing in the shadows, fraternizing with Assassins, and trying to keep the Templar prowess from the public eye! THAT is a disgrace!" the Grandmaster shouted, his jowls wobbling in rage as his face blossomed into a brilliant shade of puce. "We found your journal, Traitor! We know that you murdered Grandmaster Reginald Birch AND that you allowed your bastard of a son to dismantle the Colonial Templar influence from right under your nose! And you had the nerve to survive your final battle with him and not even tell your own Order!"
"Bah, you're not even fit to call yourself a Templar," Haytham countered. "You sailed away overseas before the war even started and only saw fit to return when it was over. You preach aggressive tactics without considering the ramifications it will have on the general populace. You declare a violent war when you've never fought a war."
Such a comment only earned him another backhand across his cheek. His hat toppled to the floor.
"You're a ruined old fool! I will do what I must to change this world for the better, even if it means writing sightless morons like yourself from history!" the Grandmaster spittled as he painfully grasped the back of Haytham's gray hair. "Just give me the journal and tell me where the Artifact is and I'll make your death as quick and painless as possible."
Haytham raised his lip in annoyance. "…I like that hat."
The Grandmaster only had the briefest of clueless reactions before Haytham first kneed him in the groin and when the grip on his hair went lax, headbutt him in the nose.
Haytham hopped into the air, his knees up high as his shackles slipped beneath him by a hair's breadth and a prayer. He only just had enough time to slip the Grandmaster between himself and the line of pistol fire. The ample body shielded Haytham quite well, and the Templars shouted in rage and frustration. They had killed their own Grandmaster.
The ex-Templar made short work of the other guards. It was child's play since his arms were finally in front of him, and the shackle chain was positively splendid for snapping necks. Once the dogs had been put down, Haytham rummaged through their pockets until he found a key to his shackles. He didn't have much time until others would investigate the gunshots. After setting his shoulder (something that made his head swoon with agony), the traitor grabbed his bracer and slipped it back on, grateful for the familiar weight. He scooped up his hat and turned to the sound of whimpering and pained moans.
"Oh God, oh God, please don't kill me, I don't want to die," blood sprayed from the Grandmaster's mouth with each word as he clutched the bullet holes in his chest. "Mercy, mercymercymercy!" he wheezed.
Haytham tilted his head to the side, debating leaving him there to suffer until he bled out. Instead, he crouched down beside the writhing mass and ejected his hidden blade across the Grandmaster's neck. The Grandmaster gurgled, his hands clawing at the gaping, bloody wound as his piggy-eyes glassed over.
"I'd tell you to go to hell, but I can't think of a hell that would have such a sniveling coward like yourself."
With that, Haytham grabbed a few more weapons and left the dungeon. He backtracked along the route the guard initially led him through, expecting to meet dozens of guards along the way. Instead, his escape seemed eerily quiet. There was no one coming to investigate the gunshots in the dungeon. In fact, there weren't guards even in the hallways! Haytham was about to internally criticize the late-Grandmaster's lack of security when he heard the faintest snippet of gunfire and shouting.
Well, best not go that way.
But try as he might, almost all of the underground hallways led back up to the main courtyard. He had no choice. Perhaps it was the Chickamuaga attacking again. They were particularly hostile towards any and everyone. Although Haytham doubted that he could slip by without being noticed, he would stand a chance. His shoulder was sagging in pain, but at least it obeyed his commands once more.
Though of all sights to see when he snuck out into the courtyard, he did not expect this.
Connor was fighting the Templars away with expert skill while someone else, probably another Assassin, was sniping men off one by one.
Damn, so the fool boy had found him. Haytham knew that Connor had been chasing after him like a lost puppy ever since Florida, but he didn't expect the boy to go to THESE extremes. Breaking into the Grandmaster's fort, making a ruckus, and killing every Templar on sight seemed rash. Well, he never did credit Connor with prized executive skills.
Haytham used the commotion to slip away and find an exit to the fort that he could climb. His bad shoulder could hold his weight, but he had to make it count. Finally, he found a route and turned to glance at Connor again in the courtyard.
The boy was still holding his own, his head held high and his tomahawk held higher, but Haytham could see the signs of fatigue. Connor had been fighting for the better part of fifteen minutes already and it was beginning to take its toll. Against his better thought, he whistled loud during a lull in the steady stream of guards.
Connor glanced up and seemed to hesitate for just a moment. Ah, the boy must be using his Eagle Vision. Haytham motioned for his son to follow and Connor hooked his tomahawk back onto his belt and made a bird-call signal to his companion to follow.
Haytham went ahead and scaled the edge of the fort wall, his shoulder protesting at once. From there, escape was just a hay cart and a Leap of Faith away. The two Assassins followed right after.
Haytham brushed the straws of hay from his cloak as Connor climbed out of the cart, hay sticking to his hood. The two stared at each other, jaws locked. They weren't drinking in the moment like good friends or even a family should, but rather they sized each other up. Words clogged up in their throats, leaving them grimacing and glaring at each other in silence until the sniper performed his Leap and climbed safely from the hay cart.
"…Father," Connor finally offered stiffly.
"Son…" Haytham replied.
Another lapse of silence.
Then "Wait, wait a minute," the sniper was clearly baffled. "You two are related?!"
Both father and son looked to the man, the verbal affirmation unnecessary.
"But Father, how did you survi—" Connor started.
"Irrelevant," Haytham interrupted.
"And is the current Grandmaster-"
"Dead."
Another brief silence before they heard the beats of hoofs riding towards them. Ah, reinforcements. The Templar cavalry began firing their rifles and pistols at them and the trio ducked and broke apart.
"Well, as enlightening as this has been, gentlemen," Haytham nodded his farewell and ran to the nearest rider. "Another time then!" He dragged the rider off, mounted the stolen horse, and galloped away, leaving Connor and Caleb to fight.
Connor couldn't help the smirk pulling at the edge of his lips as he readied his weapons with renewed vigor. "…Bastard."
