The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 14

Sweaty fingers balled into fists as Altaïr's 'Prey'—a gray robed instructor whose face was swathed in cloth—stepped from the darkness of the alleyway.

This was it. The moment of truth; the moment where Altaïr's plan would come to fruition.

Or wouldn't. There was that possibility, too.

He didn't spend time worrying about the consequences of failure, however. If this plan didn't work, he would simply try another. No sense in worrying about it. Altaïr needed to keep his mind clear. Focused. Sharp. Like an Assassin.

Like his destiny.

The Instructor hesitated on the border between sunlight and shadow, but did not see Altaïr pressed against the wall just to the left of the alley. His pale gray robes stood out in the passageway's shade; ghostly and ethereal. He looked around, bright black eyes scanning the deserted lane with a falcon's scrutiny, before stepping out onto the road.

Altaïr acted quickly. Mustering every ounce of speed he possessed, he leaped forward and grabbed his superior around the waist, pawing at the man's belt with his small, grubby hands. He kicked at he man's legs with his feet, trying to knock his larger opponent off balance.

The Instructor, surprised by Altaïr's sudden attack, let out a cry and began to tug at Altaïr's arms in an attempt to remove the boy. His eyes, the only facial feature revealed by his mask and hood, took on the size and shape of small plates as he felt his balance waiver, then crumble entirely. Boy and man tumbled to the earth in a kicking and spitting heap.

The Instructor, however, was not without skill. It did not take him long to work his knees between himself and the snarling Apprentice and drive the aforementioned joint deep into the small boy's stomach.

Altaïr went flying backwards with an "Umph!", the wind streaming from his lungs, and landed smack on his back on the hard packed lane. He sat up, gasping for air, and glared daggers at the Instructor.

"Give… me… the scroll!" he growled between stolen breaths. "Give it… to me!"

The Instructor sighed and rubbed his right hand gingerly. It was bleeding; a score of teeth marks marred his tan flesh.

"You fight more like a cat than a man," said the Instructor.

Altaïr had recovered sufficiently enough to spit out: "At least I don't hide in alleys for hours like a tortoise in its shell!"

The Instructor blinked. "You saw me go in there?"

Altaïr ground his teeth. "Yes."

"Oh. I didn't know. You were well hidden."

The sudden display of civil niceties threw Altaïr off guard. He had been expecting barbs or a despairing remark, not a compliment. "I, that is… thank you."

The Instructor sniffed slightly. "You're welcome."

Silence, broken only by the wind and Altaïr's harsh breaths, descended upon the pair.

"So…" said the Instructor, "are you going to come at me again?"

"… when I've caught my breath."

"Ah. I see." He rubbed the back of his hooded head. "But… try to hurry, please. I have to report to the fortress."

Altaïr's battle-ready face went slack and took on a look of confusion. "Really? Why?"

The Instructor blinked. "'Why,' you ask? Have you not heard new of the summons?"

Altaïr rose to his knees, averting his eyes to the dust at the Instructor's feet. He coughed once; twice. "No," he said, and began to cough again. His shoulders shook with suppressed tremors.

"Oh." Confusion was evident in the superior's eyes. "But… that boy… did you see a small boy come out of the alley a few minutes ago? He informed me of the summons. Where is he now? Did you see where he went?"

Altaïr didn't answer; he just kept coughing. The sharp exhales of air grew louder and louder the longer he sat crouched in the dust.

Alarmed, the Instructor took a step towards him. "I didn't think I hurt you that badly when I hit you." He attributed the coughing to pain, it seemed. "Are you alright? Is there blood? If there is, I could—"

Altaïr couldn't take it any more. The coughs abruptly turned into raucous bursts of laughter, and the Instructor's face paled. He took a hasty step backwards, his eyes even more confused. "Why are you—?" Then his eyes darkened. "You mock me. Why?"

Altaïr could hardly talk from laughing. So, instead, he pointed at the run-down market stall behind the Instructor and cried: "You dolt!"

The Instructor wheeled around… then his shoulders slumped. He began to laugh, too.

Malik stood a mere two meters away, and in his right hand he held aloft a scroll.

"I apologize, Brother," Malik said repentantly to the Instructor. "But while you were busy with my friend, I took the liberty of retrieving this from you." He gestured vaguely with the scroll.

Altaïr stood up; his laughter had subsided. "The whole point of me attacking you was to get you off guard and focused on me," he explained. "My friend waited for an opportunity, and when he saw one, he struck."

"And the coughing?" the Instructor asked, looking smug. "Was that a signal?"

"Um… no," said Altaïr. The Instructor's face fell. "I was simply trying not to laugh as Malik fumbled with your carrying bag."

"And you mentioned a small boy," said Malik gently. "He was another friend of ours, sent by us to lure you from your hiding place. He saw how the Instructors did not pursue those with scrolls, or seek to take back the scrolls—that's why we felt safe sending him in to talk to you, despite him having possession of a scroll."

The Instructor nodded gravely. "I see." He smiled—well, his eyes crinkled up at the corners, at least—and said: "The two of you made good use of teamwork. What are your names?"

They told him, and the Instructor's smile deepened.

"I will remember the two of you," he said. He began to walk down the lane, towards the fortress, but stopped. Sheepishly, he asked: "I suppose that the summons were entirely false, then?"

Altaïr and Malik nodded. "Our friend made all of it up on his own, within the span of a moment," Malik said proudly.

Laughter from the Instructor. "And what was your tale-teller's name?"

"Sena," said Altaïr. "He is the quickest of the Apprentices—both on his feet and with his head."

A nod. "I see." The Instructor redirected his steps towards the alley. "I will head for home, now, in an indirect way so as to avoid further… ah… confrontations." He smiled, and disappeared into the alley's gloom. His light robes faded quickly into obscurity. From the darkness, he called, "I will be watching the two of you. Good luck," and disappeared entirely.

"That went well," Malik remarked. He walked over to Altaïr and extended his hand "Here," he said, and handed Altaïr the scroll.

Altaïr stared at the cylinder for a moment, parchment cool beneath his hand. The red braid holding it tight was of fine cord; silk, probably. Triumph rushed through him, but then drained away.

"No," Altaïr said, tearing his eyes away from the scroll. "This belongs to you." He took Mali's hand, forced it open, and pressed the scroll into his friend's palm.

Malik's face contorted in confusion. "What are you doing?"

Altaïr patiently repeated: "This belongs to you."

"But you're the one who took a knee to the belly for it!" Malik protested, trying to force the scroll back into Altaïr's hands.

Altaïr took a step back and shook his head. "No," he said. "It is yours. You stole it from him. What you steal, you steal for yourself."

Altaïr fell silent, insides burning at his own words. He did not want to give up the scroll. He had endured pain for it, after all.

But then again… something else, something more noble, had swum up from the depths of his amnesiatic soul, and would not allow him to take back what his friend had rightfully—yes, rightfully—stolen for himself.

"We'll just get another one for me," Altaïr concluded, breaking free from his own thoughts. Though he kept an outward mask of surety on his youthful face, his mind was troubled. Despite all that he knew to be right and just, he wanted that scroll. Badly. "Best not waste time. It's nearly mid afternoon."

Malik's reluctance was evidenced by the look on his face. "I… suppose," he murmured, carefully tucking the scroll into his tunic. He disliked the thought of taking the scroll nearly as much as Altaïr disliked giving it away… but, still, a wicked little thrill of accomplishment whispered through him like a foul wind. Malik covered it well enough, but all the same… he had won where Altaïr had failed. For the very first time, in fact. Should he not be happy?

The two friends stood in silence for a moment, looking at one another, each unable to determine the other's emotions. Lucky for them, really, because had they known, the friendship might not have lasted as long as it did.

"Altaïr, do you want to—" Malik began, but stopped. He and Altaïr turned in unison towards the hay bale where Sena had been hiding. Voices, muffled, drifted out from behind the cart. One, high pitched and scared, was obviously Sena. The other…

Altaïr's eyes narrowed, and he looked sharply at Malik. Malik stared back, eyes concerned, then jerked his head at the cart. The exchange's meaning was obvious enough:

Altaïr: "What as that?"

And Malik: "Not sure. Shall we investigate?"

The resulting teamwork was nearly flawless. With nothing save a jerk of thumb and a dart of eye, they intentionally split up to circle the cart from opposite sides, footsteps silent and lithe as cats'.

What they found was not nearly so graceful a scene. Sena—brave little Sena—was surrounded by the worst three thugs in the academy: Bashan, Hashat, and Madar. They stood in a circle around the small boy, pushing him between them so he stumbled from bully to bully in a never ending cycle. The delinquents laughed and sneered at Sena as he fell to the ground at Bashan's feet.

"You thought you could get away, didn't you?" Bashan asked, crouching low in the dust so he and the prostrate Sena were eye to eye. "You thought you could steal the scroll we were getting from the Instructor without getting caught, didn't you?" He leered like a skull; eyes mocking and mouth toothy. "Well, I've got news for you, boy," he whispered, grabbing Sena by the collar and leveling him upright. "Stealing from Bashan will get you naught but bruises for your trouble." And with that, he smacked Sena squarely across the face with his open palm.

Malik was the first to react. "Stop!" he demanded, rushing forward. "You have no quarrel with him!"

Bashan wheeled around, the dazed Sena dangling from his fist. "Look who it is!" he laughed. "Hashat, Madar—say hello! We have company!"

"Put him down!" Malik hissed, fists balling into tension-wound blocks.

"Or you'll what?" Bashan asked mockingly. He jiggled Sena a bit, and the boy's lax arms flopped at his sides. "Hit me? Hurt me? Kill me?" His smile split his blocky face like a scar. "In case you haven't noticed, you're outnumbered three-to-one, and little Sena's in no position to aid you."

Malik stood his ground, but his eyes flickered to Altaïr. For a moment, he debated revealing Altaïr's presence, but decided against it. Their eyes met for a moment, and Altaïr knew Malik's thoughts. He would stay put until things got dicey. Keeping surprise on your side was an essential lesson for all Assassins, apprentices or otherwise. "Put him down," Malik repeated, and waited. He tried not to look at Altaïr, but he could see him hunkering down beneath the cart of hay in an effort to stay hidden.

Bashan must have seen something in Malik's eyes, for he took a small step backward. Hashat and Madar, seeing their leader's discomfiture, walked to slowly his side to back him up. Madar cracked his knuckles menacingly at Malik, and grinned. The expression was appallingly unintelligent.

"Fine," Bashan said gruffly, "I'll put him down." He made to toss Sena in Malik's direction, and Malik tensed. Bashan, however, did not throw the smaller boy. Instead, he pulled Sena closer to him, and, smiling, reached under Sena's shirt and took the scroll he had so obviously tried to conceal there.

Then he tossed Sena at Malik. Malik caught him in his arms and laid him gently on the ground.

"I'm not giving this up, though," Bashan said casually. He tossed the scroll from palm to palm.

"You would pass with someone else's scroll?" Malik spat. "You're despicable."

Bashan smiled again, and Malik did not like it. Not one bit. He disliked Bashan's next words even less. "Oh, I'm not going to graduate with it. I can wait another year." He tossed the scroll high into the air, then caught it in surprisingly nimble fingers. "I have… special plans for this."

Malik studied the older boy. "What are you going to do?"

Bashan grimaced. "I've taken this test four times. Did you know that?"

Malik stared confusedly at the seemingly random admission.

"Well, I have," said Bashan. "And every damn year it is the same thing. 'Find a scroll! Don't open it!' Frankly, I'm sick of it." He began to pace. "It drives me insane. Firstly, the task itself would be simple, but for all of the other Apprentices running around wreaking havoc. And secondly—" He smirked. "—I kill myself wondering what they've written in the scrolls."

It dawned on Malik in a flash of insight. "You're going to look inside the scroll, aren't you?" he asked. "And then blame it on Sena."

"Correct," said Bashan, and began to unknot the silken cord.

AUTHOR BLARGH OF DOOM

So I realize this chapter cuts off abruptly, but I've never left you guys with a serious cliffhanger, so… no time like the present to get started! And I know that there wasn't much action in this chapter, but… more next, I promise. And it should be noted that this took me a grand total of... an hour to write. It's pretty rough, but it gets the job done.

How will Alti (my new nickname for Altaïr, by the way, is Alti. Desi and Alti. Woot!) and Malik and Sena far against Bashan and his goons? Find out next time. I think you guys will all like what happens… MWA HA HA!!! Cliffy!

Anyway, so Devil May Cry 4 came out yesterday…

MY SANITY IS SAVED!!!!!

It rocks. It fucking rocks. Sorry for the explicit, but it does. Truly. Get it… if you dare. It's fucking HARD on normal mode! But that can't stop me… oh, no, nothing can when it comes to me and DMC. We're inSEParable.

And remember how I mentioned I like hickory smocked burgers with bacon and cheese and extra sauce (mmm… sauce)? Yeah, the restaurant I frequented that carried them closed indefinitely for renovations. WHERE THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO GET MY FIX NOW, DAMMIT?! God, I sound like a junkie! For burgers… with extra sauce… mmm… sauce…

ANYWAY… yeah, I totally got my braces off. WOOT! No more metal mouth!

Any of you guys heard the song "The Chosen (Assassin's Creed)" by Brainpower and Intwine? It's a great mix of rap and rock inspired by the game—you guessed it!—ASSASSIN'S FUCKING CREED, DUDE! Check it out! It's on iTunes and Amazon; I know that for sure cuz I downloaded it XD

Okay, couple of more relevant announcements to make. You people who've faved my story are getting numerous… Scarily so. And you people who've put my story on your alert lists… well, you guys outnumber the favers by, like, another half or something? Close, anyway. And I got my historic 100th review a few days ago… crazy! Thanks for all your support, guys! You make my day! Er… week? Until AC2/DMC5/other-cool-game comes out, at least… then you'll get replaced, but hey! Whatever, right? I'm just a nameless, faceless writer you randomly stumbled across; why would you care?

But, I care about you guys. Lemme know if I've left stuff out that needed to be said, or if you're confused on ANY issue, okay? I need to keep my readers happy and informed!

All for now. Cheers!