Assassin's Creed: Reclamation of Shadows
Without Words
His mind was blank as flashes of stone and earth and darkened sky tumbled past his vision, but the eagle of him reacted, and flared its wings. As Ezio slammed shoulder first against a wooden trellis jutting out from the building, he snatched out at it to slow his fall, ignoring the gashes the splintering ribs left on his hands. His left found a momentary hold, before the rest of the frame shattered, dropping him again, though allowing him to swing within reach of the wall.
He scrabbled for purchase against passing window sills and uneven stones, practically feeling the threat of the path below rushing up to break him, until finally, his grip caught. He jerked to a halt at the midpoint seam where the building melded into the sheer stone of the cliff, gasping a curse as his wounded arm burned, and digging boots and crimson-stained fingers into the minute cracks of the wall. The broken rail of a low window had saved him, and he clung to it as a raptor to its prey.
Even after he had steadied his hold, he refused to move for a span, shuddering minutely, and trying to ease his breath and the deluge of adrenaline in his blood. At a ringing chuckle from above, however, he flicked a burning glare up towards the roof edge he had been thrown from. The thieves were in satisfied retreat, but Lanz took a moment to salute him mockingly, before disappearing from sight.
Ezio prepared to follow, his eagle spirit livid, but as cries of shock drifted up from far below him, he quickly turned his attention down to the path, discounting the yet sickening distance he was from it.
Even from this height, he could see that the pieces of the trellis he had broken had smashed against the ground, startling the crowd and drawing their attention to him. Feeling their eyes and knowing that he was too tempting a target for any coming guards, a white shape painted against dark stone, the Assassin pulled in a slow, steadying breath, then released his hold on the wall.
The slight incline of the cliff face slowed his fall as he slid against it, but the force still felt shattering as he reached its end and was thrown to the ground in a tangle of robes. Stifling any sounds of pain as he landed hard on his side, he rolled unsteadily to his feet and staggered a few steps before forcing himself to a run. The civilians parted for him, completely bewildered at the eagle that had seemingly fallen from the sky.
As he sprinted for cover in the nearby ruins, ignoring the ache in his entire body, Ezio realized that the horseman who had shot him had evidently managed to rally his allies, who were now thundering down the Campidoglio steps in pursuit.
Irately, he thought on the fact that the jackals had successfully disarmed him of both rapier and short blade. Admittedly though, that mattered little at the moment – despite the crossbow bolt having only glanced off his right arm, the limb was not responding well after needing to support his weight so soon after being injured. The impact from the fall had done nothing to help either.
The Assassin rubbed at the numbness in his arm as he whistled sharply, throwing the summons for his horse into the air before flicking behind the pillars of the ancient forum. Masked by the thickly woven shadows, he stilled briefly, knowing that his mount would reach him within a few seconds, but that the guards would as well. He needed a distraction.
Shutting his eyes as the clatter of hoof and boot drew steadily nearer, he took a throwing knife from his belt and waited, coiled right until the lead horseman cleared the corner. He shot rather brazenly into the stallion's path, the sudden flare of white startling it into a rear. Ezio fell to one knee to dodge the lashing hooves, and threw his knife up under the crook of the horse's foreleg.
The beast's piercing whinny of pain was not enough to warn the charging soldiers following just behind it, and several of them stumbled directly into the indignant animal, and suffered powerful blows as it thrashed. The nobleman swiftly skirted the crowd of soldiers, fitting several throwing knives between his fingers and flinging them into the confused throng.
He had not had time to aim, but the slivers of metal found their marks all the same, burrowing into shoulder and back and leg. The further cries of the guards only added to the chaos, and through it, he caught sight of his white steed approaching, just another phantom in the clouded night.
Ezio turned and ran from it a moment, matching its pace before catching hold of the saddle as it passed him without breaking a step. He swung onto its back and urged it deeper into the Antico, seeking to place the imposing, tiered arches of the Colosseo between himself and his pursuers.
He kept to the path that hugged the curved wall of the structure, but flicked into its recesses as soon as he was out of sight. The overgrown arena was shrouded and silent as he rode through it, the actors who often inhabited it having gone home for the night. His steed snorted overly loud in the dark, and he hushed it gently, leading it to the rear of the stage.
The old props of crossed wood and draped canvas hid him well enough, the backdrop having been constructed for such a purpose. Finally chancing a sigh and drawing his stallion to a careful halt, the Assassin slid to the ground and leaned on a nearby bench to tend to his fresh injury, rather impatiently stopping the blood flow with a knotted band of cloth.
As he finished and flexed his limbs to check for any further injuries, a hushed whisper of a voice floated to him on the dead air, tensing him and hackling his eagle. He cocked his head to listen, identifying the tone as female and oddly ringing, as if reverberating over marbled stone. The words were unintelligible though, lost over the distance.
Slowly regaining his feet, he followed the quiet voice that seemed to come from along the Colosseo's edge, his eyes flashing with his Vision in an attempt to reach out for the source. However, as he searched, he all but tripped over a low grate built into one of the many dilapidated walls encircling the arena.
Curious, he crouched before it, running a light hand over the arched metal that enclosed its opening. A small lock glinted in the swinging grate, and he released his hidden blade without a second thought, swiftly picking at the pins of the old lock.
A dry clack and he was through, the fading echo of iron giving testament to the significant length of the passage. Slowly, he pushed back the grate, staring a little indecisively at the blackness within it and hearing the voice - a shade clearer now - continuing on in that lilting drone. It was odd, but somehow, it felt familiar.
The eagle of him edged him on, drawn as if to an ocean siren, and the Assassin finally gave in, and plunged into the dark. He slid again for the second time that night, and was soon loosed onto the floor of a wide corridor lit with distant torches.
He stood carefully, brushing the dust of ages from his robes, and peered around the surprisingly bright passage. The rusty bars of the cells lining the walls stirred the whispers of capture in him, and he shifted the fingers of his left hand a little restlessly, disliking the memory.
It did not take him long to be distracted from it however, as he realized that the voice had stopped. Even his breathing seemed to echo in this narrow space, and he could not comprehend how the sound could have vanished so quickly.
Persistently, he wove deeper into the passageway, straining for any signs of movement or life. Eventually, he did hear snatches of voices and conversation again, but they were drastically unlike the haunting murmurs that had drawn him in. Instead, these seemed the exchanges of commoners, tones familiar to his memory, rather than to his spirit.
At this realization, Ezio crouched swiftly and ran up the nearest wall, flitting easily from the peak of a broken pillar to a raised archway, and settling in the lofty shadows overlooking a circular room. The fire-lit chamber was pierced through by a wide pillar at its center, and reverberated with the voices of a crowd of civilians who had gathered within it.
He glanced around them from above, recognizing at least a couple of the vigilantes Francesco had reprimanded at the Campidoglio, though not the Assassin apprentice himself. All spoke openly here, their emotions rearing wild and unchecked, as if they so passionately plotted the assassination of Julius Caesar himself.
This was the base of the resistance, he was sure, and after his rather disappointing attempt with the three at the Capitoline hill, he had at least learned to change his approach. Simply asking would not work for these who had felt the tyranny of the Borgia first-hand, who had witnessed body and brother fall to the sword and the lash and the noose.
Unlike he himself who saw the Order as his family, who felt that joining their ranks was like coming home, these rebels were drastically different. They only answered to action, only rose and rallied to deeds and accomplishments, not ideals. Though he loathed admitting it, Lanz had been correct that it would not be the promise of creeds and traditions that would unite these men.
Their decision to bind themselves to the Brotherhood could not come before the liberation of Rome, but after.
Taking a breath, he leapt into the room and landed lightly on his feet, pausing a moment until the vigilantes noticed him. There was a loud rustle of movement as alarmed faces turned to him, as weapons scraped from scabbards, but the conversation died like a candle flame in the wind.
There was silence, and in it, Ezio spoke.