Author's Note: Just take a minute and think about how many people are in Masyaf that you know the names to. Keep that in mind. :P
Part Twenty-Five: Death of a Master
"Get up."
Desmond rolled over.
"Get up!"
He buried his head further into the pillow, attempting to will himself back to sleep.
"Get up, Mr. Miles!"
Desmond groaned, raising his head and looking up at the looming form of Vidic, looking down at him with a smug smile. "Even earlier than usual, Doc," he mumbled. With a yawn, he stretched and sat up, feeling a distinct lack of rest still attempting to pull him down again.
Vidic just smiled like there was some private joke. "I'd like to get this over with as quickly as possible."
The grizzled man swept out of the room, lab coat swirling, so Desmond grumbled to himself and got up to shower and get ready for the day. "If you say so," he muttered.
Today was his seventh day as a captive. Surely they believed in a day of rest like the rest of humanity, didn't they?
Coming out it was unsurprising to see a large breakfast set out in front of him. There wasn't any talk of the Assassins from the previous day, and Lucy still looked pale from her place at the Animus. Vidic just looked out the window, sipping his coffee and barking at Desmond to hurry up.
Well, he didn't particularly care to hurry up to his death. Desmond dawdled and stalled as long as he could, savoring his juice, nibbling down his muffins and bagels and toast. But even doing such small things couldn't prevent the inevitable. This would be his last day alive if there wasn't a miracle.
"Don't look so glum, Mr. Miles," Vidic said, coming over and sitting in the other armchair. The doctor sipped his coffee. "Today is a historic day. One that will be remembered for years to come." The old fart chuckled. "Remembered by some of us, anyway."
Desmond didn't need to be reminded of his imminent demise.
Vidic grinned smugly, and offered a cup of coffee.
It wasn't to say Desmond wasn't tempted. Coffee was... coffee... But he wouldn't trust anything that Warden offered. If it was Lucy, that would be a different story. Vidick wasn't someone he would trust anything from.
"Why even bother being nice," he asked. "You're going to kill me so why even bother with something so petty?"
"Because, Mr. Miles," Vidic sat back, still smiling. "I'm not heartless."
Bullshit, but Desmond didn't say anything. Instead he finished his breakfast as slowly as he could and looked at the Animus.
With a heavy sigh, he sat down and looked at Lucy. She didn't look at him but he thought he had her attention regardless. He looked to the empty conference room, glanced around the room, and finally looked down to his hands.
There was nothing left to do.
No options available.
All he could do... was finish this memory...
With as much calm as he could muster, he lay back down.
Desmond didn't spawn in the city or at the keep, he spawned at the base of the mountain where the guards at the watchtower were horrified at the state of the master assassin and somehow he had managed to be on that black stallion they had heard nothing from the master. Desmond struggled to stay himself, he didn't want to synchronize with Altair stayed only long enough to water his horse and get a new set of whites the watchmen insisted on but he couldn't stop them from redressing his broken fingers and cut on his arm and demanding to know what was going on. Desmond dismounted in hopes of sneaking in unnoticed he could only tell the guards to be wary of a possible attack from the Crusaders and Saracens though he doubted either would strike, he could not bring himself to share the secrets with the others.
Breathing hard, Desmond tugged his horse up the valley, distance away from the tower helping some, but he knew it was futile. He wanted to know what was going on just as much as Altair and he would learn the truth even if it killed him in the process. Desmond planted one foot in front of the other, holding the reins of the horse like a lifeline.
"I'm me," he muttered under his breath. "I'm me, I'm me, I'm Desmond Miles."
He passed under the stone arches, ancient markers of Roman occupation and slowly made his way up the mountain, looking out over the massive lake below him that held the village's precious water. There were no travelers going up or down the road and that worried him, there were always merchants or brothers coming and going.
Desmond shook his head, fighting to retain his own mind when he got to the stables. But it was not meant to be and Altair bothered only to tie his horse to a post.
The village was quite. Much too quiet.
No sounds of chickens, no sounds of dogs, no sounds of people. No chinking of pots or calls of sales, no well gossip, no children's giggles, no pounding of feet. Nothing. Just... silence.
The day was hazy, thick clouds roiling through the sky, only partly blocking the light of the sun, leaving an ethereal globe in the sky. Shadows were dull and plain, and only added to the uneasy sense of the town.
There wasn't a word for the emotion that clutched and scraped at Altair's chest. Not fear, not dread, not horror, not shock. He walked into the main square on trepid feet. Under the tree was a villager, he did not know the name, but everywhere else he looked was empty.
"What happened here?" he asked, his voice soft because of the silence. "Where is everyone?"
"Gone to see the Master," the villager said, his voice not sounding quite normal.
"Was it the Templars?" Had there been an attack, and everyone hiding in the keep as before? He saw no signs of battle. "Did they attack again?"
"They walk the path."
"... What path?" Altair asked. "What are you talking about?"
"Towards the light," the villager said, his voice reverent, almost chanting.
"Speak sense," the master assassin said, trying to understand what was happening.
"There is only what the Master shows us. This is the truth."
Altair shook his head. "You've lost your mind," he said, but even as he did a trickle of thought ran through his head; a thought he did not want to believe, did not want to think his Master capable of. Surely he wouldn't...
"You too will walk the path," the villager said, "Or you will perish. So the Master commands."
The thought was confirmed. "It was Al Mualim, wasn't it," Altair said, grimacing at the thought. "What's he done to you?"
"Praise be to the Master for he has led us to the light!"
Frustrated, Altair moved past the man, past the shaded well. The village was virtually empty, but not completely. He made his way to the market, where Zamil and his family had taken residence. He knocked on the door, pounded really, but none answered. The villager from the base had followed him, joined now by two others. He turned and left, making his way to the steep road that lead to the upper levels of the city. Three more he passed, who turned and began to follow and some of them spoke.
"The will of the Master must be obeyed."
"Only speak, Master, and show us the path."
"Al Mualim! Guide us! Command us!"
Under the stage, Altair turned and stared. More people, walking slowly, almost stiffly, gathered, praising Al Mualim and begging his guidance.
"What is wrong with you?" he demanded. "Your minds are your own, why do you beg for guidance when you can make your own decisions?"
"We cannot stray from the path," a young man said, and Altair blinked as he recognized the basket weaver's son, Ghassan. His little sister stood next to him, utterly and unnaturally still. "Only he can take us to the light."
Altair marched forward and knelt in front of the little girl, "Nazhat," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It will be alright."
"Obey Master," the innocent girl said, her normally bright face blank, distant.
This was...
This was...
This was so much worse than the assault of Masyaf. Altair stumbled to his feet, staring at the growing crowd of villagers, horrified. He shook his head in denial, turning hard on his feet and continuing his march up the path. Still others joined him, perhaps two dozen now, following and praising the Master.
Al Mualim... he had broken everything, this was worse than rape. He had taken, stolen, the very souls of the villagers. Altair could not stop the shudder that ran through his body. That man was no longer his master. He was a traitor to the very Order he had so painstakingly taught, led, inspired! How could he do it?
He was running now, running away from the villagers and up the path to the base of the keep.
Four journeyman guards marched up in perfect formation. Altair stopped and waited, but they only stared at him, blank of eye and blank of mind. Wary, he walked past them and to another set of four that guarded the path to the keep. The journeyman's heads turned as one to follow Altair, unnaturally in unison. Altair shuddered again but pushed through it.
"I wish to speak to Al Mualim," he said, uncertain what the response would be.
Then he watched in horror as one of them, Zamil, stepped forward. "Death to the infidel!" he shouted, and suddenly eight brothers were drawing their swords and attacking Altair.
He was caught so off guard that the first strike, from Zamil, knocked him completely backward, sending him tumbling to the four journeymen that had been behind him as the four guards, full assassins, circled around. "Stop!" he cried, clumsily drawing his sword. "I do not wish to harm you!"
A journeyman grabbed at his robes and pulled, tossing Altair into a wooden bench and almost over the cliff to the lake below. Rolling aside, the master assassin managed to get himself to his feet and took a defensive stance. A different journeyman lunged forward, his form slightly off, and Altair deflected the blow, digging a kick into the man's midsection. A guard followed up with a strong blow, followed by Zamil as he swept in to Altair's unprotected side, leaving the master assassin to dodge the blow only by inches. Masyaf soldiers were like Templars, they were trained since childhood in how to handle a blade, their conditioning was excellent; moreover, their moves were exactly as Altair's, they knew the patterns and the forms and the blocks necessary - Rauf had pounded it into them over and over and over again. Each attack was carried out swiftly and expertly - even the journeymen who did not have the training or experience that Altair did.
He defended almost exclusively, able to do little else because of the cohesion of their moves, and Altair did not want to attack regardless; these were brothers, no matter what had happened to their minds, and he could not do them harm - even if he was defending himself.
His body was another story, however, as a journeyman struck at Altair muscle memory made him twist the blade aside before impaling itself into the guard. Altair cried out, shocked that he had murdered a brother, and was unprepared for the blow from behind that followed, knocking him forward.
"Stop! Stop it!" he shouted, rolling and running. "I do not wish to fight!"
"You counter the will of the Master!" Zamil shouted, catching up to Altair quickly. "You diverge from the path!"
Altair blocked the blow and shoved his friend aside. "He has taken possession of you mind! Fight back, Zamil, or you and the others will be-"
A kick caught his midsection unawares, and air flooded out of his lungs. Cursing, he struggled to block a strike from another journeyman and get a breath at the same time. When he did, he turned and ran again - perhaps he could tire them out instead of fighting him.
Zamil caught up to him quickly, however, having received the same training in Jerusalem as he had, and knocked him to the ground. A hidden blade contracted, and Altair knew he was about to die, and so he retracted his own blade and, faster than his friend, pierced it into his opponent's Adam's apple.
Time froze for one horrifying moment, and all Altair could see was Zamil's wife, Aaqilah, and their newborn daughter, and Zamil fighting Abbas in his name, and the stories and the humor and the affable smile...
"Zamil! Zamil!" he shouted, staring at his left arm like it was a traitor to his body.
A journeyman guard shoved Zamil's body brutally aside to gain better access to Altair, and for a moment the master assassin saw nothing but rage as he lifted his sword arm.
He hammered at the journeyman's defense before battering the flat of his blade against the man's skull, launching himself at the next journeyman - realizing only distantly it was the bitter Motaz - and assaulted him with everything he had, overpowering the sarcastic and doubting journeyman until he finally was able to land a blow to the man's legs, breaking them both before he turned to another guard. That assassin had his own offense ready but Altair spun the blade away and broke the guard's sword arm in three places before shoving him aside and grabbing at the mail of another and shoving him aside to access another assassin, swinging so hard he knocked his opponent's sword away and once more used the flat of his blade, this time shattering a collarbone before the last journeyman guard tried to duck in under Altair's guard. He answered with a vicious kick to the gut followed by an elbow to the head and a brutal strike with his sword, the blade sinking into the hip and breaking it. Altair advanced on the two assassins, grabbing one and moving to shove him, but the other ran the assassin through, his sword still plunging forward to get to Altair had he not let go at the last moment. The weight of the body pulled the assassin's sword down, and Altair gave a vicious kick to the head, knocking him out before at last Altair could think clearly.
Three lay dead at his feet, two by his hand and one by a fellow brother in an attempt to get to him. The others would be crippled, but were alive.
"Safety and peace, brothers," he whispered, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. He looked to the body of his friend. "Zamil... I-"
"As the Master commands!"
"For the light!"
"Kill the traitor!"
"For the Master!"
"He must not walk the path, destroy him!"
All at once, assassins leapt from the upper ramparts landing with skill and grace, came out from somewhere in the village, appeared from almost nowhere, and surrounded the master assassin.
More faces he recognized: Farasat, Rauf, even young Stephen, a dozen brothers attacking Altair at once. He backed up slowly.
"This is insanity!" he shouted, breathing hard. "Can you not resist whatever he has done to you?"
The response was Stephen, young, inexperienced Stephen, to draw a sword and advance with a skill that was not his own. Altair blocked the strike with surprising difficulty, but discovered too late the blow was actually a feint as a small knife broke through the layers of leather that comprised of his belts and sank into his abdomen. The pain momentarily blinded Altair, and his body reacted with a brutal blow in retaliation to get himself away. He realized too late that the strike had not been with the flat of his sword, and Stephen slumped to the ground, dead.
Something struck the back of his head and Altair pitched forward, his broken fingers crushed under his own weight and causing pain to flare up his arm. His breath exited in a pained gasp, a kick landed in his wounded side, and a foot stomped onto his shoulder. Altair struggled to get up, but the blows kept coming.
Was this how it was going to end? Like... like this?
But as soon as he accepted the thought he heard screams, sensed the assassins around him disperse, one fell to the ground next to him, and in confusion he pulled himself up to his knees.
"Altair!"
He looked up, shocked, to see Malik waving to him from one of the upper ledges. He and four others: Halim, Seosamh, Saadah, and Ghunayn. All were throwing knives into the dispersing assassins.
"Up here!" he called.
Shocked, almost numb, Altair hastily pulled himself to his feet. His fingers throbbed, but he sheathed his sword and examined the stab wound Stephen had given him. The knife must not have been standard issue because the penetration was not deep; the leather had protected him just enough, had the knife been any longer and he would have needed serious help. Grunting, he ripped one of his coattails and rolled it into a tight ball, tucking it inside his belts to act as a staunch for the blood. Halim appeared on the path and saw this, his face paling before he gestured quickly for the master assassin to follow.
Altair limped his way after the journeyman, the kicks and blows having taken their toll, to say nothing of the emotional weight of having Zamil's and now Stephen's blood on his hands. The world had turned to madness!
The two turned from the main path, Halim silently beckoning Altair to follow up a smaller trail to one of Masyaf's many cliffs. Malik was there, as was easily two-dozen others; he must have brought the entire Bureau with him.
"Speak with the dai, Master," Halim said in near silent tones, "We will watch for others." Gone was the awe and fawning, this was a Halim who was determined to do his job.
Altair turned to the one armed dai, and even through his pain he could only smile.
"You picked a fine time to arrive," he said, still holding his abdomen where he had been stabbed.
"So it seems." With a flick of Malik's eyes Omar stepped forward and began to examine Altair with an apprentice. Wait, Omar? Hadn't Altair brought him to...?
"Is Jabal here?" he asked.
"A little bird told me you'd be here," the wizened old rafiq said with a grin, stepping forward. "Though it seems Ibtisam did not get Malik's letter."
Both Bureaus... Altair could not believe it. He grimaced as someone poked at one of his freshly forming bruises, and both men looked on in concern. Altair pushed it aside; needing to pass one what Robert had told him.
"Guard yourselves well," he said, "Al Mualim has betrayed us."
"Yes," Malik said with a solemn face. "Betrayed his Templar allies as well."
Altair blinked. "How do you know?"
"After we spoke I returned to the ruins beneath Solomon's Temple. Robert had kept a journal, filled its pages with revelations. What I read there broke my heart," he said, lowering his head in sadness before it lifted, "but it also opened my eyes. You were right, Altair, all along our Master has used us. We were not meant to save the Holy Land but deliver it to him. He must be stopped!"
"He had copies made and sent to all the rafiq," Jabal said. "From Alamut to Cairo. As soon as I read it I gathered my men and came here, we met on the road. I left a man with the guards at the base of the mountain, if others arrive, they will be further appraised."
Altair looked to the leader of the Acre Bureau. "Rafiq," he said slowly, "Stephen... he..."
"We saw, Altair," Jabal said, raising a hand to forestall further words. "You did everything you could. Were that we were quicker in placing ourselves, we could have spared you - and him, the pain." A hand rubbed at his iron-grey beard.
"Our first priority is Al Mualim," Malik said after giving the two a moment to grieve.
"Be careful, Malik," Altair said, the fight still fresh in his mind. "What he's done to the others he'll do to us given the chance. All of you must stay far from him."
The dai gave the master assassin a long, steady look. "What would you propose?" he asked wearily, his tone defensive. "My blade arm is still strong and my men remain my own."
"Of course," Altair said quickly, offended that Malik would even think he was suggesting the dai unfit for the fight. He winced as Omar poked particularly hard at his abdomen. "But we cannot let him have more men under his influence."
"It would be a mistake not to use us!"
"Be still, young Malik, that is not what he is suggesting," Jabal interceded. "I see his point, I have but few men under my command and I'd rather not lose them to these mindless masses."
"Then what should we do?" Malik demanded. The men around watched the three tensely, waiting.
"... Distract these thralls, then," Altair said softly, thinking.
"Pardon?" the aged Jabal asked.
"Assault the fortress from behind," Altair explained. "If you can draw their attention away from me, I might reach Al Mualim. Stealth would serve better in this case, we none of us have the numbers to overpower him; them. Better to mislead. I have the best chance of the three of us reaching him."
Jabal nodded. "Agreed."
Malik's reply was longer in coming. "I will do as you ask, dai."
The title he gave Altair was a testament to the faith he had in the master assassin, and he smiled, softly, briefly, in thanks. For the next twenty minutes they planned their assault, outlining rough sketches and figuring out who would best be placed where. Jabal would sneak in under the keep, Malik from the back. With focus on those two locations, Altair could go through the front and have little challenge. If not, the front had the best face for climbing, and he could find the old man that way.
Word passed quickly through the men, and the three stood once they were settled with their roles.
"The men we face," Altair said, "their minds are not their own. If you can avoid killing them..."
Both men nodded, as did several of the journeymen and apprentices.
"Yes," Malik said, conviction in his voice. "Though he has betrayed the tenants of the Creed, that does no mean we must as well. I'll do what I can."
"We both will," Jabal agreed.
"It's all I ask."
For a moment, the three stood, the weight of what they were about to do pressing upon them. As one, they nodded, and Jabal quickly departed. Malik turned to go, but Altair grabbed his arm. The clouds broke briefly for a moment and the sun shone upon them.
"Malik," he said quickly, softly. "If I fail, if this does not work, then if falls to you. Tell the others, tell any who would listen, of what that cursed artifact does; spread the word, and go to Alamut to marshal the forces."
No longer were the two of them childhood rivals, no longer were they fast friends, no longer were they bitterly broken men. Now, they were brothers, twined together through betrayal and about to be forged in fire. There was no one else Altair could ask this of, not even Jabal, and Malik understood without words the weight of the favor. The dai said nothing, his eyes unusually bright, before he nodded resolutely. The past at last washed away, and neither would doubt the intentions of the other ever again.
"... Safety and peace, my friend."
"Your presence here will deliver us both."
The two clasped hands and embraced, quickly, before Malik motioned for Halim and his men took off.
Altair was alone.
But not in his heart. In his heart, the entire Order stood with him, and he closed his eyes, reconciling what he was about to do.
He ascended the mountain.
He waited an hour, enough time for Malik and Jabal to get into position and draw attention towards them. However, as soon as he entered the gate to the keep, the heavy iron flung down, trapping him inside. So much for being unnoticed. He took a deep breath and gazed out to the empty training ring. He walked around it, up the slope to find a veritable sea of bodies, the majority of the villagers, standing around the main doors. They stared vacantly ahead, looking at nothing, thinking of nothing. None responded to his presence.
"There are so many innocents," he muttered to himself.
Slowly, gently, he worked his way through the crowd, their empty eyes following his every move, sending shivers down his spine. Once he was through the door to the keep, he closed it, hoping it would be enough. He opened his ears, listening for signs of life in the library. He walked up the stairs and perused the shelves, but he did not find the old man. He walked out into the garden, knowing Al Mualim enjoyed its beauties.
His entire body prickled with danger as clouds covered the sun again, and he knew he was in the right place. He edged forward carefully, assessing his body, trying to decide how best to approach his former master, weary of every shadow, every floating petal, every whisper of the wind. Muscles tightened, hearing sharpened, he licked his lips in anticipation.
And then he was frozen.
Gasping, Altair felt his body twist against his will, spinning around and yanking his arms out and away from his weapons. "What's happening?" His body lifted until his toes only tickled the mosaic square below him, and he felt something pressing against his mind, underneath his skull, and he shook his head left and right - the few centimeters he could - to force the sensations away.
Terror flooded his brain and for a brief moment he panicked, but years of training quickly overrode the reaction, and somewhere deep in his mind he felt this was familiar. He had experienced this before, and once he realized that, he remembered his vision of death, and the fear quickly disappeared, this time returned with anger. Was the master possessed even then? He growled, and his head jerked up forcefully, making him stare at the balcony overlooking the gardens, the one above the library.
Al Mualim was there, staring down on him.
"So, the student returns," he said in a grandiose fashion.
"... I've never been one to run," Altair gasped, struggling against the invisible threads that held him.
The old man snorted, looking down on him. "Hn. Never been one to listen, either."
"I still live because of it!"
The two stared at each other. Al Mualim contemplating, pacing back and forth along the balcony. That damned treasure had caused this. No, this began before the treasure was even unearthed. Al Mualim had caused this, with his unholy alliance with the Templars and selling out his own students to be slaughtered. Did Harash know of this? Had he worked under the old man's directive? Anger surged through the master assassin as he glared up at Al Mualim.
"What will I do with you?" he called down.
"Let me go," Altair whispered, bloodlust in his mouth.
"Oh, Altair," his former master said, "I hear the hatred in your voice, feel its heat. Let you go? That would be unwise."
The assassin tried a different track. "Why are you doing this?"
"I found proof."
"Proof of what?"
The Piece of Eden was in Al Mualim's hand, it's patterned grooves now golden. It glowed brightly, shining and swirling with unseen energy. "That nothing is true," he said, pride and deliverance in his voice. "And everything is permitted!"
Perversion! Desecration! Al Mualim had become what Altair had once been, thinking the Creed a bid for freedom! Something burst in Altair's chest and he struggled anew, hate burning through him.
Al Mualim saw this and lifted a hand. "Come," he said theatrically, "destroy the betrayer; send him from this world!"
The invisible cage around Altair disappeared, and he stumbled back to the ground. Now free to look around he saw - this was impossible holy shit! The nine! The nine he had killed encircled him; Tamir, Garnier, Talal, Abu'l Nuquod, William, Majd Addin, Jubair, Sibrand, Robert, all of them with drawn swords and bloodlust in their eyes.
"This is a lie!" he shouted. "You are all dead. I killed you myself! I dipped feathers in your blood!"
"Oui," Robert said, his eyes cold. "But you, too, died once, yes? Killed by your very Master. Is it so hard to believe that if he raised you from the dead, he raised us as well?"
Altair went cold.
As one they advanced, and Altair only had enough time to draw his sword and counter the first blow, from the fat Abu'l Nuquod. He blocked the next strike from William, followed by another from Tamir, the merchant pressing his blade against Altair's. "I've taken your lives once," the master assassin growled. "I will do so again."
"Such pride," the deathdealer said, "It will destroy you, child."
Those had been the black merchant's last words, and repeating them again froze Altair momentarily for someone - Talal, perhaps, to land a brutal kick to Altair's abdomen, inches from the wound he had received earlier. He stumbled back avoiding more swings and strikes, and took a throwing knife, sending it flying. It imbedded itself into the twisted doctor, Garnier, old and withered. He looked at the weapon protruding from his stomach, and haunted eyes lifted to meet Altair's. "... What will become of my children?" he asked in a small voice, hurting, before he slumped to the ground.
Altair had no time to question, to ponder what was happening around him. He could only focus on staying alive, ducking under Robert's powerful swing and impaling Tamir before he could say something else, dodging a precision strike from Majd Addin and then circling around Talal and Jubair.
Majd Addin snuck up behind the master assassin, the eagle inside him shrieking in warning and making the man duck at the last possible moment. He retracted his hidden blade and all but threw it into the regent's foot, pinning him to the ground long enough to make a vicious swing into the man's side. Majd Addin gasped, surprised, before turning hard eyes on the assassin. "Dissident voices cut deep as steel," he said, gesturing to his mortal wound before pointing to Altair. "They disrupt order!"
"The world is not meant for order!" Altair hissed, yanking his sword out as well as his hidden blade. "The world is an illusion that we must transcend!"
"Ah, but I see it in your eyes," Abu'l said, lunging forward to grab Altair's robes and beginning to pull. "You doubt."
Altair's response to that was to grab the offensive wrist and twist, turning the Merchant King around and impaling him with his sword. The fat man fell away, crumpling to the ground. Something struck him in the back, his short sword preventing serious damage, but he tumbled forward, stumbling and rolling away from the dead men who were no doubt giving chase. He came up at a run, leaping off the mosaic tiles and down to a lower level of the garden, darting further downhill before spinning around and grabbing a throwing knife. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes to focus on the moment.
Jubair appeared first, and his aim was true. The scholar tumbled to the ground, rolling. "It is an illness, for which there is but one cure."
"In this we agree," Altair muttered, taking another knife and throwing it to the next target, Talal. The nimble archer proved fast, however, for it only grazed his arm, landing harmlessly in the grass as the slaver gave a two-handed swing at the master assassin. Altair dodged but not completely, the angle of his arm wrong for the defensive tactic and he was pressed to twist to compensate, leaving Talal's sword to slam into his shoulder. It was the flat of the blade, but the pain radiated all through Altair's body and he was quick to back up further. He hissed, wincing and fighting the wince, knowing he had no time to worry about the pain. He put it out of his mind.
Talal laughed, watching the assassin. "Yes, wall off your mind; they say it's what your kind do best. Do you not see the irony in all this?"
Growling against the words, Altair swung his sword in spite of the pain, surprising Talal, and gutting the man.
The others were upon him now, William and Sibrand and Robert. The German portmaster moved first, engaging in close combat while William circled around in back. Altair managed to kick the Tuetonic Knight away in time to counter Richard's regent, spinning and twisting the sword away to stab the man deep in the gut. William's reaction was to laugh. "We'll see how sweet they are, the fruits of your labors. You, who speak of good intentions."
The final words being repeated at him were almost as bad as the blows, and Altair swung his sword to relieve it of the Knight's weight, sending it into Robert and squaring off once more with the German knight. Sibrand tried to get in close again, but Altair would have none of it, lulling the blond into a pattern as he worked his hand and broken fingers to wrap around another throwing knife and tossing it into the man's neck. Sibrand smiled.
"I followed my orders, believing in my cause..."
Only Robert remained. The two circled each other warily. Altair's shoulder throbbed, his stab wound was bleeding again, his fingers were still a hindrance, but he would die fighting.
"Why are you here?" Altair demanded. "You said yourself that Al Mualim betrayed you, so why would you offer your sword arm to him?"
"Have you not figured it out?" de Sable asked. "But then, you always needed things explained to you."
"Your riddles are tiresome!" Altair launched into an assault, swinging his sword mercilessly - but even in his anger he was cautious. The last two seasons had taught him much, and though his brain pulsed with bloodlust he was determined not to lose himself in it as he had before - as he had with Robert in Solomon's Temple. Robert gave ground to Altair's quick and brutal strikes, but Altair used it to try and assess what was going on. He looked to the bodies littering his feet, trying to see, and was shocked to realize the bodies were not those of the nine he had killed.
They were bodies of the Brotherhood.
... What?
Robert was able to twist Altair's sword away in his shock, but muscle memory gave the master assassin just enough leeway to dodge the follow up strike, focusing on the grandmaster. De Sable gave a great cry, and even confused, Altair could see the charge, it was telegraphed in the man's moves, it was too obvious for the Templar who had given Altair such a difficult battle. His moves were not his - Altair had been so focused on what he saw that he did not watch. These strikes were not Templar but Assassin in origin. Templars did not fight in cohesive units, Assassins did. Robert was superior in skill to the phantom charging him, and Altair impaled the knight easily, watched at the body changed to that of a brother - an apprentice no less - before a burst of gold made the body disappear.
Startled, Altair spun around, and the other bodies also disappeared in flashes of golden light.
How? How was any of this possible? Sorcery? Magic? The Hand of God - did He really exist?
He realized once more the pressure in his mind. He put a hand to his head, breathing hard, as he tried to figure out where it was coming from. He felt no cuts, had experienced no blows to his head, and yet it felt as if he were hearing whispers, inside and behind his ears, inside his very own thoughts. Was this the treasure?
Invisible bonds clasped his hands, hoisting them painfully over his head and lifting him up into the air, up the levels of the garden and back to the mosaic tiles of the fountain. He hung almost a foot in the air, his legs pumping uselessly against whatever was holding him. His injured shoulder throbbed, but at the same time he could feel the stretching of muscles, the angle was helping to loosen up the pain there. Altair swung a little more, trying to enhance the stretch as he gazed up to the balcony.
Al Mualim was not there, rather at the entrance of the garden. A sword was in his hand, the Apple of Discord in the other, its golden glow reflecting off of everything, the windows, the tiles, the water, the old man's milky eye. He stood there, contemplating.
Growling, struggling, Altair did not want to wait for whatever his "master" would next come up with.
"Face me!" he growled, still swinging his legs. "Or are you afraid?"
The cool anger of his beloved teacher never appeared, rather the hot rage of this man possessed by the apple did. His white beard twisted into something ugly, his eyes bulging in indignation.
"I have stood before a thousand men!" he roared. "All of them superior to you! And all of them dead! By my hand! I am not afraid!"
The master of the assassins stepped down into the garden, walking around to face Altair properly, fury radiating off of him in waves. Altair took a deep breath, closing his eyes and begging help from the eagle in his mind.
"Prove it," he hissed.
"What could I possibly fear?" Al Mualim scoffed, "Look at the power I command."
And from his master walked out another master. And another and another; until nine visions of the old man spread out before him. Each held a sword, each held an apple whose glow slowly faded, disappearing from his, their hands. Each took an offensive stance.
The invisible hands holding him up released, and he fell to the ground but not before he had seen what he needed to. Sword in hand he bowled through several masters to his left, grabbing an Al Mualim and shoving him down the steps to one of the lower levels. Several copies behind him struck at him, and he, too, fell down the steps to one of the lower levels. The one he had shoved was slow to get up and as Altair rolled into him, he retracted his hidden blade and plunged it into his master.
He groaned, writhing in the ground, and Altair was overcome with the teacher of his boyhood, patting his head with strong hands, lecturing him about the ways of the Muslims and the ways of the Christians, scolding him when he did wrong, guiding him when he struggled. This man was a father to him, more so than his birth father ever was, and he had just killed him...
Another Al Mualim grabbed him roughly and yanked him to his feet before throwing him into the crowd of others. Altair swung his sword in a wild arc, backing up, and struggling to give him room as eight copies of the man who had raised him moved in.
His heart was breaking, in some ways. He was being forced to fight this man whom he respected above all others, whom had taught him everything he knew. This was cruelty. Altair shuddered as an Al Mualim made a charge; the master assassin could only bring himself to circle the blade away and them hit him with the pommel of his sword, wrapped in his fists. Another tried to attack, and Altair deflected the angle, favoring to kick Al Mualim away instead of impale him. He could not do it. He could not kill his Master, it was too much...
A third managed to grab a hold of him, and before Altair could grab the fist and twist him away he was flung down the grassy hill to the lowest level of the garden. His shoulder screamed in protest as he tried to protect his broken fingers and his abdomen wound. Rolling up to his feet he saw the army of masters approach, and with a wince he made himself throw three knives; each hitting their mark and falling heavily to the ground. One rolled further down the hill, his dead face looking up to Altair.
He sucked in a deep breath and swung his sword at a fifth, concentrating on pushing past the emotional pain as well as the physical, and let his body perform the counter strike, a block of the sword followed by a punch to the elbow and then the head, to be followed up with a sword in the gut, but before Altair could deliver that final blow all of the masters disappeared; leaving only one, the one dead at his feet, to reach up and strike.
His sword impaled Altair, and he died all over again. Death reached out and caressed his weary body to welcome it.
He screamed.
Not yet! It was too soon! He could not fail Malik; and Jabal and the others, he could not let Masyaf fall to this possessed man, this perversion of his beloved teacher; he could not let that damned treasure destroy everything!
Only he was back at the fountain on the upper terrace of the garden again, arms invisibly held spread eagle away from his sides, his toes barely touching the tile. He was panting, his heart was racing, and he could not understand what was happening to him. The pressure inside his mind had subsided briefly. There were no bodies on the ground, there was no blood on his robes, and all he could feel was the sting of Al Mualim's actions. Defeat struggled to take hold in his mind, but he would not allow it, focusing instead on his anger, on his pain, on anything but the idea of giving in.
Al Mualim paced before him, studying him.
"Have you any final words?" Cold, distant, apathetic. This was not the man who was pained and irate at Altair's betrayal, this was a stranger, a betrayer himself, and all Altair could feel was hurt.
"You lied to me," he said, unable to bear it any longer. "Called Robert's goals foul when all along they were yours as well."
The master simply shrugged his shoulders. "I've never been much good at sharing."
"You won't succeed," Altair said, shaking his head. The bonds around his body tightened but he resisted. "Others will find the strength to stand against you." Malik would not fail. Not after this.
And to Altair's surprise, Al Mualim sighed, lowering his head and shaking it in a way that was just like his master, not the mockery he had been fighting.
"And this is why so long as men maintain free will, there can be no peace."
Connections flew across Altair's mind, remembering the conversation before his assignment to Robert de Sable. "What do he and his followers want? A world in which all men are united. I do not despise his goal. I share it." Robert would force peace upon the Holy Land by conquering everyone's will, with no will there would be no conflict. Al Mualim treasured this goal, treasured the peace.
"You said peace was to be learned, to be understood," he accused, still panting from his exertion.
"Yes," Al Mualim conceded. "I once thought so. And I tried; I tried so very hard. But men do not learn, they repeat the same mistakes over and over, and so drastic measures must be made to fix it. There can be no peace without authority, and so I will be that authority."
So like de Sable. It was sickening. Ire rose in Altair, bloodlust giving him more energy.
"I killed the last man who spoke as such," he growled.
"Bold words, boy," Al Mualim growled back; the grandmaster leaning into the master assassin's personal space. "But just words."
"Then let me go, I'll put words into action."
After the dreadful display against the nine Al Mualims, after dying a second time, the master could only laugh at Altair's bluster. In proof, Altair was forced to agree; he was in no position to pose a threat as he was. But he would be damned if he went down quietly. Learning from all his past experiences, putting on a broad display of arrogance, he goaded the old man, determined to provoke more, and use the deception to attain more knowledge. Perhaps he could learn a way to defeat him.
"Tell me, Master," he said, making the title a cruel mockery of his old respect. He had no respect for this creature before him. "Why did you not make me like the other assassins? Why allow me to retain my mind?"
Al Mualim studied Altair a moment, taking the time to decide, before answering: "Who you are and what you do are twined too tight together. To rob you of one would have deprived me of the other; and those Templars had to die." He gave a deep, weary sigh, much like the master of his memory, and paced slightly. "But the truth is, I did try, in my study, when I showed you the treasure. But you are not like the others. You saw through the illusion."
" 'Illusion?' " Everything in his body tensed, anticipation filling his mind.
"That's all it's ever done," Al Mualim said, his tone derisive, even petulant, "this Templar treasure, this Piece of Eden, this 'Word of God.' " He spat out the titles.
... An illusion. An illusion... The nine he killed and witnessed brought back to life, an illusion, the copies of his master attacking him, an illusion, the vision of his death, an illusion...
"Do you understand now?" his old master asked. "The Red Sea was never parted, water never turned to wine; it was not the machinations of Eris that spawned the Trojan War, but this." He held up the Piece of Eden, glowing golden, frustrated and inspired at the same time. "Illusions, all of them!" He made a grandiose gesture with his sword.
"What you plan is no less an illusion," Altair accused, "to force men to follow you against their will."
"Is it any less real than the phantoms the Saracens and Crusaders follow now?" Al Mualim countered, determined to make his student see. Contempt filled his voice as he spoke of the religions. "Those craven gods who retreat from this world that men might slaughter one another in their names? They live amongst an illusion already!" He shook his head, eyeing the treasure. "I'm simply giving them another, one that demands less blood."
"At least they choose these phantoms." Choice was everything. It was the core of the assassins; it was what mattered. That Al Mualim, the Teacher, the Master had given up on all of it, had chosen brute force...!
"Oh, do they? Aside from the occasional convert or heretic?"
He was mincing words now. Altair pulled against his invisible restraint.
"It isn't right!"
"Ah," Al Mualim said, "and now logic has left you; in its place you embrace emotion." He squared his feet, turning a sad face to the master assassin. "I am disappointed in you," he said simply. Softly.
The moment hung between them. Master disappointed in student, student furious with the master.
"... What's to be done then?" Altair demanded.
"You will not follow me, and I cannot compel you."
"And you refuse to give up this evil scheme!" Altair spat.
"It seems then, that we are at an impasse."
"No," Altair hissed. "We are at an end."
The grandmaster of the Assassin Order sighed, tucking the treasure into a pouch at his belt. "I will miss you, Altair." He took an offensive stance. "You were my very best student."
The bond released, and Altair quickly drew his sword. Al Mualim was fresh, had not fought yet, while the days events had worn Altair down, filling him with small or serious injuries, ripped at his heart, and tore at his stamina. The student and the master circled each other; gauging, assessing, trying to bait or intimidate. Neither would fall for it, however, and so Al Mualim, who had chosen the treasure, who had chose brute force, attacked first. Altair circled the blade away and, wrapping both fists around the hilt of his sword, slammed the pommel of his sword into his master. One of his broken fingers cracked further under the strain, but it was worth it to see the old man fall.
But Al Mualim disappeared in a burst of light, and suddenly there was a piercing screech in his ears, high pitched and throbbing, ringing in unison with the pressure, the whispering, in his head. His shoulder ached anew; pulsing pain through is body as his abdomen burned. His vision blurred, became foggy and out of focus. Every punch, cut, blow, fall he had been subjected to over the day overtook him, and he fell shakily to his knees. Breathing was difficult, his heart raced, and he fought against a sudden gag reflex as he gasped for air.
"Blind Altair. Blind is all you've ever been, all you'll ever be."
An illusion, Altair reminded himself through the pain, ignoring his master's disembodied voice. Just an illusion, a trick of the mind, and the mind was most revered in the Assassin Order. The mind was taught, trained, to pierce the veil, to transcend the illusion. Nothing was true, everything was permitted, and so Altair permitted himself to see past the illusion. His eagle spread its wings in his mind, flooding through his body, heightening everything. Feathers danced across his fingertips and talons stretched around his toes. He was the eagle, in air, in flight, and he would swoop down and kill his prey.
The pain subsided, the piercing shriek in his ears dulled, and the pressure in his mind lessened. He looked around the fountain, but Al Mualim was not there, and so he leapt down to the middle terrace, but his eagle saw nothing there, either.
Jumping to the lowest terrace, his eagle eyes spotted the golden glow of the apple, the golden glow of his target, and he painfully pulled out a throwing knife and tossed it.
"My blade sees for me, Al Mualim," Altair said confidently, his every sense on fire with information and instinct. The knife hit its mark, but not directly, digging into his master's arm. "It cuts through the dark."
He swung at the old man, the strike blocked, but Altair predicted the counter strike and blocked it, kicking the teacher in the gut.
He disappeared again, with a grunt this time, and the pain and noise enveloped Altair again. But his eagle was strong, he was strong, and so he looked around, marching through the garden to find his target. The clouds finally broke and sunlight filled the garden, and as Altair made his way up to the highest terrace he saw his master, glowing gold and obvious for anyone who could see.
He threw another knife. It struck him in the leg and the pain and noise subsided, as did more of the pressure in his mind.
Al Mualim stumbled slightly but he compensated for it quickly, moving fluidly into a strike that Altair blocked, taking a step forward and shoving his shoulder into his master, knocking him aside. Once more the noise appeared, as did the pain, but the intensity was less, and his eagle had a much easier time shrugging it off. He knew he was winning. With confidence he moved to the far end of the upper terrace, past the fountain and pulled out another throwing knife, striking his master's other leg.
Their next bout lasted slightly longer. Al Mualim was cautious now, his confidence dying, and took the more traditional defensive stance. That suited the master assassin just fine, however, and he allowed the old man to block a few of the strikes, letting him think himself secure, before countering a counterstrike, swinging his sword in to break an arm before the old man disappeared yet again.
"Curse you, Altair!"
There was no noise, no pain, no blurring of vision.
This was it then, the final strike. Altair listened, heard a grunt of pain and placed the direction, hopping down to the main fountain of the garden and moving to swing his sword. Al Mualim countered at the last moment, and followed up with a brutal kick between Altair's legs, but the master assassin refused to let the pain affect him, his eagle was one with him now; he would never let his senses be clouded again.
The grandmaster gave a vicious swing, but Altair blocked it and kicked his master in the abdomen.
He did not disappear, and Altair threw his sword aside, extending his hidden blade, and leapt upon his target. It sunk into the man's chest, below the heart and into the lung, and Al Mualim gasped, somehow surprised. The apple fell out of his hands, rolling away.
"... Impossible," he gasped, his eyes following the little ball. He looked up, confused, to Altair. "The student does not defeat the teacher."
"Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine," Altair responded softly. Simply. It was the very nature of the Creed, it was what he had learned for the last two seasons. It was what he would follow for the rest of his life: Nothing is true; everything is permitted.
"... So it seems," the grandmaster said, pensive. He looked to the master assassin again. "You have won, then. Go, and claim your prize."
"You held fire in your hand, old man. It should have been destroyed."
He smiled, somewhat sadly. "Destroy the only thing capable of ending the Crusades and creating true peace? Never."
So even now, dying, he still betrayed the Creed. "Then I will," he vowed.
"... We'll see about that."
Altair set his master down, gently in honor of the memories of what he once was, in honor of what he stood for before it was all destroyed. He crossed the tiles, to the corner where the silver globe lay. Harmless.
Though dead, he could still hear his Master's voice.
"I have applied my heart to know wisdom; and to know madness and folly. I perceive that this also was a chasing of the wind." To Altair's surprise, the little silver ball began to glow, despite no hand holding it. Soft light emanated from it, and Altair once more felt the pressure in his mind, the whispering. "For in much wisdom, there is much grief. And he who increaseth knowledge, inscreaseth sorrow..."
He feet slowed of their own volition, Altair came to a stop as the treasure emitted a stronger glow, a golden globe if light appearing above it, the globe outlined in odd shapes, spinning slowly. Dots of light flickered at certain locations, and Altair watched, transfixed. His eyes locked onto the Palestinian coast, and he realized what he was looking at. It was the earth! But, there were three, no, four extra landmasses, and what did the lights signify? One was in Jerusalem, another in Giza, one in England, and so many others...
"Destroy it!" Al Mualim's voice whispered, sounding only a breath away from his ear. "Destroy it as you said you would."
Altair fought his body, tried to bend down, retract his hidden blade, draw his short sword, something, but his body was still as he was filled with awe. The whispers became louder; he could make out dissonant words, names, faces, places, events, people, time, prophecy. His breath caught, and he tried again.
"I... I can't..."
"Yes, you can Altair," his old master said, sounding somehow sad. "But you won't."
"Altair!"
The master assassin could hear, faintly, the voice of his best friend. He turned to see Malik, flanked with two journeymen running up to him, all three staring at the dimensional picture of the earth.
"Malik," Altair whispered. His voice was tight; breathing was becoming difficult, all his wounds hurt. "Do you see this?"
"I... I do. What is it? What does it mean?"
All of them beheld the globe, and Altair thought he heard, somewhere whispered in his mind, This is not for you. It is for they who will watch.
Altair looked down to see blood staining his robes; his stab wound bleeding. Had it been open this whole time? When had...
He collapsed.
"Altair!"
"We've got it!"
Author's Notes: Hah, where to begin.
Mirror, when she read this, said it was very "edge of your seat." Hopefully you readers had the same experience. This is one of the best memories of the game - for me at least, because of the atmosphere. Between starting out with the camera tilted to show the world isn't quite right, to the zombie-masses following you wherever you go, to Malik, to the fact that the boss fight takes place under a cloudy sky to enhance the dark grey fate of Masyaf, it all comes together in a great sequence. We can only hope we did this memory hommage.
And now you all understand why we took so much time populating Altair's world - it was to watch everybody he ever met attack him in this last sequence. Poor Zamil and Stephan... (sniff) The theory we went with was that everybody under Al Mualim's control fought with Al Mualim's ability - regardless of rank and training. For the apprentices an journeymen, their lack of muscle memory would affect their moves slightly, but not enough for a shocked and heartbroken Altair to notice and take advantage of. Stephan actually did use a standard blade, but his muscles weren't developed enough to have the strength to puncture all those layers of leather and get deep enough to be fatal.
There is a distinct difference in Altair by this point: in the Templar attack at the beginning of the game he was fighting recklessly and with abandon, savage and just about without thought. Now he is the opposite: desperate to avoid the fight, trying not to kill anyone, and torn over what he was being forced to do. And aren't we all glad he finally made it!
Malik's sequence was expanded slightly, first with the inclusion of Jabal (since the AC wiki says he's here somewhere) but most importantly with Altair's final favor. All you readers who wanted more in Jerusalem, we hope this filled your need! If that still doesn't satisfy your Malik-craving, then you can check out our new fic, Best Years of the Order. That's done entirely from his POV. Part one is already up.
As for Al Mualim, well, we think that fight speaks for itself.
All that's left is the epilogue. Gee, wonder what could be happening there...?