The process of being summoned is… disturbing. To not be one moment and to be the next.
The Grand Assassin keeps his eyes closed for a second, hoping to reduce the shock of the transition of the immaterial to the physical. Muttering a Basmala in praise and thanks to God, he stands and listens to the voice of the World as it wearily whispers the purpose for a new materialization, and in the lament King Hassan hears of a tragedy of unspeakable proportions. A great gash has been rent in the skies, knocking every balance out of order. Vast beasts roar awake and the old false gods raise their might against the One Above All and the Prophet once more. Demons and spirits return in force, angels fall into insanity as the voice of God fails to be heard, and humans tremble at the beginning of an endless war.
And even now, the World fears this is but the opening shots of something worse. What else could have forced the summoning of the Grand Servants?
The last thing the Old Man of the Mountain manages to discern is a location. London, the gathering site of the Seven. Wearily, he grimly accepts the instructions, and opens his eyes.
His breath is taken away as he is confronted by the ghosts of the past. Bright, shining greenery of all kinds, framing a near-impossible vista of faraway canyons, snow and ridges. Fruit-bearing trees, laden with fragrant offerings, and flowers of every color and shape.
The Garden of Earthly Delights of Alamut. The tiny patch of Paradise that showed the Hashashin their promised reward at the End of Days. How many times did he bear witness to the spectacle of one of his followers being dragged in a stupor to clear his head in the limpid waters of the fountain? How long did he toil in finding and preparing the perfect site to carve out his vision?
King Hassan tightens his grasp on his blade as he sees something… or someone else at the edge of his vision. Even if Alamut and the Hashashin are dead, their memory lives in this small garden, and he owes it to his followers to protect it from intrusion.
But a second later, his furious stride stops, and he unsheathes his sword. The youth he spotted lies leaning against a tree. He does not move, nor does he breathe. Cautiously, the Grand Assassin approaches and inspects the corpse, gently lifting the head until he sees the line of punctures. The blood hasn't finished coagulating, and more alarmingly, it's still bright red.
And then he sees the second corpse. And the third. And more yet still.
King Hassan's blood boils as he studies the dead bodies. The murderer has to be exceptionally skilled, casually driving a single, sharp blade into narrow gaps, leaving the flowers beneath his heel unbroken in his deadly dance. And yet, whoever it had been, instead of definite, simple kills, these deaths had been prolonged and made worse by the killer's art. Where a single stab should have been enough to grant these poor souls a quick and merciful death, the madman who had profaned the Garden had taken pains to extend the agony and the hunt.
And that was the most disturbing part. It is like looking at a hunting expedition, aiming to target humans rather than beasts. The slices that lopped off each of the victims' ears were single strokes, inflicted with the same long blade that killed them. Whoever did this enjoyed the suffering, nay, reveled in the fun of slowly butchering innocents in a pointless game of cat and mouse. For a moment, King Hassan wonders if one of his own followers has fallen into madness and slaughtered the humans, but he dismisses the idea. None of the Old Men of the Mountain used a saber or a thin scimitar like Saladin's as a main weapon, nor would a madman like this ever be accepted for training at Alamut.
No, it's a Western blade, a Spanish curved saber. Not an Assassin's weapon, or at least not one he would ever recommend. The Grand Assassin notes his assessment was entirely correct; any supernatural enhancement to the blade is minimal. The real danger is the hand that wields it.
The man in green and white has his back at him, staring down at his latest handiwork. "Una lástima. I hoped to have a better greeting for you, compadre. True killers would have been best, maybe even one of your followers. Alas, we do what we can with what we have."
Narrowing his focus, the Old Man of the Mountain charges, raising his greatsword for a single swing with which to relieve the killer of his arm. And yet, as the enormous blade swings down, its target moves with impossible fluidity, evading the attack even as he almost seems to give the Assassin's sword a quick caress as it brushes against his fingers.
It's not a human. It's not mortal.
It doffs its hat in a flourishing bow as it dodges King Hassan's followup kick. For a skull, it's remarkably expressive.
"I think it would be best to move to a better arena, don't you think? That, at least, I can gladly provide."
Around them, the Garden disintegrates in a flurry of red and orange, leaving a strange arena of sorts. Gales of dry air fan around them, and the cries, chants and jeers of an invisible crowd fill the air. Obscenely, flowers rain upon the monster, who casually plucks one from the air and motions to take a long pull of its aroma. "Delightful. Now we can truly begin."
"What art thou?" the First Hassan asks.
The thing in the tricorn seems to smile. There is no change in its expression, but somehow the King of Assassins can feel the confidence and smugness radiating from the empty skull.
"Something very much like you, compadre."
The Grand Assassin wastes no further words. Whatever the thing is, the insult it has just levied at him will not be borne. How dare this monster, this… this fiend… compare the butchery it has just perpetrated against innocents with his holy mission? He does not unleash the full power of Azrael, but his blade fills with dark energies as he charges at the entity. Allowing experience and faith to guide his steps, his great sword arcs at the leering monster…
And at the last moment, the weapon falters.
King Hassan allows himself the luxury of shock and disbelief for the barest instant, and clamps down on his raising fury the next. The thing is skilled indeed. Instead of meeting his blade with its own, it manifested a long wooden stick, from which a bright red cloth swishes, striking at the flat of his sword and deflecting the incoming blow. He feels the monster's malice and arrogance as it launches itself at him in a retaliatory attack.
"Andalucia!"
He pivots as hard as he can, even as the slashes and stabs perforate his armor. Hurling a wave of blue fire, he opens some space as he assumes a defensive stance. Taking the pain and using it, the Old Man of the Mountain combines it with the Prophet's holy words to sharpen his resolve, ignoring the false sounds of the cheering mob that seems to surround them. Lazily, the unliving bullfighter wipes its profane weapon on the shining red cloth.
"Those are some mighty fine horns, my friend. They shall make a magnificent trophy for this hunt." It raises the saber above its head, holding the stick at a distance to respond to the Grand Assassin's own stance. "It is rare for me to find quarry that so matches my… inclinations."
King Hassan sneers. "Thou disgust me."
"En el ruedo ellos dos, el toro y el matador, atractivo de la gente, un animal y un demente," the thing rasps in the leaden voice of a sharpening knife. "An animal and a madman, compadre. The bull and the matador. Why so angry, eh? We've walked together for so long. No need to disgrace our old friendship."
King Hassan grits his teeth and activates his Presence Concealment. "Thou art no friend of mine, butcher of men!"
The bullfighter laughs as it parries the invisible attack that follows. "You wound me, compadre! Figuratively, of course." It moves around the field of corpses with the agility and skill of a master dancer. "Was I not there every time you left Alamut for another hunt? Was I not by your side every time the Evening Bell tolled? Was I not in your blows, in the delight of your art and that of your successors?"
The Grand Assassin responds with a roundhouse kick the monster deftly evades. "What art thou, shaitan?"
In a cackle of dying shrieks, the skeleton responds: "Something very much like you, compadre."
"We art naught alike, demon!"
The thing's laughter intensifies. "Well, we certainly have our differences, Old Hassan. You wear the mask of what I am. You were born, lived and died as a human, something I'm not and never have been." It sidesteps another swing to the joy of the invisible crowd and responds with another stab at the Assassin's shoulder. "I was there on the Coliseum when Caligula delighted in the humiliation and the glory of the gladiators killing each other. I was there when men fought to the death for the prize of having their hearts torn out to fuel the Sun one more day. I was in the hearts of men before they were men, when they rejoiced in the thrill of hunting worthy prey in the vastness of the steppe. I am there each time you execute an unworthy, savoring their fear as you lumber towards them and they know their lives are forfeit."
The Grand Assassin glares at the demon as the wound knits itself. "A demon... of killing? Like ifrits are of fire and marids of water, thine nature... is the very act of killing?"
The demon sighs, almost dreamily, if one of its kind could express such feelings. "Close, compadre. Think of me as... the satisfaction of a job well done. The applause of the arena. The savagery of the audience."
King Hassan flashsteps in front of the being and strikes its jaw at full force. "I mark the path, beast!" With a mighty swing, his sword shatters the makeshift shield into splinters. "I am the keeper of the precepts!" Grasping the being's shoulders, he rears back and slams a staggering headbutt on the monster's face. "Every head I claim, every death I inflict… I do so in the name of God!"
And with a final, sickening crunch, the Matador fades from existence.
The First Hassan stops for a second, breathing deep of the cold night air. Around him, the haze of mirage begins lifting, and the warped battlefield fades back into the ruins where he manifested.
And then the sabre is at the throat of the Old Man of the Mountain. "How impolite."
The slash is painful, but Battle Continuation takes the edge off as the thing keeps talking. "Even if in hindsight we aren't that similar, we can't help but feel a certain... kinship. We look at you and see a child wrapped in our raiments. A man playing at being the monster. But, as you say, the great irony is that you are called as a defender of Man, while we are summoned to usher in his extinction."
Fool. He's blundered into the demon's trap like a bumbling apprentice. And even now, the demon has ensnared him in its riddles and wordplay. But still. There is one thing he has to know. And maybe, just maybe, it might be enough to give him the opening he needs.
""We"?"
The Matador's jaw clatters in a parody of laughter, its fingers curling around the bevor of the Grand Assassin's armor as it leans down to whisper. "We, the messengers of the End Times." The saber stabs through the armor, mere millimeters away from King Hassan's heart. "We, the bearers of the flames of the Abyss." Another stab. To his shame, the Old Man of the Mountain can't help but shudder in pain at the horrid cold of the blade. "We, whose appearance marks the start of the Apocalypse."
Grasping King Hassan's helmet, it hammers the left horn off with a well-placed murder strike. "Glorious. Such a prize…"
It's hard to even move his arms with the fresh wounds at his throat, and the armor that should have aided him is dead weight at best. Battle Continuation is straining at the ferocity of the wounds, and he can barely feel the pommel of his blade out of his reach. And worst of all, it's becoming almost impossible to hear the Prophet's words.
But, in the end, that's the key word: almost.
He drives a spare dirk into the demon's ribs, and pushes it off him with a lunge. Pushing his endurance to its limits, the Old Man of the Mountain flips around, regaining his footing and his sword in a single move. As he charges, he readies his fist. The demon, cackling with delight, swats away the initial blow and strikes forward with his own swing.
Grimly, through the red haze of pain and fury, the First Hassan smiles. Finally. Got too greedy.
The thing's rapier, lined for a perfect killing strike, is now instead stuck in his arm, while Azrael's blade is now poised to slam into the demon's stomach. Bellowing forward, King Hassan smashes through the remains of the Garden, plowing through trees, fountains and statues until he finds the wall he needs. Charging with fanatical fury, the laughing demon and the First Assassin crash through the wall, and fall into one of the deep ravines surrounding Alamut. In freefall, the Grand Assassin pushes his weight onto the blade, and the same instant of the sickening crash with the ground, he is rewarded with a dying cry.
"Ah… Man lives… one more day…"
It takes him hours to properly wake up.
It's the pain that wakes him up. Sighing, he accepts it and endures it with another Basmala. One should appreciate the Prophet's small mercies. He feels for the broken horn at his brow. A good reminder that even the Grand Assassin is neither perfect nor immortal for all he cultivates the image.
To his relief, his existence still endures. Reaching London is going to be a nightmare, but the demon will no longer be a concern. Of it, only the blood-red fabric of its makeshift shield remains. Chuckling, King Hassan tears it into strips and uses it to bandage himself. It will be a long road to London, and he has a lot to think about. Questions he must ask and warnings he must issue.
First and foremost… these demons. There are more. Maybe the Prophet had warned of something like them. He really should reread the Qur-aan as soon as possible. And maybe a Bible just in case. The others should know as well.
But before leaving Alamut, he returns to the Garden. He gathers the dead and buries them under shallow graves. Whispering the final Muslim rites, he takes a final look at what was once his palace. His hands are stained with blood, both his and the victims'. Depositing a final clump of soil, he whispers:
"Thou art avenged. Go to God's side knowing that the demon is no more. And know one more thing."
"Even if it's one day at a time, humanity endures. For as long as it must."
Thanks to LostHereAndThere for writing this!