Part Seven: Death of a Doctor
Dawn came; the city misty and Altair's white robes were almost invisible. He left, Jabal once more not seeing him off, and made his way northeast. The sun's heat was quick to burn off the mist, but Altair used what remained of it to scout the roofs near the fortress, trying to determine where the absent archer's post was. He saw it, and quickly descended back to the streets, milling about until the last of the fog had dissipated before darting up some scaffolding and ascending to the roofs of the Hospitalier stronghold. Within the hour he had made it to the highest roof and he found his first guard. The archer was pacing about a small parapet, and Altair soon fell in step behind him, waiting until the man was in the shadows before killing him and laying him against the wall. The dark uniforms of the Hostipalier knights would keep the body from being seen for several hours.
Altair performed similar acts with every archer he came across, only four or five, before he found the central courtyard of the fortress. It was midmorning now, the place was filled with scholars and patients both, there was so much white that Altair would be invisible, and he slowly climbed down in a shadowed corner, dropping the last dozen feet.
Two people startled, but he quickly disappeared in the crowd, the scholars unable to keep track of him. There was a well, and several priests in brown, scholars in white, and half dressed patients. Altair was ready to start his search when he heard a scream.
"Noo! Help! Help me! Help me!" A panicked man, clad only in white trousers, came barreling out into the courtyard, his face white with terror. "Please! You must help me!"
He had only just made it to the gate when two knights converged on him, grabbing him and shoving him to his knees, punching and beating him. Everyone was staring. Doors opened from somewhere and a weathered European stepped out, flanked by two knights. He wore a cross around his neck and a very bloody apron.
Garnier de Naplouse.
"Enough, my child!" he said to the knight currently punching the patient's back. He spoke English, but with a French accent. "I asked you to retrieve the patient, not to kill him." He glared at the two before focusing on the struggling man. He bent down to look at him at eye level.
"There, there," he cooed, "Everything will be al-"
"No, no!"
"Give me your hand," the Grandmaster said, offering his own.
"Don't touch me!" the patient said, struggling against the knights holding him down, trying to back away. "Not again!"
Garnier's voice was still gentle. "Cast out this fear, else I cannot help you."
"Help me?" the patient demanded, angry in spite of his terror. "Like you helped the others? You took their souls! I saw, I saw!" He stretched and strained against the guards, trying to yank an arm free. "But not mine!" he growled. "No! You'll not have mine!"
The warm face faded on the Hospitalier Grandmaster, and he stood, looking down to the captured patient, before viciously backhanding him. "Make humble yourself," Garnier said, and Altair remembered his Master telling him the same as he, too, strained against Abbas and Rauf. He stubbornly pushed the thought aside. There was no comparison. "You think this is pleasure? You think I want to hurt you?" he demanded, his voice once again soft. "But you leave me no choice-"
The patient managed at last to yank an arm free, and his feet were soon under him as he made another panicked dash. The crowd ducked away from him, fearing to be struck or shoved. Altair held his ground, stayed invisible, and watched with narrow eyes.
"Every kind word, met by the back of his hand!" he shouted. The first guard swung in a wide circle against the patient, the other fumbling to grab hold of him again. Fevered eyes met the crowd, desperate for someone to hear him. Altair listened adamantly. "All lies and deception!" The second guard got his grip and the two yanked him back to Garnier's feet, but still the patient looked over his shoulder, throwing words to the crowd. "He won't be content until," he pulled, "all," he strained, "bow before him!"
And once again, he was on his knees in front of the Hospitalier Grandmaster.
"... You should not have done that," Garnier said, his voice and face clearly displeased, even disappointed. He turned away, beginning to walk back into the hospital. "Return him to his quarters," he ordered. "I'll be along once I've tended to the others."
The patient seemed determined, however. "You can't keep me here! I'll escape again!"
Garnier stopped, turning back. A soft smile was on his face. "No," he said, "You won't." His eyes flicked to the knights. "Break his legs. Both of them."
And without even questioning the order, one of the knights calmly, silently, walked up and kicked the patient's kneecap, shattering the bone and forcing it to bend backward. As the poor man shrieked in agony the other leg was pulled out so that it could be shattered in a similar matter. The two appendages quickly swelled and bruised, faster than Altair had ever seen before, they hung loosely on the ground, mutilated, useless; another cage added to the one he was already trapped in.
Such ruthlessness.
To add insult to injury, as the screaming patient was dragged away, Garnier gave a weary sigh and whispered, "I am so sorry, my child."
He looked to the crowd. "Have you nothing better to do?" he asked, and the priests and scholars all quickly dispersed.
Altair joined a group of scholars and mingled into the hospital. His nose was at once assaulted with scents: human excrement, sweat, vomit, blood. Also herbs, most notably hashish, the very plant used for incense in the Order. His ears filled with screams and moans, retching and crying. The massive room was filled to bursting with patients and guards. The patients had vague, glazed expressions as they walked about; unseeing, uncomprehending.
"How are you feeling?" Garnier's voice whispered. Altair stayed with the scholars; he did not want to make himself known too soon.
"What have you done... to me?" That was an Arabic accent, confirmation that these people likely came from Jerusalem.
"Ah, yes, the pain. It hurts at first; I won't lie. A small price to pay; in time, you'll agree."
"You... are... a monster."
"I've been called worse," Garnier chuckled.
A patient, mad and giggling, plowed blindly into the scholars, dispersing them. Altair himself was shoved, but he took it in stride, brushed himself off, and sat calmly on a bench. The guards did not give him a second look. His eyes took in the hospital; the hashish was mixed with another herb, powerful, sweet smelling. Altair did not wish to linger there; the scent was nauseating.
"This... this... My mind is clear. How? How did you do it?"
"I have my ways. The worst is over now."
"...So tired..."
"Rest, my child. It will only get better from here."
The words gave Altair pause as he saw Garnier round a corner and bend over another patient.
"Thank you... Thank you, for what you've done," one woman said, reaching up and clutching the Grandmaster's robes.
"It was my duty, my child. A new life awaits you."
How? How could they be grateful? Did they not hear the screams, smell the blood, see the agony? The torture? Altair did not understand, could not understand. He stood, determined to end it.
"My legs... you bastard! You broke both my legs!"
"I did it for your own good," Garnier said, looking over the man from the courtyard. "Pain brings about anger, but it also brings about clarity unlike any other. If you left before my work was complete, you would not see the healing I am bringing you towards."
"Bastard. Bastard!"
Garnier straightened, shaking his head. "There are so many children," he sighed. "I-"
Altair stabbed him from behind before lowering him to the ground.
"Let go your burden," he whispered.
"Ah," Garnier sighed. "I'll rest now, yes. The endless dream calls to me, but before I close my eyes, I must know: what will become of my children?"
"You mean the people made to suffer your cruel experiments?" Altair asked, disgusted with the man's delusion. "They'll be free now to return to their homes."
"Homes?" the Grandmaster declaimed. "What homes! The sewers? The brothels? The prisons that we dragged them from?"
"You took these people against their will!" Altair insisted.
"Yes, what little will there was for them to have. Are you really so naive? Do you appease a crying child, simply because he wails? 'But I want to play with fire, father.' What would you say? 'As you wish?' Ah, but then you'd answer for his burns."
It made no sense. None of it made sense. Altair felt claustrophobic, the overpowering scent of the incense affecting his mind. The analogy could not be followed.
"These are not children, but men and women, full grown."
"In body, perhaps," Garnier conceded, "but not in mind, which is the very damage I sought to repair. I admit, without the Piece of Eden - which you stole from us - my progress was slowed. But there are herbs, mixtures and extracts. My guards are proof of this: they were madmen before I found and freed them from the prisons of their own minds... And with my death, madmen they will be again." Tears leaked from the old man's eyes at the thought.
"You truly believe you were helping them," Altair stated, awestruck.
"It's not what I believe... it's what I know." He died.
There was nothing else to do after that, and so the assassin pulled out his feather and dipped it in Garnier's blood, pooling beneath him from the deathblow.
As he stood, the man with the broken legs started to scream, and the madmen around him did the same, racing back in terror, and the Hospitalier guards at last realized that their master had been murdered.
Altair leapt over a patient on a table and rolled under another, coming up in a dash. The guards were giving chase, but his whites only helped him as patients ran with him, as did scholars and priests. It was a mass exodus out of the hospital and the guards had no idea who was assassin and who was not. Altair dashed through the streets with the patients before ducking down an alley and sitting on a bench. He took a deep breath, the stench of the decay of the city somehow sweeter, cleaner, than the hospital. His mind felt clearer, and he heaved a sigh of relief that was quickly replaced with concern.
He remembered Massun, the traitor to Masyaf that opened the gates and nearly brought ruination to the Order. He, too, had been completely committed, to the Templars. Tamir, also, thought he served a nobler purpose. The unshakable belief bothered Altair. He originally thought such dedication existed nowhere but the Order, he not seen it elsewhere. How was it possible? Was Garnier helping those inside his hospital? He had spoken of curing them from their madness using herbs and extracts. Some of them were even grateful for the work he had done. He was a madman and a butcher. How was it those men found good inside a man who was clearly intent on evil? What was it that Altair failed to see?
The thoughts troubled him all the way through the streets as he blended from one crowd to the next; he route was circuitous not because of need but because of his thoughts, and it was with a heavy mind that he at last entered the Bureau, a little after noon.
The rafiq was once again looking through a text.
"What news, Altair?" he asked, not even bothering to look up.
Altair retrieved the bloody feather. "...Garnier is dead," he said.
"Then you should return to Masyaf with news of your victory." Jabal offered, pulling out a book to record the success.
"... There is something else," Altair said.
"Speak it then."
Altair hesitated, uncertain if it was something to bring up to the weary rafiq.
"Or would you have me read your mind?" Jabal said, his eyes narrowing.
Altair plunged forward. "What do you think he wanted from these people? That he would keep them and experiment on them as he did?"
"Yours is not to ask, but act, Altair," the rafiq said, brushing the question aside. "It doesn't matter what he did or why, only that he's dead."
"But Garnier seemed to believe he was helping these people," Altair pressed, unable to let go of that one thought.
"Is that what you saw?" Jabal asked.
"... No." Altair answered, feeling slightly shamed. "What I saw was not a place of healing, but of pain."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
"I... I don't know. Forget I spoke of it."
"I already have."
But Altair did not. It bothered him all the way home to Masyaf.
Al Mualim was speaking with a scholar as Altair entered. The demoted assassin waited patiently for his turn.
"Have you news for me, Altair?" Al Mualim asked when he was done, dismissing the other man.
"Garnier de Naplouse is dead."
"Excellent!" Al Mualim said with an expansive air. "We could not have hoped for a more agreeable outcome."
"And yet..." Altair started before stopping himself. His thoughts were likely meaningless.
"What is it?" Al Mualim prompted, and the demoted assassin felt relief. His beloved teacher would always listen to his thoughts, however trivial or thoughtful, and always treated them seriously. Altair felt comfortable in speaking his mind to Al Mualim as he did with no one else.
"The doctor insisted his work was noble, and looking back those who were supposedly his captives seemed grateful to the man. Not all of them but enough to make me wonder... How did he manage to turn enemy into friend?" Even now it still bothered him.
"Leaders will always find ways to make others obey them," the Master said easily, "and that it what makes them leaders. When words fail they turn to coin; when that won't do, they resort to baser things: bribes, threats, and other types of trickery. ... There are plants, Altair, herbs and opiates from distant lands that can cause a man to take leave of his senses. So great are the pleasures it brings, men may even become enslaved by it."
Altair remembered the overpowering smells of the hospital. "You think these men were drugged then? Poisoned?" Only cowards and usurpers would reduce themselves to such vile tactics. The Order would never sink that low.
"Yes, if it truly was as you describe it."
Silence stretched out between them, Altair still thinking. "Herbs. This seems a strange method of control."
"Our enemies have accused me of the same."
"The promise of 'paradise.' "
"They think there is a garden overflowing with women and pleasure, that I drug you as Garnier did his men, and tempt you with its rewards."
"They do not know the truth of it," Altair growled. The garden, there were but a handful of women there; they were not there to tempt but to console. Boys and men both went there to cry or seek comfort after the death of family or a gruesome assignment. Some would offer their bodies, but more often they offered their ears. That others would think otherwise was a tragedy, such thoughts need be corrected!
"Which is how it must be," Al Mualim said in direct contradiction to Altair's thoughts.
"But if they knew the truth of it, that all we seek is peace..." Altair said, certain his thoughts were correct. Knowledge was such a valuable asset; it made a man wise.
"Then they would not fear us, and we would have no hold over them," Al Mualim said. He turned and walked to the window. "Go. It is time you continued with your work. Another rank is restored to you, as is a piece of your equipment. We'll speak again when the next has fallen."
Altair took his second belt and his throwing knives, fitting them easily about his waist. He would need these in Jerusalem. He reflected on what he learned, that Al Mualim's means of controlling others was through fear.
"Another thing, Altair," Al Mualim said just as he turned to leave. "There is a new dai in charge of Jerusalem."
"Master?"
"Baasir is dead."
It was a blow to his gut.
But Al Mualim was not finished.
"He died giving you and Malik time to ride here. Think on that as you ride to your next target, Talal."
Desmond blinked in the fog before the fog faded and the visor of the Animus retracted. Sitting up, he looked around before easily sliding off the machine to stretch his back.
"If you're happy now, Miss Stillman," Vidic said sourly.
"I am," Lucy replied with a gentle smile. Turning, her smile remained bright. "Now Desmond, no matter what Dr. Vidic says, you don't get into the Animus until I come back."
"Back?" Desmond replied curiously.
Lucy nodded. "I'm heading to my lunch break. Your lunch should be here soon."
He shrugged. "Well, enjoy," he offered.
"Thanks," she replied, before turning and heading out. Desmond appreciated the view for a moment before turning to his current warden. "Let me guess," he said amicably. "She wouldn't go on a lunch break unless I got one too."
Vidic spared a quick glare before ignoring him completely and working on his computer.
Desmond held in a chuckle before heading through his room to the bathroom to alleviate a few things. Once finished and washed up, he walked back to the large Animus lab and glanced at the plush chairs. No sign of lunch for him yet. With nothing to do and no one (pleasant) to talk to, Desmond just shrugged to himself and set off at a quick walk around the perimeter of the lab. He kept his stride strong and swift with his arms swinging as he made circuit after circuit, avoiding Vidic's throne steps above the rest of the lab.
"Mr. Miles, what are you doing?" Vidick shouted after Desmond's fifth pass.
"You won't let me take my morning jog," was his only response, and tallied a victory in the Annoy Vidic column. Plus he'd spent the past two days strapped to the Animus and his limbs were getting itchy for some sort of exercise. The old adage of a "body in motion stays in motion" and a "body at rest stays at rest" was very true. If Desmond wasn't careful, lethargy would settle in and he wouldn't be in any condition to escape when the opportunity presented itself.
He checked his heart rate after a dozen circuits to find it raised and steady as he made another round. He wasn't working up a sweat, not with the freezing air pouring out by each set of computer banks, but it would burn the calories. Vidic was still glaring at him every now and then, particularly when Desmond walked by, but Desmond could have cared less.
It wasn't the same as his usual five-mile jog, and there was a good dose of boredom as he passed the same walls every time, but he let his mind enter a place of rest that he often found when out jogging. It was clear and unworried by any of the pressing concerns that were currently weighing him down in his predicament. No plans for escape, no wondering if Abstergo had found him then they might have found his parents and were they okay, no trying to goad Vidic into gloating out details and no concern if Lucy was going too far for him or if he should ask for more. Just a clear mind and the steady beat of his own heart.
His own heart, not that of his long-dead ancestor that beat the same notes when running from guards or climbing high towers.
Desmond was himself.
Not Altair ibn La-Ahad, demoted assassin working to get his honor back.
Just Desmond.
And Desmond Miles was enough.
The walk was good and he was aware, if not consciously, of a guard of some sort coming in with a lunch tray that was placed on one of the well-cushioned seats before leaving. Desmond ignored it. He'd have it once Lucy came back, since he could eat quickly and neatly and it would keep him out of Frankenstein's machine for a few minutes more.
For now, he was just walking.
Vidic tried to interrupt him only once. Shortly after the food arrived, the old geezer seemed to have had enough of Desmond just walking in circles. So the mad scientist actually deemed it necessary to regain control for that damn god-complex of his, and get off of his damn throne and mingle in the lower areas of his kingdom. Vidic tried to grab Desmond's arm as he walked by, but Desmond just kept his stride going strong and steady.
"That is enough, Mr. Miles," Vidic yelled as Desmond slipped easily through his fingers. "Sit down and eat your lunch."
Desmond shot back, "I haven't even reached a mile yet."
"Mr. Miles!" Vidic clearly didn't have much patience. That made another victory in the Annoy Vidic column.
Then Desmond's brain caught up with him. The clarity of it suddenly focused and Desmond realized that this was a perfect opportunity to lift Vidics access pen. When the old bastard made another grab for it, Desmond could lift it as he walked away; slide it into his sleeve or something.
Too bad Desmond didn't get a chance. The door opened as Desmond walked by the observation window and Lucy came in, looking better for having gotten something to eat. "I'm back," she said in greeting, before blinking at Desmond walking in circles and Vidic looking grumpy.
There was a distinct smile trying to tug at her lips as Desmond breezed by her and started another loop.
"Should I come back later?" she asked, amusement just barely kept out of her voice, but her eyes sparkled in mirth.
"Sure thing," Desmond replied. "I still got four miles and change to get through."
That snort was certainly not a giggle. Nope, not at all.
Lucy looked to Vidic.
The old bastard just threw his hands up and went back to his desk. "Just get him back in the Animus," he growled.
Desmond finished another round, going by the observation window before turning into his room and going to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. Coming back to the lab, at a more normal pace, he sat right on the floor to stretch.
Lucy's shoulders were shaking and a hand was covering her face as she sat in the plush chair not occupied by the untouched food tray.
He smiled cheekily at her, but focused on his stretches.
"Desmond," she said, once she'd gotten control again. "We have a lot of work to do."
"Yup."
"Please, eat your lunch so we can get back to all that work."
"Just a second," Desmond replied, pushing further into his last stretch. As he expected, Lucy had given him just enough time for the minimum stretches needed before poking him into work.
Getting up, he picked up his lunch tray and sat down on the seat before digging in with his usual neat speed. No one offered any conversation, but that was fine. Desmond counted the whole "lunch hour" as a resounding a success. If for no other reason than getting a laugh out of Lucy. Laughter kept one sane after all.
"Let's get started," Lucy said once Desmond finished his glass of water.
He nodded and went back to the Animus. As always, there was an instinctual hesitation before sitting on the machine and laying back. The visor came over his eyes and Desmond settled into a room of white fog and floating chemistry.
Desmond looked at the throwing knives that his many-greats-grandfather had and pulled one out. The balance felt superb, and he tossed one around in practices that he hadn't done since he'd left the Farm. Granted, the knives he'd practiced with were greater in variety, from switchblades to kitchen knives, to sturdier military issue, Desmond was still pleased with how they felt and held in his hands. Even the engravings added to their perfection and in the tiniest back corner of his mind, he wished he had a set like this.
The fog finally faded and Desmond was once again in Masyaf.
He didn't bother going up to see the old Teacher, and instead headed down to the stables. The last time Desmond was here, he'd been told where to go, so he knew the only way he'd fall back in synch was to get to the highly-distorted-distant Jerusalem. He picked a black horse, neither for the poor or the rich, and brushed it down, saddled, and mounted. And, for the third time, he rode down the mountain of Masyaf at a steady trot. He passed under the broken down arches and started down the trail that Assassin's still guarded before pausing at the watchtower.
When in Acre, his ancestor had climbed every high point he could in order to draw out maps of the area so that he knew where all the back alleys and hide spots were. Desmond wondered if he should be doing the same.
"Ah, what the hell," he muttered. Dismounting, he circled around the watchtower before his eyes spotted a relatively straight line going up to the top. It was an easy climb; the handholds and footholds he used were good and thick, though he somehow knew that his many-greats-grandfather didn't need anything so thick when he ascended something.
There was a slight breeze that moved his coattails and once Desmond had to stop and kick them out of the way before he stepped on them. But when he was at the top, Desmond expected to just pull out his map and draw but instead, nostalgia hit him full force because he watched seven-year-old Altair helping up seven-year-old Malik. They were both at the top and looking at the mountains around them in wonder. Far below, a caravan could be seen starting the climb up the base of the mountain. Altair looked to Malik and once they both locked eyes, they fell back in hysterical and childish giggles.
"I told you," Altair said between laughs.
Malik just nods enthusiastically. "We have to bring Kadar up here once he can climb!"
They shook hands in agreement before looking out once more with identically wide grins.
"A-Sayf! La-Ahad!" a voice cracked.
All laughter ceased as both looked down to see the gray tangelmust of the journeyman they had eluded.
"Get down here this instant!"
Both boys gave an identical whine. "Awww."
"Now!"
They both went to climb over the side and begin their careful descent, but the journeyman would have none of that.
"No, you little miscreants," the journeyman said firmly. "You jump from there into the cart of hay. The two of you are tiny enough that there shouldn't be any injury." The journeyman paused. "If you do it right."
They looked at each other, suddenly nervous. Neither of them had ever leapt from such a great height before! That was scary!
"Al Mualim wishes to speak to the both of you. So you'd best hurry."
All at once the fun and adventure of sneaking out of Masyaf and climbing the watchtower was gone. Instead was the cold realization that their explorations would disappoint the Teacher. Altair stepped forward. "Don't blame Malik!" he called down. "It was my idea!"
"And yet he is there with you!" the journeyman called back.
"Altair, you fool! Don't-"
Malik's words got no further. Altair ignored him and took a running leap off the watchtower, angling his fall as he was taught and twisting so that he didn't land wrongly. The hay was soft and Desmond blinked, looking up through the hay that had fell around him and obscured him.
"Desmond? Are you alright?" Lucy asked.
"I, uh..." Desmond hesitated, moving his limbs clad in the avatar of his ancestor, and making sure that he was the one moving them instead of the child he'd just seen and been. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"What just happened there, Mr. Miles?"
Desmond slid out of the hay and hopped over the edge of the cart, bits of the straw trailing behind him. "Nothing," he replied. It seemed that whatever they were using to monitor Desmond hadn't picked up on that little memory; out-of-synch as it was with the larger timeline he was slogging through.
"Come now, Mr. Miles," Vidic's smarmy voice said coyly. "Something clearly happened as your synchronization ratio with your ancestor just went up."
"It's... I what?" He was more in synch with that Altair-guy, but he wasn't in a memory?
"Well? What happened?"
"... Nostalgia," Desmond replied. "Very strong nostalgia." And that was all he'd say on the subject. He didn't want to talk about out-of-synch memories. He didn't want to talk about the realization that Altair had been a smiling, happy, determined child. He didn't want to talk about how Altair had been correct, that they had been good friends as children in a bickering-rivalry sort of way, and that it wasn't Malik who had changed when they met under Soloman's Temple, but Altair after more pain than a man should have to deal with in the span of a short time.
Desmond didn't want to talk about such things that even he didn't have the right to know. Because such feelings and thoughts belonged to the person that originated them and should only be shared if that person so chose. It was like reading a diary one wasn't supposed to.
He shuddered.
"Well, Mr. Miles, if climbing these watchtowers increased your synchronization, then I'd recommend you should climb some more. More synchronization should get us through these memories faster."
"Yeah, yeah," Desmond muttered. His horse came up to him and he patted the neck, taking comfort in the fact that the animal seemed loyal. Or at least the construct of it did. So he let out a small sigh and mounted.
"Map, Kingdom," he said quietly. A soft rustle in his pack and Desmond pulled out a map and blinked at it. The map was filled in. Not completely, but enough that he paused to really study it.
Then he looked up at the sky. "The map finally fills in and all it gives me is an outline?"
He heard Lucy's light chuckle and Vidic's disgruntled growl.
Desmond let himself grin before kicking his heals into the horse's flank and riding on. When he got to the split in the path, he chose the one that went south to Acre, since geographically, that was the more accurate way to get to Jerusalem.
The horse easily maintained a steady trot southward. The path split briefly into what appeared to be parallel paths. Desmond chose one more or less random at and kept the steady pace. As he expected, the path rejoined again and Desmond spied another watchtower. This one, however was guarded as Desmond reigned up. Guarded by the whites and reds of King Richard's men. Desmond didn't particularly want to get into a fight. He had no idea how to use the blades he had on him aside from the throwing knives and that wouldn't do any good for close quarters.
Well, the horse wouldn't do any good in close quarters.
Desmond dismounted and kept as close to the wall of the mountain as he could, edging his way around the tower to see if there was a way to climb, he clasped his hands in prayer, looking like a quiet scholar who needed a moment of reflection and contemplation until he reached the unguarded side. Desmond could easily see the line up the watchtower and set about climbing like he had at Masyaf. Reaching the top, he again felt nostalgia, though not as strong as the previous watchtower, as an eighteen-year-old Altair sat above the small docks, sketching maps and listening to the flow of languages that were all European.
Looking back down, Desmond wasn't sure he wanted to climb back down with all those soldiers staring at him. He did see a haystack, just below a small cliff to one side and hesitated. He'd seen his ancestor jump off many a high structure and he knew that it was within his capabilities. As real as the sound of insects and smell of the water and feel of the breeze were, this place wasn't and couldn't hurt him.
One giant breath and Desmond jumped off his perch, hearing an eagle screech as the wind yelled in his ears and then there was a soft sound of hay and Desmond let out his breath.
That was kinda fun actually. For one brief moment it reminded him of his motorcycle.
He lay there for a bit, just to get his racing heart back under control when he heard the neigh of his horse.
Desmond slid out of the hay and mounted, following the path down into the small town. The path curved by the docks where he spied several of King Richard's guards keeping sharp watch and Desmond nudged his horse a little faster as he climbed back uphill through the layers of the town.
Once out of the small town, he slowed to a steady trot once more and kept heading south. The path split once again, with some sort of partially build bridge overhead and Desmond went the way that didn't have the Templar that chased after him last time. There were still a lot of Richard's men that glared at him suspiciously, but Desmond just kept at a slow trot, occasionally slowing to even a walk and kept his head down praying that no one decided oh-that's-an-assassin! and start chasing him.
The roads rejoined at a watchtower that had the spiked log walls of ancient and quickly-made fortifications that reminded Desmond more of the Old West than the Crusades. And there were a lot of guards. Desmond slowed to a walk and went as slowly and delicately as he could, all but mentally shouting Don't see me! as he quietly went through the fortifications. The guards stared stonily ahead, not giving him even a second glance.
Desmond kept a wide berth of the archery towers and continued down the road, noting he was seeing more European travelers than Saracen. The road also showed signs of battle as he kept plodding along. Trees snapped by siege engines, overturned carts, and the patrols of knights kept Desmond alert and cautious.
Eventually the road opened to a ruined settlement with another watchtower surrounded by fortifications and Richard's men. Desmond tried to be slow and invisible, but an arrow whipped by his hood and suddenly all the guards were around him. He kicked his heels and the horse started to gallop, but suddenly there was a hand around his ankle and Desmond was down on the ground.
"Heathen! I'll get you!"
Arrows were raining down, knights were surrounding him, and his horse was just outside the forming circle, pawing at the ground and waiting.
"Oh hell," Desmond growled. He ducked and dodged as much as he could as he tried to slip through the knights to get to his horse. He needed speed now and he had the basics of fighting, but not with blades for God's sake! A knight grabbed him and threw him. Desmond rolled with it, thankful for what he knew from his training as a kid, and easily rolled away.
Almost there... He ducked under another swing from a sword and took off, considered the watchtower a lost cause here, and leapt onto the horse, taking off at a full gallop uphill.
He didn't slow down until his heart did and finally gave his horse a rest by settling into a canter. Of course, Desmond's luck couldn't hold. Within no time flat, a Templar was yelling at him and chasing after him and Desmond was off at a full gallop once again. Any curses he offered about this were met with Vidic's disembodied laughter.
As he galloped downhill, he did note that the trees he was speeding by looked healthier and weren't damaged by signs of battle. He took this as a good sign that he was heading into Saracen territory, so that he wouldn't have to worry about finding platoons of guards or knights ready to slaughter him because he looked like a long-dead ancestor. He saw a set of ruins ahead and slowed, finally believing himself safe. And, even though it was a construct and the horse likely didn't feel anything, Desmond got off and took the reins to guide the animal instead of riding it. He'd been at full gallop for a few hours now and the animal needed rest.
Desmond fruitlessly searched his pouches to see if there was any feed for the horse, but just kept walking. In front of the ruins were the dead bodies of several knights and Desmond tried not to stare, there were Saracen archers behind those broken stone walls. Best to stay to the road and mind his own business.
He walked his horse uphill again, going oh-so-slowly almost an hour later when he spied an archery tower. He didn't mount, instead keeping his horse between him and the sharp-eyed archer and prayed really hard that no arrows came at him again.
Past the archery tower, it was downhill and Desmond eventually mounted once more and took off at a trot. The scenery was more of the same and Desmond couldn't help but wonder how anyone could know where they were at any one time. But then, the construct didn't have anything even close to correct placement or distances, so he chalked it up to computer error.
Desmond slowed again when he saw a patrol of Saracens with blades out and waited for them to go up a path before he took the more southern path away from them. The road split again and Desmond stayed on the well-worn road where there were more and more Muslims walking. There were still Saracen guards, but they paid him no mind as he trotted through as long as he avoided the people. He passed under a set of arches and was again in the fog room.
"Good job, Desmond. We can build Jerusalem from here," Lucy said as he waited in the fog.
"Uh-huh," Desmond replied. He pulled out his map of the Kingdom and was at least pleased to note that it was a bit more filled in. He had a better idea of the paths and now that he had a basis he could sort of see in the fogged areas where there might be other paths he couldn't distinguish before.
Of course, the map was still useless since it was just an outline of areas he could reach.
But before he could get further in these thoughts, Desmond was back on his horse, trotting to the side of a throng of people as he looked out over the expanse of Jerusalem. Tall and glittering was a golden dome of some sort that Desmond felt was famous, but he couldn't place it at all.
He started downhill, making sure to keep a wide berth of the blank-eyed NPCs and sticking to the grass. He spotted a small Saracen camp and dismounted to walk quietly by as he made his way to the tall gate that lead in to the Holy City of many different religions. His eyes were already seeing a path he could take from a short wall, but as he approached it, Desmond realized it was a wall of a graveyard. He wondered if Kadar had been buried there...
Author's Notes: What to say about this chapter...
The breaking of the legs was one of the most painful things in the game to watch as those poor appendages flop around like rubber. I wince just thinking about it.
One of the possible origins for the word "assassin" is the word "hashashin," a derivative of the word hashish, which is an plant. It was believed that young boys just entering puberty would inhale the stuff and, in a drugged high, be brought to a beautiful garden and given the chance to bed any and all of the girls there. We find it interesting to note that the game doesn't use the word "hashashin", but rather "assasyun" - which according to another author's Author's Notes, means "pillars of the faith." Can we find that author to point it out? No, of course not, but we think it's an important distinction - the assassin's don't want to be known for a plant but rather their belief of nothing is true and everything is permitted. In honor of "hashashin," however, and the fact that Al Mualim does have a garden in the back of his keep in the game, we decided they used diluted hashish as incense, perhaps to maintain focus, and the garden as a soothing place for weary warriors. It seems more in keeping with the kind of ideal that the assassins of the game strive for. Garnier, too, is using a more concentrated hashish and probably a few opiates from the east for his experimentation.
While it's true that there are no breaks during the Acre and Jerusalem assassinations at this stage, Desmond has to eat at some point, and Lucy is trying to stall as much as she can regardless. Besides, the idea of doing whatever he can to piss off Vidic is perennially entertaining. :D We also like the idea of what we've been calling "side-synching," where Desmond is Altair for only a few moments and visa versa.
We like Jabal. He's so busy with his own problems he could care less about Altair's, but at the same time he understands what the poor assassin is going through and let's him find his way. Altair is starting to change, too, and just knowing what he turns into by the end of the game makes us grin with anticipation.
Next Chapter: Jerusalem. And Malik. We're not going to have fun with this, nope, none whatsoever (knowing laughter).