Part Twenty-Four: Death of a Templar II
It took four days to even approach Richard's march down the coast to Arsuf. Every day provided Altair with the difficult decision of pushing his horse as fast as possible or remaining conservative enough to let his injuries heal. Because there was no doubt that when he reached Richard, he would see de Sable. And that would be a fight Altair had no desire of losing again. The previous encounter had failed miserably due to Altair's arrogance, true, but de Sable was indeed a strong and strategic opponent, if this insane move to unite Richard and Salah ad-Din was any indication. Altair would need his wits clear and focused and his body at peak precision.
Or as peak as it could be with broken fingers and vision that would waver if too long in the saddle, to say nothing of the pounding headache that simple riding could provide.
So Altair tried to find a middle ground. He took rest breaks, both to keep his horse in faster condition, and to push aside the blood pounding in his mind and clouding his vision. It was frustratingly slow, but Altair kept to his pace rigidly, refusing to rush and do injury either to himself or his horse as that would lead to a catastrophe in Masyaf.
Richard had clearly learned from the Battle of Hattin four years previous, and was refusing to even take the ancient Roman roads in favor of maintaining a steady supply train with his ships that followed him down the coast and fresh water. Indeed, he seemed to only have his men march for half the day, as Altair was certain that Richard's army should have been at Arsuf in half the time if they kept a steady march all day.
It also appeared that Richard was maintaining a solid grip of discipline and control on his men, which was strange for a Crusader. From what Altair understood of Christians, they took their troops from their noble classes, who had training, and from the fields. Peasants and merchants, those who had no training. Yet they weren't breaking rank.
And Richard's troops certainly had good reason to break rank.
That clear September morning, just as Altair crested yet another of the wooded hills that lined the coast, he saw through a break in the trees that Salah ad-Din's whole army was there, marching parallel and along the rear of Richard's column of men. The whole day as Altair rushed forward, the Saracens were firing volley after volley of arrows into the Christian lines, mounted archers galloped forward and attacked before retreating. Everything Salah ad-Din did was to try and provoke a response so that he could fight on ground of his choosing.
Richard, however, was a Crusader through and through. From what Altair had learned, Crusaders never fought actual pitched battles. They much preferred to simply lay a siege. Richard's control over his men appeared phenomenal whenever Altair saw them through the branches or crested a hill. Despite repeated provocations, they continued to hold their positions.
It would appear that Richard was as strong a leader as Salah ad-Din.
But the morning was the only time Altair truly had to observe. By mid-morning he was trying to push through Saracen lines on foot. Richard was in that tight knot of Crusaders backed by their ships and Altair needed to talk to him. Likely face off with Robert de Sable as well.
The first line of archers were reserves, young recruits still untested who were bunching arrows to send to the front line. Getting past them was simplicity.
The problem was once Altair was past them he was in the fight. He had to ghost between Saracen lines, which was no easy feat. There were almost forty-thousand troops packed into a tiny two mile square of the ruins of Arsuf and finding a path through the Saracen lines that didn't involved being seen was impossible.
Altair was spotted for the first time shortly after he infiltrated the Saracen army. It was a sharp-eyed archer who had climbed a tree to get a better sight on Richard's army that saw a white shadow darting amongst the browns and earth tones of Salah ad-Din's army. The arrow loosed flew right by Altair's ear, the wind of it making his hood flutter. Altair quickly ducked behind rocks and crawled through low-lying brush on his stomach and didn't encounter any other arrows.
As he made his way through the Saracen troops, Altair did make a point of passing within easy site of Salah ad-Din. He did so as a reminder. Fifteen years earlier, the charismatic sultan had tried to wage war on the Assassins. Al Mualim had dissuaded him from the idea by sending his assassin's into the sultan's camp and leaving hot scones by Salah ad-Din's bedside in the Assassin symbol of a compass in a cup and a knife with a note to leave. Altair's own father had performed the mission - though the final outcome of it still gave the master assassin a foul taste in his mouth.
Needless to say, Salah ad-Din would never cross the Assassins without good reason and a much better army.
But given de Sable's silver tongue and adept trickery, Altair felt showing himself would be a good reminder for the sultan that he never knew when a white hood might appear. That way, even if he failed in killing de Sable or convincing Richard, Salah ad-Din would think twice before assaulting Masyaf.
The next time Altair was seen, he'd made it to the front line of archers. There, the Saracens were all side-by-side, aiming their arrows to the tightly packed Crusader forces. There was no way for Altair to avoid being seen. Instead, he started running, pushing through the archers, and hurrying down the hill as arrows chased after him.
Running forward, Altair broke through the front line of archers by diving through them, rolling and exiting the roll at a full run. Behind him he could hear archers crying out indignation and some broke ranks to follow. Commanders called for them to return, but the break in the line that Altair had made seemed to be just what the Hospitalier Knights ahead of him needed.
Waves of Crusaders broke ranks and plunged forward to take advantage of the Saracen disarray, Richard's discipline finally breaking. No doubt the Crusaders were frustrated with holding their position under continuous assault. Particularly the Hospitalier, who brought up the rear and had needed to walk backwards and fire off their bows which made keeping formation difficult, to say nothing of the constant assault of the Saracens.
All around Altair things dissolved into chaos. Saracens exhausted from hours of provocation faced off hand-to-hand with angry Hospitaliers who didn't even have enough horses for a proper charge due to the constant rain of arrows. This worked to Altair's advantage, as it was easy to lose himself in the chaos. Both armies were more interested in each other.
Unfortunately, in the messy hand-to-hand that surrounded him, the occasional soldier did recognize him this is going to suck! Leaving Altair just as involved in the fighting as the troops. He did try to avoid direct combat, but once someone recognized his white hood and confronted him, he had no choice. Altair lost track of how many he felled, but his robes became more and more stained with mud and blood.
In all the chaos, Altair thought he spied Richard amongst all the men, fighting like a seasoned veteran and cutting down any Saracen before him.
Naturally, Altair tried to fight his way to the English King. Two Saracens got in his way. Altair was already out of throwing knives and he raised his long sword to block, but the blow never came. A Crusader had come up behind the two Saracens and in one swipe sliced a back open down to the ribs and another swing dug halfway through the Muslim's head. Altair kept his sword in a block, warily eyeing the Crusader who stared at him.
"The brother of Stephen?" the Crusader asked in French.
Altair lowered his sword. "Yes."
"It's me, Pierre," the Crusader tried to show relaxed posture, or as much as possible when surrounded by so many enemies.
Altair remembered the Knight. He had helped the young lover when other Knights had attacked him. Pierre had said he was somewhat close to Richard; Altair would need to use that connection.
"I need to see Richard," Altair said. "He bears a traitor in his midst."
Pierre started to swear vociferously. "I don't know where His Majesty is in all this battle! Come, I know where you can wait!"
Around them Crusaders continued to surge forward.
"Where?" Altair asked, pulling his feet from the muddy marches of the Rachetaille River.
"His Majesty is a fine and gallant warrior," Pierre replied. "He always checks on any wounded after a fight. He'll likely be-"
The young knight's words were cut off as an arrow seemed to find a way between the kinks of his chain mail and embed itself into the back of his knee.
"Pierre!" Altair shouted, catching him as he fell. Pierre started swearing in earnest, his attempt to stand ending with his leg buckling under him as he dragged himself and Altair back down into the mud.
"It seems I now have a reason to bring you there," Altair grunted, getting his feet under him and then pulling one of Pierre's arms over his head to haul him up.
Together, muddy and bloodied, the two started to head further back along the Crusader lines even as Richard's men swept forward to attack Salah ad-Din's.
"Is that brother Stephen of yours still in Acre? I met him a few days after you saved me." Pierre asked as they picked their way through the bodies and mud.
"No," Altair replied. "He ran afoul with some knights, as you did. He was poisoned and when Brother Jacob tried to help, he was attacked as well."
"By God, will this war never end?"
Altair's thoughts paused.
Yes, he was here to stop Robert de Sable and to protect Masyaf from another assault. But that was not his only reason. Not after all he had learned. No, he was also here for the people of the Holy Land. This war had lead to the enslavement, poisoning, murder and oppression of everyone, be they Christian, Muslim, or Jew. Killing Richard or Salah ad-Din would, as Al Mualim predicted, lead to ten thousand warriors aimless and without direction and it would be horrible. But surely there was a way to stop this war?
Salah ad-Din was losing this battle, of this Altair was fairly certain, given the cries of the Crusaders who ran by to attack. Salah ad-Din would be humbled with this victory, and hopefully start to think of means other than war to settle disputes. Richard was far from home and would need to return, taking his soldiers with him.
But this was assuming that Arsuf was the last battle. It likely would not be. Both armies were proving evenly matched. This would either end it all or it would continue. Either the people could return to their peaceful lives, or they would continue to suffer.
Altair was tired of seeing people suffer. Of people like Adha being taken. Of people like Kadar dying.
Altair wanted peace.
"Pierre? Is that you?" a young teenager ran forward, also speaking French.
"Raul! Help us!"
"Us?" The teenager who had been so focused on Pierre finally looked to Altair. "Saracen! Pierre, you bring an enemy amongst us!"
The knight let out a low laugh. "My friend, I see why you hide in that hood. It seems ignorance knows no bounds."
Altair only smiled. "Would that more would see me as you and Brother Jacob did."
"Hah!" Pierre laughed, still limping along. "I only saw reason because you saved my life."
"Pierre!" young Raul growled. "You converse with an enemy, laugh with an enemy! Are you a spy for the damned Saracens?"
"Raul, stop being a brat," Pierre snapped back. "Help me along or my dearest will never let you filch her bread again!"
Raul pouted, looking far younger than he was, before stepping forward to grab Pierre's other arm.
"And how is your beloved?" Altair asked. Conversation started to flow and with all of them speaking French, the eyes that looked to Altair hesitated before turning away. Raul eventually got a heroic rendition of Altair helping Pierre, despite Altair's protests at the exaggeration going on as they finally came to a camp where other wounded were being treated. Or buried.
One glance around was enough for Altair to not trust any priest that came over to call upon the power of God to heal them so he set about work pulling the arrow out of Pierre's leg, explaining each step and why it was important. He pulled the arrow, washed the wound with water from his own waterskin, and wrapped it with the cleanest cloth he could find. He gave the best prognosis he could.
"It will depend on how it heals," he explained. "You will likely be able to walk, if you stay off it for now as I have suggested, but I am uncertain if it will heal straight. You may have a permanent limp after this, along with general weakness in the leg for the rest of your life."
Pierre chuckled. "As long as I have a life to live with my dearest, I won't complain. It seems you have saved me again."
Altair shook his head. "You have saved me. When King Richard returns, I will speak to him of the traitor in his midst."
Out of necessity, Altair stayed with Pierre, letting conversation flow again. Despite being covered in mud and blood, he kept his posture harmless and deferential. Let him appear as a slave and thus others would turn a blind eye.
It was approaching late afternoon when Altair left Pierre resting and with strict instructions to Raul to keep him resting, so that he might find Richard.
The battle had been won. Salah ad-Din had been routed and stories were already circulating of Richard's bravery and gallantry in the fight. If Pierre was correct, then Richard would start circulating the injured to check them. Altair did not wish to be seen just yet so he stuck to the lengthening shadows to watch and observe. To talk to Richard now would be pointless. De Sable was not there and the fight Altair was anticipating would end up being around injured who could not defend themselves. This, Altair would not abide, so he waited. Pierre had said that after checking the wounded, Richard would confer with the other leaders of the Crusade, which was when Altair would speak. There was also the increased likelihood of de Sable being there to plead his case, which would give Altair the chance to finally kill him.
As twilight started to fall, Altair followed Richard to the ruins in Arsuf, and finally made his presence known.
"Come no further!" a knight barked out, reaching for his sword.
Altair replied in English as well. "Hold a moment! It's words I bring, not steel!"
Richard stepped forward, surrounded by Templars and English knights. "Offering terms of surrender then?" The English king bore hair as fiery as the red robes he wore over his chain mail. His face was slick with sweat, matting his hair and beard as he stood strong in the slowly rising mist. "It's about time."
"You misunderstand," Altair replied. No doubt Richard thought him an envoy of Salah ad-Din, and it would be best to correct that notion swiftly. "It's Al Mualim who sends me, not Salah ad-Din."
"Assassin," Richard growled, his French accent thickening and his voice getting more hoarse after a day of shouting commands. "What is the meaning of this? And be quick with it!"
"You've a traitor in your midst," Altair shot back.
Richard scoffed. "And he has hired you to kill me? Come to gloat about it before you strike?" The king narrowed his eyes. "I won't be taken so easily!"
"It's not you I've come to kill," Altair shouted back. "It's him. The traitor."
Richard straightened, an eyebrow raised, showing the answer surprised him. "Speak then. That I might judge the truth. Who is this traitor?"
Altair stepped forward, the knights and Templars stepping away so that he had a clear path. In respect of their caution, he stopped at a safe distance from Richard to show he was no threat. "Robert de Sable."
"My lieutenant?" Richard paused, then laughed.
"He aims to betray," Altair insisted.
"That's not the way he tells it," Richard replied, nodding to a helmeted man by his side. "He seeks revenge against your people for the havoc you've wrought in Acre."
And de Sable was twisting the truth once more. Really, Altair was hardly surprised.
"I am inclined to support him," Richard continued. "Some of my best men were murdered by some of yours."
"It was I who killed them, and for good reason," Altair replied hotly. Better to draw blame on himself, keep attention away from the brotherhood, the third tenet of the Creed. "Hear me out: William of Montferrat, he sought to use his soldiers to take Acre by force. Garnier de Naplous, he would use his skills to indoctrinate and control any who resisted. Sibrand, he intended to block the ports, preventing your kingdom from providing aide. They betrayed you, and they took their orders from Robert."
Around him the Templars stepped carefully, encircling him.
Richard scowled. "You expect me to believe this outlandish tale?"
"You knew these men," Altair countered. "Better than I. Are you truly surprised to learn of their ill intentions?"
The English king paused, thinking, before turning to the helmeted man beside him. "Is this true?"
The helmet came off revealing the scared and bald de Sable. "My Liege," he bowed. "It is an assassin that stands before us," he said calmly, his French accent thicker than Richard's. "These creatures are masters of manipulation. Of course it isn't true."
De Sable was one to talk.
Altair kept his eyes on Richard. "I've no reason to deceive."
"Oh," de Sable replied with a smile, "but you do. You're afraid of what would happen to your little fortress. Can it withstand the combined might of the Saracen and Crusader armies?"
Altair frowned and narrowed his eyes. "My concern is for the people of the Holy Land. If I must sacrifice myself for there to be peace, so be it."
Richard's brows raised and he looked to the assassin in fresh contemplation. "This is a strange place we find ourselves in," he said slowly. "Each of you accusing the other..."
Robert de Sable must have sensed Richard's hesitation, sensed that Richard as a warrior had respected Altair's offer to die for peace. "There really is no time for this," de Sable insisted. "I must be off to meet with Saladin and enlist his aide. The longer we delay, the harder this will become." He turned to leave.
"Hold a moment, Robert," Richard commanded.
"Why? What do you intend?" He gave a small laugh. "Surely you do not believe him," he gestured to Altair.
"It is a difficult decision," Richard replied, looking between de Sable and Altair. "One I cannot make alone. I must leave it in the hands of one wiser than I am."
"Thank you," de Sable bowed his head with a triumphant smirk.
"No, Robert, not you."
"Then who?"
Richard tilted his head back and looked to the slowly appearing stars. "The Lord."
Altair frowned, wondering what this meant.
"Let this be decided by combat," Richard announced. "Surely God will side with the one whose cause is righteous."
"If this is what you wish," Robert bowed with mockery.
"It is."
"So be it."
Altair, who had remained silent, watched de Sable put on his helmet and held back a smile. For all that he had learned, for all that he had grown, there was a part of him that rejoiced at the idea of finally killing this enemy of the Assassins. He bore no hatred. Not any more. But cold conviction that he was doing the right thing and that this bleeding wound to the Holy land would finally be shut.
"To arms, Assassin!"
The ten Templars around him drew their swords with Robert.
It seemed, like with all else, the Templars would never fight fair. Richard stepped back, only raising a brow to show his surprise.
Despite his broken fingers, Altair's other injuries were no longer inhibiting. Exhaustion from riding to catch up and then fighting through two armies was gone after spending time with Pierre and quietly shadowing Richard. He was ready for this fight and perhaps if he could defeat all of them, it would appeal to the warrior in King Richard.
The ten Templars around him circled carefully, six coming forward to cut off immediate escape and the remaining four standing back in reserve. Altair pulled out his short sword, aiming for the lighter weight to prevent himself from tiring. The last week had been incredibly long and it would weigh on him if he were not careful.
One Templar came at him with a sharp cry, young and inexperienced but clearly well trained, as his form was perfect. But every form had a weakness. The young Templar slashed downward and Altair was already spinning, his short sword coming up and going right into the mouth that was open in a war cry, slicing open cheeks as the sharp edge sliced through the back of the throat and bounced off the bone of the skull. Blood and bits of cranium flowed out with Altair's sword as he spun under the swing of another Templar and he reassessed all their positions.
One of the reserves came forward, and around the circle he was fighting, the foot soldiers of the Crusaders were staring in shock as one of their strongest went down faster than any had expected. Richard merely watched calmly, completely at ease.
Altair kept moving slowly; refusing to let his feet get stuck in the muck and mud by staying stationary. The circle around him followed, eyeing him with more caution. These men were not recently promoted youth who were brash and reckless. These men were communicating with flicks of the eye or the barest gestures of a finger.
At some unseen signal, three of the six encircling him rushed forward in a well practiced, choreographed move designed to trap him. Altair would not be caught by such tricks, however, so he leapt up over one of the Templars, out of reach of the other two swords aiming for him, and as he flipped over, his short sword dug into the Templar's back, going between ribs and through lungs before his feet even landed, the momentum letting the master assassin pull the Templar up over his head and dislodging his sword by flinging the whole body into the circle around him and to the reserves behind them.
Altair used the opening to exit the circle, taking position again, this time with English Knights to his back and the Templars in front of him. Rather than all eight around him, only three had made it, the others still tripping through the mud in their heavy armor to regain their formation. Altair used this to his advantage.
With a war cry of his own, he spun towards the Templar on the left of the three before him. The Templar stood firm, raising his blade into a position to block any move that Altair made, but instead the master assassin switched directions at the last moment, slicing through the leg of the Templar in the middle, cutting through the bone but not completely through the leg, leaving it attached only by a single muscle.
Altair was surrounded again, stepping carefully. Two of the Templars behind him tried to take advantage of the blind spot, rushing forward. But the Assassin could hear the squelching approach and ducked under the swords, rolling forward and coming up before a different Templar. Altair punched forward, grabbing below the man's belt with his left hand and letting his hidden blade extend, slicing through the most delicate bits of flesh that made all watching gasp and wince in sympathy.
All that remained were six who stood around him in formation. There were no more reserves and Altair had not had to expend much energy.
Richard gave a nod, almost approving, with an enigmatic smile that Altair interpreted as almost respectful. The Crusaders were staring, and the master assassin thought he saw Pierre taking a seat on a rock to watch, Raul hovering by his side.
A Templar on Altair's left came charging forward. The Assassin easily raised his short sword to block, but the Templar did not swing. Instead he barreled into the assassin, knocking them both to the ground. The heavy weight of the Templar and his armor pinned Altair to the ground momentarily, and another Templar stepped forward, kicking the Assassin in the head and effectively reminding Altair that he already had been struck there but days before.
On some base instinct Altair dropped his short sword, grabbed the kicking Templar's foot, and yanked, pulling him off balance. There was a large splash of mud and Altair grabbed his short sword again, bringing it down hard to the upper arm of the man who was trying to hold him down. Above his head the Templar he had tripped was trying to get up and another Templar was coming forward to fill the gap to try and kick the downed Assassin again. But Altair's sword had cut through the chain mail of his captor and once the blade hit the bone, it slid down, pulling off muscle since Altair didn't have enough power at that angle to cut through the bone as well.
A foot kicked him in the back as Altair struggled to his feet, and he grabbed it tripping this Templar as well. To his surprise, the Templar who had grabbed him and had just had his arm ripped open grabbed at him again, despite the useless arm, so the Assassin grabbed his face and let his hidden blade penetrate the man's eye socket and going straight into the brain.
Altair rolled away, assessing again. Two Templars were covered in mud after he'd tripped them for trying to kick him while he was down and the remaining three still spread out around him, keeping him pinned. Altair shook his head briefly, the raging headache he'd put behind him returning in strong form. It was only through sheer force of will that he was able to push it aside and focus.
A Templar came from Altair's right and Altair ducked back, letting the blade swing down harmlessly in front of him. Altair retaliated by bringing his own short sword down and cleanly slicing off the Templar's nose. The Templar staggered, falling to a knee, so Altair planted his foot into the blood-covered face with a satisfying crunch of facial bones, kicking him aside.
Spinning, the master Assassin sliced into the hip of one of the muddy Templars, intending to come up and do more damage along the chest now that he was more exposed. But a different Templar was swinging behind Altair, catching a narrow but long gash along Altair's back, cutting part of the harness that held his short sword.
Altair sidestepped quickly, pulling back to take a moment to breath and assess once again. The Templar who he had cut at the hip had pulled back, placing himself in a reserve position and letting the remaining three attempt to encircle him. Altair kept taking slow steps, taking a moment to breath. He debated switching to his long sword, but he needed all his strength for de Sable. The wound on his back still felt like it was bleeding sluggishly, but would not be a problem for now. Assuming he won this fight, he would have to ensure time to bathe the wound during his ride back to Masyaf.
The Templar in front of him lunged forward, bloodlust clouding his eyes. Altair let the man come. He grabbed the man's hands and let the momentum push him down to his back. But as the Assassin rolled back, his feet caught the Templar in the stomach, pulling him up over Altair's head. Soon the Templar was on his back in the mud with Altair above him, knees coming down onto the Templars ribs and knocking the wind out of him, despite his armor. Altair's short sword sliced through the exposed neck, flinging blood and mud before he was on his feet again.
Altair wished briefly that he had his throwing knives at this point. It would make short work of the remaining three Templars. But he made do. The uninjured muddy Templar feigned in one direction and attacked from another and the Assassin let the swing pass him harmlessly before cutting off both hands neatly with his short sword and kicking him in the chest back into the mud.
Seeking to finish this, Altair charged at the uninjured Templar, short sword parallel to his forearm. He dodged the sword, which swung wide, and used both of his arms to force his short sword up in a vicious slice that cut smock, armor, and chest open, cracking the sternum open and exposing the internal organs for all to study before he turned and leapt at the remaining Templar who was muddied and barely able to move with a hip cut so deeply. This was the most merciful strike, cleanly across the throat, just deep enough to cut the jugular, but not be as painful as the previous Templars.
It was dark now, the sun completely set. The only light came from torches that were being held aloft by the Crusaders who stood watching. Robert de Sable stepped forward, pulling out his heavy broadsword.
Altair took a moment for a deep breath, straightening. He sheathed his short sword and pulled out his own long sword, keeping his eyes locked on de Sable. Calm swept over him as he took an opening stance and started circling de Sable.
Murmurs were breaking out around them, English, French, German, dialects Altair couldn't quite recognize. Richard remained immobile, watching with his arms crossed. In the flickering light of the torches it was harder to gauge his expression, but Altair was not looking. His entire focus, his entire being, was watching this Templar. The only Templar, the one who had set all this in motion. A Templar who wanted to enslave everyone to the point they could not even rise up to question, let alone act.
Altair switched his sword stance, gauging and assessing every step de Sable took. Minutes passed, each calculating and weight options.
"It's done," the Assassin said. "Your schemes, like you, are put to rest."
Robert scoffed. "You've not killed me yet."
"Perhaps. But it won't be long."
Altair lunged forward, swinging his sword in a horizontal slash. Robert blocked and the master assassin used the momentum of the repelled sword to swing around and come up diagonally from the side, but the Templar held firm.
Blades locked, Robert leaned forward, chuckling. "You know nothing of schemes," he said in Arabic, his French accent thick. "You are but a puppet. He betrayed you boy. Just as he betrayed me."
Altair pushed away the blades, giving ground and circling. Irritated at the barb Robert had thrown that made no sense but seemed to pluck a string in him that felt it was all too true.
"Speak sense, Templar," he spat back, sticking to French, "or not at all!" Altair attacked again, feigning with his sword and then delivering a powerful kick to the Templar's exposed side, sending Robert stumbling. Altair pressed his advantage, using a flurry of strikes designed to wear down strength and possibly provide small injuries that would drain even more. The chain mail prevented Altair from breaking skin, but there was no denying that Robert felt the blows.
"Nine men he sent you to kill, yes?" Robert growled, backing away and giving ground. "The nine who guarded the treasure's secret."
"What of it?"
"It wasn't nine who found the treasure, Assassin," the Templar widened his stance, shifting his weight. "Not nine, but ten."
"A tenth?" Altair was shocked and Robert used the surprise to land a heavy two-handed blow onto the block Altair raised that sent the master Assassin tumbling backward into the mud and scrambling for footing. Robert kept pace with every roll and scurry Altair tried to use to get his feet under him, and it wasn't until the Assassin rolled toward the Templar that he knocked Robert down and was finally able to stand. "None may live who carry the secret. Give me his name!"
Both were standing, breathing hard. "Oh, but you know him well," Robert taunted, his voice and posture all smug confidence. "And I doubt very much you would take his life as willingly as you'll take mine."
"Who?"
"It is your master: Al Mualim."
The Templar charged forward again, the revelation slowing the Assassin's reaction just enough for Robert to gain an advantage. A slash left an open red cut along Altair's upper arm as he attempted to sidestep. The sidestep was stopped by Robert's knee connecting with his side, sending Altair down into the mud once more. Rage bubbled and boiled in Altair at the accusation, giving him strength and speed as he leapt to his feet before the Templar could use this to his advantage and, despite his broken fingers, he grabbed one of Robert's arms and swung his sword down. There wasn't enough power to cut the armor, but there was a satisfying snap! as his broadsword made contact.
"He is not a Templar!"
The Templar was backpedaling, arm limp at his side, trying to put distance between them. "Did you never wonder how it is he knew so much?" he countered. "Where to find us, how many we number, what we aspire to attain?"
Yes, he had wondered. But the grandmaster received information from all across the Holy Land, all across the known world. Was it really so much of a stretch to think he had gleaned something from all the information he sorted through each day?
Yet Altair had still wondered.
With a cry, the Assassin sped forward, another flurry of strikes flying, but Robert blocked each one single-handed.
"He is the master of the Assassins!"
"Oui. Master of lies," the Templar grunted under the assault. "You and I just two more pawns in his grand game."
Altair's foot sank further into the mud than he anticipated and de Sable attempted to use the momentum to roll him away as he had under Solomon's Temple.
The same trick wouldn't work on Altair twice. Instead he grabbed onto Robert's arm to use the Templar as the center of a pendulum swing. Coming around, he willingly threw his sword to the ground and drove his hidden blade into the gap of chain mail near the base of the neck.
The Templar coughed, blood slipping from his lips, and sank to his knees. "And now," he whispered, "with my death, only you remain. Do you think he will let you live? Knowing what you do?"
"I've no interest in the treasure," Altair said quietly.
"Ah, but he does," de Sable coughed again. "The only difference between your master and I is that he did not want to share."
Altair thinned his lips. From what he'd seen, de Sable didn't wish to share either, except to a chosen few. But he could not deny the logic of what the Templar had said. It made so much sense.
"Ironic isn't it?" de Sable gasped in the flickering torchlight. "That I, your greatest enemy, kept you safe from harm. But now you've taken my life. And in the process, ended your own..."
Closing the Templar's eyes, Altair took a moment to just catch his breath and be still.
Al Mualim.
A traitor to the very people he led.
Altair could not deny it. He had seen the reverence that the Master had for that piece of silver, watched him become colder and harsher. There was that strange vision of death. The Al Mualim he had followed and respected... was a lie.
And the truth must be brought out and confronted.
Around him, Altair listened to swords unsheathe, and he stood, picking up his sword once more. He had to get to Masyaf now, but there was still work here to be done.
Richard stepped forward, raising an arm to hold off the knights who were looking with pale fear at Altair and the eleven bodies at his feet. The Assassin was quite the sight, covered in mud and blood, harness hanging awkwardly with one of the straps cut, and blood leaking from his upper arm.
But the King just stood before him, and nodded. "Well fought, Assassin. It seems God favors your cause this day."
Still struggling to assimilate what he'd just learned, Altair shook his head, favoring instead to correct the thought. "God had nothing to do with it. I was the better fighter."
Richard laughed, a smile stretching his bushy red beard. "Aaah, you may not believe in Him, but it seems He believes in you."
Altair let the difference of opinion pass.
"Before you go," Richard started to walk and Altair strode by his side. "I have a question."
"Ask it then."
"Why?" Richard asked. "Why travel all this way, risk your life a thousand times, all to kill a single man?"
The Assassin smiled under the mud and blood, hollow in light of what he had learned, but the distraction of the king was infinitely better; his question had such a simple and complex answer. "He threatened my Brothers and what we stand for," was perhaps the most succinct way of putting it.
"Ah," the king nodded. "Vengeance, then."
"No," Altair replied quietly. "Not vengeance. Justice. That there might be peace."
Richard opened a flap to a tent and gestured for them to enter.
"This is what you fight for? Peace?" The king shook his head in what appeared to be exasperation. "Do you see the contradiction?"
The Assassin dipped his head to hide another smile. It was a contradiction that many a Brother faced and had to reconcile. "Some men cannot be reasoned with," he replied.
"Like that madman, Saladin," Richard agreed.
Altair stood straight and tall. "I think he'd like to see an end to this war as much as you."
"So I've heard," Richard waved it off, "but never seen."
"Even if he doesn't say it, it's what the people want," Altair replied. "Saracen and Crusader alike."
"The people know not what they want," Richard eased down into a chair. "It's why they turn to men like us. The strong."
Altair bowed his head respectfully. "Then it falls to men like you to do what is right."
"Hah! Nonsense." Richard gave a tired smile. "We come into the world kicking and screaming. Violent and unstable. It is what we are. We cannot help ourselves."
"No," Altair said quietly, the lessons he had learned these past two seasons settled calmly within him. "We are what we chose to be." He had chosen to be arrogant and had paid the price for it. He chose to be wise now, and hoped to see peace as a result. Al Mualim, he had chosen to...
"Heh, your kind," the king gave an amused grin. "Always playing with words."
Altair frowned. "I speak the truth. Others merely choose not to see it. There's no trick to be found here."
"We'll know soon enough. But I fear you cannot have what you desire this day." Richard shook his head. "Even now, that heathen Saladin has cut many of my men and I must attend to them. But, perhaps, having seen how vulnerable he is, he will reconsider his actions." The king nodded to himself. "Yes. In time, what you seek may be possible."
The Assassin sought to make the day's events clear. "You are no more secure than him. Do not forget that. The men you left behind to rule in your stead did not intend to serve you for longer than they had to."
"Yes." Richard looked away. "Yes. I am well aware."
"Then I'll take my leave." Altair gave a polite bow of his head. "My master and I have much to discuss. It seems that even he is not without fault."
"He is only human," the king offered. "As are we all." He narrowed his eyes. "You as well."
"... Safety and peace be upon you."
Richard smiled. "It's already dark and you are a mess. Stay the night. You'll have plenty of time to leave in the morning. After that, I hope to never see you again."
Altair gave his own grin. "I hope I won't have a reason to see you again."
...So Al Mualim was a traitor? He knew about the Temple and the nine because he was one of them? It couldn't be true and yet it made so much sense and how could he kill his own master...? Where were the stars in the... Desmond shook his head and rubbed his face. No stars, it wasn't past midnight and he wasn't sneaking out of Richard's camp to get a head start on the ride north to Masyaf. He wasn't Altair, he wasn't; he was just looking at the ceiling of his prison.
God, that was the worst pull out yet. Ejected by Lucy again...?
"I said get up, god damn it!"
God-complex ass-wipe freak. With effort, Desmond pulled himself up to a sitting position on the Animus, spinning around slightly to look up the dais to his Lordship as he paced about his glass table. "Listen!" he shouted, pressing a finger to a communication console.
"Oh, no," Lucy whispered as the room filled with sounds of gunfire. Desmond blinked, a little startled. The room had always been so... quiet, only the sounds of the cooling systems and the Animus and the voices of Lucy and Vidic. Hearing gunfire, it was so... strange. What did it mean?
Vidic was livid. "Seems your Assassin friends found us."
... What?
"... What?"
They... they were coming for him? Really? He was... he was going to get out of here? Excitement mixed with fear enveloped him, and he pulled himself off the Animus to take position next to Lucy. When the assassins came, he could grab her, maybe pretend she was a hostage, and run, get her freedom with his. He had no idea how this was happening, but he sure wasn't going to let the opportunity go to waste. He couldn't believe it! Freedom!
Vidic marched forward, down a step on the dais, shaking a furious finger at his prisoner. "How'd you do it, Desmond? How'd you leak your location to them? How'd you even contact them?"
Desmond bristled.
"Hey, look," he growled, emotions firing back and forth in his brain, making him defensive. "I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever's going on down there? Has got nothing to do with me!" God knew his hacking attempts sure as hell didn't draw attention. How was he supposed to know anything? Do anything trapped as he was in this stupid secure room that didn't have outside internet access or even a freakin' DOS window?
His defensive response only brought about more anger from Vidic. "They're here for you!" he roared, taking another step, murder in his eyes. "And I sure as shit didn't invite them!" Vidic turned on his heel and marched back to the comm. "What's the situation down there?" he demanded.
"Taking heavy fire," someone on the other end said, his voice clinical and professional. The hail of gunfire coming in with his voice backed up the statement.
Vidic swore again. "Can you contain it? Or do I need to evacuate the prisoner?" he demanded, shifting weight from one foot to the next.
"Only five or six," the voice responded. "We've got them outnumbered. Couple of wounded but we'll pull through. We'll get it under control." Somebody on that disembodied other end cried out and the link went dead.
"God damn you Desmond," Vidic hissed. "You couldn't leave well enough alone."
"I told you I had nothing to do with this!" Desmond shouted, taking an angry step forward. How dare this man fail to acknowledge the mistakes and accept his approaching death? God complex freak! How he pissed Desmond off! "How would I even contact them? Telepathy? Come on!"
Silence stretched out, heavy and oppressive. Vidic glared daggers at Desmond but the kidnapped man held his ground. Even through his anger, he was beginning to realize: Vidic was worried. He watched the shifting of the weight; the pacing around the comm. Vidic was actually scared. The smug exterior had completely evaporated, the god-complex had disappeared, and he was just a guy, a guy terrified that he was going to get in trouble. The idea slowly quelled the anger, and as time dragged on Desmond allowed himself to smirk, confidence filling him.
It was done once, it could be done again.
And by god, Desmond was going to enjoy making the old fart quail.
Minutes went by. Lucy stood unnaturally still, her face pale. Desmond thought she had the same mix of nervous fear and excitement as he did. He wanted to express to her that she was coming with them, but Vidic's pacing and cursing made that impossible. He tried to catch her eye, communicate with a look, but she stared at nothing, completely frozen as she, they, waited for word.
"Christ Desmond how did you do it?" Vidic demanded, his nerves making him fill the silence. A light blinked on the console, and the grizzled old man's face went from tightly controlled panic to something far smarmier. "Doesn't matter," he answered himself expansively. He turned to Desmond and Lucy. "They'll be dead soon enough. Here: have a listen."
And gunfire enveloped the room again, sporadic, a cacophony of noise, but it sputtered, growing more disparate, before it finally stopped all together.
"Threat's been neutralized," the voice on the other end said.
With a haughty smirk Vidic turned off the comm. "Looks like the cavalry won't be coming."
But Desmond replied with a smirk of his own. "Dunno, doc. You were freakin' out a minute ago. Little research facility not as secure as you thought it was? Worried they'll be back with more?" Even if this attempt failed, there'd be another one. All he had to do was wait.
"...I don't think so, Desmond, " Lucy said softly, slightly behind him. Desmond turned to look at her, her pale face even paler, her eyes downcast. She didn't look up to him.
Desmond looked on, confused.
"What Lucy is trying to say," Vidic extrapolated, "is that there aren't many Assassins left to come for you." He spun around to face the doc. "We've been very busy this past year," he continued, "hunting down your little enclaves, your desert communes and whatnot."
Desert... the farm? Did they find the farm?
Dad, Mom, everyone there, were they...?
Desmond fought to stay calm.
Vidic, oblivious to his debilitating comment, just smiled and said, "I'm afraid you're on your own."
Alone...
All alone...
No hope...
"Rest up Mr. Miles. Tomorrow, we finish this."
Desmond watched, numbly, as Vidic strolled out of the room, and he helpless to follow. With Vidic went any energy left in Desmond's legs, and he sat heavily on one of the armchairs, breath leaving him in a great huff.
"I'm sorry, Desmond," Lucy said in a quiet voice. He looked up, a little startled, and saw that she had sat down next to him.
"... He mentioned the desert," he said, his voice a little broken. "Do you think...?" His mother? His father?
Lucy looked up to the cameras for a brief moment, perhaps weighing her options, before she reached out and put a hand on his knee. "They sent a team there but the place was deserted. I don't know where your parents are, and I can't promise they're still alive, but I think they got away."
Maybe. All he had was a maybe. It was nothing, not really, and there was no energy left in Desmond to try and turn it into something.
But Lucy had risked giving him the information, and for that he was grateful.
"... Thanks," he said, a hand reaching out to cover hers, giving it a squeeze. "Thanks for checking."
It... it was all pointless. Futile, even. He had no other options, no other avenues, no other hopes. It... it was over.
Lucy seemed to sense his thoughts, because she squeezed his hand in turn and offered a warm, soft smile. "It's not as bad as it seems."
Not as bad as... on what planet?
"What are you talking about?" Desmond said, leaning forward and pulling his hand away. "They just killed - literally killed - my only chance of getting outta here! And then I find out the Assassins are all but destroyed and, and, Christ! I still don't know what these people are planning! But I do know they plan to kill me when they're done! I am screwed, okay? What do you want me to do?" There was nothing, nothing left! What could she possibly say?
For a long time, she didn't say anything, just looked into his eyes long and hard, before slowly, deliberately, she lifted her left hand up to her chest, all fingers extended. All but one. Her ring finger was bent in, looking like it might have been amputated, looking like a member of the Order.
"Just try and have a little faith," she said softly. Simply.
Desmond stared, his mind threatening to shut down. "You're..."
"Have faith," she repeated, quickly but not unkindly as her eyes flicked to the cameras. Desmond blinked, realizing he had almost given it away. He released a breath he hadn't been aware he had been holding, and he leaned back in the chair, shocked.
Lucy got up. "Rest up Desmond. You're going to need the energy."
It wasn't until he was back in his room that he had enough time to realize the full implications of what Lucy had just given him. He sure as hell hadn't gotten word to the assassin's, but Lucy must have, and so after the guard came in for with his dinner and left he used his access code - that Lucy must have given him - to go back into the main lab and made a beeline for the blonde's terminal. How, how had she managed to get word outside? He opened up her email and dug through her inbox and outbox but found nothing. He opened up the trash folder, too, and that was where he found it, a series of emails between her and an unknown sender. He scrolled down to the bottom and worked his way up.
NEED INTEL ON DIA EVENT
AT LEAST TWENTY DEAD IN ACCIDENT. ASSUME THIS IS SITE OF LAUNCH. IF NOT LAUNCH, THEN CERTAINLY ASSEMBLY. SHOULD TRY AND INFILTRATE.
WHAT IS PURPOSE OF LAUNCH?
LOW EARTH ORBIT TRANSMITTOR FOR ARTIFACT. EXTENSION OF CONDITIONED RESPONSE EXPERIMENTS FROM FIVE YEARS AGO. IF SUCCESSFUL THEY CONTROL EVERYTHING.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN EVERYTHING?
OUR MINDS.
WHAT ABOUT DESMOND?
THEY'RE USING HIM TO LOCATE ANOTHER ARTIFACT. I HAVE BEEN DELAYING BUT THEY ARE CLOSE NOW.
DOES HE KNOW ABOUT US?
NO.
GOOD. KEEP IT THAT WAY FOR NOW.
CAN YOU SEND RESCUE?
And, as if that information dump wasn't enough, the last email looked completely different.
From: fastr cheaper meds
Subject: Problems DOWN THERE?
WondEr Why It is everyone Laughs at you? i'll Let you guess. let's just say that she's proBably gEtTing it bigger and better from someone else tHat isn't you. how can you hope to compEte? REst asSured that there are sOme gOod ways. click the liNk to see!
It took Desmond a while to figure it out. Erectile Dysfunction spam wasn't exactly a clear response, until he realized that everything before had been in capital letters, and with decent grammar no less. Why the sudden switch to such shoddy writing? Desmond read over the email a couple of times, and it wasn't until he made the connection of the capital letters that he put it together: WE WILL BE THERE SOON.
God. God. Lucy had been the one to ask for a rescue. Desmond rubbed his forehead, reminding himself there was nothing he could do. Shit, no wonder she had been so pale during the fight, no wonder she couldn't meet his eyes when the assassins were all killed. How was she still standing after that?
It took a lot of effort, but Desmond finally logged off her computer and stepped back. The satellite launch was going to control everyone's minds with some stupid Piece of Eden that Abstergo was traipsing through Altair's memories for. Just how many had his ancestor found in that locked memory? There wasn't any time left, and so Desmond marched purposefully to Vidic's terminal.
Email was the first program he opened. The first thing he spied was an email from the president, Alan Rikken. Desmond should have expected that after the failed assassin assault, but he didn't and he shook his head.
It appeared that Rikken wasn't the slightest bit pleased, Desmond reading lines like, "If this kid isn't going to get us what we need, it's time to start looking elsewhere. I've cc'ed David from our Acquisitions department. He may be able to provide you with a couple of additional test subjects should Desmond be retired. In case you need reminding, WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME." As if Desmond didn't already know about the ticking clock, the proverbial feather, hanging over his head.
Rikken went on to talk about fluoride, Desmond remembered reading something about that earlier, probably in Vidic's news sound bytes, but what got his attention was the fact that Rikken thought there might be a leak in the company. Was he on to Lucy? But as he read further he didn't spy her name, just speculation one whether there even was a leak or not. The last sentence made Desmond gulp: "I'm about ready to pull the plug on Subject Seventeen. So either get me results or get another person into that Animus."
"Right," he muttered, "Knowing the end is nigh? Not helping."
That didn't mean he didn't give himself several minutes to stress over it. He really didn't know what more he could do to stall; he'd have to think of something later.
He saw an email from Lucy in Vidic's trash, and he thanked her several times over when he realized he was looking at the access code for the computer in the conference room. Desmond logged off as quickly as he could, determined to learn as much as he could. Abstergo may have been running out of time, but that meant Desmond was, too, and he had to put this all together before they decided to off him. Escape was almost negligible now, what he needed was information.
He used the stolen codes to access the conference room, glared at the door that had been so close to freedom before, and sat down at the laptop on the conference desk, logging on. Every file and directory was encrypted. Nothing could be accessed except for the email program - a running theme for Desmond, and in it there was only one email.
"The others and I have finished reviewing the Animus recordings from Subjects 12-16. While the Piece of Eden remains our priority, we must all continue working to locate and understand the remaining artifacts. I am sure you can understand our reasoning behind this. Although the satellite is intended to accomplish a fair portion of the work for us, we will certainly need to deal with those who are either immune to - or protected from - its effects.
"Please take a moment to look over our findings and get back to me with any feedback you may have. I will summarize below:
"1. Piece of Eden (no. 3) - We applaud your continued efforts to locate an alternate artifact following the loss of no. 2 in the DIA Satellite Accident. We understand Subject Seventeen is having trouble interfacing with the Animus, leading to delays. As a result, we estimate another 24 hours before your next critical update. In the meantime, we'll prepare an extraction team and set them on standby. We're relying on you to obtain the addition information we require. He knows where the other objects are - even if he doesn't realize it. You MUST unlock that final memory or all of this will have been for nothing.
"2. Philadelphia Project - Data from Animus Subject Twelve indicates that the ship briefly manifested in a future state for approximately 18 minutes. It is unclear whether the timeline is consistent or parallel to our own. Although we have recovered enough data to reconstruct and repair the original artifact and use it in an experiment, Administration has refused to move forward on the project, citing paradox concerns. Corporate policy remains in place: any objects found to interfere with or manipulate time must be contained. Artifact will be moved to secure storage.
"3. Tunguska Incident - Now believed to be direct result of assault by Assassins. Research station destroyed as was the artifact. Alternate wave generation devices had been located in storage, but we have insufficient data at the moment to initiate research. The risk of accident is too high. Lineage Discovery and Acquisition Division should attempt to locate descendants of any attack survivors (either Assassin or Brotherhood) in order to continue research. Resurrecting this particular type of technology will aide us greatly with any holdouts following the Satellite's activation. We're putting together a team to push research in this area.
"4. Grail - We are removing the Grail from our list of objectives. There is insufficient evidence to confirm its existence. Current examination of Subject Seventeen indicates that aside from the Piece of Eden, all other artifacts related to the Christ-figure are literary devices (or derived from the Piece of Eden) and not actual objects. Even if the object is real, its use to us at this stage is negligible. Our resources are better used elsewhere.
"5. Mitchell-Hedges Communicators - Analysis of the objects is complete. The good news is that they work. As a result, we now have a safe and secure communication channel for use after the launch. However, they are severely limited in number, and so we will be providing them only to our most essential facilities. You will obviously retain possession of the one you have.
"Warren, I cannot stress enough how important it is that you wrap things up with Subject Seventeen as soon as possible. We're obviously relieved that you seem to be closing in on the target memory, but you need to step it up. Everything we're working towards depends on your retrieving those locations. Without them, we've got nothing."
Desmond forcibly pushed the laptop away in order to have enough room to press his forehead into the cool glass of the table. Holy... There weren't words to describe how he felt after reading that email. Bad enough Lucy's frantic email to the Assassins talked about the satellite controlling their minds; bad enough there were other little silver balls out there that Abstergo, Templars, whoever were looking for; no, no, now there was talk of little silver balls that fucked with time; right next to a comment that the company had been seriously looking for the Holy fuckin' Grail and comments on there being communicators that would cancel out the mind control.
Jesus Christ.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He banged his head against the table slightly, refusing to shut down, trying, struggling, to assimilate all the information. Lucy was an assassin, Abstergo were Templars, the Third Crusade was happening all over again - it had never stopped, and now the Templars had enough technology to do what they wanted to do from the start: world order through world mind control with the privileged few to lord it over the mindless rest. The fight had been going on for almost a thousand years. ... What was Tunguska? What did fluoride have to do with anything other than toothpaste?
God, there was no time left. Panic was threatening to overtake Desmond - he was one measly little memory away from giving the bastards what they wanted and then he was dead and buried and forgotten.
Christ!
He slammed a fist into the table and took a deep, shaky breath. His eyes burned.
He didn't know how long he sat there, curled up in the chair and pressing his face to the glass table, struggling to come to terms with it all.
"Just try and have a little faith."
Lucy... she was his only hope now. He had to trust her.
He had to.
There was nothing left.
Eventually, he got up on unsteady legs and made his way out of the conference room. It was dark outside; the moon could be seen faintly beyond the roofline of the complex.
He fell onto the bed of his prison, uncertain whether he wanted to sleep or not.
Eventually, it came.
it's all gone there's nothing left I'm completely drained I've done all I can and now it's his turn it's your turn the next subject the last subject subject seventeen I've given you all the tools now break the chains Desmond break the chains I'll see you again soon after I die
Author's Notes: The end is nigh, Desmond, try not to have a panic attack.
Haaaaa, what to say about this chapter. The email in the Abstergo conference room is copied verbatim from the game... that's not copyright infringement is it? We've disavowed any claim on the game, this is written purely for our own entertainment... and we're poor at any rate, there's nothing to take from us...
Anyway, first things first: the Battle of Arsuf. Fighting in marshes (the idiocy!), tight Crusader formation, hit-and-run Saracen formation, and records indicate that Salah ad-Din lost thousands of men while Richard only a paltry 700. We both shook our heads and said "no way in heck," and so we left the numbers more ambiguous. You CAN'T have arrows raining down from on high for an entire day and NOT loose thousands of men. At any rate, we thought it more entertaining to have Altair run through the actual battle, instead of just skirting the edges of it like he does in the game, and god knows there weren't ramparts and steak fences for him to climb in the battle. That takes preparation to set up that Richard didn't have. It was a WALKING battle. Bad AC, bad.
Saved citizens pop up again, does anyone remember the would-be lover in Acre with flowers? There was no way Altair could fight through the dozens of men and then fight de Sable and win, so we thought it more than fair for him to have a rest before that particular confrontation. He still, technically, should be drop-dead exhausted after fighting ten Templars, but at least now we can claim artistic license. We hope, as always, that Altair's mindset makes sense as he has his conversation with Richard. It's a little hard to believe he's so coherent after finding out the Master, the father of the Order, that everyone and their brother looks up to and respects, is a traitor to every principal and ideal he ever taught, but "that's how the game went," and so we hope the justification makes sense.
And Desmond... If you picked up on it the Bleeding Effect is starting to happen outside the Animus as well as inside; Altair's headspace is superseding some of his thoughts, whether Desmond realizes it or it's worthy of note that he doesn't understand some (a lot) of the things that are being referenced in the Abstergo emails. He doesn't know everything, and he doesn't have a handy FAQ to explain every little nuance of what's been dumped on him. But artifacts that screw around with time? Yeah, that would freak out anyone.
And Lucy, of course, once more shines. Poor girl, she tries so hard... and only now does Desmond fully realize the kind of situation she's in. Sort of. And Sixteen is also making his final pleas. Sort of.
As for the reviewers for last chapter, more than a few of you wanted "more" with the Altair/Malik sequence. Perhaps the best way to comment on that is to explain that it's a fine dance novelizing a game. The whole point - especially with a game like AC that has little in the way of character-defining cutscenes (Al Mualim doesn't count because that's philosophy no character) is to add "more." The price comes with the scenes that are actually in the game. There's some room for leeway but not a lot, and Mirror and I were constantly going back and forth on how much to add and how much not to. This was particularly true with the Malik sequences. Having said that, this particular scene simply can't have much in the way of expansion - I mean, Masyaf is about to be attack by TWO FREAKIN' ARMIES, there's a lot of impending doom and high anxiety. Everyone's first priority is the safety of home. Literally, the only form of "more" that scene could have was exactly what happened: Altair falls unconscious, and the explanation of the conspiracy gets embellished a little.
But don't worry. That scene with Malik in Masyaf? It's still coming. :P
Two chapters left. Next week: Death of a Master.