The Beginning of Silence

Chapter 06

Smoke. Heat. Terror. These were the things the boy woke to. That and screaming. He could hear his mother from the next room, gibbering nonsensical phrases characterized by scarlet overcurrents of pain.

His first reaction was to leap from his pallet by the kitchen fire (the nights were getting cold), but when he did he found that the upper portion of the room was filled with smoke. Coughing, he crouched beneath the fumes and began to crawl frantically towards the sound of his mother's voice. He had just reached the mouth of the door when a hand grabbed his arm and another covered his mouth.

He caught the familiar scent of his sister. She was two years his elder, and stronger than him, so he made more noise than progress as he tried to get away.

"Be quiet, brother!" she hissed as he struggled. When he complied, she spun him around to face her. Her normally russet skin as pale and her thick hair was coated in ash.

"But mother is—" he insisted, glancing towards the door. The heat in the room was sweltering. Was there a fire? "What's going on?"

Big sister shushed him and shook her head. "There's no hope for her now." Quickly, she explained to the boy that bandits had attacked the small settlement the sibling's father had built long ago. "They'll want mother and me to sell on the slave market, and will keep us alive—but not you. They don't trade older boys. They'll kill you if they see you. You have to get away."

From the next room came a cacophony of shouts and another hoarse cry from the children's mother. Footsteps thudded on the earth floor. Big sister gripped his shoulders tightly.

"Listen to me. I'll stall them for as a long as I can, but you need to escape. Go back into the kitchen and climb out the smoke hole. There's a bale of hay by the western wall—jump into it. It will break your fall. Then go to the barn and take the horse." She pushed him away from her and hurriedly sketched a crude map on the dirt floor. "Ride north as hard as you can and find the village marked by flags with this symbol." She sketched a strangely rounded triangle above the map then swept out the pictures with her foot. "They're ten miles away at the most. Find a man in a white hood and tell him to come here quickly—he'll know what to do. Hurry!" She pulled him close for a moment and said into his hair "be safe." Then she pushed him back into the kitchen and disappeared into the gloom.

His sister's words wouldn't penetrate his brain at a conscious level, but his feet nevertheless carried him into the kitchen and to the crates of foodstuffs pilled high against the wall. Mechanically he climbed them and clumsily levered himself out of the smoke hole. Jumping into the hay was easy: he and his siblings had done it hundreds of times as children, though they had gone up a ladder and not out a soot-encrusted hole. Finding the stable was also simple. He'd had currying duty so many times the route was automatic. It was only when he had halfway clambered up the elderly piebald mare who had been his friend since childhood he realized what was going on. He might never see his mother or his sister again. Tears stung his eyes.

He was halfway out of the stable when he saw the house. Men, at least eight, burst out of the flaming building carrying two limp forms over their shoulders. They laughed and smiled as the boy's beloved home burnt to the ground, and the young man felt a cold rage fill the numbness lapping at his heart. His mother, his sister, and now his home… A cry burst from him, and he dug his heels into the mare's sides, directing her to charge straight at the group of men.

The ones carrying the limp forms and objects pilfered from the house scattered, but two of them stood their ground. From a scabbard, one drew a sword. The other hefted a heavy club. When the boy on horseback neared them, the second swung his weapon directly at the horse's front legs. A sickening crunch later and the boy was tumbling off the horse's back as the animal careened to a stop, whinnying in pain as it limped on a newly broken foreleg.

The boy sat up, mouth full of dirt. With a howl he threw himself at the man with the sword, but was repelled by a kick to his face. His nose streamed blood.

"Kid thinks he's a hero," the thug remarked. "No place in the slave caravan, not for you, boy. Can I kill him?"

This last was directed at the man with the club, who replied: "We've got no use for him. But make it quick. We still have to catch up with the others."

The boy stared up at them both with hate-filled eyes. More men, at least five of the ones with no burden, approached and formed a circle around the three, hooting and hollering for sport.

The boy didn't seem to hear. He launched himself at his enemies, but the man with the sword sidestepped him and smacked him on the back of the head with the sword's flat. "Have to do better than that," he laughed as the boy tumbled to the dirt. Again, the boy tried to grab him, but failed. He lay sprawled on the ground. Nearby, the flaming wreck of his home caved in, shooting sparks at the night sky.

"Come on, get up," said the swordsman. He walked to stand over the boy. "Don't give up now."

The boy thought, and thought hard. This man was too fast to touch and too strong to grapple with. The boy would have to rely on his wits. He took a clod of dirt into his hand and when the swordsman was close enough he flung it into the man's leering eyes.

"What the—" the thug swore. The boy leapt at him and began to claw at the man's skin.

He'd forgotten about the bandit with the club, however, who promptly plucked the boy off the swordsman by the back of his shirt. The boy twisted and sank his teeth into the bandit's meaty palm, and the outlaw yelped and shook him off. Then he delivered a vicious blow to the boy's forehead with his heavy club. The boy saw stars as he collapsed to the dirt, head streaming blood.

Nursing his bitten hand, the man said: "Kill him. We don't need any more delays."

"My pleasure," the swordsman sneered. He hefted the blade, but never got to bring it down. A knife whistled from out of nowhere and sank into his throat. He crumpled where he stood.

It all happened very quickly then. Though the boy's eyes swam with pain and disorientation, he saw the men in white appear like wraiths out of the darkness and, one by one, pick off the bandits, felling them with blade and arrow and fist. Though blood coursed out of the wound on his forehead and into his eyes, turning the world scarlet, the men's cloaks were ghostly in the night. They were as silent as specters, and just as swift. The shouts of the bandits and the ring of steel on bone made the boy's head pound and his eyes water, but soon the ruckus quieted.

Bandits lay spread on the ground, dead or dying. The men in white gathered around the glowing wreckage of the boy's home, heads bowed solemnly. They were silent, but then one spoke:

"Survivors?"

There was a ripple around the circle. "None."

That was when the boy surged to his feet, coughing. Ash drifted from the flaming house to coat his lungs, making it hard to breathe. At the sound, two men were at his side in a flash. The first held a dagger poised to throw. The second was empty handed.

"A bandit's whelp?" the dagger-holder asked. The empty handed one shook his head.

"I don't think so. The bandits were killing him when we got here. Trying to, at least." He turned and called: "We have a survivor!"

The boy blinked; his head throbbed. Behind the two men, others gathered. Were the ghosts going to take him away now? They must have come for his life, the boy decided, head spinning. In the distance, the boy's home caved in, a gout of flame arcing heavenward. Only the stable remained untouched by flame.

The boy remembered the horse suddenly. "Where's my horse?" he slurred. Words came slowly; he had to fight to remember how to form them.

The ghosts looked at one another.

"Her leg's broken," the boy persisted, words growing less and less coherent. The world was growing dark, the crimson of his bloodied eye wavering on black. "Where is she?" His legs wobbled and he stumbled forward. The empty handed man caught him and held him up.

"You want to help the horse?" one man asked incredulously.

The boy shook his head. "I can't help her."

"Then why look for her?"

"To put her …out of her misery," he gasped in pain. "I have to do it. No one else will."

His words were met with deep silence, and then the man released the boy. From his side he drew a knife. "Find your horse," he said, "and do as you must."

The boy looked at the dagger, and momentarily forgot what he needed to use it for. Absently he noticed that the man's ring finger was gone. He must have worked in a mill at some point, to have lost it. With shaking fingers the boy took the knife. As if on cue, a horse's neigh split the night, and the boy wearily followed the sound. A drive he could not begin to fathom compelled him to commit this final act, its reason inexplicable. A company of ghosts watched his every move.

The mare lay in a ditch, panting. Her eye rolled wildly in the socket, and as the boy approached she struggled feebly. Her leg was bent nearly in half, folding backwards at the joint.

"Shh," he murmured. "It's all right." He climbed down to the horse and pulled its head into his lap. It quieted beneath his touch; the mare knew his scent. "You'll be okay."

And then he plunged the knife into the trusting animal's throat.

The beast kicked, blood staining its dappled hide, and tried to neigh. All that came out was a jet of blood and a wet gurgle. Warm liquid coursed over the boy's hands when he pulled the knife back out, but he did not flinch away.

The ghosts behind him murmured, perhaps in approval.

Why did he feel, just as surely as he had felt the mare's dying spasm, as if he had cut himself off from something important, just as he had cut short the mare's life?

When the mare stopped kicking and the last spark of light left her eye, the boy stood. Weakly he stumbled from the ditch and into the empty handed man's arms.

"You did well, boy," the man said. The boy heard his voice as if from a great distance. "You have the will of an assassin."

"Tired," the boy murmured, knees giving out for the final time. The man supported him.

"Your family is dead. Do you hear?"

Though all the boy wanted was to give in to the darkness, he felt tears sting his eye, keeping him alert. Mutely, he nodded against the man's waist.

The man spoke to the other ghosts. Or had the man called them assassins? Whatever. The boy didn't really care. He was just too tired. "We'll take him with us." Though no one contested this decision, he continued: "He has shown courage and purpose despite his grief. He could be of great use to us. And he has nowhere else to go; no one to miss him and no ties to his past. He's perfect."

The boy's eyes fluttered open. Take? They were taking him? Where? Why? With the last ounce of strength he possessed, he looked up and saw the face of his savior.

The man caught his gaze with one jewel bright black eye and one milky eye; he had obviously been partially blinded by the scar that bisected the socket. He had a coarse black beard and a thin mouth that was far from handsome, but to the boy he looked like a god: powerful and wise.

"What is you name, boy?" he asked.

The boy blinked. "Name?" What was his name? Why couldn't he remember?

The man passed a hand over the boy's head wound. "Ah. I see." He looked into the boy's face, and before the boy lost consciousness he heard the words that would shape the rest of his young life, and the lives of all the others he would intersect:

"Your name does not matter anymore, Ibn La-Ahad, Son of None, for you are the student of Al Maulim. Through him, you will earn your name, and the right to bear it."

AUTHOR'S NOTE AND/OR INFURAITING RAVE

Hello. I'd like to issue a 'Thanks' to anyone who's taken the time to comment.

So: thanks.

I'd like to issue another set of thanks to the people who've faved either me or my story. There's getting to be a bunch.

So: thanks.

Blah, blah, blah, I bought the Assassin's Creed art book/strategy guide package. And an Assassin's Creed game carrying case thing. I'm such a dork: as soon as I got the crate (adorned with some very pretty artwork of Altaïr, I should mention) I unhooked my PS3 from the TV and packed it all up in my new box of prettiness. Then, after the fact, I realized that I couldn't play my games as long as it was in there and had to spend my time unpacking it again.

I told you: I'm not that smart. Maybe when it comes to writing, but not anything else (least of all common sense). When I have time to think over decisions I can be intelligent, sure, but I'm impulsive so it completely negates that fact, right?

But, anyway, who cares? You probably don't', ha ha. I'll bet you just want me to shut up so you can see what happens to the child Altaïr, right? I'll bet all you want is for me to shut up and WRITE what happens to the child Altaïr, right? I'm right, right?

Stalling is fun! I'll bet I'm making you mad, aren't I?

That's all for now! Bye bye! dodges flying tomatoes

(NOTE: In case any of you were wondering, I took an Evilness quiz on Facebook the other day and I'm "Very Evil." Your suspicions have been proven at last!)