The Beginning of Silence
Chapter 15
Bashan's blunt-yet-nimble fingers tugged expertly at the silken cord, and within seconds it was unraveled.
"What are you thinking?!" Malik roared, rising to his feet. His fists clenched tightly at his sides as his whole body trembled with shudders of suppressed rage. "Why would you do this, you base coward?! You're nothing more than a common thief; a lout; a lowlife; a—"
Bashan rolled his eyes and glanced at Madar. "Shut him up for me, will you?"
Madar didn't say a word. He didn't make a face. He simply leapt forward and planted a fist into Malik's gut.
Malik doubled over in pain, his final cry of 'brigand' fading in a puff of expelled breath. He sank to his knees, clutching his stomach and wheezing.
Sena had recovered somewhat, and climbed slowly to his knees. "Malik," he said, voice cracking on the last syllable, "oh, Malik, I'm so sorry," but Malik didn't answer. The pain made it too hard to think, let alone respond.
"Now that we have that pleasantry out of the way," Bashan said coolly, watching with approval as Madar stoically took his place at his leader's side, "I think it is at last time to satisfy my curiosity." He held up the scroll, making sure it fell into a beam of mid afternoon sun. Dust motes floated like specs of gold on the air, light bits of hay meal coloring the hazy fog like platinum morsels.
As Bashan stood there, admiring the scroll as he savored pulling it open for all to see, Malik raised his face a fraction of an inch, still over-exaggerating the huffs and puffs given to him by Madar's strike. He caught sight of Altaïr crouched low beneath the cart of hay, and a silent conversation passed between them.
Now? Altaïr asked.
Malik nodded imperceptibly, and one of his hands drifted from its hold on his stomach to the ground, where his fingers curled lightly around a small rock.
Now, he signaled to Altaïr, and banished his fake loss of wind. As one, the two boys leapt at the gloating Bashan.
Altaïr burst out from under the cart in a shower of hay, the hue of the stalks catching in the sun's light so they shone like spun gold. He did not cry out in battle lust, nor did he call attention to himself. He simply exploded from his place and leapt at the nearest opponent, who happened to be the wiry Hashat.
Hashat roared and stumbled forward as Altaïr threw his arms around the bigger boy's neck from behind and cut off his air supply. Hashat's sun-browned face grew darker and darer as blood gathered in his cheeks and forehead, and his lips puckered like a fish's as he strove to draw breath. Altaïr's legs—dangling feet off the ground due to Hashat's great height—tangled with Hashat's legs and made the older boy fall to the ground.
Altaïr (ever the opportunist) used this slight to his advantage. He twisted their entwined bodies so that Hashat fell face-first onto the stone pavement, upon which he cracked his nose and forehead with a sickening 'thock' sound. Altaïr rolled off of him, crouching low in preparation for his next attacker.
Meanwhile, Malik fought in his own way. With strong arms tempered by many months of chasing pigeons from the fortress battlements, he lobbed the rock he'd earlier acquired at the bulky Madar. Like the historical David's, the stone flew true, and like the historical Goliath, Madar's eyes rolled back into his head as he collapsed backwards to the ground with a low moan, a giant bruise blossoming between his eyes.
"You dirty faker!" Bashan screamed as Madar fell like an axed tree. "You fink! Cheat!"
"Who's a cheat?" Altaïr asked, and Bashan spun around in surprise, a comical look of shock etched onto his broad features. Altaïr had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Apparently, Bashan had been so involved in watching Malik's attack he had not even noticed the struggle between Hashat and the Son of None.
"You!" Bashan snarled, glancing at the prostrate Hashat. "You… you… you swine!"
"Come, now," Altaïr admonished, "is that really the best you can do?" He made to approach Bashan, but the older boy retreated a step.
"Don't come near me," he warned, holding the scroll like a shield, "or I'll open it!"
Altaïr stopped his advance.
Malik's voice was gentle. "You are outnumbered, comrade," he said. "Two to one."
"Three."
Bashan, Malik, and Altaïr all looked at Sena as he rose fully from the pavement. With shaky legs, he walked to Malik's side.
"Three to one," he said pointedly to Bashan. "And 'swine' is not a very original insult, as Altair mentioned, but if you insist on sticking to the porcine analogy, at least add on another adjective. Something as simple as "slop-sucking swine" would be more effective, if no more eloquent."
Altaïr looked at Sena in approval. The boy had courage, not to mention wit, if not strength.
Bashan licked his lips.
"Give up," Malik repeated. He had another rock clutched tight in his hand.
"What if I don't want to?"
Malik glanced at Altaïr, who dipped a nearly imperceptible nod.
Throw the rock, Altaïr signed, and strike the scroll from his hand. I will get it when he lets it go, if Sena doesn't beat me to it. He is sharp. He may understand the tactic before I even move.
Malik nodded back. Distract him for me, then. And be ready, Altaïr.
Always.
"We need not resort to further bloodshed, brother," Sena was saying in his persuasive voice. "Give up the scroll and end this."
Bashan said nothing, but made to open the scroll.
"Stop," Altaïr said sharply. "Open it, lose the only hostage you have, and we will be on you in an instant." His eyes flickered over Bashan's shoulder and met Malik's. Now was time.
Malik's arm threw back and hurled forward, stone flying from his fingers like a winging falcon. Sena, by his side, saw and understood the motion before the stone left Malik' hand, and started forward with uncanny speed. Altaïr did not even have a chance to blink.
The stone beat Sena to Bashan, but only just. As the older boy cried out in pain and the rock glanced away from his now bruise-darkened wrist, little Sena darted over to him, leapt over the fallen body of Madar, and made to snatch the tumbling scroll out of midair—
--but failed, and tripped.
It was easy to see why. Madar had not been as unconscious as Malik thought, and had grabbed Sena's ankle as the boy vaulted over him. Sena, however, reacted quickly to this, and smashed his other foot hard into Madar's nose. The nostrils gushed blood as Madar roared like a lion and rolled to his side, clutching his bleeding face and moaning. Sena leapt up, eyes searching wildly for the scroll.
It was too late, however. Altaïr, in the confusion, had not tried for the scroll. He stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide and mouth pinched into a thin, hard line as he watched Bashan take the scroll back up and smile cruelly down at Sena. He leered evilly, and hauled Sena up by the front of his robes. He reached down with his scroll-bearing hand and fumbled at the lip of his boot, until into the bright sunlight he drew a crude sliver of metal. Still smirking, he pressed the rough crescent against Sena's throat.
"Who," he hissed, and quoted Altaïr's earlier line with undue irony, "only has one hostage?"
The weapon was obviously a homemade dagger, and Altaïr's face hardened. "No Apprentices are allowed weapons outside the sparring ring!" he barked, palms beginning to sweat. "You know the rules!"
Bashan chuckled. "Oh, but Altaïr," he said, "but I only follow the Creed; the one rule we all adhere to." He began to recite the Creed. "Nothing is true—" he punctuated the last half of the Creed by drawing a thin line of blood from Sena's neck, "and everything is permitted!"
Sena whimpered as the thin trail of crimson stained his skin a darker brown. He did not dare even to swallow for fear of jogging the blade deeper into his flesh.
"This is only a trial, Bashan!" Malik said in a harsh voice. "A game, really! End this madness, now!"
He smiled. "I have a better idea." Keeping the blade pressed tight against Sena's neck, he forced into the small boy's hands the ceremonial scroll. "Now," he said in a voice colored with affected pleasantness, "would you be so kind as to open your scroll for me, please?"
"What?!" Malik and Altaïr gasped in unison.
A bead of sweat dripped down Sena's temple as he echoed, more softly: "What?"
"You heard me," Bashan snapped. "Open it, or die! And when the Instructors ask you who opened the scroll, the only truthful answer you will be able to give is 'Sena!'"
"I will never open it!" Sena hissed. He made to toss the scroll to Malik, but Bashan had anticipated this, and applied more pressure to the boy's throat.
Malik thought over his strategic options, but came up dry. He did not know how to handle hostage situations yet; he had not been taught that skill, as it was normally revealed only to those of the rank Cadet. He could only think of one option, as Bashan had forced his hand.
"Bashan," Malik asked, "do you give me your word you will let Sena go if he complies to your wishes?"
Bashan laughed, and said: "I won't have further use for him… yes, I will let him go."
Malik took a deep breath and gazed into Sena's frightened eyes. "Open it, Sena. I promise you, I will aid you in obtaining another scroll once this one has been rendered useless!"
Sena's eyes sparkled with tears. "You do not have to, Malik—" he said, but Malik cut him off.
"No. I owe it to you, Sena, for the aid you gave me in finding my own scroll." He smiled ruefully. "And eye for an eye, I suppose, even though that saying is not typically used in this manner."
Sena returned the smile, although weakly. "All right, then." He took a deep breath, and slipped his fingers beneath the outermost layer of the scroll. Then he hesitated.
"Oh, hurry it up!" Bashan growled, pressing the knife closer.
Sena, startled, ripped the scroll open.
Bashan, eager to see, reached around Sena and grabbed the scroll. With a mad fervency he held the scroll up to the light with one hand—then lowered it in confusion. "What in the world?" he asked, face both horrified and baffled.
Altaïr could see beautiful black calligraphy sprawled all over the page, but did not have time to read it, for upon contact with the sunlight the script immediately began to fade. Within seconds, it had disappeared altogether.
"No!" screamed Bashan, throwing the scroll away from himself. "No!" His blade pressed even harder into Sena's neck, and the small boy gasped in pain, eyes panicky and scared.
Bashan's flagrant disregard for Sena's safety was the last straw. Altaïr's teeth ground together, and he tensed. Malik, sensing the approach of unregulated action, called out "Don't!", but it was too late. Altaïr had already lunged forward like and eagle upon a snake.
Sena screamed as Bashan shoved the boy away from him, the knife slicing into his skin. As Altaïr flew towards the older boy, fist raised and balled tightly into a fist, Bashan raised his crude dagger and made it whistle through the air.
It caught Altaïr across the face, cutting through the right side of his lips in a vicious vertical slash. Altaïr reeled backward, blood pouring through the wound, teeth and gums visible through the torn flaps of his cheek and lips. An agonized cry slipped past his mangled mouth, but Altaïr stifled it by pressing a fist against both the wound and his ignited maw.
"Altaïr!" Malik called as his friend crumpled backward to the dust. Sena let out a cry, picked himself up, and ran over to him, too. As tears poured down the small boy's face, he tugged his tunic up and off over his head, balled up the rough fabric, and handed it to Altaïr, who pressed it against his freely-bleeding wounds.
Bashan stood forgotten to the side, staring at his blood-drenched blade with blank eyes.
"He's losing too much blood!" Malik growled, applying pressure to the makeshift tourniquet. "Head wounds always bleed fast!" he turned to the sobbing Sena, whose hands fluttered about his friend's bleeding face without any apparent purpose. Blood sluiced down his own neck, the Malik noticed, but said nothing. "Sena! Run faster than you ever have before and find an Instructor! He will know what to do!"
Sena did not respond; he was too much in shock.
Malik slapped him across the face.
"Do it!" he barked, "or Altaïr may die!"
As he watched the younger boy stumble to his feet, then take off running more quickly than he had ever seen before, Altaïr felt his stomach clench with nausea. His grip on the shirt went slack, and suddenly he felt cold. Weak. Blood loss made him delirious.
Though it had to be a dream, he swore he could see a white angle belted with blood watching him from a nearby rooftop, then take wing and fly through the sky, only to disappear into a mound of gold (gold? he wondered absently) not too far away.
His last thought before falling unconscious due to a mix of equal parts pain, weakness, and confusion, was whether or not the white angel was coming for him or Bashan, who was surely destined for hell whenever Altaïr decided to exact revenge upon him. His mouth hurt. Bashan deserved a beating.
But, before that little pleasantry, Altaïr decided he needed some sleep, and drifted off into a pair of anguished brown eyes and a set of detachedly cool black ones shadowed by a white cowl…
AUTHOR NOTE OF GRAVY
Yes. Gravy. Not that I'm fond of it or anything. I just think it's a fun word.
Anyway… cliffy. Hoo-boy. I found this chapter amusing; especially the end when one of Alti's last thoughts is how he's gonna beat up Bashan.
Now we know where Altaïr little mouth scar comes from… and, boy, does Malik overreact at the sight of blood. Altaïr can't be losing that much blood, anyway, can he?
Can he?
Oh well. We'll see next chapter.
Too tired to write a good note. Happy Valentines Day. It was my first one with a serious boyfriend. It rocked. He wrote me a song. How… cheesy. But romantic. Recorded it with his band in a studio. The sweetheart. Made me cry when I heard it.
Anyway… happy reading. Dammit I'm tired. Wrote this chapter in a grand total of… one hour. Yup. That's all the time it took.
Until later. Bye bye!
Dammit, I forgot... I got a PM from a certain member of this community (you know who you are) asking me what the heck they were supposed to read when I didn't update (I know this chapter took a while to get out, but I write in sporadic bursts that come at the most random of time...). Anyway, I recommended some AC fics not by yours truly. Some of my fav AC fics are "When Death Begs" by Tiefling Zhai, "Contingency Plan" by Master1795, and... uh... I can't remember the last one. Whoops. I had three in mind, but... oh well. Those two should whet yor appetites for now, right?
EDIT: I've gotten several reviews for this chapter saying how Malik overreacts to Alti's injury... and yes, I am aware of this, thanks. I have a reason for the craziness (and it helps widen the rivalry gap between Alti and Malik, but you didn't hear that from me...). Thanks!