Note ~ Thank you so much for the kind reviews! These dangerous chapters won't last forever, so don't worry. :P

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Altair smiled a short, business-like smile when he spotted the distinct showings of a camp being set up in the distance. Rolls of canvas were whipping in the weak sandy breeze and a black smoke rose high into the sunset. The Templars had stopped for the night.

But he could not attack then. He would have to wait until the sun had departed, leaving him an abundance of friendly shadows to maneuver in. Nevertheless, there was something sickening about sitting idly by while the Templars had their slimy hands all over an innocent person.

Altair was used to jumping in immediately to save the day when they were shaking down citizens to do what their masters desired. This time was different. There was no telling what they were doing to that girl right then, and yet he still had to wait. Damn that sun. If only it would set faster.

But assassins had to be patient creatures. Altair breathed steadily and directed his steed to a nearby palm. If he could not go and confront them, he could at least observe them from this distance.

Almost mechanically, he slid from the horse's saddle and gazed out towards the developing campground; the developing torture ground for that girl. He shook his head. Focus. He had to focus. But how could he focus at a time like this? Because he was trained for that kind of thing. So why was he suddenly a fish gasping for air? Why could he not focus?

Finally, Altair desperately called upon the most basic rule of his assassin training. Granted, it was a rule of beginners, those who had not found what it was to be a true assassin. Those like Altair when he had first encountered Robert de Sable in Solomon's Temple. It was the rule of sterility, of absolutely no emotion. It was the rule that whispered in his ear, 'there is only the kill'. It was a sinister rule, one that blinds from the truth, but sometimes it was necessary.

And so it was this rule that Altair welcomed into his heart with considerable caution. He had no desire to lapse back into the man he was back then, the arrogant murderer who had gotten Malik's brother killed.

He closed his eyes and listened, not to the quiet desert wind, not to the tired scuffling of the horse behind him, but to the hearts of those who breathed at the Templar camp. He knew what he was up against; fifty or sixty heavily-armored men. Nevertheless, he twitched his left wrist in and out, testing the mobility of the blade that smiled from within. What were a group of battle-worn Templars to an assassin cloaked in the night's sweet embrace?

An hour passed groggily on, saying farewell to the sun in its final minutes. It was time. The golden light of the mountains was no longer present to aid Altair's Templar foes.

He hitched his horse to the palm with deliberated looseness, so as to make a quick escape if necessary, then began to make his way towards the now dining camp. Al Mualim had once told him to never hate his targets, and even though the old man had betrayed him, he was right. Altair could hear his old master's aged tone ringing in his ear. Just because he had been a Templar, it did not mean that he had to reject everything the man had said. Altair had shaken off his fury towards Al Mualim months ago. There was no point in dwelling on something that no longer made a difference.

So on he walked, banishing his feelings of hatred towards the Templars in the camp ahead. He would have no time for such thoughts. He had to focus, and that old, worn-out rule of sterility lay partially embedded in his heart to aid him in this.

But maybe there was a middle ground. Maybe there was a way to balance one's emotions to respond to the circumstances. But this was not the time or place to be pondering such things. The Templar camp lay only a dozen feet away.

Suddenly, the small settlement erupted into chaos. Flinching shouts barred down on the tents and swords clanked hastily from their sheathes. Altair hunched instinctively into a defensive position. There was no way that he had been seen, though. These men were going after someone else.

He raked his head around to see what the commotion was geared towards and immediately saw the culprit. It was the girl. Altair could not help but feel a little proud of her for trying to escape. His previous assumption of her complete uselessness wavered slightly as he watched her jump clumsily over a horse's saddle. But now it was his turn to cause some trouble. He had to help her get away.

Altair slid several light throwing knives from his shoulder strap and sent them whistling through the air at the group of Templars that surrounded the small girl. A few of his shots bounced harmlessly off of their armor and thudded to the sand, but eventually a considerable number of the angry men lay twitching on the ground, blood seeping from their necks.

The girl's horse burst forward out of the perilous camp and disappeared, which seemed to yank a thousand daggers from Altair's heart. She was safe. Now to finish off her pursuers.

He sprinted up behind the frenzied men. Too enraged to be perceptive of what lurked behind them, they made easy targets for his hungry hidden blade. But his cover was gone. All of the remaining Templars abandoned their pursuits and stared with a mix of fury and incredulity at this new intruder.

Altair unsheathed his longsword and planted his feet lightly in the sand, a unique buoyancy overcoming his stance. One after another the hyped troops swung at the squirrely assassin, never able to land a direct blow on his fluttering limbs. But his luck could only last so long.

Eventually, one of his attackers caught him by surprise, ramming into Altair's back with his steel-covered forearm. The startled assassin fell forward with a heavy loss of balance and made an easy target for the rest of his surrounding foes. He scrambled to his feet, constantly trying to avoid the ringing of metal that swished past his ears. They were too much for him. He had already distracted them from going after the girl, now he had to get away as well.

As he ran from the camp, trying to pick out the shape of his horse in the darkness, a sudden pain rippled through his shoulder blade, knocking him forward unexpectedly. An arrow. So they were better shots than he had counted on.

A string of arrows fell to the sand beside his crippled body as he continued to press towards his horse, his right arm numbing a little. They could not see very well in the dark, so the majority of their shots ended in failure. Nonetheless, their attempts successfully drilled enough adrenaline through Altair's veins to get him moving faster and faster through the shadows.

His horse sniffed the air around it nervously, threatening to run away in fright at any moment at the commotion. But the assassin was fast. He was almost to the steed and ready to jump on when another arrow plunged into his calf, sending him into the sand at the animal's hooves. He cried out in outrageous pain and looked back anxiously at the camp. There was a barrage of shadows knocking more arrows from the safety of the tents. Pain could wait. He had to move.

Altair climbed awkwardly onto his horse by the merciless grace of God. That feat of mounting was all he had left in him. As his blood leaked from his wounds, his strength followed accordingly. He directed his horse almost instinctively backwards, towards Masyaf. If the girl had been smart, she would have gone the same direction. The assassin fortress was the only safe place for her at the moment.

Little did Altair know, the girl had gone the opposite direction. His hopes of reuniting with her along the path were useless and would be soon forgotten. She was not riding to safety on a horse. She was on her feet, alone.

He continued to gallop down the road, constantly on the lookout for another horse, one that carried a small, pale girl. His Templar foes had abandoned the pursuit. They knew that once someone disappeared into the desert darkness, they were a ghost. There was no point in wasting their energy on chasing phantoms.

The moon gazed overhead as Altair continued his search. There was nothing, absolutely nothing. The road was barren, dusty like an old forgotten library, and before he knew it, he was back at the gates of Masyaf. These gates meant many things to him. They were a symbol of home, of rest, of safety. On this night though, they were also something else. They were the last possible location of the girl. If she was not here, then she was lost, along with her technology and her knowledge of the future.

Altair nearly fell off of his horse as his body gave in to his loss of blood. He had managed to ignore his pain for most of the ride to Masyaf, but he could hold on no longer. He stumbled through the city gates and collapsed onto the sand near one of the assassin guards. The guard immediately ran to investigate before calling upon several of his brothers to help him carry Altair to a doctor.

~.~.~.~.~

"Don't worry, Altair. You're going to be alright."

Altair stared at Malik through tired eyes, heavily drawn into thin slits. The doctor, a stout sun-burned man, had removed the arrows from his shoulder and calf without too much difficulty. At least, that was what he had been told. He had been unconscious the entire time.

"I know how it must have felt, Brother," Malik continued, patting his limbless shoulder gingerly. "But you are going to be fine. You are to remain under the doctor's care for a few weeks until you are fully recovered."

Altair was barely listening to him. He was more concerned with flexing his calf, which had been bandaged far too tightly. He was used to pain and the occasional slip-up in fights, but it never stopped making him like a novice all over again. He should have known better than to run straight for the horse. He should have feigned from left to right. So many regrets bubbled through his head, but there was one thought that overpowered them all.

"Malik," he breathed, "Is she here?"

"Is who here, Brother?"

"The girl."

Malik looked around uncomfortably, "Not that I know of. I haven't seen her. Was she supposed to arrive with you?"

Altair did not respond. Instead, he lifted himself from the splintered table that he had been propped upon, wincing as his wounds rebelled against such movement.

"Don't try to get up," Malik warned.

"We have to find her, Malik. She got away from the Templars but I have no idea where she went from there."

Malik paused and thought for a moment. "I see…Where did you lose sight of her?"

"The Templars had set up camp halfway to Damascus."

"Then I will dispatch search parties in that direction. Don't worry, Altair. We will find her."

"How can you be so sure, Malik? There are three cities in that direction."

"Then we will search all three. Whatever it takes to get her back into our hands."

Altair twitched anxiously. "I just hope we find her first."