CH 6

Altaïr waited patiently as he balanced himself precariously on the rafters, waiting for his prey to come in. His last assignment, the one in Amman, had been too easy; so much that the difficulty of this one seemed to compensate for that one. It had been fine getting the whereabouts of his target, but he spent almost an entire day looking for a way in; the fortress had a guard for every brick used to build it. And now that he was in, it would be hard to get out without an angry army pursuing him. He shook his head and looked down into the empty room, fingering his knives in boredom.

Originally, he was supposed to have a partner but in a way, he was glad that his student managed to get himself kicked to the stables. The young, inexperienced assassin would only have been a burden to him. Abbas refused to talk about it, and from what rumors he'd heard a servant girl was involved. In any case, his lessons would be suspended for the time being, meaning that Altaïr will have extra time. He thought about hanging around Fahra, but she unfortunately will have students to teach.

Speaking of Fahra, Altaïr's mind wandered. Recently, he found that he couldn't look at her without his stomach flipping over, which irked him greatly. They had practically grown up together, and they were friends, so why was he acting in such an embarrassing fashion? So far, to his relief, Fahra seemed not to notice.

Altaïr shifted his footing, trying to ease the dull ache resulted from remaining in his position for hours. He was beginning to fear that maybe his target won't show up, though his informants had assured him that the man will go home today after a party. Sunlight shone through the elaborately crafted window frame, illuminating the tiger fur that was spread haphazardly on the floor. Drunk and merry voices grew steadily louder and traveled easily into the room through the thick oak doors. The assassin sighed in relief; his target would be here soon, and all he needed to do was get that feather red.

Almira stopped at a particular stall, while a refined head poked out from within. Sofian lowered his head into her chest, giving her a friendly nuzzle and earning some pats from her. She gave him an apple before going back to work. The gelding watched her as she walked away, savoring his apple and then retreated back into his small, dark stall. Somewhere in the barn an angry shout sounded, followed by another equally impatient voice.

Abbas and another stable hand.

Almira frowned in distain. The punishment for the young Apprentice was quickly turning into punishment for all the stable hands as well from his disagreeable temperament. She shook her head, and then walked down the barn, heading for the feed room. This would be her last day in the stable for the week. She'll have to answer to Raja for the other three days.

Although Al Mualim had agreed to transfer her, Raja had interfered, citing that she was the overseer of all servants. Apparently, Almira had become one of the head maid's fastest runners, and she wasn't going to let her leave so easily. Al Mualim had far more important things to worry about, and so gave the matter for Ahmed and Raja to sort it out amongst themselves. In the end they struck a deal: Almira would work four days in the stables and three under Raja. It was an unpleasant thought to have to listen to the bitter woman again, but three days a week was tolerable. In any case, it also kept her close to Ikram.

Yasmin tossed her head up as she passed her stall, the corners of her mouth were grossly crusted and scabbed over. She offered a hand to stroke her but the mare shied away, eyeing her warily. Almira had to admit that they underestimated Ahmed. The elderly man had taken his horse up into the dangerous mountain paths, all the while calling out for his beloved mare. At noon on the third day they were greeted with an exuberant Ahmed confidently atop his mount, leading Yasmin through the city gates. Everyone around the stable was shocked, to say the least, as they had fully expected having to go search for the old man's body.

"Ahmed?"

Almira stiffened in sorting out the hay, turning her head ever so slightly.

"Where is Ahmed?"Abbas asked.

"Ahmed has back pain, been having it ever since he brought Yasmin back. He couldn't get up today." She said calmly, while her mind hurled obscenities at the man in grey.

Abbas looked around, as if expecting Ahmed to hide amongst the feed. "That is unfortunate, I was just going to tell him that I am finished for the day."

"Actually, you're not finished." She said unsmilingly, turning around. Her face and body had healed amazingly fast, though the foul memories stayed.

"What did you say, girl?" Abbas said darkly. Almira suppressed a shudder, fighting the jitters in her stomach.

"Hamal, Rasil, and Qais had gone away for Makkah. Ahmed wishes that you carry on their duties." She replied, pleased at the shocked look on his face.

"He'd have me do the work of three men!?" He exclaimed, "I am an assassin! I have my training to worry about!"

She stared at him, wishing he could disappear from her sight. "It is what Ahmed wishes."

Abbas clenched his fists in anger. An uncomfortable feeling crept into Almira's gut. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but then close it. He turned to leave, mumbling angrily to himself.

"Abbas." Almira said, louder than she'd intended.

"What!" He hissed in irritation.

"Leave the Crusader horse be, he is mine and I shall take care of him."

The white-robed man grumbled unintelligibly before trudging away. She watched him disappear around a corner before finishing up sorting the hay. Sofian, of course, wasn't actually hers, but she was the only person who took a liking to him. Instead of the typical Arabian's spirited edginess, he radiated calm intellect. The horse seemed more suitable as the regal mount of a king than living here in Masyaf. Unfortunately, the only use Ahmed had for him was plowing the fields.

She packed the hay onto a small cart, and then went to prepare a mash for Yasmin; the mare's mouth was so damaged that hay stalks hurt her.

Altaïr raced out onto the streets, as an army poured out from the alleyway behind him. The feather was tucked away securely, soaked in still-drying blood.

His target had come in reeking of alcohol, and then just flopped down limply onto his silky bed. It was almost disappointing to see the man in such a state, after all the trouble the assassin had gone through to get to him. The man turned over onto his back, his eyes seeing but not registering the eagle of death that crouched above him. Altaïr jumped down from the beams, landing at the foot of the bed. His prey turned his head, watching him blearily, slowly recognizing the glinting blade and missing finger.

Altaïr was tainting the feather when two guards decided to check on their master. He immediately silenced one with his hidden blade, but the other managed to scamper out the door, screaming murder at the top of his lungs. By the time he thrown a lethal knife, the entire fortress plus all of its ghosts had been alerted.

Altaïr planted a foot firmly onto the stack of boxes that rested beside a wall, propelling himself into the air. A metal bar came to meet his outstretched hands, allowing him to swing onto a narrow beam that stuck out. Altaïr scanned his surroundings quickly, finding a way out of the chaotic mess following him. His target had kept a large stockpile of skillful soldiers, and they managed to get the city guards involved in the chase. Several guards bounced onto the crates after him, flying through the air with almost as much agility as he. Altaïr turned around and socked an airborne guard in the eye, dropping him like a struck pig onto his comrades. Not wasting another moment, the assassin whirled around and sprinted swiftly across the narrow wood, his body balanced perfectly. At the end of the rafter he leaped onto the rooftop, hoping to lose the guards there.

A "whoosh!" flew past his leg, nicking the fabric.

Dammit!

Quickly he changed course, breaking the archers' line of sight. Up here, there were no civilians blocking his path, allowing him to run to his full potential. His strides widened, sprinting across the rooftops with amazing speed. Behind him the angry cries of his pursuers grew somewhat fainter.

Another "whoosh" and an arrow shaft protruded from his right hand.

Altaïr cursed and tried to pull it out, to discover that it had gone through. There was no pain, no doubt masked by the massive amounts of adrenaline pumping through his body right now. More arrows flew past him. He cradled his hand, trying not the let the shaft sway with his momentum and create more damage. Below him, he could see groups of guards rushing through the streets, trying to cut him off. However, they couldn't see exactly where he was heading, which gave him an advantage since he could see their movements clearly. He leaped down onto the ground, rolling on impact and groaning as the arrow snapped, opening the wound further. He quickly pulled out the remainder, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to shake off the pain. At the sight of blood, the guards behind him followed even more fervently, jumping off the roof like lemmings off a cliff.

The afternoon sun baked down on Altaïr as he sprinted through the city. The chase had gone on for what seemed like hours, though the sun had only moved slightly from its original spot. His muscles were starting to ache but the guards weren't letting on, in fact, they seemed to be gathering steam as more and more soldiers from all over the city joined in. Citizens screamed their heads off in terror and hurried out of the way as he maneuvered through them. The ones who weren't fast enough were mercilessly shoved aside by his murderous pursuers. He turned left at a large crossroad, then right, and ran into the bustling market, hoping the sheer amount of people there would slow them down.

It worked. Almost.

A vast majority of the soldiers were blocked by the mass of citizens, but the talented few weaved through the people as Altaïr did. Faced with a sudden legion of seething guards, panic spread through the shoppers like wildfire. The people stampeded around the enclosed structure and collided into one another, knocking down merchant stalls whilst screaming in hysteria. Fortunately, the guards were eager to let them pass in an effort to lessen their own obstacles. The white clad assassin moved deftly through the shoppers, distancing himself every second from his pursers. The soldiers who were initially blocked quickly appeared at the other exits, effectively sealing the market. Citizens barged through them, some carrying stolen wares while others punching any who got in their way. The soldiers still on Altaïr's heels smirked triumphantly. They've got him cornered now.

Or so they thought.

Altaïr stepped onto a stack of creates and leaped up onto a beam, much like he did before. The grins on his guards' faces instantly disappeared as he started bounding from beam to beam with renewed strength, getting closer to the exit all the while. The ones at the end swiped their swords upward in a vain attempt to stop him as he jumped well out of their reach, his bloody hand dripping a droplet onto one of the swords. He rolled again, getting up and disappeared around a corner before the guards had even lowered their swords.

"AFTER HIM!" Their leader shouted from within the market, his face livid.

As if on cue, the ones guarding the exit turned on their heels and rushed into the small street. No signs of their quarry met their eyes as they ran deeper into the alley, searching every nook and cranny for a sigh of white. Their leader, a burly man, grew more furious with every passing minute. The street turned off into many smaller branches and he sent groups of three or four down each one. He led the remaining guards down the original route, which twisted and turned until it ended in a small, shadowy courtyard. The lead soldier gritted his teeth, barking at his subordinates to search the place over.

Ten feet away, in a fresh pile of hay, lay Altaïr. He had discovered to his dismay that the walls here were too high to climb in time. This pile of hay, newly placed this morning, was lifesaving. His right hand throbbed painfully, further irritated by the dust and stalks in his hiding place. The assassin took care not to breath too fast, his eyes peering through a small gap in the stalks at the harried guards.

One of them ventured over, perplexed by something. The young soldier bent down and inspected what appears to be a bloodstained straw. When he raised his head, a killer's eye stared back at him through a gap in the haystack. His breathing instantly stopped, and sweat started forming in his palms. Surely his life is now forfeit, he thought as he froze in his half-bent position.

"Have you found something?"

His comrade's voice made him jump. The man turned his head slightly, but didn't break eye contact with the dark eye inside the haystack. He'd be dead the moment he gave away the killer's position, he knew. But then, there was the duty that he'd sworn to perform. His mouth felt incredibly dry so he merely shook his head, walking back to the safety of numbers.

"My friends." he croaked, his voice on the verge of breaking. He shuffled all the way to the very back of the group, and then whirled around, pointing a shaky finger at the haystack.

"ASSASSIN!"

The hay exploded before he had finished the word. Altaïr leaped out, pulling out his trusty sword. The wound in his right hand reopened, smearing fresh blood all over the leather hilt. He buried the metal inside the nearest guard before the group had time to react. With a slight grunt he pulled the sword out, allowing the body to fall convulsing to the ground. The rest of the guards formed a rough circle around him, stepping over their fallen comrade. One of them reached out to try and grab the assassin, while a guard directly behind Altaïr lunged forward. Altaïr dodged the grab, but the sword behind him sliced a gash in his side, making him wince. Their leader, the same burly man, tried to make the most of this small victory.

"Come on! We've got him cornered now! Backup is on the way!" He hollered, gesturing with both hands in the air.

Altaïr took his opportunity. He lunged forward, his sword slashing down sideways, opening a huge gash in the leader's chest. The head guard seemed too shocked to register the pain, his hands still trying to bring his own sword up in a clumsy attempt at evading the oncoming weapon. Altaïr parried the attack away, plunging his blood-stained blade straight into the man's gut. He heaved the sword up, and then kicked the man away. The burly soldier knelt on the ground, coughing blood, his uniform quickly turning into a disturbing maroon coloring. He swayed unsteadily, and then fell over backwards, convulsing uncontrollably. With a final guttural cough, he laid still. Dead.

The remaining guards stared on dumbly, stunned by how easily their enemy had killed their leader. Altaïr didn't give them a chance to gather clouds of anger. He whirled around, slashing open a guard's throat. The force made him spin sideways, spraying crimson all over his terrified brother in arms. One of the soldiers roared, charging forward like a madman. Altaïr saw him out of the corner of his eye, noting every weakness in the soldier's posture. The soldier bellowed in both rage and fear, swinging his weapon at the assassin's neck. Altaïr swiftly ducked beneath the sword, before straightening up and knocking his own sword's hilt into the man's temple. The guard staggered, seeing stars from the hard blow. Before he could recover, the ground flew up to meet his eyes.

Altaïr took small steps inside the rough triangle formed by the remaining guards, inflamed by the pain from his hand and his side. The head he'd just lopped off rolled into a soldier's foot, causing him to jump and shriek in fear. The assassin studied his opponents calmly, almost feeling sorry that their ill training now cost them their lives. The one in front of him held out a shaky sword, trembling under the layer of blood his comrade had drenched him in earlier. He eyed the other two guards nervously, hoping they would come to his rescue.

The two behind Altaïr glanced down the long alleyway, and then at each other. Something seemed to pass between them in the split second that their gaze met. In unison, they both dropped their swords and dashed away. They hadn't gone more than three steps when one of them let out a blood-curdling scream. He stumbled, his body rolling twice before coming to a stop, a glinting knife protruding from the base of his skull. The other soldier cried fearfully, sprinting faster than he ever thought he could.

Alone now, the young guard let out a whimper when Altaïr turned around, his stern face spattered with droplets of blood. The soldier's iron sword clattered to the ground and he cowered, raising both hands as if to shield his face. Altaïr stepped forward, a calculated move, making his prey scamper back and bump the wall.

"Oh Lord…please don't kill me." His pitiful tone was unbecoming of a city guard.

The soldier stooped, eyeing Altaïr with absolute terror. The assassin suddenly realized that this was the man who gave away his hiding place. His eyes instantly hardened with anger and disgust.

"I've already given you a chance at life, but you chose not to take it. You have brought this onto yourself." He said emotionlessly, advancing forward.

"Please…I-I have a family, an ailing mother to take care of, a good daughter to-taaghh…"

Altaïr plunged the sword into the man's stomach and twisted the blade, making him choke on his words. The man coughed, his breaths raspy. He clawed at his killer's shoulders, clinging onto the bloody fabric as if such a move could save him from death. Altaïr batted the hands away, staring unsympathetically into his prey's pleading eyes. After a while those eyes glazed over and the body slid quietly off of his blade. He stood still for a moment, listening for footsteps coming down the alley. None came.

Altaïr surveyed the massacre around him, frowning deeply. God knows how many families he'd destroyed today. He shook his head, removing such useless thoughts from his head cleaned his sword on the corpse's clothing. The leather hilt was covered with blood from his hand wound, which reopened again when he sheathed his weapon. Gritting his teeth, the assassin torn a strip of clean cloth from his own robes and wrapped his right hand in it. He probbed around his side, feeling rib bones through the gash. Unfortunately, there's nothing he could do about that here. The more important thing right now is to get away from this bloody scene.

Notes: Yay update! Sorry about the long wait guys. Unfortunately, school's started and I don't have much time on my hands. It seems that there's not much interest in this story so I'd rather not waste time writing if nobody's going to read it. That said, if you want me to continue, please let me know. Otherwise, I will probably let this sit until I have more leisure on my hands.

Thanks for reading! :)