Assassin's Creed: Raptor's Bane
Chapter 2
Altair set his pace for the middle district, dipping his head to avoid the gaze of a passing patrol and waving away a beggar that had run up to him with last minute pleas. All seemed normal, until he felt a slight chill at the base of his spine. He looked back impulsively but saw nothing. Slowly, he turned forwards again and continued on his way, but this time angling towards the rich district and away from the Bureau.
He had lost count of how many targets he had tailed himself, thus could easily tell when someone was following him. However, infuriatingly, his stalker was very good. Each time he turned, discreetly as it was, he saw little more than the shifting crowd behind him, recognizing no one as a possible threat. Yet the feeling remained.
Much like a ruffled eagle taking flight from a watched perch, he turned sharply into an alleyway to make for the rooftops. The sky beckoned him, promising safety, if not at least a chance to catch sight of his pursuer. Cloaked in the shade of the two buildings, he flicked his eyes upwards, momentarily dropping his guard to scan the wall for a handhold. His eyes passed over a high window ledge and a cloth-draped balcony before spotting one in his reach. He crouched swiftly; gaze fixed on a brick protruding from the dilapidated wall, and tensed for the leap.
A great weight slammed into his back.
Mid-jump, Altair had little defense against the enemy, and before he could fully comprehend what was happening, he had been slammed chest first into the wall. A rough hand gripped his sword arm, looking to subdue him before he could collect his bearings. At this point, the eagle awoke, his spirit screeching defiance.
There was no thought, only instinct. Altair spun left and wrenched his hand free, adrenaline pumping. His hidden blade bared, he stabbed blindly but viciously back towards his attacker. His enemy, however, drew fearlessly closer, pressing his advantage, and the point skated harmlessly off slick armor. The Assassin gathered for another strike, but felt a sudden pressure about his throat as he was grabbed from behind in a strangle hold. He thrashed and, though unable to see the other from his position, kicked backwards. He was met with luck as his boot connected with knee.
The attacker grunted and buckled under the blow but the strong-armed grip only tightened. Altair choked briefly, darkness flaring across his vision, and just barely managed to reach his short sword. Blood spurted from the long slash in the enemy's arm; he, howling as the Assassin forcefully cut himself free of the hold.
He whirled away from him in a flash of white, spinning around to finally face the enemy, blooded sword held before him protectively. He distractedly touched his aching throat, realizing he was panting slightly from the exertion. He caught the time to berate himself for not noticing the hostile approach, before flicking his dark gaze to the other in front of him.
The tall man stood with a solid grasp around the reddened, dripping sleeve about his forearm, trying to staunch the bleeding. Two things about the man startled Altair, first that he was alone—though he had admittedly lost some ground, surely they didn't expect to take him with a single warrior?—and second that the attacker was a common city guard, or at least clothed as one. He was dressed as most, clad in tunic and chain mail marked with the black cross of the Teutonic Order. The helmet half masked his face, but the Assassin could still feel his anger, the enraged, dangerous aura wrapping thickly around the man.
"Who are you?" Altair asked plainly, outwardly unfazed at the sudden assault. This question hung unanswered for a span, both of them knowing it need not be asked. He had searched for a lead and gotten one, though not one he had expected. His unwavering stare and question was ignored, instead met by a short bark of laughter.
"I'll have to admit, you're very good, Assassin," the guard stated, abruptly amused despite being at the mercy of the other's ready blade. He took a step toward Altair, who in turn took one away from him, warily keeping a safe distance. "Better than those others we got rid of a few days ago. But of course, we appreciate a challenge."
"You admit to it then?" Altair asked coldly, tightening his grip and shifting his stance slightly. The man was unnerving him; livid one moment then bemused the next. "I hope you understand that I'm not about to let the murderer of my brothers live."
The soldier scoffed, as if at bravado, despite Altair's dangerous glare and drawn weapon to back him up. He fearlessly began to pace around the white-robed man, the other turning to keep him in sight, he all the while swaggering and acting as if he was in control despite him dripping red life with each step. The Assassin was vaguely reminded of himself, calm and focused, centered by the Creed. But this man was nothing like him; his brash, thoroughly unsuccessful attack earlier had proven that.
Perhaps this group prided itself in its similarity to the Assassins, Altair realized suddenly. They certainly possessed similarities, hiding in plain sight and acting, killing covertly, yet not hiding the deed once it had been fulfilled. Its members, if this one was any representative, had the same focus and determination as they did. However, he rather stubbornly denied the possibility that their goal was as righteous as his Brothers', as guided as their own Creed.
A sudden movement of the enemy's hand caught the Assassin's gaze, and he narrowed his eyes, tense and ready to intercept an attack. But none came, and the guard simply swiped a discarded white rag off one of the crates lining the alley. Ignoring the watchful gaze on him, as well as the filth of the cloth, the other began to bandage his injury. Altair wondered if the man was simply trying to avoid looking at him, distracting himself from the situation. The slight tremble in the busily working fingers was enough to confirm his suspicion.
As he watched, still wary of a second assault, Altair noticed with some surprise that the other possessed no weapons. None visible anyway, he conceded, reminding himself with the comforting weight of his own Hidden Blade.
"Well? What are you waiting for, boy?" the soldier asked tightly as he finished the knot with his teeth, eyes still averted from the figure standing motionless in the quickly darkening alleyway.
What was he waiting for? He should have killed him as soon as he had the advantage. This man was obviously not interested in answering questions, and failing to kill him would compromise the Brotherhood. Altair steeled his will, shaking himself free of the lingering doubt and unease. "I wonder if you are truly so eager to meet death," he murmured coldly, almost inaudibly, as he straightened and sheathed his short blade, releasing instead the one at his wrist.
The guard stood still, watching his approach impassively, what could be seen of his face a mask that rivaled Altair's own. However, as he drew closer, the arrogance slipped, fear leaking through his guard. The cornered man shuddered and took a step back, clenched fists rising as if in a feeble attempt to shield himself. Much as they tried to be like them, these street thugs would never reach the Assassins' level, he thought callously. Then he struck.
As for most kills, Altair aimed for the weak join of the neck to the shoulder, drawing right up against his victim and easily plunging the blade through chain mail, cloth and flesh. He seized the shoulder of the black-crossed tunic with his free hand as the body slackened, held up by little more than the blade impaling it. The guard's breath escaped with a wet gasp and he convulsively clamped onto the hand gripping his coat, pushing against it as if doing so would return life to his body.
Warm red guttered and flowed freely from the wound, slipping over metal and staining cloth. Altair moved to retract the knife, ready to support the body to keep the armor from banging against the stoned street and drawing attention.
It was here that the Assassin felt an abrupt pain through his right wrist, small but surgically invasive, striking deep into his forearm towards the elbow. He gave a barely strangled cry, more in alarm then pain, as he jerked away from the dying man who had made his final retaliation. A long needle glinted and fell from the guardsman's hand, slicked finely crimson from Altair's blood. He gripped his right gauntlet under which the weapon had passed, shaken by the precision of the blow. He touched the minute pinprick it had left, but knew it had given him much more than that.
Meanwhile, the soldier hit the street loudly, knocking off his own helmet and strewing his blood amongst the dust and stones. As the life dulled from his eyes, he gave a stolid, gurgling laugh and choked out, "A snake will bite when faced with death, Assassin. You'd best remember that."
Silence cloaked the side street once more as the echo of the final words quieted and was lost. Altair took a step away from the corpse, no longer seeing it and instead inwardly examining himself with tightly contained panic. The needle had doubtlessly been poisoned, but with what and at what amount he was unsure. His sight and thoughts were clear, he realized, as much as the night would allow, but he felt a chill settling in his core, trivial but unsettling.
Perhaps it was not a fatal dose, he reassured himself shakily, though a soldier arming himself with a non-lethal toxin as a last resort was incredibly unlikely. Altair knew he could do nothing about it in the alleyway, thus he set off towards his original destination, sensing more than feeling the sweat bead his brow and the wisp of poison flash through his system.
The last of the crowds were filtering off the street as if in curfew, though none such existed. Altair moved quickly, knowing his white robes stood out in the dark, easily reflecting light from fires burning dully through shuttered windows. He measured his pace, stepping swiftly but breathing shallowly, afraid that the poison would take him all the quicker with drastic movement. Altair focused on his steps, vision narrowing into a tunnel as he thought only of reaching the safety and aid that awaited him at the Bureau.
Only the eagle spurred him now, the only thing that pressed him forward and stopped him at his objective. The Assassin looked up at the sheer sandy wall that stood in his way, feeling a pounding headache resonating behind his eyes. He felt dizzy, conscious of the sweat collecting beneath his robes, and knew that he would never be able make climb to the entrance so easily as he often did, scaling from brick to window sill to roof without a second thought. Instead, he unsteadily turned towards the ladder he knew lay nestled at the northern edge, used by the Assassins who wished to enter without calling on undue attention from the market crowd.
Altair noticed how heavy his weapons felt as he dragged himself up the rungs, abruptly wishing to discard the gold-hilted sword and curved short blade as if they were no longer extensions of him. He shook his head slightly at the foolish thought, dismissing it as machinations of his fevered mind. Thank Allah it had not been strong enough to keep him away from his brothers.
A gentle light flickered through the leaf-covered trellis on the roof, barely noticeable even up close. Altair couldn't keep a small, albeit strained smile from his face as the quiet voices of a couple of his comrades wafted up from the room below, mingling with the smoke of the incense the rafiq favored. Here was a piece of home, and he had never been so relieved to finally reach it.
Feeling a trembling beginning in his limbs, the Master Assassin lowered himself into a crouch for the short drop through the hole in the roof but gasped out loud as he was suddenly hit with a roiling wave of heat and vertigo, of thirst, chill and pain. His sight tilted and veered brutally, and though he desperately reached a hand out to steady himself, the next thing he knew, he had fallen.
Altair hit the floor of the Bureau gracelessly, his sword scabbard knocking loudly against the stones as he only just managed to catch himself on his splayed hands. Several of the throwing knives at his shoulder dislodged at the harsh landing, clattering away and coming to rest amongst the pillows at the far corner. He stayed in the crouch, head bowed and breathing harsh, as he tried to stay conscious despite the assault on his mind and senses.
He heard cries of alarm and surprise through the fog, only really hearing the grating of his dry breath in his throat. He lifted fever-brightened eyes to the figures approaching him, seeing little more than color and shape in the low lighting, the white of a fellow Assassin foremost in his vision. He heard words of concern, probing questions, his name, but little made sense to him in his lightheaded state.
Here, passing time began to blur, and he realized he could only recall brief flashes of events. He sensed strong arms carrying him into the room, heard the rafiq's shouted orders for medicine and blankets and water, felt his brothers holding him desperately as he thrashed violently in the poison's grip. He remembered, with some detachment, the pain and the screams. His.
Darkness came next and Altair stood in it, confused. The incidents had vanished as quickly as a candle flame in a wind; though how long had actually passed since his consciousness, he had no idea. Perhaps it had been minutes, hours, even days. Perhaps, even an eternity. Perhaps he was dead. However, the eagle in him, of him, spoke otherwise. He could still feel its presence, perched and watchful, but as vibrant as always. It gave a lone cry in the dark, calling him back to the world of the living. Back in Acre, back in the Assassins' Bureau, Altair opened his eyes.